Contract Bridegroom

by Sandra Field

  No sex. That was the laugh of the century.

  Did she kiss everyone the way she’d kissed him? With such single-minded delight, such generosity?

  She couldn’t be a virgin. Impossible.

  He’d like to kill the guy who’d nearly raped her, and ask questions afterward. If that story was true, and he sensed it was—she surely hadn’t been faking the terror with which she’d pushed him away—it would be more than enough to put her off sex. Which meant Pedro really was her friend, and her relationship with the doctor was platonic.

  Jethro rubbed the tension from the back of his neck and walked into her house. The first thing that struck him was the light, streaming through uncurtained windows onto the hardwood floor. What you could see of it. Because the second thing was the mess. Boxes half packed, stuffed garbage bags, piles of clothing and magazines. He said, “Are you usually this untidy?”

  “The movers are coming tomorrow, I told you that.” She was unlacing her boots. Straightening, she eased them off her feet. “Thank you for driving me home. But I’m okay now, you don’t need to stay.”

  “Considering that less than an hour ago you asked me to marry you, you’re in one surefired hurry to get rid of me.”

  “You said no—remember?”

  “I said we’d talk about it after I’d cleaned up your cheek and your knee.”

  “If the answer’s no, there’s nothing to talk about!”

  She looked ready to explode. He glanced around, then strode over to the alcove by the fireplace and said, gazing at a small painting whose colors glowed like jewels, “That’s a Chagall…and over there, it’s an early Georgia O’Keeffe, right?”

  “They were my mother’s. Goodbye, Jethro.”

  The pottery on the bookshelves was pre-Columbian, he’d bet his shirt. So she did have money. That much was true. And among the books were several he’d read himself and enjoyed. “Where’s the first-aid kit?”

  “Heaven knows.” Her voice rising, Celia added, “I’m perfectly capable of washing a bit of dirt from my face and why can’t you take a hint?”

  Because I’m not bored.

  Jethro stood very still, as if he was the one who’d been hit on the side of the face. Bored? Him? He was never bored, he had a very full life with everything money could buy. A flourishing business empire, acquaintances all round the globe, any woman he wanted when he wanted her. Plus he had his sister and her family whenever he needed a brief stint of domesticity.

  Brief was all he could handle. He’d taken over the responsibility for his sister Lindy’s welfare when he was nine and she four; their mother was long gone and their father hitting the bottle. For the next sixteen years, until Lindy married, he’d been protector, big brother and surrogate father for Lindy, drastically circumscribing his own life and his freedom to do so.

  One more reason he’d never married and had children. Been there, done that.

  Celia said irritably, “Now what’s the matter?”

  Blinking, Jethro came back to the present, to a chestnut-haired woman who looked as if she’d like to pack him into a mover’s crate and ship him to Siberia.

  A woman who definitely didn’t bore him.

  Far from it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I BET the first-aid kit’s in the bathroom cupboard,” Jethro said, and marched past Celia down the narrow hall.

  The shower curtain was splashed with huge red and blue flowers, the floor mat scarlet. He had no idea why a bright red mat should excite him; but it did.

  An uncompromising color. A color very sure of itself. Like Celia, he thought, and rummaged in the cupboard. As he located the kit beside a pile of fluffy red towels, Celia stormed up behind him. “Jethro, get out of my house! I apologize, I should never have mentioned the word marriage—it was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done and I’ve pulled some dumb stunts in my life. You have every right to be angry with me and will you please leave right now and never come back!”

  “I’m not angry,” he said calmly, “you’re the one who’s spitting nickels. And I’m not leaving until you’ve told me what this is all about. Come on back to the kitchen, the light’s better there.”

  Her shoulders slumped; she suddenly looked exhausted and he remembered with a pang of compunction that she’d worked a twelve-hour shift the night before. In a voice raw with honesty, she said, “Look, I made a mistake. A major one. A really awful one. What are you going to do—make me eat crow? Please don’t do that, Jethro.”

  She wasn’t a woman who’d plead for something very often, he knew that in his bones, and fought against the urge to take her in his arms. Don’t do it, he thought. Keep your cool. You never had any trouble doing that with Marliese or Elisabeth. So why should it be any different with Celia? He said implacably, “I want to know more about this proposal of yours.”

  “You’re like the rock on Gun Hill—immovable,” she announced, and limped down the hall to the kitchen, plunking herself on a stool so the sun shone full on her scraped cheek. Her lips were set mutinously, her eyes like kindling about to burst into flame.

  Jethro washed his hands at the sink. “You’re a bad loser.”

  “Tell me how to win when your opponent’s made of granite,” she said, glowering at him as he advanced on her.

  “Hold still,” he said, and very carefully put a wet gauze pad to her cheek. As she winced, his nerves tightened. Her skin was creamy smooth, the hollow under her cheekbone held the soft glow of silk; her lashes were dark, innocent of make-up.

  Dirt was ground into the scrape. He worked with exquisite care, watching her clamp her lower lip in her teeth, her face very pale. Finally he said, “That’s got it all, I think. You’re going to have one heck of a bruise.”

  “I walked into a door, isn’t that the usual excuse?” she snapped, as he smoothed on some antibiotic cream. Then Jethro knelt on the floor, washing her knee. The blue vein down her thigh filled him with such a complexity of emotions that he fumbled the gauze pad, dropping it on the floor. With an impatient exclamation he took another one out of the package.

  He lusted after her. That was all. After that big row with Marliese at the ski lodge in Austria last November, he’d steered clear of women. They weren’t worth the aggravation.

  Sexual deprivation. A very simple explanation for his fierce hunger to possess Celia, to make love to her the night through until she was utterly and completely his. Keep it simple, stupid. It’s lust. Nothing to do with her fiery temper and her luscious voice. Or her unique capacity to take him by surprise.

  No sex, she’d said. Was that yet one more reason why he’d been so angry with her? How dare she ignore the attraction between them, as if it didn’t exist?

  “Start talking,” he ordered. “What’s your father’s name and what’s wrong with him?”

  For a moment Celia hesitated. Jethro looked up; her face was full of uncertainty. He said forcefully, “You cried your eyes out up there on the hill. I don’t think you do that often. So it’s important to you, this fake marriage.”

  “You see too much,” she whispered. “It scares me when you do that.”

  He didn’t think she scared easy, either. Wanting to kiss her so badly he could almost taste the sweetness of her lips, he said harshly, “Get on with it.”

  Her lips compressed. “My father’s name is Ellis Scott. Ellis Scott III. Old Washington money. He’s got a rare form of leukemia.”

  “Marrying me—or anyone else for that matter—won’t cure leukemia,” Jethro said more gently, removing the last flake of mica from her grazed knee.

  “I know that.” She sighed. “After my mother died, he became so over-protective I could scarcely breathe. Yet at the same time, he was emotionally distant. Cold. Controlling. It was awful. I could have made the state junior slalom team when I was fourteen, but he wouldn’t put up the money. Too risky. Play tennis instead. So as an adolescent I majored in rebellion, and when I was nineteen we had a huge bust-up. Then there was no contact betwee
n us for several years. A while ago, after I had my own money and this job, I got in touch with him again, and we’ve seen each other several times since then. It’s not what you’d call a great relationship, but it’s sure better than nothing. Much better.”

  Jethro hadn’t had any kind of relationship with his father; his mother, for as long as she’d hung around, had been more interested in her lovers than in her two children. “Now he wants you to get married,” he said in a neutral voice, taking the cap off the antibiotic again.

  “So I’ll be safe and secure. Like my brother, who’s conservative and contented and always does everything right.” She gave another heavy sigh. “But I’m older now, and my father’s dying, and surely it wouldn’t hurt me to get married for three months. To relieve his mind. I’m not saying he’s right to want me married—he isn’t. I’m my own security, although I don’t suppose he’d understand that in a million years.” She gave Jethro a troubled look. “Do you understand?”

  It was a strange time to feel as though he were poised over an abyss. Trust her, one voice whispered. Look at her, she’s honest as the day’s long. Not a mercenary bone in her body. Check her out, another voice insisted. You know your net worth. You can’t trust anyone around that kind of money. Sure, she’s got skin you’re aching to stroke and an infinitely kissable mouth and brown eyes that seem to go straight to your soul. But what do you really know about her?

  Maybe she wants to be on her father’s good side to make sure she inherits when he dies.

  He’d hesitated too long. She said, her lashes dropping to hide her eyes, “I guess you don’t.”

  He said brusquely, “So this would be a marriage for appearances only.”

  “No sex. No prying into each other’s lives. And when he dies, it’s over. An uncontested divorce and no more contact.”

  His surge of rage was utterly irrational. Jethro stood up, then pulled her to her feet, standing very close to her. He rested his palms on her shoulders, kneading her skin with a rhythmic insistence, letting his gaze wander from the curve of her lips to the thrust of her breasts under her T-shirt. But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. “No sex. You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes,” she said, overly loudly.

  “Maybe it’s time you tried going to bed with someone other than the creep who nearly raped you.”

  “Sex isn’t something you try—like a pair of shoes you’re thinking of buying! I’m going to be in love with the next man I go to bed with. Not that that’s any of your business.”

  She wasn’t in love with the doctor; he’d only had to see them together to know that. Jethro said briskly, “I need to think about it until tomorrow. I’ll get back to you in the morning. Will you be here?”

  “But on Gun Hill you said no.”

  “I might change my mind.”

  Suddenly she looked frightened. “If you can change your mind, I can change mine.”

  “It’s too late for that,” he said in a hard voice. “You wouldn’t be asking me—a perfect stranger—if you had a dozen other candidates all lined up. If I say yes, then we’ll get married. Is that clear?”

  She took a step back. “I…I don’t—”

  “If you didn’t want to marry me, you shouldn’t have asked.”

  She didn’t just look frightened, she looked terrified out of her wits. And for once she had nothing to say. Good, Jethro thought meanly. “I’ll drop by tomorrow morning with my answer. Either way. Yes or no.” Giving her a curt nod, he headed for the door.

  She followed him. “But—but your vehicle, it’s back at the north—”

  “I need the exercise. And jogging always helps me think.” Before she could say anything else, he turned, took her chin in his hands and kissed her, thoroughly, with all the technical skill at his command.

  While he still had control—just—he pulled back. How’s that for a new challenge, Jethro, not to fall all over her, this woman with chestnut hair that smells of flowers? “See you tomorrow morning,” he said. “Good luck with the cupboards.”

  Then he let himself out. But he didn’t head in the direction of Gun Hill. He went back to his motel, where he jotted down a few notes, then picked up the phone.

  The movers arrived sharp at nine in the morning. Celia felt like the bottom of a bird cage and looked worse. Her muscles had stiffened overnight; her shoulder, her knee and her cheek were interesting blends of purple, pink and mustard yellow, and she’d scarcely slept a wink.

  But at 5:00 a.m. she’d come to one conclusion. If Jethro said yes—which he almost certainly wouldn’t—then she’d go ahead with this fake marriage.

  She’d phoned her father yesterday evening, in between boxing all her food for her next-door neighbor and tackling the hall cupboard. Although Ellis’s voice sounded a little weaker, he’d been—she’d swear—glad to hear from her. She didn’t have much time to repair the damage of years, and if a marriage would help that process, then married she’d be. It would be worth it.

  The movers, whose names were Joe and Jim, had eyed her cheek curiously and gotten to work. It was going to be a very hot day, atypically warm for September.

  Even though Celia was busy all morning, the time passed with agonizing slowness. Suspense was far from the most comfortable of emotions, she thought, wishing Jethro would arrive, wondering why he hadn’t.

  By 11:45, she’d decided he’d skipped town: he’d caught the early flight because he couldn’t wait to see the last of her. She scarcely knew whether to be relieved or disappointed that he’d reneged. He was dangerous, she knew that; she’d known it from the first moment she’d seen him on her television monitor at work. He was also pure male, every inch of him, with a good dash of the predator thrown in. To say he was sexy was like saying a teddy bear was cuddly.

  And she really did know very little about him, he was right about that. Instead of scrubbing her dirty oven, she’d have been better off phoning her lawyer in Washington to check on him.

  Easy, she thought with a throb of relief, I’ll do it right now. Just because I banged my knee doesn’t mean my brain has to go on hold. And a break would do me good, I can’t believe how hot it is today.

  The doorbell rang, a loud peal that scraped all Celia’s nerves. The Salvation Army, she thought frantically, come to pick up my old clothes, and opened the door. “Hello, Jethro,” she said faintly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  He was wearing a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and faded jeans; his hair shone with cleanliness. “It took longer than I thought to get some of the answers I was looking for. Let’s go for lunch, Celia. Sally owes you a piece of pie.”

  “Lunch? I can’t—I’m a mess.”

  Her shorts were fuchsia, her shirt a wild swirl of fuchsia, green and yellow, and her hair was tumbling in untidy curls around her face. The bruise on her cheek was also yellow. “You look fine to me,” Jethro said.

  There was something in his voice that made her flush from more than the heat. Then Joe called out, “You go for lunch, missis, we’re about ready to eat, too.”

  “Good,” said Jethro, and seven minutes later Sally was ushering them to one of the window seats. The air-conditioning, for once, was working. Sally was inclined to linger, giving Jethro her best smile as she passed him the menu and poured two glasses of water. Celia said, “I’ll have a club sandwich on whole wheat, please, and a Coke with lots of ice.”

  “Hamburger with the works and a beer,” Jethro said. “Thanks, Sally.” Then he leaned back in his chair and gave Celia a lazy grin. “I’m old-fashioned. I’d want you to go by Celia Lathem.”

  With exaggerated care she put down her glass of water. Her voice seemed to come from a long way away. “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “For better or for worse.”

  She stared at him as though she’d never seen him before. He’s a man, she thought weakly. Just a man. So his hair gleams in the sun, and his face is as strongly carved as granite, and his mouth…don’t think about what his mou
th does to you, Celia, not a smart move. She said edgily, “You agree to all my conditions?”

  He reached in the pocket of his jacket and drew out a couple of pieces of paper. “I had my lawyer fax me a contract.”

  “Jethro, it’s up to me to draw up the contract!”

  “Just wanted to show you I was serious,” he said blandly.

  “I’m the one who’s doing the hiring—not the other way round,” she said, and grabbed the papers from him. The typescript ran together, making very little sense. No sex seemed to have been translated into something called an abrogation of conjugal relations; her insistence on privacy had become a long-winded phrase about no unnecessary intrusions into the affairs, business, personal or otherwise of the other party as heretofore defined in section three.

  Jethro said agreeably, “We could both sign it—that way I’ll know you’re serious, too. Once we’re in Washington, you could get your lawyer to check it out.”

  She said tightly, “Speaking of which—I presume you checked me out.”

  “Absolutely.”

  A large Coke was put in front of Celia, who looked at it as if she weren’t quite sure what it was. She gave Sally a distracted smile. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Boss says it’s on the house along with the chocolate cream pie.”

  “That’s sweet of him, Sally…thanks.” As Sally rather reluctantly departed for another table, Celia added, “And what did you find out?”

  Jethro raised his glass. “To wedded bliss, my darling Celia.” His eyes were full of mockery.

  “I’m not your darling!”

  “You’ll have to pretend you are in front of your father. It wouldn’t hurt to practise a bit.”

  Her jaw dropped. She’d never thought that far ahead; she’d been too caught up in worrying about who would marry her to think about how she’d behave once she found someone. She said in a furious undertone, “Let’s get something straight, Jethro. I’m in control here. I’m hiring you, for pay, to do a job. I’m the employer, you’re the employee…. Have you got that?”