yellow paint, that was—but inside were three rows of stark wooden seats, ample room for suitcases and skis and, praise heaven, warmth blasting over one’s ankles from a heater. For this last, she forgave the vehicle its other shortcomings.
“You’re lucky you got here,” the driver announced, slamming closed the door and settling himself behind the steering wheel. “Yesterday’s party got held up overnight in Broome, visibility was so bad up here. Had to bunk down in the Wayside Motel and make do with hamburgers at the truck stop, which is a far cry from what they’d been expecting for dinner, I can tell you.”
Feeling increasingly estranged from everything familiar, Claire peered out of the window as the vehicle jolted along a path between snow-laden trees, across a plateau and around a curve, with no sign of civilization to relieve the windswept landscape. But then, just when she’d about given up hope of ever laying eyes on the resort, suddenly there it lay, in a hollow protecting it from the worst of the weather, and she drew in a breath of relief. Windows ablaze with golden light and smoke streaming from its chimneys, the place exuded warmth.
Flinging open the vehicle doors, the driver clambered out onto hard-packed snow. “Watch your step as you get down, folks. We’ve sanded twice today already, but it’s still a mite icy underfoot.”
Indeed it was, and the temperature surely dipping well below what she was used to, but a man had come out of the lodge to welcome them. Engagingly handsome, with sun-bleached hair, an open smile, and the slim, fit body of a professional athlete, he couldn’t possibly be the legendary owner of the place, Claire decided. He was much too young to have achieved such success.
“Glad you made it before we got socked in by the weather again,” he said. “Come on inside and warm up, before you all freeze.”
Not the most socially acceptable greeting, perhaps, but possessed of undeniable charm nonetheless. Much like the building, Claire supposed, glancing up at the impressive facade. Neither the fairy-tale nineteenth-century castles nor quaint chalets she was used to, it stood bold and dramatically beautiful in its own right, with soaring timbers, chimneys faced with chunks of river rock worn smooth by centuries of water abrasion, and great shining expanses of glass.
Designed around a central hub from which four wings radiated, it rose three stories to a steeply pitched roof. Entering through wide double doors, Claire gazed around, her senses assaulted by impressions of spacious elegance and mammoth proportions. Everything, from the graceful branched staircase accessing the upper galleries, to the massive beams supporting the vaulted ceiling, to the stone fireplace whose hearth was wide enough to accommodate a grown man, was huge.
Even the Christmas tree stood some twenty feet high and was hung with silver balls the size of fat balloons. As for the leather couches grouped around the hearth, they could have accommodated giants and still left room for normal-size people.
And everywhere, from the long refectory table in the middle of the room, to the deep windowsills, to the antique wicker child’s sleigh beside the fireplace, the brilliant splash of carmine poinsettias drew the eye. If that weren’t enough to complete the Christmas card picture, two beautiful Samoyeds lay on a rug in front of the fire, basking in the heat from the blazing logs.
Joining the lineup of guests checking in, Claire studied the floor plan of the lodge hanging on the wall behind the front desk. Whoever had designed the resort had certainly taken pains to make sure guests were supplied with every possible amenity. In addition to various lounges, a library, and dining room, there was also a banquet room with a dance floor, a movie theater, gymnasium, sauna, indoor pool, and a beauty spa offering everything from facials and manicures to massages. And oh, she could use a soothing massage just then, to ease the aching stiffness caused by so many hours spent in travel!
The couple at the front desk, their check-in complete, moved away and made room for Claire.
“Hi!” The clerk, a young woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Sally, smiled warmly and scanned the list of names in front of her. “Let’s see, you must be…?”
“Claire Durocher.”
“Oh, sure! All the way from Europe, right? Welcome to Canada!” She glanced again at the list. “Originally, we had you booked into a suite here in the main lodge.”
“Indeed, yes,” Claire said, not liking the sound of the word “originally.” She had slept fitfully on the transatlantic flight, her inner clock was seriously out of kilter, and she hadn’t bathed since she left Paris yesterday afternoon. To find now that she had no room at the inn didn’t bear thinking about. “Such accommodation was what I requested when I made my reservation six months ago, it was confirmed by your office within the week as I’m sure your records show, and it is what I now expect to receive.”
The young clerk’s grin faded a little. “Yeah…well, the thing is, we’ve had to put you in one of our other rooms. It’s rather small but very comfortable and it’s only for a night or two.”
“I do not wish to be confined to a smaller room, nor do I wish to move elsewhere when you decide it is convenient. I wish to be accommodated in the suite I reserved.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the Sally person said. “The people occupying it last week haven’t left yet.”
“Then put them in the smaller room,” Claire replied, ignoring the little voice inside her that said it was easier simply to accept whatever was available and not make a fuss. She had learned the hard way that if she wanted others to treat her with the respect she craved and which had been so sadly lacking in her childhood, she had to demand the best of—and for—herself.
The hapless Sally shook her head. “You don’t understand, Miss Durocher. They won’t fit. They’re a family of four.”
“Zut!” Claire exclaimed, her tone rising with annoyance.
“Is there a problem?” By comparison, the voice which flowed over her shoulder was smooth and rich as the finest Belgian chocolate.
“Oh, Zach!” The young clerk fairly wilted with relief. “It’s the business with the Dogwood Suite. Miss Durocher is a little upset that it’s not available.”
“Miss Durocher is more than a little upset,” Claire corrected, swinging round to confront the man whose name tag identified him as Zachary Alexander, the owner of the establishment and the person with whom she’d made her reservations. “She is considerably…displeased….”
He stood well over six feet, every lean muscle honed to perfection, the torso tapering gracefully from impressively broad shoulders to narrow hips, the hair thick and dark except for streaks of silver at the temples.
As for the face—oh, it was the face that left her stumbling over her words like an ingenue. Such eyes, as blue as the Bay of Naples in summer and as remote as the tips of the Alps on a perfect winter day. Such a jaw, such cheekbones! And the mouth…!
Her own ran dry at the sight. Zachary Alexander could discipline that mouth all he liked. Make it straight and severe, or allow it to stretch in a tight, unamused smile as he inspected his unhappy guest. But nothing his will imposed could erase the passionate nature betrayed by the curve of the upper lip. This was a sleeping volcano of a man, his fire hidden but no less intense for all that.
“I’m sure we’re all very sorry that you’re…” Again, that ironic smile touched his mouth. “…considerably displeased, but the fact remains that the suite you requested is occupied already so I’m afraid you have no choice but to
