Contract Bridegroom

by Sandra Field

  Jethro had been watching Celia swim for several minutes; he’d suspected she’d be staying here tonight once the movers had taken her furniture, and he’d been keeping an eye out for her. She swam as gracefully as a porpoise, the sleek curves of her body moving economically through the dark water; when she rolled over, he saw the tight buds of her nipples through the wet fabric of her suit. Saw, too, her start of alarm. “Hello, Celia,” he said. “How was the party?”

  After a fractional hesitation, she said breathlessly, “Great. I’ll race you—ten lengths.”

  He dove in, surfacing only inches away from her. Her hair was slicked to her skull, her dark eyes laughing at him; it had taken her only a couple of seconds to recover from the fright of suddenly seeing him. No kittenish shrieks of alarm, no pouting, no batting of her wet lashes. Just laughter. Laughter and a dare.

  I like the way you operate, he thought.

  He had no intention of telling her so. “You’re on,” Jethro said. “Ready, set, go.”

  He was a good swimmer, both taller and stronger than Celia; he finished first by half a length. Gripping the edge of the pool with one hand, he said, “We forgot to discuss the prize.”

  “You’re slipping,” she said amiably. “You’ll have to make do with the satisfaction of knowing you won. Won a race in the pool, that is.”

  “In a few days I’m going to win the hand of the rich and beautiful heroine.”

  “But only her hand. Not the rest of her.”

  “Oh Celia,” Jethro drawled, “you do believe in dares, don’t you?”

  “It beats settling down with a husband and one point eight kids,” she said, took a deep breath and sank below the water.

  Jethro hauled himself out of the pool, sitting beside the ladder as he watched for her to reappear. Contract or no contract, he was going to make love to Celia Scott. He was going to kiss her until she whimpered with need in his arms, caress her until she begged him for completion; and she’d enjoy it every bit as much as he.

  He was quite prepared to wait. He didn’t yet know when it would happen. Certainly not before the wedding, in case she called the whole thing off. But happen it would, and in a time and place of his choosing.

  She’d be worth waiting for. He’d swear to that.

  He’d never waited for a woman before. Never had to. What he’d wanted he’d taken, and the woman had always been willing. So why, this time, was he content to bide his time?

  She’d been under the water a long time, he thought suddenly.

  Even as he felt the first prickle of anxiety, she surfaced at the far end of the pool. She smiled at him, her teeth gleaming white. Then she sank again, and a few moments later he could see her swimming toward him underwater, her limbs exquisitely proportioned, all her movements imbued with an entirely feminine strength and grace. Her long hair streamed out behind her.

  He wanted her hair spread on his pillow, her face flushed with desire. He wanted to kiss her breasts, her belly, the sweet hollow of her spine until his body was scented with hers, her beauty unforgettably imprinted in his flesh.

  Unforgettably? He always forgot his women.

  She burst out of the water at his feet in a flurry of spray. “Only ten lengths, Jethro, and you’re taking a rest?” she gasped. “Are you a man or a mouse?”

  Kneeling, he reached down and lifted her out of the pool in one swift motion, his biceps hard as the concrete around the pool. Then he straightened, drawing her to stand beside him. “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he said, and kissed her.

  She tasted of chlorine, her wet swimsuit cold against his chest. Her breasts were firm, the jut of her hipbones exciting him as though she was his very first woman and all this was new to him. His kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers, his hands pulling her closer until she could be in no doubt that he wanted her.

  She quivered like a high-strung racehorse at the starting gate, kissing him back with the recklessness that was so much a part of her. A recklessness that until now, if he trusted her word, she’d never allowed herself to feel with a man.

  Could it be true? Could he believe her?

  He wanted to, desperately. Wanted her to be his and his alone.

  He groaned her name, sliding his lips down her throat, one hand cupping the curve of her breast. His head was doing the swimming, he thought crazily, and thrust with his body, hardness to softness, male to female.

  Much more of this and he’d be totally out of control. Which wasn’t part of his strategy. Not yet. He fought for breath, easing away from her, and somehow found his voice. “What’s the verdict, Celia? Man or mouse?”

  She was panting; in a primitive thrill of pride, he knew the beat of her pulse was nothing to do with her laps in the pool and everything to do with him. And this time she hadn’t pulled away. She said shakily, “Skip the mouse. How about a tidal wave?”

  “We didn’t cover those in the contract.”

  “I’ll alert my lawyer.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders; her bones were, paradoxically, both delicate and strong. “What time did you say we’re leaving in the morning?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “We can drive in the Nissan. It’s a rental. I’ll drop it off at the airport.” As she nodded wordlessly, he added, “We’d better go to bed. Full day tomorrow.”

  Suddenly she shivered. “Jethro, I won’t—”

  “Separate beds,” he said in a cutting voice. “And remember something, will you? I’m not Darryl. I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I’m cold,” she muttered, “I’ve got to have a shower. Good night, Jethro.”

  “Good night, Celia,” he said, and watched the seductive swing of her hips as she headed for the door of her unit.

  It would give him infinite pleasure to undo the damage that bastard Darryl Coates had caused her. To strip from her any vestige of fear and reluctance, setting free the woman of passion that she really was. To strip her naked, body and soul.

  And she’d be willing. Oh yes, this time she’d be willing.

  The following afternoon, Celia hauled the last piece of luggage out of her Cessna, which was parked on the tarmac of a private airstrip outside Washington. It had been an ideal day for a long-distance flight, with tail winds the whole way and perfect visibility. Patting the fuselage affectionately, she gave Jethro an uncomplicated smile of pure pleasure. “I love this plane. Sort of like you and Starspray, I suppose.”

  “You’re a good pilot,” he said sincerely. “I enjoyed that.”

  She flushed with pleasure; Jethro wasn’t a man to hand out superfluous compliments. “Thanks…we’ll have to go through customs. Then my father’s chauffeur should be here to meet us.”

  “And the game begins,” Jethro said lightly.

  She frowned. “You sure know how to bring me back down to earth with a thud.”

  He laughed and put an arm round her shoulders. “Smile, Celia. From now on, my darling, we’re lovers. Crazy about each other, in bed and out.”

  “Lay off—no one can see us out here!”

  He raised one brow. “We’re supposed to be in love. You can’t go turning it off whenever it suits you—glaring at me as though you hate my guts one minute, and madly in love with me the next. We’ll be caught out in no time if you do that. You’ve fallen for me, Celia. You’re bringing me home to meet your father and you’re deliriously happy.”

  “Deliriously happy,” she repeated in an inimical voice.

  “You got it.”

  Her face felt as stiff as cardboard, and a chunk of ice had lodged itself in the vicinity of her stomach. It was all very well to be reckless. But—and she should have remembered this, she’d been expelled from enough schools for the lesson to have sunk in—recklessness usually brought in its aftermath certain consequences.

  She’d proposed to Jethro. He’d accepted. And now she had to act as though she were in love with him.

  “Three months,” she said. “It sounds
like a life sentence.”

  “You’re doing it for your father…remember?” Jethro lashed.

  …who was under a sentence of death. Celia flushed with shame. How could she have forgotten? What was it about Jethro that drove everything else out of her mind but him? “Of course I remember,” she snapped. “Let’s go. The sooner we get this charade under way, the better. The chauffeur’s name’s Mason. He’s been with my father since before I was born, and he has three grandchildren he adores.”

  “So let’s go and play the game, sweetheart.”

  She whirled to face him. “Don’t call me that!”

  He gripped her elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Why not?”

  She said in a rush, “Darryl called me baby. Paul called me dear. You can call me baby and dear and darling twenty-four hours a day if that’s what turns you on. But not sweetheart.”

  “Who called you sweetheart?” Jethro asked, dropping each word like a stone.

  No one had. That was the trouble. It was an endearment she privately adored, and if ever she fell in love, she wanted it kept for a happiness and a man she couldn’t even begin to imagine. “Never you mind,” she retorted childishly.

  “There’s been another man, hasn’t there? One you’re not telling me about.”

  She shrank from the fury in his face. But not for anything was she going to reveal to him daydreams as fragile as cherry petals. “How many women have you had, Jethro?” she flared. “Are you going to tell me about each and every one of them?”

  “You’ll tell me about him,” Jethro threatened. “Sooner or later.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” she cried, and wondered why the truth should sound so unconvincing. “Let’s go—Mason will be wondering where we are.”

  “We’re making mad, passionate love behind the hangar,” Jethro said savagely. “Right, Celia?”

  She was determined not to show how much he frightened her. She must have been mad to propose to him; Paul was right, Jethro was a predator and teeth were the very least of his weapons. She said with only the slightest quiver in her voice, “Be careful, Jethro Lathem. You haven’t got your first paycheck, and I can still change my mind.”

  “I’ll sue you if you try.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  His short laugh held nothing of amusement. “Oh yes, I would. Breach of promise.”

  Celia stood very still, the heat of the sun beating up from the tarmac, her body ice-cold. “You mean it, don’t you?”

  “A lawsuit wouldn’t be a very edifying experience for your father. You might want to think about that.”

  He did mean it. Every word. “What have I done?” Celia whispered. “What in heaven’s name have I done?”

  “You’ve agreed to marry me for as long as your father lives,” Jethro said with brutal emphasis. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The pavement shimmered and there wasn’t a breath of breeze; for a moment Celia wondered if she was going to faint. She’d been reckless once too often, she thought numbly. Jethro Lathem was the last man on earth she should have chosen.

  And it was too late. That’s what he was saying. Too late to change her mind.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WITH AN incoherent exclamation, Celia headed for the customs shed; ten minutes later she and Jethro emerged into the sunshine again. Mason was standing beside the Mercedes.

  Act, Celia. Act.

  She took Jethro by the arm, and pulled him forward. “Mason,” she said, giving the chauffeur a quick hug, “lovely to see you. I have a surprise, a wonderful surprise—this is my brand-new fiancé, Jethro Lathem.”

  “Well, Miss Celia, congratulations,” Mason said. “Never thought I’d see the day. You’ve got yourself a fine woman, Mr. Lathem. The very best…congratulations to you too, sir.”

  Jethro drew Celia into the circle of his arm. “Thanks, Mason. I’m a very lucky guy.”

  It was done, thought Celia. She had announced herself as Jethro’s fiancée and she couldn’t back out now. The word would be all through the house as soon as they got home, and then there’d be the crucial interview with her father.

  She was going to marry a perfect stranger who wasn’t perfect at all. Just the opposite, in fact. Then Jethro nudged her, saying, “Right, darling?”

  “Sorry,” she stumbled, “I was daydreaming…so much has happened the last few days, Mason, I’m still breathless.” Fluttering her lashes at Jethro, she did her best to look like a woman whom love had rendered starry-eyed and absent-minded.

  Jethro dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Let’s go home, Celia—I want to meet your father. I’m sure we’ll have a lot in common.”

  She wished she were as sure. And how dare he say home? It wasn’t his home, it was hers. She said pleasantly, “This is all the luggage we have, Mason, the movers are delivering the rest of my stuff next week. How is my father?”

  “Looking forward to seeing you, miss,” Mason replied and opened the car door for her.

  Jethro climbed in beside her and put his arm round her shoulders, pulling her close. As Mason took his seat, she smiled sleepily at her so-called beloved. “I’m going to have a snooze, honey, I’m wiped,” she said and, with wicked delight, saw him cringe. She’d been pretty sure he’d hate being called honey. Hurray, she thought vengefully and closed her eyes.

  Nor did she open them until Mason turned into the tall gates of Fernleigh. The house, as always, both welcomed Celia with long familiarity and repelled her with its formality. Yet its stone facade, Corinthian columns, and symmetry of blank windows, together with a garden whose rigidity put Versailles to shame, were home to her, the only real home she’d ever had. Jethro murmured into her ear, “We’re a long way from the Seaview Grill.”

  His breath was warm, wafting across her skin; involuntary pleasure rippled along her nerves. She said with a brightness that sounded as fake as her proposed marriage, “I’m so anxious for you to meet my father, Jethro. We’ll go straight up.”

  The wide staircase was flanked with portraits of ancestors who didn’t look any happier to be there than she was. “When I was six,” she prattled, “I got up on the ladder the window cleaners were using and painted a moustache on my great-great-grandfather—the one in the black coat who looks like he’s attending a wake. I got spanked for that.”

  “I’m scarcely in the door and I can see this is no house for a child,” Jethro said harshly. “Was that after your mother died?”

  “Seven months later.”

  “I’m beginning to understand all those expulsions…what the hell was your father thinking of?”

  “Why are you so angry?” Celia asked, puzzled. “He loved my mother. He never got over her death.”

  “So you’re determined not to fall in love in case the same thing happens to you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She tossed her head. “My father’s portrait is the one at the top of the stairs.”

  Jethro took her by the shoulders, his voice gravelly with suppressed emotion. “I suggest you have your lawyer amend the privacy clause. Because I’m going to get a few answers out of you while I’m here.”

  “The way I was brought up isn’t your concern and we aren’t going to have a fight two minutes before you meet my father!”

  “Then let’s see what we can do to shock your great-great-grandfather,” Jethro said, and kissed her parted lips with a fierce intimacy that scorched her cheeks with color and made her heart hammer in her breast. Then he let her go so suddenly she staggered. “That feels a whole lot better,” he said. “Let’s beard the lion in his den. Which way?”

  Celia blurted, “You’re just like me.” A rebel. Uncaring of convention or propriety.

  “Are you only just figuring that out?” Jethro’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s why you’re so madly in love with me.”

  “I should have met you when I was six. Not now,” she announced, and stalked along the marble-tiled hall. Her father’s suite of rooms was at the back of the hous
e, with a view of the topiary and the knot gardens, everything pruned and rigidly under control. Outside his door, she suddenly stopped. “I—I haven’t told him about you yet. I’d better go in first and break the news.”

  “Oh no, my darling. We’re in this together.” With a wolfish smile, Jethro gestured for her to precede him.

  Chewing on her lip, Celia tapped on the door. “Come in,” her father called.

  With the sense she was embarking on a long flight without navigation equipment or altimeter, Celia walked into Ellis Scott’s private living room. Her father was sitting by the window. Using the arm of the chair for support, he stood up to greet her. His iron-gray hair had a military cut, the creases in his trousers were knife-sharp, and his tie bore the emblem of an ivy-league university. “Hello, Father,” Celia said, crossed the room and kissed him on the cheek.

  “So you’ve finally come home,” he said. “Good. I can keep an eye on you here. What happened to your face?”

  She’d done her best to hide the marks on her cheek with makeup. “I fell when I was hiking.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  “I wasn’t watching where I was going, Father, that’s all!”

  “I see,” Ellis said, making it sound like a reprimand. “Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”

  She took a deep breath. “He’s rather more than a friend. I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Father, Jethro Lathem. Jethro, my father, Ellis Scott.”

  Jethro strode forward, shaking Ellis’s hand. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Lathem. Of Lathem Fleets?” Ellis rapped.

  “That’s correct.”

  “I see…you’ve done very well for yourself the last ten years or so, Mr. Lathem. You’re into pharmaceuticals and aerospace technology now as well, I believe.”

  “Only in a small way. The oil tankers and container ships are my main interest.”

  Celia’s head had been snapping back and forth as she followed this exchange. Boating, Jethro had told her when she’d asked him what he did. She’d pictured yachts, perhaps a marina or a small boatyard in Maine. She croaked, “What are—”