The Tycoon's Virgin Bride (3 page)

How could she?

Thank heavens for the dirt on her fingers; if he'd shaken her hand, she'd have been lost.

He said easily, “I can see I've interrupted you.”

“Oh, no, that's all right,” she stumbled. “I was going to stop soon anyway.”

“You have a lovely spot here.”

“Yes. I'm very lucky.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit down? You've probably already guessed that Travis sent me.”

She hadn't. Wiping her palms down her trousers, Jenessa indicated the wooden benches under the old apple tree. “We can sit there,” she said. Not for anything was she going to invite him indoors.

The tree was still in bloom, the pink and white flowers delicately scenting the air. Petals had collected on the flag-stones in drifts, like snowflakes. Jenessa sat down, the wood hard against her thighs. Think, Jenessa, she told herself. Think.

Bryce said pleasantly, “Travis phoned me last night after he'd spoken to you. Let me put my cards on the table. He's hoping I can persuade you to come to the christening—despite the fact that it's on Manatuck, and that your father, stepmother and mother will all be there.”

At any other time, Jenessa might have been amused by Bryce's directness. She said with some semblance of spirit, “I told Travis I couldn't come because of the pressures of work.”

Pointedly Bryce looked around the peaceful garden. “You don't look particularly pressured to me.”

Her cheeks warmed with anger. “The reason I didn't
hear you calling me, Mr. Laribee, was because I was thinking about my next painting, which I have to start tomorrow morning. I have a major show in Boston in a few weeks, and I can't afford the time to travel up to Maine and back. It's that simple.”

“Travis told me about the show. You're doing well.”

“If I am, it's because I work hard. You're a businessman, aren't you? I'd have expected you to understand that.”

Bryce fished in his pocket and brought out a folded cheque. Holding it out, he said, “From Travis. To pay for your airfare.”

She kept her hands firmly at her sides. “I already told him I couldn't take any more money from him. I owe him too much as it is.”

“Then I'll pay your way.”

She raised her brows. “If I won't take money from my brother, I'm not likely to take it from a complete stranger.”

“I'm Travis's best friend. Scarcely a stranger.”

“This is about time, not money,” Jenessa said, her voice rising. “Can't you understand that?”

“Okay, let's cut out the euphemisms,” Bryce said evenly. “This discussion isn't really about a christening. It's about a whole lot more—you know that as much as I do.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Listen to me,” he said grimly, “and you will. Travis is your brother, he's been very good to you over the years, and he loves you. You didn't bother going to his wedding…God knows why. Surely you can understand how much Julie means to him, how important that ceremony was to both of them. Besides, Julie wants to get to know you. She's a real sweetheart and deserves a lot better than being ignored.”

Jenessa hadn't gone to the wedding because Bryce had
been best man. “This isn't about Travis. It's about Charles and—”

“All right, so you don't get along with your dad, your stepmother or your mother. Not one of them. But to stay away from Travis's wedding because you can't be civil to your family for the space of one day doesn't wash with me. And now you're doing the same thing all over again. Although this time you're using your painting as an excuse. Your painting and money.”

“I have to earn my living,” Jenessa put in hotly.

But Bryce overrode her. “Julie nearly lost Samantha midway through her pregnancy—I'm sure you're aware of that. So that little baby is the apple of their eye. They dote on her, they adore her…and now they've asked you to be her godmother. But do you care? No, ma'am. You can't even spare a day to fly up there.”

Put like that, it sounded horribly selfish; no wonder Bryce couldn't condone her behavior. Knowing she was probably only going to dig herself deeper into trouble, Jenessa said weakly, “Of course I know how much they love Samantha. But the timing's as bad as it could be. A show at the Morden is a huge accolade, I can't afford to play around right now.”

His jaw hardened. “The message I'm getting is that you're totally self-absorbed. It doesn't matter that your brother loves you and his wife wants to get to know you, and that by inviting you to be Samantha's godmother they're asking you to be an important part of their lives. You've shut yourself up in an ivory tower called art. And you're far too pure-minded to descend to the level of ordinary people.”

With a gasp of pure rage Jenessa said, “What gives you the right to speak to me like this?”

“My friendship with Travis does. You say you owe him money. Well, I owe him my life,” Bryce announced in a voice like a steel blade. “If it wasn't for him, I'd be on the streets, in jail or dead.”

He broke off so abruptly that Jenessa said flatly, “You didn't mean to tell me that.”

“You don't deserve any information about my private life.”

“It's wasted on me anyway,” she said, not altogether truthfully. “My mind's made up.”

“So I'm supposed to stand by and do nothing while you ignore what's most important to Travis—his wife and his child?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to. Because it's not your decision.”

“Do you really think you can do exactly what you please without hurting their feelings? Because that's the bottom line, isn't it? You're disappointing both of them.”

Unerringly Bryce had found her most vulnerable spot. “Once the show is over, I'll go and visit them,” Jenessa said in a thin voice. “I told Travis I would. In the meantime, I'll thank you to mind your own business.”

“Frankly, having met you, I have no idea why he bothers to keep in touch.”

Jenessa stood up. “I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing, Mr. Laribee,” she said tightly. “But you're wasting your time and mine as well.”

“So that's your last word?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Then you'd better go back to thinking about your painting, hadn't you, Miss Strathern? I'll tell Travis that daubing oil on canvas is more important to you than celebrating family occasions. Although I bet he's already gotten that message.”

Bryce turned on his heel and strode along the path, disappearing around the corner of the house. A few moments later, Jenessa heard the sound of a car engine accelerating down the lane. Then, once again, silence fell over the garden. The only sound she could hear, apart from the drone of insects, was the thick pounding of her own heart.

He'd gone. He hadn't recognized her. Hadn't connected Travis's sister with a young art student he'd gone to bed with many years ago, and then ruthlessly dismissed.

She sank back down on the bench, pulling her hat off and shaking out her mass of blond curls. Through the turmoil of emotion in her breast, one conclusion was clear: Travis must really want to see her to send his good friend Bryce to plead his cause.

Once again, she was disappointing her brother. Just as she had at his wedding.

Maybe she should tell Travis the truth, she thought, trying to ease some of the tension out of her shoulders. Confess what had happened—or rather, what hadn't happened—all those years ago between her and Bryce. Get it over with. Surely such a confession wouldn't damage his friendship with Bryce, not after this long. And it would put things straight between her and Travis, something she craved with all her heart.

But wouldn't Travis then connect her confession with the lack of suitors in her life, with her continued refusal to become involved with someone, or to get married? He'd assume she'd been in love with Bryce. That Bryce had repudiated a lot more than her body. She couldn't bear it if that happened. One humiliation was enough.

More than enough.

 

Jenessa staggered out of bed at eight-thirty the next morning. At two, three and four she'd been wide awake, staring into the darkness: her body craving the touch of the only man who'd ever swept her off her feet, her mind racing between a hotel room in New York City twelve years ago and her own garden the evening before. At three-thirty she'd gotten out of bed and gone to her studio, where she'd produced a series of very unsatisfactory sketches for her new work, tossed them aside and covered page after page with sketches of Bryce. Bryce in her garden, Bryce naked in the shadows of a luxurious bedroom, Bryce in
her arms. These, too, she'd tossed aside. Finally, about five-thirty, she'd fallen into a dead and unrefreshing sleep that had mercifully been dreamless.

Coffee, she thought, yawning, stretching to get the aches out of her limbs. Coffee and a shower. Maybe then the day would seem worth beginning.

While the coffee dripped through the grinds, she wandered to the kitchen window. A sudden movement caught her eye. Her whole body stilled.

A man was hunkered down in the vegetable garden, weeding, his shirt stretched tight across the muscles of his back, the early sun glinting in his blond hair. He looked very much at home and completely at ease, and it was this that made Jenessa forget any vestige of caution. She slammed her empty mug down on the counter, marched through the mudroom and hauled the back door open. The hinges squealed. The man looked up.

T
HE
sun was behind Bryce, shining full on the woman on the porch. She looked utterly magnificent, he thought, brushing the dirt from his hands. She also looked extremely angry.

Good. He was all too ready to take her on.

She ran down the board steps in her bare feet, her cream silk pajamas brushing the swell of her breasts and clinging to her thighs. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, her eyes bluer than the sky and her cheeks the pink of the apple blossoms on the tree just behind him. To his dismay, his groin tightened involuntarily.

How could he desire a woman he so thoroughly disliked?

Was that one reason he was so angry with her? A reason that had nothing to do with Travis or Julie.

Standing up, he said cordially, “Good morning, Jenessa.”

She stopped three feet away from him, her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you're doing?”

“Weeding…isn't it obvious?”

She glanced downward. “Weeding?” she squeaked. “You've just pulled up three-quarters of the beet seedlings.”

“You're kidding. You mean those funny little red-colored things would have turned into beets?”

“If you hadn't hauled them up by the roots, they would have!”

Realizing he was thoroughly enjoying himself, Bryce said, “You should have got up earlier…I thought you had
a painting to start. Then I wouldn't have done so much damage.”

“You should have gone back where you belong yesterday evening,” she stormed. “Why don't you head back there right now? Ten minutes ago wouldn't be too soon.”

“Boston's where I belong,” he said. “I decided I'd given up entirely too easily yesterday, so I stayed in a charming bed-and-breakfast down the road. Whose owner, by the way, gave me the lowdown on you—on the lack of men in your life, and on the peculiarities of modern art as exemplified by your paintings.”

“Wilma Lawson,” Jenessa groaned, momentarily forgetting that she was in a rage.

“That's the one. Why aren't there any men in your life, Jenessa?”

“Because far too many men are just like you.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I'm not that bad.”

“Says who? And why is this discussion taking place at the level of a couple of seven-year-olds?”

“So I'll keep my mind off how enchanting you look in those pajamas,” Bryce said promptly.

Hot color flooded her cheeks in a way that intrigued him. She was twenty-nine years old, he knew that from Travis. But she was blushing as though she were sixteen. As though she'd never been complimented by a man in her life.

Impossible. The way she looked, she must be surrounded by men. Day and night.

Not a thought he cared for.

He'd said she looked enchanting. He should have said sexy. Voluptuous. Seductive. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss those delectable, sleep-swollen lips. Feel the warmth of her skin beneath the smooth silk. Run his hands through that tumbled mass of hair.

For Pete's sake, what was the matter with him? He'd come back here this morning to tell her she was going to
Maine come hell or high water. Not to seduce her. That wasn't on the cards. Apart from anything else, she was the kid sister of his best buddy.

Jenessa said in a strangled voice, “There aren't any men in my life in Wellspring. For one thing, most of the men here are over sixty. More to the point, half the village is made up of gossips like Wilma Lawson. So I keep my love life and my home life separate. One in Boston. One here. Okay?”

No, Bryce thought irritably, it wasn't okay. “Are you shacked up with anyone in Boston?”

“Are you?” she countered.

“Nope. No marriages, no divorces, no kids and no commitments.”

So he hadn't changed, Jenessa thought, and to her intense annoyance found herself wondering why he'd never married. It was none of her business; he was nothing to her now. Nothing. She said crossly, “Why don't we get back on track? I'll repeat what I said yesterday—I can't come to Maine, not before my show. You can tell my brother you did your best. Goodbye, Bryce Laribee. Have a nice drive back to Boston. Have a nice life. But from now on, stay out of my hair.”

Patently unimpressed, he remarked, “You blew it by not going to Travis's wedding—now you've got the chance to redeem yourself. Simple.”

If only it were that simple. “Go away!” she exclaimed.

Closing the distance between them so that he was standing altogether too close, Bryce said lazily, “I can smell coffee. Aren't you going to offer me any?”

Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and long-legged: none of that had changed, either. Elusively, the tang of his aftershave wafted to Jenessa's nostrils. Fighting to keep her hands at her sides so she wouldn't be tempted to run one finger down the cleft in his chin, she said, “I wasn't planning on it, no.”

“I'm going to camp on your doorstep until you agree
to come to the christening. So you might as well get used to having me around.”

“I'll set the police chief on you!”

“Tom Lawson? First cousin of Wilma? I met him yesterday evening, told him I was here to see you, and that your brother and I were good friends. He seemed like a nice guy.”

Again Bryce had outwitted her. Jenessa took a long, slow breath. “You really are insufferable.”

“Coffee, Jenessa.” He indicated a paper bag on the bench under the apple tree. “A couple of Wilma's Danish pastries—thought you might like one. They're stuffed with raspberries and custard. They'll go just fine with brewed Colombian.”

Jenessa stared up at him. Hadn't his determined jaw and strong bones enthralled her from the start? Clearly a lot more than his jaw was determined. He wasn't going to go away. And the longer he stuck around, the greater the chance he'd recognize her. Or that she'd fall on him like a sex-starved virgin, a prospect she couldn't bear to contemplate.

She'd be better to send him packing, turn up at the christening in her most elegant outfit and make sure on any subsequent visits to her brother that Bryce Laribee was conducting business on the opposite side of the globe. She said evenly, “Okay. You win. I'll come to Maine. So you can leave right now. Mission accomplished.”

Something flickered in Bryce's eyes. “It's not often a woman takes me by surprise,” he said. “Why the sudden capitulation?”

“Oddly enough,” she said pleasantly, “the thought of you camped on my front doorstep doesn't turn me on.”

“I don't turn you on. That's what you're saying.”

“You can interpret it any way you like.”

His voice deepened. “We could put it to the test.”

She stepped back quickly, her deep blue eyes widening in what was unquestionably panic. “Don't you dare!”

Bryce stood still, his brain racing. “What are you so frightened of?”

She bit her lip. “I'm not.”

He said dryly, “If I really came on to you, you'd only have to scream and three-quarters of the village would come running. Including the police chief.”

“And then they'd talk about nothing else for the next six months.”

“So by kissing you, I'd be doing them a favor?”

Jenessa took another step back. “Bryce,” she said edgily, “I'm hungry and I want my breakfast. Tell my brother I'll be there for the christening and that I'll pay my own way, and go back to Boston.”

Bryce edged around her and picked up the paper bag. “Coffee first.”

“I can see why nobody married you—you don't listen to one word anyone says,” she flared, and marched away from him toward the house.

Her hips swung in her silk pajamas; her silky curls bounced between her shoulders. Bryce followed her, wishing he could ignore her as successfully as she was ignoring him.

Be honest, Bryce. You're not used to women turning their backs on you. You're used to them draping themselves all over you.

A change is as good as a rest? Yeah, right. And what in hell had made her change her mind?

The screen door banged in his face because Jenessa hadn't bothered holding it open for him. He let himself in, glancing around a small mudroom where jackets hung on hooks and boots were lined up on the floor. Then he walked into the kitchen.

There was no sign of Jenessa. But the coffee smelled delicious. By checking out the cupboards and refrigerator, he located two mugs, some cream and a sugar bowl, as well as plates for the pastries. A couple of minutes later, when Jenessa came into the room dressed in paint-stained
jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair in an untidy cloud around her head, he was sitting at the table sipping his coffee.

“You sure know how to make yourself at home,” she said.

“Bachelors fall into two classes. Those who want a woman to look after them and those who fend for themselves. Guess which kind I am?”

“There are some women, including me,” she said pointedly, “who don't see their life's work as looking after a man.”

“Congratulations,” he said dryly.

After pouring herself a mug of coffee, Jenessa sat down across from him; her back was to the light. Cutting one of the pastries in half, she took a big bite and started to chew. “How can I stay mad at you when I've got a mouthful of raspberries and custard?” she mumbled. “Yum. Wilma's known across two counties for her baking. She sells homemade bread all year…it's my downfall.”

A crumb was caught on her bottom lip. Unable to help himself, Bryce leaned forward and brushed it off, the softness of her mouth vibrating along his nerve ends. She shrank back, her jaw tense, her blue eyes full of fear. Frowning, he said, “You act like you're scared to death of me. Have you had a bad experience with a man?”

“So what if I have?”

“What did he do to you?” he demanded.

“Bryce, my past is none of your concern.”

His gaze still fastened on her face, he said more moderately, “I'm sorry if I've done anything to frighten you, Jenessa. It certainly wasn't my intention.”

For the first time, Jenessa felt a twinge of liking for him; and more than a twinge of guilt that she was deceiving him. “Apology accepted,” she said through another mouthful of custard.

“Why don't you tell me about it?”

She drew in her breath sharply and choked on a crumb.
Quickly Bryce went to the sink, filled a glass with water and passed it to her, his fingers brushing hers. Ringless fingers, long and graceful, yet undeniably capable. Dark green paint was lodged under her nails. Frowning again, he said more to himself than to her, “You know, it's funny—every now and then you remind me of someone…the way you move, the shape of your face. But I can't remember who it is.”

Jenessa buried her face in the glass, her pulse racing in her throat. Another ten minutes and he'd be gone. Then she'd be safe. Letting her hair fall forward, she cut another chunk of pastry. “My eyes are the same color as Travis's,” she mumbled.

He laughed. “I ain't talking about a guy, baby.”

“You've known so many women, I'm sure it's not easy to remember them all,” she said waspishly.

For some reason wanting to set the record straight, Bryce announced, “From the time I was twenty until I turned twenty-five, I went through money, houses, cars and women as though there was an unending supply of each. But then all of a sudden it palled. Sure, I date sometimes, and I have the occasional affair. But nothing to get excited about.”

“I can't imagine why you're telling me this.”

Neither could he. “So how many men in Boston, Jenessa?”

He'd been honest with her: even if it had hurt something deep inside her to find out that all those years ago she'd simply been one in a long procession of women. Taking another gulp of coffee, Jenessa said flatly, “Men? None. At the moment.”

“My home base is there. I'll leave you my phone number and address—next time you come into the city, we could have dinner.”

She made a noncommittal noise. “I don't like driving back after dark. Bryce, if I don't get to work in the next
five minutes, the gallery'll be firing me and I'll have no reason to go into Boston.”

He swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed back his chair. But instead of heading for the front door, he walked over to the doorway of her studio, his eyes wandering over its intriguing blend of chaos and extreme order, his nostrils registering the pungent odors of linseed oil and turpentine. Then his gaze sharpened. “Is that the painting you just finished?”

With noticeable reluctance Jenessa said, “Yes, it is.”

The scene she'd depicted could have been one of the streets where he'd grown up. She'd chosen a sunny summer evening, and had given loving attention to every detail; yet the boarded windows, piled-up garbage and rusted cars were infused with foreboding. He said harshly, “How do you know what those streets are like?”

“I've walked through them.” She hesitated. “Travis told me you grew up in the slums of Boston.”

“Why did he tell you that?” Bryce said in an ugly voice.

“It was only in passing. Nothing specific.”

“I don't talk specifics. Not to him or anyone else.”

She said gently, “Maybe it's time you did.”

“Maybe it's not.” His gaze shifted. “Are those sketches for the new work?”

In a flurry of movement, Jenessa inserted her body between him and the untidy pile of papers. If he saw her drawings of his naked body, she'd die right on the spot. She gabbled, “Nobody sees any work of mine until it's finished.”

“There,” he said, “you did it again, it's something about the way you move. Who the devil do you remind me of?”

“I have no idea! Bryce, please go, I've got work to do.”

He took a card out of his wallet and put it down on the table. “Call me, Jenessa.” Then his smile broke out, ig
niting his features with a purely masculine energy. “Travis will be very happy to see you at the christening.”