Contract Bridegroom

by Sandra Field

  There was an instant’s resistance; a flash of pain crossed her face. He froze, poised over her. “Celia—”

  Beyond caution or restraint, Celia begged, “Don’t stop, Jethro, please.”

  His face was blank; he sounded oddly unsure of himself. “You told me you’d only once…but—”

  Her answer was to lift her hips beneath him and thrust upward. And then the rhythms of her own body, so intimately joined to his, seized her. She cried out his name and from a long way away felt him within her, deeper and deeper, carrying her with him through the wildness of storm to the safest of havens.

  To the place where she was inseparable from him and yet most truly herself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SLOWLY Celia came back to the present. To Jethro’s sweat-slick forehead resting on her breast, to the hammering of her own heart and the heavy echo of his. She let one hand drift down his spine, tracing the small bumps of his vertebrae with infinite tenderness. “I didn’t know it would be so…there aren’t even any words. Except to say thank you.”

  He lifted his head. She’d never seen his face so naked to her, so exposed; her throat clogged with emotion. He said with none of his usual self-control, “You’d more or less told me you were a virgin. I didn’t believe you—couldn’t believe you. I should have. Because it was true.”

  “Yes, it was true.” She rubbed her nose against his chin, wanting to relieve the strain on his features. “It’s not true any more though.”

  He said evenly, “I don’t know how to say this, Celia. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.” He pushed himself up on his elbow, putting distance between them. “You trusted me enough to be the first one, didn’t you? To undo the damage Darryl did.”

  Shouldn’t she have? With a tiny clutch of dismay she felt cool air brush her skin where moments before there had only been the heat of Jethro’s body welded to hers. She said uncertainly, “I guess so…” She had no idea what he was thinking. In a rush she added, “I must have been clumsy. Inexperienced. I’m sorry—”

  “For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely, “that’s not what I mean.” He ran his fingers through his hair. Then his eyes sharpened. “You’re getting cold, you’d better get dressed. And I can’t imagine you’re comfortable on the floor.”

  She’d totally forgotten that she was flat on her back on the attic carpet. Her clothes were scattered around her; she grabbed for her lacy underwear and scrambled gracelessly to her feet, her hair falling forward to hide her face as she pulled them on. She didn’t have a clue how Jethro felt right now; and she lacked the courage to ask.

  Because she was scared of the answers?

  Had she been wrong to trust him? Had he liked making love to her? Or had she bored him with her ineptitude? Finally, there was the most difficult question of all. How could it be over so soon, that magical, spontaneous joining of her flesh to his?

  She heard the small sounds of him pulling on his trousers and doing up his zipper and didn’t dare look at him. She’d learned something in the last half hour: that slalom skiing and piloting her own plane weren’t the true risks. Emotional honesty was. It was a risk she clearly wasn’t prepared to take.

  Into Celia’s anxiety fell one more strand, her earlier conviction that Jethro had another woman, a mistress in the city that was his home: the reason he hadn’t touched his wife on his honeymoon.

  He couldn’t have another woman, she thought painfully, bending to get her dress. Surely he couldn’t have made love a few moments ago with such single-minded passion if she, Celia, weren’t the only one? As she struggled with the buttons, buttons Jethro had undone to bare her breasts, she was aware of him buckling his belt and picking up his shirt. She felt as though she had dropped from heaven to limbo from one second to the next. Exile, she thought. So that’s what that word really means. This horrible sense of loss. Of distance. This terror that what was between Jethro and me a few minutes ago is over, almost as if it had never happened.

  She wouldn’t cry. Crying had gotten her into trouble in the first place, and she had too much pride to let Jethro see how bereft she was feeling. Act, Celia. Act.

  Shoving her feet into her shoes before heading for the stairs, she said with just the right lightness, “My father will be wondering what I’m up to—I came to get some photos.”

  “He mentioned you were up here…that’s how I found you. Why are you in such an all-fired hurry to leave?”

  He was so tall, so overwhelmingly male. So intimately hers and so horribly distant from her. Agony rose like a tide in her body. “He’s waiting,” she said sharply. “Do you really want him to know what we were doing?”

  “Are you ashamed of what we did?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Look, I shouldn’t have—”

  In pure panic, because she couldn’t bear to hear him say he shouldn’t have made love to her, Celia whirled and fled down the stairs. Her cheeks, she was sure, were bright red and anyone looking at her would know exactly how she’d spent the last half hour. She hurried along the hall, picturing icebergs and glaciers and blizzards, anything to cool her face. Did she look different? Would her father know why she’d been so long in the attic? As she took the second flight of stairs more moderately, she could hear Jethro hard on her heels. Over her shoulder she said with a valiant attempt to sound casual, “Why were you looking for me?”

  Then Ellis came out of the breakfast room, leaning on his cane. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Did you have any luck?”

  She’d left the photos in the attic on the floor. Along with her virginity. “Oh. Oh yes,” she stammered, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “No matter…you’ll be busy getting ready to go to New York, we can talk another day.”

  Jethro interjected, “I’m off to Manhattan after lunch, Celia—something’s come up that I should deal with in person.”

  Manhattan. His other woman. The honeymoon’s over, she thought sickly, all her suspicions flooding back full force. “Dad,” she said, “I’m not going with Jethro. I’d rather be here with you.”

  Ellis said didactically, “A woman’s first duty is to her husband.”

  “That kind of thinking went out with the bustle,” she retorted.

  “The two of you should make Manhattan your base,” Ellis went on. “A bad idea to start a marriage with separate domiciles.”

  The phrase was worthy of the contract between her and Jethro. “But I want to be with you in the time we have left,” she cried. Forcing the words past the lump in her throat, she added, “Jethro and I will have the rest of our lives together.”

  “You must go with him today, Celia. I insist. And I think you should look for a house there. A place that belongs to both of you.”

  There’d never been any use arguing when Ellis used that tone. She didn’t want to go to New York. Jethro certainly didn’t want her there. But she had to go. She said flatly, “I’ll be back on Friday at the very latest.”

  “Good. While you were in Vermont, I had Melcher organize a party for a week from Saturday, the invitations went out on Monday. To celebrate your wedding. Caterers, florists, it’s all arranged. Get a new dress while you’re in Manhattan, Celia, do me proud.”

  She wanted to yell and scream and stamp her feet. She did none of these things. “That’ll be fun,” she said. “Dancing?”

  “A sedate chamber orchestra for us old folks, some wild-haired group with a very weird name for you youngsters.”

  Her father actually seemed to be joking again. Her father was happy that she was married. Celia said, tossing her head, “Next time, Dad, consult with me beforehand—considering it’s my marriage we’re celebrating. And now I guess I’d better go pack. What time are we leaving, Jethro?”

  “As soon as you’re ready.”

  She hated not knowing what Jethro was thinking. Hated being pushed around the board like a chess piece. She turned in a swirl of skirts and ran upstairs; and in what seemed like no time, now wearing ta
ilored trousers and a tangerine linen jacket with her hair in a smooth braid, Celia found herself following Jethro through the door into his Manhattan loft.

  “I’ve got to hurry,” he said in an abstracted voice. “I hope this meeting won’t take long. I should be back by seven, and we’ll go for dinner. Here’s an extra key if you go out.”

  He’d spent the short flight with his nose buried in spread sheets, his mind obviously anywhere but on her. She took the key, for a moment staring at the fingers that had touched her so intimately such a short time ago. “Good luck,” she said with a cool smile.

  His jaw tightened. “I know I’m not—hell, this is no time to start anything. I’ll see you later.”

  The door clicked shut behind him. She snapped the lock and leaned back on the oak panels, closing her eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in her chest. Did he really have a meeting? Or had it been a pretext and he was now frustrated and angry to be saddled with his wife in the city where he was normally a free agent?

  She had no answers to questions she hated herself for asking. Slowly she opened her eyes and gazed around her. Space and light, polished wood floors and some startlingly beautiful modernistic sculptures, along with furniture of Finnish design whose clean lines delighted her. How could she love Jethro’s personal spaces so much when the man himself was so distant from her?

  She wandered around, admiring his collection of abstracts, the absence of clutter, skimming the bookshelves with their eclectic array of titles. He had a huge assortment of CDs along with top-of-the-line audio equipment. One whole shelf was nothing but operas. Operas? Jethro? All that emotion?

  She gazed at the CDs. They didn’t fit her picture of him. He’d made love to her with passion and with the intent to please her—or so it had seemed, even in her ignorance—and then he’d retreated as if it had never happened. Like a tap: turn it on, turn it off.

  Her body had betrayed her. She was vulnerable to him now, for he’d shown her the lure and intensity of sexual consummation. But it was sex without emotion, without any deeper commitment than to the moment.

  She wandered over to the tall windows which overlooked the Hudson River; a tug was hauling a barge under the bridge. Jethro had left her a phone number where he could be reached. So he must have a meeting. Was he phoning his mistress before he got there? Alerting her that his wife was with him?

  Stop it, Celia, she scolded herself. Your imagination’s working overtime and you’ve no evidence that Jethro has another woman. Go out for a run. Go shopping. Behave like a tourist. But don’t stand here torturing yourself.

  She’d packed her running gear and it was broad daylight; she’d head for Central Park. Then she’d go shopping. Anything to keep busy. Anything to keep her emotions at bay.

  She ran for the better part of an hour, breathing in exhaust fumes, dodging pedestrians, deafened by the aggressive hornblasts of the taxis and trucks. Then she went back to the loft, showered, changed back into her trousers and jacket and strolled along Fifth Avenue. She found a very glamorous midnight-blue dress in shot taffeta that would be fine for her father’s party; she bought a book about bush pilots and a ski magazine. By six-fifty she was back in the loft. No Jethro. No message on his voice mail.

  She tried to read. She stared at the abstracts, wondering how he perceived them, what meanings they held for him and what their appeal was. But how could she possibly know? He’d never talked about himself, his friends, his parents, or the way he’d brought up his sister Lindy. His mother had abandoned Jethro when he was very young, leaving him to the mercies of a father who drank too much. Surely that had affected him, had had something to do with making him the man he was. Celia gave a heavy sigh. He was a mystery to her, this man whose body so entranced her.

  Wandering nearer the tall windows, she stroked the cool metallic curves of the largest sculpture. It was now quarter to eight. He was forty-five minutes late. Pushing open the door of Jethro’s bedroom, Celia walked in.

  Doing her best to ignore the wide bed, she opened his closets, finding arrays of suits and casual wear, but nothing remotely feminine. Nor did the bathroom yield perfume or a woman’s expensive soap or a negligee hanging on the back of the door.

  I despise myself for doing this, Celia thought with utter clarity. I’m spying on my husband because I’m jealous. Because I can’t bear to think of him with another woman. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come home?

  Jethro had gotten exactly what he’d wanted out of the meeting. He’d had to hang tough, using all his wits and experience during the negotiations. But he’d won. Only drawback was, he’d have to spend most of next week in Australia and Singapore.

  As he got in his limousine, he pushed back his cuff. Five to eight. Goddammit, he thought, I told Celia I’d be back by seven. He pushed the glass panel open and said to his chauffeur, “I’m late, Henry. Hurry it up, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. Traffic’s heavy though.”

  No use to call Celia. She already knew he was late. He started flipping through the glossy real estate magazine he’d borrowed from his chief assistant, pausing every now and then at a property that might interest Celia. But the pictures didn’t hold his attention; drumming on his knee with his fingertips, he wondered if he shouldn’t have phoned her after all. But they were only two blocks from the loft. No point now.

  Sure, Jethro. You can negotiate one of the most difficult deals of the last three years yet you can’t make a simple decision about phoning your wife?

  His wife. He still couldn’t get used to those words. Had no clue what they really meant to him. He hadn’t intended making love to Celia this morning. Not part of his plan. He’d meant to wait until she made the first move.

  She hadn’t liked the way he’d kept his distance at the lodge. Not that it had been easy to do. Far from it. It had nearly driven him crazy living in such close quarters with her and not so much as laying a finger on her.

  So why had he done it? To show her who was the boss? To prove to himself that his much-vaunted control was still very much in place, despite her presence? Or—a little more admirably—to allow her the choice, so he’d know she wasn’t equating him with Darryl?

  Whatever the reason, this morning all his resolve had shattered. The sight of her crouched, weeping, on the attic carpet had cut him to the heart.

  The heart. So did he have one where Celia was concerned? Certainly his initial urge this morning had been the simple wish to comfort. Only afterward, when she’d raised her face and smiled at him, had his baser instincts taken over. I want to make love to you, she’d said. So they had.

  She’d been a virgin. There’d been no other man. He was still recovering from that mind-bending revelation.

  She’d trusted him with her body and her feelings. A gift worth more than any rare yellow diamond.

  With a flourish Henry drew up at the sidewalk. “Here we are, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Jethro muttered and jumped out. He found himself running up the stairs to the loft rather than waiting for the elevator. Opening his door with an impatience new to him, he called, “Celia?”

  She came out of his bedroom, her face set. She was wearing a black dress startling in its simplicity, her hair a vivid aureole around her face; as always, her beauty struck him like a blow. “Sorry I’m so late,” he said, dropping his briefcase on the table. “Won’t take me long to change. You might want to flip through this magazine, there are a couple of penthouses we might look at.”

  She said in a voice like ice, “I have no intention of buying property in New York.”

  He flung his jacket on the nearest chair and yanked at his tie. “I’d be buying it,” he said with more bluntness than tact.

  “Not for me, you won’t.”

  He started unbuttoning his shirt, frowning at her. “I apologized for being late, Celia.”

  “You’re forgetting something. This is a fake marriage. A temporary marriage. There’s no need for us to own a penthouse, no matter what my father says.�
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  “You’re spoiling for a fight, aren’t you?”

  “What’s her name, Jethro?” Celia said very quietly.

  His shirt was hanging open. His jaw was probably hanging open, too. “Whose name?”

  “The woman—your mistress. The reason you didn’t come near me on our honeymoon. The reason you’re so late home.”

  He stepped closer. Her face was pale, her eyes enormous; she was so tense, he had the feeling she’d break into pieces if he touched her.

  He wanted to touch her. He always did. Keeping his voice level with a huge effort, he asked, “Are you accusing me of being with another woman the last few hours?”

  For once she didn’t make a flip retort. “Yes,” she said.

  His chest was engulfed in a storm of anger and pain. The anger he understood. But pain? He never let a woman close enough to cause him pain. Each word dropping like a stone, he said, “I wasn’t with a woman. I was at a meeting—I can give you the names of witnesses if you don’t believe me.” He gave her a nasty smile. “My rivals, just so you know there’s no collusion.”

  She was staring at him with unnerving fixity. “At the lodge I might as well have been your maiden aunt. Or someone who was a complete turn-off. But then in the attic you made love to me.” Her voice quivered ever so slightly. “Ever since, you’ve acted as though I’m a stranger. You’ve—”

  “Do you believe me?” he demanded. “Celia, there is no other woman.”

  For a long moment she regarded him in silence. Except it wasn’t really silence: his heart was hammering so loudly she must be able to hear it. Hell, they could hear it two stories down. “Yes,” she said with painful slowness, “I do believe you that there’s no one else. But why have you ignored me ever since we made love, Jethro? Was I that inept? That much of a disappointment?”

  He remembered the luscious curve of her hip, her ardent and touchingly inexperienced movements, the joyous glow to her skin. When he’d gone up to the attic to tell her about the meeting in New York, he’d planned on keeping his distance. On obeying that goddammed contract until she made the first move. But he’d lost control.