by Sandra Field
“Jethro, will you marry me?”
“What?”
For the first time since she’d met him, Celia saw she’d knocked Jethro off balance.
“Did you ask me to marry you?”
“Yes,” she gulped. “I—I should have said I’ve got a proposal for you. A business proposal. I need a husband for three months. A temporary marriage, that’s all, drawn up legally with a contract. I’d pay you, Jethro. Sixty thousand dollars.
“There are conditions to this marriage,” she continued. “One of them is a high degree of privacy.”
“Do tell me the others.”
“No sex. No contact after the time’s up—you’d sign a contract to that effect.”
“Charming,” Jethro said.
“It’s a business deal—not the romance of the century.”
“I get the message. No sex?” he repeated softly. “Are you sure about that?”
Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada; she says the silence and emptiness of the North speaks to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city which is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience; I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”
Books by Sandra Field
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®
2144—THE MOTHER OF HIS CHILD
Sandra Field
CONTRACT BRIDEGROOM
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
CELIA Scott was one hour into her regular twelve-hour shift at the Coast Guard. Her second-last shift, she thought moodily, staring out the wide windows at the sea. One more night after tonight, and she was through.
The Coast Guard offices were situated on the shores of Collings Cove, in southern Newfoundland. It was mid-September, nearly dark, the sky mottled a theatrical mix of magenta and orange. In four days she’d be gone from here. Gone home. Back to Washington and to her father.
Where was home? Here? Or with her father? Could there be any greater contrast than that between the treelined avenue where Ellis Scott’s stone mansion stood and the narrow streets of Collings Cove?
Celia wriggled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension from them. It was time for a change. She’d been here four years, and she needed a new challenge. Something that would stretch her as, at first, this job had stretched her.
Fiercely she fought against remembering the outrageous request her father had broached just before she’d left. If she complied, she’d certainly be taking on a new challenge. But it wasn’t a challenge she’d ever sought out. Or wanted.
She was, of course, totally blocking out how desperately ill her father was. She couldn’t bear to think about it.
She reached for the pile of mail. But before she could open the first envelope, the security buzzer sounded. Celia glanced up at the black-and-white television screen, noticing that a four-wheel-drive Nissan was now parked in front of the building. She clicked to a view of the main door, which was always locked at night.
A man was standing by the door. A tall man, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Celia zoomed the camera in closer, noticing his rugged good looks, the stillness with which he was waiting for a response. He looked utterly self-contained. He also was quite extraordinarily attractive.
She said into the intercom, “Can I help you?”
His voice surged into the room, a voice she recognized instantly; it was the same deep baritone of the man who had radioed a distress signal a few nights ago. “My name’s Jethro Lathem, skipper of Starspray. Would you please let me in?”
He’d phrased it as a question. But it came across as a command. “I’m sorry,” she said, “no one’s allowed in on the night shifts.”
“Rules are made to be broken.”
“Not this one, Mr. Lathem.”
“You’re the woman who took the Mayday call, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve come a long way, Miss Scott, and my time’s limited. This’ll only take a few minutes.”
How did he know her name? “I’m here alone,” Celia said crisply, “and the nearest houses are two miles down the road. The security rules are for my own good—try looking at it from my point of view.”
His face was a hard mask. “What time does your shift end?”
She hesitated. “Seven tomorrow morning. But—”
“I’ll be here,” he said and turned on his heel.
The intercom had gone dead, leaving Celia with any number of retorts on her tongue. Like, no thanks. Like, I’m a zombie at the end of my shift. Like, if I’m going to meet you, buddy, I need all my wits about me. Just don’t ask me why.
Jethro Lathem was walking back toward his vehicle across the well-lit parking lot. In the monitor, Celia watched his long-legged stride, his smooth swing into the driver’s seat. Then he drove away without a backward look.
When she’d taken the Mayday call, his voice had sounded pushed to the very limits of his endurance, yet still very much in control. She hadn’t expected she’d ever see him in person: even in that brief, fraught interchange, she’d gained an impression of someone who wouldn’t take easily to asking for help. Especially from a woman.
Search and Rescue had sent out a helicopter, airlifting him and his companion to the hospital in St. John’s. She hadn’t heard any more than that because, at the end of her shift that night, she’d caught a few hours’ sleep, then flown to Washington, getting back this afternoon in time for work.
If he was a man who hated asking for help, he was also unused to having his orders disobeyed. One look at his face on the television monitor had told her that. She also knew she didn’t want to meet him.
Her reaction puzzled her. So he was a macho hunk, this Jethro Lathem. So what? She could deal with hunks who wanted to invade her personal space. She was considered a beautiful woman—she knew this without any particular vanity—and lots of men in Collings Cove and elsewhere seemed to think she’d spent her entire life waiting for them to carry her off into the sunset. She rather prided herself on the adeptness with which she could defuse such expectations. So why did she feel suddenly and illogically threatened by the prospect of Jethro Lathem turning up at 7:00 a.m.?
He was only a man.
And she was quite sure he had no intention of carrying her off into the sunset. Or, more accurately, the sunrise.
The transmitter rasped out a request for the latest marine weather in the Port aux Basques area. Celia sat down in her swivel chair. Quickly she gave out the information to a fishing captain she’d spoken to many times over the years. They chatted a few minutes, Celia automatically running her eyes over the banks of equipment: computer, digital recall system, scanners and receivers. Sixty percent of her shift was spent sitting here, by herself, waiting for something to happen. It really was time for a change, she thought stoutly, as she said goodbye to the captain and reached for the first letter.
It was a note from her boss. He was pleased with her swift response to Starspray’s emergency call the other night, and he’d be delighted to attend her farewell staff dinner on Saturday. As she picked up the next envelope, the telephone rang. “Canadian Coast Guard, Scott speaking,” she said.
&nb
sp; There was a slight pause. “Celia Scott?”
“That’s right. How can I help you?”
“My name’s Dave Hornby…I was crewing for Jethro Lathem the night Starspray sank. I was told this is your first shift since then—so I’m calling to thank you for your part in the rescue.”
His voice was pleasant, very different from Jethro Lathem’s autocratic baritone. “You’re welcome,” Celia said.
“There’s another reason I’m phoning—I didn’t want you thinking Jethro was in any way to blame for what happened.”
“That’s really not—”
“No, let me finish…it’ll be on my conscience, otherwise. You see, we’d been in port in Iceland, and a couple of days later Jethro came down with a bad case of flu; so I was on watch that night. I’m not the world’s best sailor. I fell asleep at the wheel, went off course in a sudden squall and drove Starspray onto the rocks. Not sure Jethro’ll ever forgive me for losing her—he loved that boat like she was a woman. More, probably. Anyway, I fell overboard, he rescued me, then he sent out the Mayday, manned the pumps and in the middle of it all saw that I didn’t die of hypothermia. More than I deserved…I’ll never live it down.”
“I’m glad it all ended happily,” Celia said diplomatically, wondering why she should feel so irritated that the high-and-mighty Mr. Lathem was a hero as well as a hunk.
“Jethro’s one of the finest skippers around and the best of friends besides.”
She made a noncommittal noise. After expressing his gratitude once again, Dave rang off. Celia put the receiver back in its cradle. She could picture the scene only too well. The elegant lines of the yacht impaled on the wind-whipped rocks of the reef; the driven spray and terrifyingly tall waves. It was something of a miracle that both men hadn’t drowned. A miracle whose name was Jethro Lathem, the rangy, dark-haired man who was going to meet her after work tomorrow morning.
She always looked her worst coming off a shift. Right now she was wearing her oldest jeans, and her entire stock of makeup consisted of a stub of tangerine lipstick.
The state of her jeans or her lipstick had never bothered her when she’d been out with Paul.
Resolutely Celia marched into the kitchen connected to her office and took a can of soup out of the cupboard. She was hungry and tired, that was all. She’d accept Jethro Lathem’s thanks tomorrow morning with all the grace she had long ago learned as her father’s daughter, and send him on his way. And before she knew it, she’d be in Washington, her job, Starspray and Paul all part of her past. As well as Mr. Macho Lathem.
The hours of darkness passed slowly. Celia ate, wrote some letters and dealt with a few routine calls. There was far too much time to think on her job, especially on the night shifts. She didn’t want to dwell on her father, so ill and so intent on controlling her life to the very end. But it was impossible to keep the images at bay, or to forget that last half hour she’d spent at Fernleigh, his mansion in Washington.
Dr. Norman Kenniston, who’d been the family doctor for as long as Celia could remember, and whom her father trusted more than she did, was finally getting to the point. Celia’s stomach clenched with anxiety. “Three months, Celia…no guarantees after that. Most unfortunate. Tragic. Yes, indeed.” And he’d twirled the ends of his long gray moustache.
She’d known her father was ill; but not that ill. She burst out, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Every possible stone’s been turned,” Dr. Kenniston said huffily. “Do you think I’d—ah, there you are, Ellis…I was about to leave.”
Ellis Scott looked keenly at his daughter’s face. “Tomorrow at ten, Norman,” he said, then waited until the doctor had left the room. “I see he’s given you the prognosis, Celia. Just as well. No use blinding ourselves to the facts. Which brings me to something I want to say to you.”
Numbly Celia sank down into the nearest chair. “I can hardly believe…there must be some sort of treatment or—”
“Apparently not. Norman called in a couple of specialists, top-notch men.” Ellis eased himself into the chair across from her. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”
Celia bit her lip, seeing anew her father’s shuttered gray eyes and rigid shoulders. Had she ever really known him? Or felt close to him? And now time was running out. Fast. “Of course, I’ll do anything I can.”
“I want to see you married. Before I die.”
“Married?”
“Like your brother Cyril. Settled. Safe. Instead of gallivanting around the world taking one ridiculous job after another.”
Her nails were digging into her palms. “Being a Coast Guard operator’s a very responsible job.”
“Utterly unsuitable for a girl.”
“I’m a woman, Father. A grown woman.”
“Then behave like one,” Ellis snapped.
Celia took a deep breath. It would be all too easy to go down a path she’d travelled many times before; but how could she argue with her father or lose her temper when he’d been given so short a time to live? She said steadily, “I told you I’d handed in my resignation and that I’m moving back home.”
Ellis overrode her as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’ve always been foolhardy, Celia. Rash, impetuous, defiant. Time you grew up, took on the duties of an adult. Marriage. Motherhood. There must be someone you’re in love with.”
“There isn’t,” she said shortly.
“You mentioned dating a man called Paul.”
“He’s a friend, that’s all.” Paul was in love with her; but Ellis didn’t need that piece of information.
“There’s no one else?”
“There’s Pedro. He captains a freighter on the St. Lawrence Seaway, and he’d marry me like a shot if he knew I was rich. But I’ve never told him. If I ever marry, I want to be loved for myself.”
Darryl, the only man she’d ever gone to bed with, had wanted her money, not her. Which, at the time, had hurt quite dreadfully.
“I sometimes think you oppose me on principle,” Ellis rapped.
She said with careful truth, “Right now I don’t know anyone I could possibly marry, Father. That’s all I’m saying.”
Ellis suddenly looked exactly what he was: elderly, frail and sick. “So you’re refusing my final request?”
Guilt churned in Celia’s stomach, as no doubt her father had intended. Her second year in university, she and Ellis had had a terrible row, and for the next few years she hadn’t seen him at all; she already felt hugely guilty for that long separation. She, tentatively, had been the one to make the first gesture of reconciliation, just two years ago. Ellis had responded with very little grace. But he had responded, and since then they had at least been in touch.
Now, however, she wanted more than that. Much more.
If only she could rein in her restless spirit. Be more like her brother, so contented with his conservative job, his country estate, his unassuming wife and obedient children. If only she could marry to please Ellis. To make his last weeks happy.
“I promise I’ll think about it,” she said.
Ellis said abruptly and with patent honesty, “I worry about you, Celia. It would set my mind at ease to know you were married to a good man…then I could die in peace.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “I don’t want you to die….”
“Yes. Well. I can’t control that, can I?” He looked at his watch. “Hadn’t you better leave for the airport? That’s another thing, piloting your own plane. A lot of nonsense. Far too dangerous.”
Celia took her courage in her hands. “If my mother hadn’t been killed in a car accident all those years ago, would you be saying that?”
“That’s an impertinent and unwarranted remark!”
“We’ve got to talk about the past! We can’t act as if my mother didn’t exist.”
“I’ll ring for Melcher to bring down your bags.”
Celia pushed back her chair. She felt like the little girl she’d once been, controlled at every turn, u
nheard and always a disappointment to her father in ways she could scarcely fathom. He’d never allowed her to talk about her mother. Not once. She trailed after him to the front door, where the limousine was waiting to drive her to the airport, and kissed him dutifully on the cheek.
The transmitter rasped. With a jerk, Celia came back to the present, to her office and the demands of her job. But as she spoke to a lobster fisherman about the fog patches down the bay, she found she could no longer push her dilemma to the back of her mind. Hadn’t it been sitting on her chest like a lead weight ever since Ellis had mentioned the word marriage?
It was a dilemma she was no nearer solving now than at the front door of her father’s mansion, where Ellis had offered her a chilly goodbye. She was going to have to refuse his last request—what other choice did she have? —and thereby close another door, one that might have led to a new closeness between father and daughter.
A closeness she longed for with all her heart.
With an impatient sigh, Celia began writing up her log. At six-thirty, she washed her face, brushed her chestnut hair smooth and French-braided it. The tangerine lipstick didn’t look its best with her purple sweater. Too bad, she thought, and put on a pair of earrings that she’d found in the bottom of her backpack, dangly copper earrings that, she hoped, would distract from the smudges of tiredness under her eyes.
Jethro Lathem might not turn up.
However, at ten to seven, the four-wheel-drive Nissan turned into the yard and parked in the same spot it had the night before. Thirty seconds later, Wayne, her replacement, also drove in. But at five past seven, just as Celia let herself out of the office, she saw Pedro striding down the corridor to meet her. His freighter was moored further down the bay; he must be here to say goodbye.
And goodbye it would be. No proposals of marriage from her. Smiling at Pedro, she said, “Buenos dias.”
