Читать книгу The Tycoon's Virgin Bride - Sandra Field - Страница 8

THE 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, igniting his features with a purely masculine energy. “Travis will be very happy to see you at the christening.”

If she told Bryce she’d changed her mind, he’d stay in Wellspring. If she went to the christening, she risked him remembering their long-ago encounter. Maybe in the next three weeks she’d come down with pneumonia. Or break a leg.

He held out his hand. “Someday you’re going to tell me about the guy who made you so afraid. Then I’ll go and punch him out for you.”

If only he knew how ironic his offer was. Reluctantly Jenessa placed her hand in his, searingly aware of the latent strength of his grasp and the heat of his palm against hers. His grip tightened. Her heart banging against the cage of her ribs, she said evenly, “Goodbye, Bryce. Safe journey.” Then she tugged her hand free.

She heard his footsteps cross the floorboards in the living room, and then the front screen squeak on its hinges. She should oil every door in the place, she thought. But house repairs never had been her strong point.

A minute or two later, Bryce’s car drove away down the lane. Jenessa sagged against the studio door. For the space of three weeks she was safe.

It didn’t feel like very long.