Zachary's Virgin. Catherine Spencer

“What else have we got besides the room on the second floor?”

      “Nothing in the main lodge, which is where Ms. Durocher asked to stay.”

      “What about the lakeside guest houses?”

      “Nothing there, either. The only thing not taken is the private suite at your place, Zach, but Eric usually stays there over the holidays.”

      “Well, since he’s neither shown up as expected nor bothered to let me know what his plans are, he’s out of luck this year. As of now, the place is occupied by Ms. Durocher. If he puts in an appearance, he’ll have to make do with the room she finds so unacceptable.” Zachary Alexander didn’t so much turn his head to look at Claire as glance obliquely at her, in the way that a man might if he wished to avoid antagonizing a rabid poodle. “Get Paul to haul her stuff over, once he’s free, and I’ll get her settled.”

      Picking up her overnight bag, he led Claire to the back of the foyer and through another set of double doors to the outside. Dusk had fallen but lights, strung from one snow-encrusted evergreen to the next like outsize charms on a giant bracelet, showed a path winding among the trees to a series of guest houses nestled along the lakeshore. Scaled-down versions of the main lodge, they were substantial, charming residences and looked nothing like the rustic cabins Claire had envisioned.

      “We’re down this way,” he said, turning right at a fork in the path.

      A few minutes later, his house came into view. Set apart from the rest and screened by a belt of dark-needled conifers, it was different, larger, and even grander than its neighbors. Shaped like the letter T and fronted on all sides by a long, covered veranda, it hugged a cozy hollow on a spit of land just a few yards short of the lake itself. Again, Claire was pleasantly surprised. She had not expected quite such elegance in the hinterland.

      “We live in this end of the house,” her reluctant host announced, indicating the upper two-thirds of the letter T, “but you’ve got the rest of the building all to yourself.”

      She followed him up a shallow flight of steps to one of the verandas and waited as he unlocked a door to the left. Reaching inside, he turned on the lights, dropped the key in the palm of her hand, and said, “I’m afraid you’ll find only one outsize living room with breakfast bar and convenience kitchenette, one large bedroom, a dressing room and a five-piece bathroom with attached sauna. I sincerely hope you won’t be too cramped for space.”

      Having delivered that salvo, he then dumped her overnight bag on the threshold and turned to go.

      “One moment, monsieur, if you please,” she said, wishing she sounded less coldly formal. Her thoughts, her inner voice, were fluent and colloquial but when it came to translating them from French to English, especially when she was nervous or under stress, she knew her spoken words lacked eloquence and often sounded stilted and unfriendly.

      “Yes?”

      “I am not the unreasonable woman you perceive me to be,” she said, touching him placatingly on the arm, “and if I seemed that way, I apologize. When a child is taken ill, of course one must be prepared to make allowances.”

      He looked at where her hand rested on the sleeve of his sweater, then lifted his gaze to her face. His eyes were cold as ice, his voice not much warmer. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Durocher, and do let us know if there’s anything more we can do to cater to your comfort.”

      Speechless, she watched as he marched away, stunned by such controlled displeasure, such proud disdain. What a pity a man so tall and beautiful was possessed of such an untoward nature!

      Another party of guests had arrived by road when he got back to the main lodge. They swarmed around the lobby, but Sally had roped in extra help at the desk and seemed to be coping, so he skirted the crowd and made his way down the south wing to the kitchen.

      There’d been no sign of life at the house, which meant either that Mel hadn’t come down the hill yet or else she was cadging food from Roberto the chef. It had better, he thought dourly, be the latter. The lifts would be closing in ten minutes and he was in no mood to go searching for an errant thirteen-year-old who’d suddenly decided she didn’t have to abide by the rules which governed other people.

      Pushing aside the swing doors, he poked his head inside the kitchen. Various pots simmered on the huge stainless steel stove. Baguettes, freshly baked in the special bread oven he’d had imported from France, cooled on wire racks on the marble counter. The young kid hired for the season to help out with food preparation was busy slicing tomatoes. At the far end of the room, Roberto consulted with Simon, the wine steward. Of Mel, however, there was no sign.

      “Anyone seen my daughter?” Zach inquired.

      “She was here about ten minutes ago,” Roberto said. “And starving, as usual.”

      Zach nodded. It never ceased to amaze him how much food Mel could put away and still remain skinny as a reed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. We’ve got a full house tonight so if you need extra help, let me know.”

      Back in the lobby, the crowd had thinned. His wrangler and man Friday, McBride, the person he trusted most in the world, was dumping a fresh load of logs in the big brass box next to the hearth. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, thumbing back his Stetson and regarding Zach from beneath bushy gray brows, “I’d say you look like a man with a load of woman troubles.”

      “You’re not far off the mark,” he said gloomily. “A jet-setting heiress with a bad case of perma-pout arrived this afternoon and it’s my guess we’ll be seeing and hearing a lot more of her than any of us would like before Christmas is over.”

      “Heiress, you say? She here alone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Ugly?”

      An image flashed across Zach’s mind, of huge gray eyes and silky black lashes in a delicate heart-shaped face; of a cupid’s bow mouth and small, perfect teeth. Of fine-boned hands and a fall of dark hair; of slender shoulders raised in protest and a narrow, elegant foot stamping in annoyance. Pity she had the temperament of a pit viper!

      He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve seen worse.”

      McBride looked hopeful. “Yeah? She lookin’ for a husband by any chance?”

      “There’s no doubt you’re a fine figure of a man and able to sweep just about any woman off her feet,” Zach said, grinning, “but this one’s young enough to be your daughter.”

      “Well, shee-oot!” The old wrangler cackled. “Can’t blame a guy for askin’. Maybe you’re the one should be setting his sights on her.”

      Zach sobered. “When hell freezes over!”

      McBride crooked one corner of his mouth and gnawed on his mustache a moment. “At thirty-eight, you’re awful young yourself, Zach, to be so set in your ways. Jenny’s been dead goin’ on six years and that little gal of yours needs a mama, else she’ll be growing up wild as a cayuse. Already she can cuss better’n me and that’s sayin’ plenty. Jenny wouldn’t like that, son, and you and I both know it. If she’d lived, she’d have seen to it that Melanie learned her party manners and wore a skirt once in a while, instead of always hangin’ around the joint in blue jeans and your cast-off sweaters.”

      But Jenny hadn’t lived, and although the shock of losing her so suddenly and senselessly had faded, Zach couldn’t imagine anyone else ever filling her place, least of all someone like the Durocher woman. Jenny had been soft and sweet and patient; able to turn her hand to whatever needed doing, whether it was teaching beginners on the ski hill, lending a hand at the front desk, or helping in the kitchen. And in between, she’d been a devoted wife and a wonderful mother.

      “Mel’s got plenty of time before she needs to worry about dressing up for parties,” he declared, and wished he felt as sure as he sounded. A year ago, he’d never have questioned his ability to handle his daughter. She’d been content with the kind of life he provided and seemed to