Contract Bridegroom

by Sandra Field

  She waited in the darkness, not daring to move. She couldn’t cry. This went too deep for tears.

  She’d never felt such terrible loneliness as she did now, in bed beside the man she had married.

  The man she loved.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHEN Jethro woke, it was daylight. Automatically he turned over, seeking out the warmth of Celia’s body; he’d already grown used to sharing his bed. Used to it? He craved it.

  She wasn’t there. Apart from him, the bed was empty. He glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. It couldn’t be. He never slept that late.

  He was supposed to go to Atlanta today.

  His body felt as though someone had pummeled him; as he stretched, he noticed the faint red marks of Celia’s nails on his shoulder. He didn’t remember her doing that. He didn’t remember much about last night after he’d kissed her against the door. He’d totally lost control. Lost any vestige of technique or nuance. She’d been so upset with him, so furious that he’d deceived her once again; yet she’d made love to him with the ferocity of a wildcat.

  Would he ever understand her?

  He got out of bed. Her dress was still lying on the floor. He picked it up, catching her perfume from the fabric. He wanted her again, he thought, scowling, and headed for the bathroom.

  On the marble counter was a folded note with his name on the outside. He stared at it, his muscles tensing. “Celia?” he called, and was answered only by silence.

  She was probably down with her father.

  Ellis rarely got up before ten. Where was she?

  He opened the note.

  My father thinks I’m going to Atlanta with you. I can’t, Jethro. I’ve got to get away by myself and think. Please don’t tell him I’m not with you, and please don’t try and find me.

  Celia

  It was scribbled, as though she’d been in a hurry. He went through into her dressing room, and saw more evidence of a hurried departure. The flat box that had held his gift of the gold chain lay on top of her bureau, empty.

  A chain. How symbolic of him, he thought. She’d used the word trap, hadn’t she? Trapped in a loveless marriage. Chained to a man she hated.

  Yet she’d taken the chain with her.

  Or else she’d thrown it out the window. He wouldn’t put that past her.

  He had an ache in his gut as big as an oil tanker. Chain or no chain, she’d left him. Temporarily, no doubt, because of Ellis. But she was still gone, and he had no idea where.

  As he went back through the bathroom, he caught sight of his naked body in the tall mirror. She didn’t hate his body. He could still smell her scent on his skin; in his ears echoed her wild, impassioned cries of satiation.

  He’d looked on her as a challenge, as a woman who never bored him, a woman he desired in ways that made nonsense of any words he could find to describe such a depth of need. But Celia was a challenge he’d failed.

  She’d proved that by leaving him. She wasn’t into manipulation. If she’d gone, their marriage was over. Contract or no contract.

  It had never been a real marriage anyway.

  He grabbed his razor and began to shave. There were ways he could find out where she’d gone. But he was damned if he was going to do that. If she wanted time to think, let her have it. He wasn’t going to chase after her. Not his style.

  He was better off without her.

  A resolve that stayed with him all the way to the airport. His private jet was waiting for him out on the tarmac. His business in Atlanta was important. But as he edged through the crowds in the air-conditioned terminal, his briefcase in one hand, a single word was drumming through Jethro’s brain. Failure.

  Celia wasn’t after his money. Never had been. And in a strange way he knew that had nothing to do with her father’s fortune. If she’d been only a Coast Guard operator, she still wouldn’t have chased him for his money.

  In the brief time they’d been together, she’d shown him courage and honesty, passion and generosity. She’d laughed with him and cried in front of him. She was so beautiful it hurt him somewhere deep inside, in a place he’d never allowed a woman to reach him before.

  He stopped near one of the ticket counters, taking her note out of his pocket, smoothing it and reading it once again. Why did you marry me? she’d asked him last night. He’d said something about her father, which had been true as far as it went. It just didn’t go far enough. Basically, his marriage to Celia had very little to do with Ellis Scott.

  The other reason he’d offered her—a less-than-flattering motive for marriage—was boredom. Boredom didn’t go far enough either, even though Celia had jolted him out of a lifestyle that had become entirely too comfortable and predictable.

  Why had he married her?

  Did he really want the answer to that question?

  A little boy banged into him, the mother apologized profusely and through it all Jethro stood like a man stunned. What if he’d fallen in love with Celia? Was that what he didn’t want to admit? What he was avoiding like the plague?

  He’d never been in love. He’d been too busy amassing his millions and then too cynical about women even to consider the possibility. But in a storm at sea he’d heard a woman’s voice, and he’d followed that voice to a Newfoundland village where he’d found a chestnut-haired beauty who’d touched him to the core.

  He didn’t love her, of course he didn’t. That was one challenge he wasn’t ready for. Never would be. But in some deeply primitive way she was his, she was important to him. Too important for him to go off to Atlanta. He headed for the nearest bank of phones and started dialing. And an hour later, he was headed north for Vermont.

  Celia, he’d found out, had bought a ticket to Burlington. She must be going to the lodge; on their honeymoon he’d recognized how much she liked his retreat. Gazing out the window of his jet at the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Jethro grimaced as he remembered that non-honeymoon. He’d been out to prove that he was in control; that he could spend the weekend with her and not devour her like a starving man.

  Yeah, right. All he’d accomplished was to convince Celia he had a mistress tucked away in Manhattan. Smart move, Jethro. Real smart. And the only place he’d been remotely honest with her since then was in bed. There, his body had spoken a language he couldn’t speak out loud.

  No wonder she hated him. He’d deceived her about his money, about Michael Stansey and Ellis, about sex and about his feelings. As a result of which, she didn’t think he had any.

  He had plenty, he thought grimly. All of them coalesced into a hard lump in the pit of his stomach. Celia wouldn’t be happy to be found. She wasn’t playing games by running away. It was for real.

  What was he going to say to her when he found her? You’re important to me? Sure thing. That’d put him right up there with all the great romantics. His fleets of tankers, his corporations and his staff were important to him. How about, you’ve gotten under my skin? That was about as romantic as a dead porcupine.

  He needed a scriptwriter, that’s what he needed. Preferably one with a leaning toward poetry. With an impatient sigh, Jethro tried to focus on some of the papers in his briefcase. He’d figure out what he was going to say when he found her.

  In Burlington, Celia had rented a car, a black Grand Am. So she must be headed for the lodge. But a couple of hours later, when he turned up the long driveway to his private retreat, Jethro was no nearer a solution as to how to deal with his errant wife. Maybe just seeing her again would tell him what to say.

  It was a dull gray day, heavy clouds overhanging the hills, occasional gusts of rain driving against his windshield. The leaves were being whipped from the trees; it was cold. He turned the last corner and jammed on his brakes.

  A black Grand Am was halfway in the ditch, the hood dented against the trunk of a spruce tree.

  In two seconds Jethro was out of his own car. He yanked open the driver’s door. Celia wasn’t slumped down on the seat. She wasn’t anywhere to be
seen. No blood, he noticed, no cracks in the windshield. Through the roaring in his ears, he yelled, “Celia! Celia, it’s Jethro.”

  Oak leaves rattled over his head; raindrops struck his forehead like tiny bullets. Maybe she had concussion and had wandered off into the woods.

  He’d check the lodge first.

  He gunned his car up the driveway, gravel spitting from his tires. No lights on in the lodge, no signs of occupation and the front door locked tight. He walked through the empty rooms, calling her name even though he knew it was an exercise in futility. She hadn’t been inside. He knew it in his bones.

  Apart from anything else, she didn’t have a key.

  It would be dark early today and the temperature was supposed to drop substantially. He had to find her.

  Because he loved her.

  As if someone had hit him with a baseball bat, Jethro stood stock still. He loved her. It had taken a wrecked car, an empty house and grinding terror to show him the truth. A truth that had been staring him in the face ever since he’d heard her voice over the VHF radio.

  He was in love with Celia. His wife.

  He didn’t know where she was.

  He went up to the bedroom and changed into jeans and hiking boots, throwing on a rain-jacket over a heavy sweater. Then he forced himself to stop and think. The keys had been lying on the seat of the Grand Am; first he’d check to see if her bags were in the trunk. Then he’d call the Mortimers, the couple who looked after the lodge for him, and see if they’d heard from her; although he was almost certain he’d never told her their name.

  And after that, Jethro?

  He ran outside. It was raining hard now, sweeps of rain driven by the wind; his hair was soaked by the time he reached her car. But the trunk was empty. So she at least had some warm clothes with her. The Mortimers, he discovered, hadn’t spoken to anyone but him all day, but they’d keep an eye out for her; fortunately, their New England reticence prevented them from asking any awkward questions.

  If he’d been Celia, without transportation and with no key to the lodge, and with rain coming on, where would he have gone?

  To the cabin, he thought in a surge of excitement. She wouldn’t be afraid of heading up the mountain by herself, not Celia. He’d leave the front door unlocked and some lights on and get up there as quickly as he could. From his desk he took a piece of paper, scrawling on it where he’d gone in case she came back in his absence; at the bottom of the note, knowing it was a monumental step, he wrote, “I love you.”

  She didn’t love him. She’d made that clear. So why was he telling her something she wouldn’t want to hear?

  It’d be her turn to laugh, he thought savagely. But he was through with deception. He’d done enough harm by keeping the truth from her. More than enough.

  Behind him the front door opened.

  He whirled, his heart thudding in his chest. Celia was standing in the doorway, staring at him as though she’d never seen him before. Her cheeks were white, her rain-gear dripping on the mat. She faltered, “It’s raining.”

  She was shivering. Jethro’s tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. With a huge effort, he said stupidly, “I was just writing you a note. Then I was going up to the cabin to look for you.”

  “I was partway there when it started to rain. So I decided I’d break a window in the lodge.” Her smile was a mere movement of her lips. “But now that you’re here, I don’t have to do anything illegal. Just as well. We’re a great pair for legalities, aren’t we?”

  Say something, Jethro. Or more to the point, do something. He crossed the room in three quick strides, pulled her into the room and closed the door. He could have said, “I love you.” It was the logical time. Swiftly he decided he’d save it for when they were in bed, a fire in the hearth, the curtains drawn against the blackness of night. When their arms were around each other, her naked body close to his. A time when romance might have half a chance. “Your forehead’s bruised,” he said.

  “I hit the windshield. A deer ran right across the driveway, that’s how I wrecked the car.”

  Details, he thought; neither of them saying anything near the real truth. “You’re cold. I’ll start a fire and heat some soup.”

  “Okay,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

  When he came back from the big stone hearth, where flames were now crackling cheerily, she was standing by the kitchen counter, his note in her hand. She said in a hostile voice, “Did you write this?”

  His heart felt like it was trying to bang its way out of his rib cage. “Yes,” he said.

  She pushed back her hood. Her hair shone in the light; her hand was trembling. “Don’t play any more games with me, Jethro, I can’t stand it. You don’t love me.”

  He felt ten times more afraid than he had on Starspray. Or on the descent of K2, when a blizzard had struck, marooning them in a camp at 7,800 meters for two days with almost no food. “Yes, I do,” he said, with as much emotion in his voice as if he were discussing a freighter’s load capacity.

  “You don’t! You lust after me. You’re not bored when I’m around. You might even like me—sometimes. But love—huh, not you.”

  “Celia,” he said in a cracked voice, “I think I fell in love with you on Starspray. For sure I did outside the Coast Guard depot that first morning. But I’ve been hiding the truth from myself as much as from you. I’ve never been in love in my life. No interest in it. Until you came along.”

  “You came here to get me because you can’t stand the prospect of being humiliated in front of my father.”

  “That’s not true! I came here because I had no choice.”

  She pushed a wet strand of hair back from her face. “Twice you’ve deceived me—how can I trust anything you say?”

  “I didn’t tell you I was rich because the amount of money I’ve got changes the way people behave around me—you know that from your own experience. What about Darryl? Did he want you or your money? I didn’t tell you about Dr. Stansey…hell, it was because subconsciously I was afraid you wouldn’t marry me if I did.” He gripped the edge of the counter. “How’s that for honesty?”

  She was backed against the refrigerator as though he were an enemy. He added with all the force of his personality, “Look, I know you don’t love me. You’ve never pretended to and God knows I’ve given you precious little reason to. But I had to tell you the truth!”

  In an unreadable voice, she said, “So our marriage isn’t just about sex?”

  “I’d be a liar if I didn’t say your body drives me out of my mind…but it’s your body, Celia. Inseparable from the rest of you. Dammit, I don’t even know the words.”

  He had no clue what she was thinking. Go for broke, Jethro, he told himself, and added hoarsely, “I can’t live without you. It’s that simple.”

  She was shivering again, although twin patches of hectic color were staining her cheekbones. In swift compunction, he said, “I should have saved all this heavy-duty emotion for later instead of dumping it all over you. Why don’t you have a hot bath? And I’ll put some soup on…we can eat in front of the fire.” With a humility new to him, he finished, “Then, if you want to, we could go to bed. Maybe there I can show you I love you. With my body. I’m not so hot on words—that’s something I’ve learned since I woke up this morning and found you gone.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Celia said.

  She had straightened, standing tall. Her eyes, he saw with the first glimmer of hope, were shining; they looked as though she’d just made love. “It was never just sex,” he said evenly. “I know I said it was, but I was lying. Lying to myself more than to you. Bed was the one place I could tell you the truth. Let my feelings out. Because I’ve got feelings, Celia, don’t ever doubt that.”

  “I don’t—”

  She was going to tell him she didn’t love him. “You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted. “Except whether you’d prefer carrot soup or minestrone. You’re cold and tired and I’m a
jerk to keep you—”

  “Jethro,” Celia said, “shut up.”

  “Come back to Washington with me,” he said forcibly. “That’s all I ask. Give us a chance. I swear I won’t deceive you again. Ever.”

  “You mean we can’t stay the night here?” she said with a levity that didn’t quite come off. Then she walked over to him, clasped the front of his wet rain-jacket, and kissed him full on the mouth. Her lips were cold. With a huge effort he kept his hands at his sides, his body immobile.

  She stepped back, and for a moment panic flared in her face. “I—you do still want me, don’t you?”

  “Want you? I always do, I always will. But first I have to know if you believe me. If we’ve got a chance together.”

  Very deliberately she unzipped her jacket, fumbled at the neckline of her shirt and drew out the gold chain, the sapphire twinkling against the back of her hand. “I couldn’t bear to take this off,” she said. “You gave it to me as a wedding present, you’re the one who put it round my neck.”

  Delicacy and strength. “What are you getting at?”

  “Oh Jethro, don’t you see? I love you, too.”

  He swallowed hard. “I—would you mind repeating that?”

  “I love you. I love you. I love you.” She laughed, a sudden cascade of sound. “Shall I keep going? I can if you want me to.”

  “You mean it?” he said blankly.

  “I keep telling you I’m a lousy liar.”

  “That necklace—I was so afraid I’d chained you, trapped you in a marriage you didn’t want.”

  Tears were shining in her eyes more brightly than the diamonds on her necklace. “I want it. If you do.”

  She meant it. She loved him, wanted to be married to him. He swept her up into his arms, wet rain-jacket and all. “Come to bed with me, my darling. Now.”

  “In front of the fire,” she said with endearing shyness. “On the carpet. Like the first time we made love.”