Contract Bridegroom

by Sandra Field

  “A cool sixty thousand,” he said. “Amazing what money’ll do.”

  She tossed her curls. “You presumably found out that the money’s real—that I’m not stringing you a line.”

  “Ellis Bartlett Scott III. He inherited wealth and he’s been shrewd enough to multiply it several times over. Reputation as a fair man, dead honest, not much sense of humor. His son takes after him. His daughter…ah, now we come to the interesting part.”

  Jethro took a gulp of his beer. “Wild. Expelled from so many schools I lost count. All the very best schools, mind you. Expert skier, degree in languages from Harvard, travelled round the world on a shoestring working as a waitress. Ended up in Canada. Graduated from the Coast Guard college. Inherited her mother’s trust fund, got her pilot’s licence and bought her own plane. Yeah, you could say I checked up on you.”

  A clubhouse sandwich was put in front of Celia. Her appetite had totally deserted her. Jethro added, “With all that going on, she hasn’t had much time for men. There was mention of a guy called Darryl Coates. Is he the one who tried to rape you?”

  She hesitated a fraction too long. “So he is,” Jethro finished in a hard voice.

  Celia shivered; she wouldn’t put it past Jethro to take his own revenge on Darryl. “I didn’t say so.”

  “You don’t have to. Darryl’s recently divorced rich wife number one and he’s on the lookout—”

  “He is?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know that, Celia? Would you have married him rather than me in spite of what he did to you? Too late now, I’ve accepted your offer.”

  She felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Determined not to show that the claws had drawn blood, she said, “Then perhaps it’s fortunate I didn’t know. Since you can use the cash.”

  As she put salt on her fries and started to eat, Jethro said, “The only other man in your life is your doctor friend. Who’d jump at the chance to marry you.”

  “He’s not going to have the chance. I told you—he’s in love with me.”

  “All the more reason to marry him, I’d have thought.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Jethro demanded.

  “I marry Paul who’s in love with me and then in three months say goodbye, Paul, it’s been nice knowing you, have a happy divorce? I don’t think so.”

  “But that’s what you’ll be saying to me.”

  “You’re different.” Her gaze was level. “I may not know a whole lot about you, but I’m sure you can look after yourself.”

  His breath hissed between his teeth; she’d gotten to him, Celia realized with a primitive thrill of triumph. Going on the offensive, she said crisply, “Your lawyer hasn’t covered the times of payment. Half when we get to Washington, right after the wedding. The other half after you move out. Certified cheques.”

  “And what if your father takes an instant dislike to me?”

  “You’ll have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t you?” she said with a brilliant smile.

  Jethro said unpleasantly, “Of course, I’ve got class, haven’t I? Isn’t that what you said when you were listing my assets as a potential husband?” He glanced down at the paper place mat and cheap cutlery. “I know enough to use my fork for the fries and not to lick my fingers.”

  “That’s not what I meant! You make me sound like a horrible snob.”

  “So what did you mean, Celia?”

  “It’s the way you hold yourself, your…confidence,” she stumbled, “your air of command. As though you’re a lot more than the skipper of a sloop.”

  His lashes flickered. She’d touched another nerve, she thought, puzzled. With more assurance, she went on, “I’ll add a codicil to your contract that it’s only a temporary document, and I’ll get a new one drawn up in Washington before the wedding. This is a great sandwich…how’s the burger?”

  “How did we meet?” Jethro asked.

  She blinked. “We’ll tell the truth—I’m a lousy liar, I’ll only trip myself up if we invent something. You came here to thank me after Starspray sank. Simple.”

  “And we fell in love,” said Jethro in an unreadable voice.

  “That’s right,” she said, brown eyes clashing with steel-blue. “Love at first sight. We knew we were meant for each other, and we fell into each other’s arms. Soulmates from the start. Terribly romantic.”

  “Bedmates from the start, too.”

  “That,” she said insouciantly, “is where the acting comes in.” She grinned at him. “When I was at Harvard, I used to read romance novels at exam time to take the pressure off…you’d make a very good hero. And if I ever get to a decent hairdresser, I might not look so bad as the heroine.”

  “Except that in our case the hero and heroine will live happily ever after for no more than three months…it’s all a game to you, isn’t it?”

  She flinched at the savagery in his tone. “A game with a very serious purpose,” she said. “I’d rather you not forget that. And after all, you did buy into it, Jethro.”

  “Why not? What have I got to lose?”

  She hated his mockery. Scrabbling in her purse for a pen, Celia picked up his contract and added the codicil. Then she read the whole document thoroughly before she signed it. “Your turn,” she said, passing it to Jethro.

  His signature was illegible, a very masculine scrawl. “Well,” she said inadequately, “step one.”

  “I wonder what step thirteen will be,” Jethro said softly.

  She didn’t want to think as far ahead as step two, let alone thirteen. With great determination, she started telling him about some of her more hair-raising shifts with the Coast Guard, after which he described his passage through the Straits of Magellan; and the whole time their words were nothing but camouflage over a seethe of emotions Celia couldn’t begin to describe or subdue. Then they ate their pie, and Sally bid Celia a tearful goodbye.

  As they drove back to the town house, Celia said, “I’ve got the staff farewell dinner tonight. I’ll be ready to leave by ten tomorrow morning, the forecast’s good, and I’m sure if we’re soulmates you’ll trust me to fly you safely to Washington. So I’ll see you at the motel around nine-thirty.”

  “Fine,” said Jethro, and pulled up outside the puce door.

  But before she could get out, he took her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. She gasped, “What are you—”

  “We need the practice,” he said, and kissed her with an incendiary mixture of anger and passion.

  Every nerve she possessed sprang to life. If she was no good at lying, she was no good at deception either, thought Celia, and kissed him back, opening to him, her tongue dancing with his, the heat of his hands burning through her shirt. Her breasts were hard against his chest, her fingers—somehow—had tangled themselves in his hair, and her whole body felt pliant, like beach grass in a wind from the sea.

  Behind them came three blasts of a horn. Jim and Joe, she thought confusedly, in the moving van. She shoved at Jethro’s chest and unwisely said the first thing that came into her head. “We don’t need practice. We do just fine without it.”

  The pulse at the neck of his shirt was pounding, as though he’d carried her all the way up Gun Hill. She watched it, fascinated, wondering if his skin would taste of salt, her nostrils filled with the scent of his body: soap, aftershave, and something else that was unique to Jethro and that she’d recognize anywhere.

  What was happening to her?

  She scrambled out of the Nissan, trying to look calm and collected, and slammed the door with unnecessary force.

  There was one piece of information she hadn’t given Jethro. Tonight she’d be staying at the same motel as he. She’d booked a room for after the staff dinner.

  She should have asked for the room farthest from his.

  No sex. No conjugal relations.

  She’d put her signature on a contract to that effect. She’d do well to remember it.

  CHAPT
ER FIVE

  IF SHE hadn’t signed a contract that afternoon agreeing to marry a man who fascinated, attracted and terrified her, Celia would have enjoyed herself at the staff dinner. She was wearing her prettiest dress and had openly made a joke of her bruised and scraped cheek. Her boss’s speech was complimentary, and her coworkers were in the mood to party.

  Paul was also there. Paul was making no attempt to look as though he were enjoying himself. She’d made the mistake, a month or so ago, of issuing him a rather generalized invitation to Washington; to her consternation, he’d announced ten minutes ago that he was planning to come for a weekend in October. So she was going to have to tell him about Jethro.

  She didn’t have a clue how she was going to do that.

  She and Paul had dated quite a while before he’d as much as kissed her. Pleasant kisses, that aroused none of the terror of Darryl’s or the passion of Jethro’s. Jethro’s kisses were temporary insanity, a madness of the body. Like eating jalapeño peppers or vindaloo curry.

  She wasn’t going to think about Jethro. She’d have lots of time for that tomorrow.

  Despite the lack of sparks between her and Paul, she liked him very much; for a while, she had thought she could change this liking into something deeper and more lasting, that an affair between her and Paul would catapult her into that blissful state called being in love, a state her friends seemed to achieve with astonishing ease. Unfortunately, Paul’s kisses had never caused her to lose her head, not in the slightest degree. Consequently, she’d stayed out of his bed.

  She was very fond of Paul. Fond, Celia thought, what a wishy-washy word.

  It was one o’clock in the morning and she was tired. But Paul was obviously going to outwait everyone else at the party to make sure he said goodbye to her in private. Get it over with, Celia, she decided, and started a round of goodbyes. Then she said to Paul, “Are you leaving now?”

  He stood up. He wasn’t as tall as Jethro, his face open where Jethro’s was guarded, his eyes now as miserable as a neglected dog’s. Stifling a sigh, Celia led the way outside. “I can’t believe how warm it still is,” she said, “I thought I’d melt while I was packing all those boxes.”

  “You had lunch today with that guy,” Paul said in a hostile voice. “The one whose boat sank.”

  She should have known there’d be no secrets in Collings Cove. But he’d given her the perfect opening. “Yes, I did. I had some…business to discuss with him.”

  “Business? What kind of business?”

  It wasn’t like Paul to be so truculent. “Remember I told you my father was ill? But I didn’t tell you he made what I suppose could be called a last request. He wants me to get married before he dies, he thinks that’ll settle me down and—”

  “I’ll marry you,” said Paul.

  “No, Paul—we’ve been through all that before. Anyway, I don’t want to settle down, I’m not ready to.” She swallowed. “So I’m going to enter into a fake marriage. Just until my father dies. With Jethro. Paul, I’m sorry, but I have to do this for my father’s sake, please try to understand.”

  Paul was staring at her as if she’d just said she was pregnant with quintuplets. “You’re going to marry a man you hadn’t even met three days ago?”

  Put like that, it didn’t sound very sensible. In fact, it sounded totally off the wall. “Jethro’s not in love with me, he’s got an ego as tough as sealskin, and he’s an adventurer like me. Besides, we’ve signed a legal contract. It’s a business deal, Paul. Nothing more.”

  “I can see why you’d prefer him to me,” Paul said bitterly.

  Jethro’s charisma, she thought. So Paul had noticed. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I’m not—I’m just doing the best I can to make my father’s last months happy ones.”

  “You’re making a bad mistake! I’ve seen the guy. He’s not some half-baked bureaucrat from St. John’s, he’s a big-time operator—he’ll take you to the cleaners.”

  Her heart sank. Because she was afraid Paul was right? “No, he won’t. My lawyers will see to that.”

  “Did he hit you? Is that why your cheek’s a mess?”

  “Of course not! I told you, I tripped when I was on Gun Hill.”

  “Have you been to bed with him?”

  “No. No sex, it’s in the contract.”

  “No sex? That guy? You think he’ll take no for an answer? Sorry, dear, I have a headache…that’ll really impress him. Get real, Celia.”

  “Oh, do shut up!”

  “You can’t move people around like they’re stones on the beach,” Paul said, “it doesn’t work. Tear up the contract, tell your dad you’re not ready to get married but that you’ve quit your job to be with him until he dies, and go from there. I bet that’ll set his mind to rest.”

  “You don’t know my father,” she said caustically.

  “I’m beginning to think I don’t know you,” Paul retorted. “Don’t do it, Celia. Call it off while you still can. Jethro Lathem’s no tame puppy dog who’ll heel when you tell him to. He’s a wolf of the first order. With teeth.”

  It wasn’t the time to remember how her tongue had flicked against Jethro’s teeth, how her body had melted into his as if she were a candle on fire. “I can look after myself,” she said, inwardly wondering how true that was. “Paul, I had to tell you sooner or later, and I wanted to do it face-to-face.”

  “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

  Jethro wouldn’t let her. With a strange sense of fatality, she said, “It’s too late for that.”

  “Then I wish you luck.”

  His sarcasm was forgivable. There was no point in prolonging this, Celia thought. She shouldn’t have told Paul. She should have lied by omission and withdrawn her invitation for his visit to Washington, stressing that it was better they go their separate ways. She said quietly, “Goodbye, Paul. I’m sorry I couldn’t fall in love with you, truly I am. If you ever feel like writing to me, I’d like to hear from you. And please…be happy.”

  Paul made no move to kiss her. “Goodbye,” he said stiffly, and turned toward his Jeep.

  Celia was driving Wayne’s second car, an old jalopy that rattled like a can of bolts; the man to whom she’d sold her Toyota had picked it up that afternoon. She drove away, doing her best to forget the injured look on Paul’s face.

  Everything would have been so easy if only she’d fallen in love with him. But although she felt regret now parting from Paul, it was only regret—nothing stronger. What was wrong with her? In some real way, she thought moodily, she was a failure as a woman. Something was missing in her, something crucial: the ability to fall in love. Was it because her mother had died when she was only five and her father had retreated from her that she was now incapable of the deep love a marriage required? Why couldn’t she fall in love and commit herself to a partnership that would expand her horizons, give her passion, happiness and children?

  She’d like to have children. Some day.

  But marriage had always felt too constricting. And why fall in love if the end result was the kind of grief her father had suffered for as long as she could remember? Her mother’s death had destroyed Ellis Scott. Was love worth that risk?

  Into her tired mind dropped the image she’d remembered since she was perhaps four and a half. It was spring. She’d been playing under the cherry trees in the back garden of Fernleigh and had run toward the house to show her mother the pink petals she’d found in the grass. But then she’d stopped near the boxwood hedge. Her mother and father were standing on the steps below the conservatory, a red silk shawl draped around her mother’s shoulders. She was leaning back against her husband, whose arms were locked around her waist; the last rays of the sun caught in her chestnut hair. She had looked utterly beautiful, like a fairy princess in the embrace of her prince.

  Was that image one more reason Celia had kept herself separate from the casual affairs of her
classmates at Harvard and the Coast Guard college? Did she crave the depth and intensity of love that she’d glimpsed as a child that long-ago evening under the pale mist of the cherry trees?

  At one time she’d thought she might fall in love with Darryl. Since then, she’d tried her best to do the same with Paul. But, she thought, cheering up, there was no chance in the world she’d fall in love with Jethro. Despite what Paul had said, she wasn’t that crazy.

  The window of Wayne’s car was stuck shut and the heater, no matter where she shoved the lever, was belting out malodorous hot air. But at least Jethro wouldn’t connect her with this old rattletrap.

  By the time she reached the motel, Celia’s cheeks were pink and her hair sticking to her forehead. It was one-thirty and the motel was quiet. Jethro’s Nissan was parked at the far end, she noticed with considerable relief.

  Her room was stuffy. As she pushed back the curtains, she caught sight of the pool out back; it was gleaming like a mirror under the outside lights. Empty.

  A swim. That’s what she needed. To wash off Paul’s warnings and her own fears; to rid herself of a day that seemed to have gone on forever.

  She rummaged in her duffel bag and five minutes later was letting herself out the back door, the key pinned to the strap of her tight-fitting white maillot. She dove neatly into the deep end and started doing lengths in a smooth overarm crawl, back and forth, until the tension eased from her shoulders, and both guilt and fear had dissolved in the chlorine-laced water. Only then did she roll over on her back.

  Only then did she see the man standing on the edge of the pool, watching her.

  As she gave an involuntary gasp of alarm, she realized it was Jethro. He was wearing dark trunks. His body was magnificent—his belly corded with muscle, his legs long and tightly muscled. The curl of dark hair on his chest, the width of his shoulders, the taut column of his throat, filled her with a confusion of panic and desire; her hard-earned peace evaporated like water in the heat of the sun.