Zachary's Virgin. Catherine Spencer

to ski, to skate, to swim. McBride had taught her to ride and shoot a mean game of pool. Her days had been full and exciting and she hadn’t seemed to miss friends her own age.

      But over the summer, something had changed. She’d begun harping on about going away to school. She didn’t seem as eager to spend leisure time with him anymore. They hadn’t skied together once this season. Either she had her nose buried in a magazine or else she went off by herself. Sometimes, he’d find her in whispered conversation with Sally, but the moment she saw him approaching, she’d close up tighter than a clam.

      He’d always known there’d come a time when she’d want to talk to a woman about…womanly things. But he hadn’t bargained on it happening this soon.

      “She’s only thirteen, for crying out loud.”

      “In case you didn’t know, son, that’s about the time when all hell breaks loose.” With the tip of his tongue, McBride probed experimentally at one of his molars. “From what I’ve heard tell, the teenage years ain’t ever easy. Even with two parents, it’s a full-time job keepin’ on top of things.”

      People were drifting downstairs and coming in from the guest houses for happy hour. Craning his neck, Zach could see across the lobby to the lounge where the staff was setting out a selection of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Charlie and Walter were already manning the bar.

      “Well, I’m damned if I’m going wife hunting just to give Mel two parents,” he told McBride, “so she’s just going to have to make do with one. I’m off to change before dinner. If you happen to see her, tell her to make tracks for home ASAP.”

      The wind had dropped when he went outside and it had started to snow, tiny sparkling flakes that signaled another dip in the temperature. Seasonal music floated out softly from the speakers mounted under the eaves. The thousand or more lights strung along the roofline and over the veranda railings of the lodge flung a blanket of light over the frozen, snow-packed ground. The pungent smell of wood smoke hung in the air.

      He inhaled a long, relaxing breath. The skies were forecast to have cleared by tomorrow, it was December the eighteenth, and in three days the holiday program would be underway, beginning with the traditional moonlight sleigh ride. He had better things to concentrate on than one nitpicking guest.

      Hunching his jacket collar more snugly around his neck, he set out along the path to the house, the conversation with McBride playing over again in his mind. Was he wrong in thinking he could be both mother and father to Mel? Did she miss Jenny more than either of them realized?

      The Samoyeds bounded ahead with Blanche nipping playfully at Lily’s heels as usual in a race to arrive home first. Turning the last corner, he saw with some relief that the lights in his section of the house were on, which meant that Melanie was already there. Too bad the remaining third was also lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. If he had to be saddled with someone next door, he could think of a dozen people he’d rather play host to than Claire Durocher. Even Eric, his flake of a brother-in-law, was preferable to her.

      Music blasted into the night, something festively bright and boisterous, punctuated by gales of laughter. Oh, yeah, his daughter was home, all right! Better warn her to keep the noise down for the next few days, unless she wanted to run afoul of their neighbor.

      He stamped the snow from his boots and opened the front door, expecting to find Melanie sprawled out in front of the TV. But the family room at the far end of the entrance hall was empty.

      Only then did he realize the music was coming from next door and so was the laughter, the woman’s rich as hot buttered rum and the girl’s—his daughter’s—high and gleeful.

      Damn! He’d seen more than enough of his petulant European guest for one day, but it looked as if he wasn’t through with her quite yet. Because just lately, Melanie had attitude to spare and the last thing she needed was further instruction from a willful, self-indulgent woman like Claire Durocher.

      Heaving a sigh of pure exasperation, he slammed shut his own front door and marched purposefully toward his neighbor’s.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IN MANY ways, the girl reminded her of herself as she’d been at the same age; a little urchin whose brave, tough exterior hid a heart as uncertain and vulnerable as that of a newborn lamb.

      “Oh, heck,” she’d said, her face falling in dismay when Claire had opened the door to her knock. “You’re not Eric.”

      “Well, no. At least, I wasn’t the last time I looked in the mirror.”

      Claire had laughed, but the girl, obviously not expecting to be welcomed by a stranger, had turned away, her shoulders slumped dejectedly. “Sorry I bugged you by banging on the door then.”

      “Chérie, please wait. I don’t know anyone here and you’re my first visitor.”

      “I’m not supposed to bother the guests.”

      “But you’re not bothering me.” She’d held out her hand. “Here, let’s introduce ourselves and make our association official. I’m Claire Durocher.”

      The child had turned bright red and offered a not-too-clean little paw. “Melanie,” she’d mumbled and, at Claire’s urging, stepped inside the suite.

      Claire had learned early to build a nest wherever she happened to find herself, be it a shop doorway or a château, and Topaz Valley Resort was no exception. No sooner had she hung her clothes in the dressing room closet and set out her toiletries in the adjoining bathroom than she’d turned her attention to the salon. Already, candles burned on the low table before the double-sided fireplace which opened into the bedroom also.

      She had closed the dark red drapes to shut out the bleak afternoon, tossed another log on the fire, and flung her royal blue mohair shawl over one arm of the soft leather couch. Not that the place lacked comfort—indeed, it was luxuriously appointed, right down to the fresh fruit and flowers—but a few personal touches made it seem more of a home.

      Still, Melanie clearly felt anything but comfortable. Fiddling all the while with the hem of her oversize sweater, she peered around furtively as if she expected that, at any moment, she’d be shown the door.

      It had been more than sixteen years since Claire had experienced much the same fear, never sure if she was welcome in the two rooms which had been home, or if she should make herself scarce in the back alley until such time as yet another of her mother’s “gentleman friends” left, but the memories had not faded with time. She doubted they ever would; the sense of abandonment had left too deep a scar. Observing her uncertain little guest sympathetically, she said, “Why don’t you find us some music while I make up a little plate of hors d’oeuvres? Choose something you enjoy, ma chère—something lively and fun.”

      “Okay.”

      Melanie leaped at the chance to make herself useful while Claire set to work. The kitchenette Zachary Alexander had spoken of contained a wine bar with a refrigerator, a microwave oven, cappuccino coffeemaker and small sink. Various wineglasses and tall mugs hung from a rack, and a cupboard next to the refrigerator contained a supply of flavored coffees, hot chocolate, nuts and other snacks.

      “It’s too early for champagne,” she said, checking the contents of the refrigerator, “but we can enjoy a cranberry cocktail while we get to know one another, yes?”

      Melanie looked up from the compact discs she was sorting and giggled. “You talk funny,” she said. “Nobody here says ‘shompanya,’ they just call it plain old champagne.”

      “Well, I’m French so I say some things a little differently, but I’m going to count on you to tell me if I make mistakes.” As she talked, Claire poured sparkling cranberry juice into two crystal goblets, set them on a small silver tray beside a dish of nuts then, carrying everything over to the fireplace, offered the child a glass. “Here’s to a very good time with my new friend Melanie. Joyeux noël, ma chère.”

      “I don’t