by Sandra Field
Two people were coming down the stairs.
Jethro straightened. One of them was a sea captain in a smart navy-blue uniform with rather a lot of braid: a good-looking man, his head bent to hear what the woman at his side was saying.
The woman was beautiful.
She was young, her chestnut hair glowing like a beacon, her body, even in an oversized sweater, slender and lithe. She was talking animatedly to her companion.
She hadn’t seen him. She wasn’t even looking.
He moved back, watching as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stood, facing each other, both of them smiling. Then the man raised one of her hands to his lips, kissing it with lingering pleasure. The woman said something else that made him laugh, and then they hugged each other with the ease of long acquaintances. The man, Jethro noticed, was in no great hurry to release her.
But finally he did. With a last salute, he headed down a corridor away from the main door. For a moment the woman stood watching him go, still smiling.
So she had a lover, did Celia Scott; because Jethro was quite sure this was Celia Scott. Or perhaps the handsome sea captain was her husband. It would be a logical choice for a Coast Guard operator.
There was nothing logical about the surge of possessiveness that had rocketed through his body when the captain had kissed her hand. Just as illogical was the way he’d been unable to get the sound of her voice out of his mind, ever since he’d heard it over the radio when he’d sent the Mayday signal. A calm voice, beautifully pitched, as clear and true as a perfectly cast bell. He’d spent the first two days after the rescue in hospital in St. John’s, recovering from exposure and the flu. The third day had been spent in a hotel dealing with various business matters, one of which had been a phone call to the Coast Guard station in Collings Cove to find out the name of the operator who’d taken the Mayday call and when her next shift was.
He’d asked no further questions. Out of pride? Or out of anger that she should even matter, this woman unknown to him?
A woman who was partly responsible for saving his life.
He hated being beholden to a female.
The woman he was watching so intently squared her shoulders and opened the door, stepping right into the early morning sun. Her smile fading, she blinked a little.
Her hair caught fire, gleaming in the light. Her eyes, Jethro saw, were a very dark brown, soft and warm as velvet. Her winged brows, her high cheekbones, the seductive curve of her lower lip were all part of her beauty. The rest of it was more elusive and more complex, he thought, depending on the play of expression in her face, the vividness of her emotions.
He moved forward into the sun himself and said formally, “Are you Celia Scott? I’m Jethro Lathem.”
Because the sun was right in Celia’s eyes, the man’s body loomed larger than life, a dark silhouette that was obscurely threatening. She raised her hand to shield her vision and took refuge in an equal formality. “Yes, I’m Celia Scott. How do you do, Mr. Lathem?”
“Jethro, please,” he said unsmilingly. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast? I noticed a restaurant on the way out here.”
Again Celia had the sense of an order framed as a request. She moved further from the door, taking a moment to assess him.
Dynamite, she thought blankly. Pure dynamite.
Six-foot-two or thereabouts. Brown hair. Although a boring word like brown didn’t in any way do justice to thick, dark curls that had the polish of mahogany. Startlingly blue eyes, the deep, steel-blue of a sky at dusk, set in a face with the weathered tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. A formidable jaw, now marred with a purpling bruise. As for his body…well, she wasn’t going to go there right now. Much too early in the morning.
She said pleasantly, hoping she hadn’t been gaping at him like a groupie, “No, I can’t do that. I’m on duty again tonight, so I have to go home and get some sleep or else I’m dead in the water.” Her smile flickered and was gone. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
“Dinner before work, then. You have to eat, surely?”
She bit her lip. “Can’t we say anything that needs saying right here?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then perhaps we don’t have anything to say.”
“We’re talking dinner at the Seaview Grill—not the Ritz.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I wasn’t aware of doing so.”
He’d look very much at home at the Ritz, thought Celia. “So what happens if I say no? That I’ve got a date with my fiancé who’s six-foot-five?”
“The man you came downstairs with—is he your fiancé?”
“I don’t think you came all the way from St. John’s to Collings Cove to inquire about my love life, Mr. Lathem.”
“I came here to thank you for saving my life,” Jethro said curtly.
“You don’t look very grateful.”
He said tautly, “Do you have a fiancé? Six-foot-five or five-foot-eight or anywhere in between?”
“I do not. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“What about a husband? Or a lover?”
Celia’s jaw dropped. “What on earth—look, it’s nearly seven-thirty, I’ve been awake all night and I’ve had enough of this. I’m glad you and your friend Dave are alive and well, I’m sorry your boat sank and goodbye.”
His lips thinned. Unwillingly, she added, “Your yacht—you loved her, didn’t you?” Like a woman, isn’t that what Dave had said? Women must flock round this man like gulls round a lobster boat.
“I don’t really think that’s any of your business.”
“Then less and less do I see why you’d have the slightest interest in taking me out for dinner,” she said crossly and turned away from him.
He took her by the elbow, the tensile strength of his fingers making her suddenly wary. “I’ll pick you up at five.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“I could always follow you home.”
She said sweetly, “Are you aware that right this minute we’re under surveillance? Cameras cover this entire parking lot. All I’d have to do is struggle a little, and someone would be out here. Pronto.”
“All the more reason for you to behave, Miss Scott,” he said, mockery gleaming in his eyes.
“Behave—huh! Do what you want me to do, that’s what you mean.”
“Precisely.”
It was, Celia knew, the moment of choice. All she had to do was look into the camera over the door and signal for help, and this charade would be over. But she’d never been one to play it safe; her recklessness was one of the reasons behind her father’s request. “I’ll meet you at the Seaview Grill sharp at five,” she said. “I’ll have to leave there no later than twenty to seven. And if you follow me home, the deal’s off.”
“In that case,” Jethro said with dangerous softness, “I wouldn’t think of following you.” He ran his eyes down her body. “Sleep well, Celia Scott.”
A blush flamed her cheeks. But he didn’t see it, because he’d already pivoted and was walking toward his vehicle. Standing as if she were glued to the spot, Celia watched him reverse and drive away from her, just as if she didn’t exist.
What had possessed her to agree to have dinner with him? She wasn’t just reckless, she was plain crazy.
CHAPTER TWO
THE alarm woke Celia at four-fifteen that afternoon. After a quick shower, she dressed in a denim skirt and leather boots, with a green silk blouse. No baggy sweaters. No frayed jeans. And plenty of blusher and mascara, she decided, making her face up with care.
Rather pleased with the result, she checked her watch and got up with an exclamation of dismay. She didn’t want to start off this dinner date with an apology for being late. Not a good strategy.
At one minute to five she parked beside Jethro Lathem’s green Nissan at the Seaview Grill and ran up the wooden steps. Jethro had nabbed the best table. Surprise, surprise, she thought ironically, and ga
ve him a cool smile as he got to his feet.
He pulled out her chair and briefly she felt the brush of his hand on her shoulder as she sat down. The contact shivered through her, and it was this that decided Celia to go on the offensive. As he sat down across from her, she said, “So…are you all set to thank me very nicely for alerting Search and Rescue?”
He’d picked up the menu; she watched his nails dig into its laminated covering. “You’re obviously good at your job, and I’m very grateful not to be at the bottom of the sea. So I most certainly thank you for your part in that.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Oh, the usual pile-up of errors,” he said tersely. “Do you want to start with a drink?”
“Not before work, thanks. When I first asked for your position, you took a long time to answer.”
“Things weren’t exactly normal,” he grated. “What do you recommend? Is the seafood good?”
“The scallops are divine.” Clearly, he was going to tell her nothing more, Celia thought, and added, “Your jaw—I presume that very impressive bruise wasn’t from a barroom brawl in St. John’s? Did it happen on Starspray?”
His lashes flickered. “Quit prying.”
“Jethro,” she said, aware of how much she liked the sound of his name on her lips, “you’re the one who insisted we have dinner together. I hate talking about the weather—I talk about it for at least thirty percent of my shift. Dave told me you’d had the flu, that’s why he was at the wheel when you went aground.”
“When did he tell you that?” Jethro lashed.
“He phoned last night. He didn’t want me thinking the Mayday signal was your fault.”
“The skipper’s always responsible. You know that as well as I do.”
“He also told me you saved his life.”
“He told you a great deal too much,” Jethro said tightly. “Are you having the scallops?”
“You bet. With home fries and coleslaw and a big glass of Coke that’s loaded with caffeine so I’ll stay awake all night.” She grinned at him. “So when did you bash your jaw?”
“Just before the helicopter arrived on the scene when I was so close to launching the life raft it wasn’t funny. The yacht was taking on water fast, faster than I could pump.”
Impulsively, Celia leaned forward, resting her fingers on his wrist. “I’m truly sorry about Starspray, Jethro.”
It was her left hand. He said, “No rings. No fiancé and presumably no husband. Although you never did tell me about your lovers.”
Lovers. In the plural. If she wasn’t so angry, she might find this funny. Celia snatched her hand back. “I can see that sympathy is lost on you.”
“I’m not used to failure,” he snarled. “What happened out there on that reef—I blew it. Big time.”
“Come off it,” she said impatiently. “If you and Dave had drowned—now that’s what I’d call failure.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Jethro’s face broke into a genuine smile. “I suppose you’re right…certainly I wouldn’t be around to talk about it. Do you always refuse to tell people what they want to hear, Celia Scott? Or is there something special about me?”
His smile crackled with masculine energy. “I don’t have to answer either of those questions,” she said weakly, and turned to the waitress. “Hi, Sally. I’ll have my usual, please, along with an extra slice of lemon.”
“The same, but beer instead of Coke,” Jethro said.
Sally gave him a smitten grin. “Yes sir. Right away.”
Once Sally was out of earshot, Celia said peevishly, “Do women always fall all over you like that?”
“If they do, you’re the exception that proves the rule.”
She gazed at him thoughtfully, noting the marks that exhaustion and illness had left on his face. His clothes, while casual, were top of the line, and she was quite sure the air of command he wore like a second garment wasn’t due merely to skippering Starspray.
But there was more. A lot more. She wasn’t an exception; she was no more immune to him than Sally was. Because close-up, Jethro Lathem was easily the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Sexy didn’t begin to describe him. The curl of dark hair in the neckline of his shirt, the way the fabric of his shirt molded his shoulders, even the angle of light across his cheekbones… She found herself longing to rest her fingertips on his sculpted mouth, to trace the long curve of his lower lip and feel it warm to her skin. To lean forward and kiss him?
Cool it, Celia! You’re not into sexy men. You thought Darryl was sexy, remember? And look where that got you.
Jethro, she saw with a flutter of her pulse, was watching her. Watching as intently as a hawk over long grass, waiting for the prey to reveal itself. Panic-stricken, she muttered, “You have the advantage of me—you know how I earn my living. What do you do, Jethro?”
As though he’d read her mind, he reached over and stroked the soft line of her mouth, his finger lingering at one corner. She jerked her head back. “Don’t!”
“You wanted me to do that.”
She tossed her head, refusing to deny what was so obviously the truth. “You’ve been around the block a few times—you know you don’t always have to act out your impulses. Only children do that.”
“Sometimes adults do, too.”
“Not this one.”
“I could persuade you.”
The same panic was rattling round her ribcage like a terrified bird. “Perhaps you could. Although I’m surprised you need to get your kicks that way.”
He said, as though the words were being dragged from him, “Your voice…that night on the radio. There was something about it…I didn’t really come here to thank you. I came because I had to meet you. See what you were like.”
“Oh,” said Celia; and knew that she believed him instantly.
“Your voice is beautiful—I wondered if you sang?” Jethro added. He was now toying with the handle of his fork, and she didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell he was wishing this conversation had never started.
“I used to sing in a choir,” she replied; it had been in the expensive private school her father had sent her to at the age of fourteen, from which she’d managed to get herself expelled by the age of fourteen and a half. She’d been big into rebellion as a teenager. But she’d loved to sing. She did remember that.
“Soprano,” Jethro said with a twisted smile.
“That’s right.” Quickly she changed the subject. “You were going to tell me how you earn your living.”
“Oh, I’m in the boat industry,” he said vaguely, “I’ve always loved the sea.” As Sally plunked down their drinks, he took a white envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Celia, I wanted to help you out in some way—a more tangible expression of gratitude. I don’t know what your salary is—”
“I should hope not!”
“—but you could buy something with this, or take a trip… When you live in Collings Cove, the Bahamas must look pretty good in winter.”
“Money,” Celia said in a hostile voice.
“Yeah, money. Well, a check. You got anything against that?”
“I was just doing my job that night. For which I get well paid.”
She could see the effort it took Jethro to rein in his temper. “I expect you do. I’m talking about the jam on the bread, the icing on the cake.”
“I couldn’t possibly take your money.”
“You’re being overly scrupulous,” he said impatiently, passing her the envelope. “Everyone can use more money.”
She took the envelope from him and tore it in half, and all the while her eyes never left his face. Then she put the two pieces on the table near his plate and picked up her glass.
“How very melodramatic,” Jethro sneered.
Her nostrils flared. “You can pay for my dinner. Then we’re square.”
How ironic if she were to reveal to Jethro that her father was rich; added to which, at the age of twenty-five Celia had inh
erited her mother’s trust fund. She didn’t need Jethro’s money, she had more than enough of her own. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. Back in Washington she’d been chased too often for her money, Darryl Coates being the worst offender.
The thought of Darryl could still make her wince.
One of the blessings of Collings Cove was her anonymity. Her town house was modest and her vehicle was one she could afford on her salary. Her Cessna, bought when she’d inherited the first lump sum from her mother, was parked at the airport twenty miles from here. Her secret, shared only with Paul.
The thought of Paul could also make her wince, although not for the same reasons.
Jethro said tautly, “So how am I supposed to thank you if you won’t take money?”
“That’s easy. Two words. Thank you.”
“Words come cheap,” he said with a depth of cynicism that rang all her alarm bells.
“Not to me, they don’t.”
“We sure don’t agree on very much!”
“We don’t have to,” she said.
His eyes narrowed; he took another gulp of his beer. “You’re not from Newfoundland, Celia, the accent’s all wrong. The eastern states?”
“Washington.”
“So why are you working in Canada?”
“I have dual nationality—my mother was Canadian.”
“Was?”
“She died when I was five,” Celia said. And overnight her life had altered irrevocably. Her father’s crushing control over her had only started after he was widowed.
Something must have shown in her face. Jethro put down his beer glass and covered her hand with his own. “I’m sorry.”
He’d invested the commonplace words with real force. Celia stared down at the back of his hand, feeling an absurd urge to cry. She’d learned very soon not to cry for her mother; Ellis had seen to that. She tugged her hand free of Jethro’s lean fingers, with their scarred and bruised knuckles, their warmth that seared through her own skin. “It was a long time ago,” she mumbled.
“Is your father still alive?”
