Contract Bridegroom

All too close behind her she heard the scrape of Jethro’s boot on a boulder, heard him say roughly, “Celia—God almighty, slow down before you break your neck!”

It could have been her father speaking. Don’t do this, don’t do that, it’s not safe, you’ll hurt yourself. She hated Jethro, hated him. As she swiped at her eyes, her toe hit an exposed root, tumbling her forward. She flung out her hands to protect herself and thudded to the ground, her shoulder crushing the ferns, the dirt scraping her palms. One cheek struck a rock with bruising force. She cried out with pain and found she was weeping as though her heart was broken.

Then Jethro was lifting her. “Are you hurt? Let me see your face.”

There was a note in his voice Celia hadn’t heard before; it had nothing to do with contempt. She burrowed into his chest, feeling his arms go around her, and sobbed, “He’s dying…don’t you see? He’s dying—that’s why I’ve got to get m-married.”

“Who’s dying?”

“My father,” she wailed. “Three months, that’s what the doctor says. He and I, we haven’t—for once I just want to be a g-good daughter. Oh Jethro, I don’t know what else to do!”

Jethro said incisively, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. But this is what we’re going to do. I’ll carry you down the rest of the slope, drive you home and clean up your hands, and then you’re going to tell me why you have to get married because your father’s dying. Here…blow your nose.”

A clean white handkerchief was being held to her face. Celia, who hated being told what to do, blew her nose. “You can’t c-carry me, it’s too far,” she hiccuped.

“Try me.”

Kneeling, he gathered her into his arms. Then he stood up and started picking his way down the hill. “And keep quiet,” he added. “You’ve said more than enough in the last ten minutes.”

“You sure like giving orders,” Celia said, leaning her sore cheek against his chest and closing her eyes.

She felt utterly safe.

She hated safety. So why did it feel like heaven on earth to surrender herself to Jethro? A man—despite what she’d said—she scarcely knew.

Her cheek hurt. So did her hip and her knees and her hands. But it was her pride that was hurt worst of all.

Jethro had said no.

Jethro was breathing hard by the time Celia’s Toyota came in sight. He’d let himself get out of shape since K2, he thought, and glanced down at the woman in his arms. Her eyes were shut, tear tracks still streaking her face. Her bare knees were scraped and dirty. There was something so trusting in the way she’d curled herself against his chest; it touched him in a place he very rarely allowed himself to be touched.

With good reason. Women who knew how rich he was weren’t to be trusted. In consequence, there was only one kind of touch he allowed from a woman, and it wasn’t the emotional kind.

Had he ever been quite so angry as when Celia had asked him—out of the blue—to marry him? What did she think he was—a total fool? And naive as a five-year-old into the bargain? How dare she try and jerk him around like that?

The trouble was, if he was honest, he’d be forced to admit that under his rage was a disappointment bitter enough to choke him. She was like the rest. No different from Elisabeth, who’d tried to persuade him she was pregnant and he was the father; or Marliese, who’d threatened him with a lawsuit for breach of promise. Or Candy or Judith or Noreen who’d spent his money like it was going out of style.

Celia—or so he’d thought—was different. She genuinely hadn’t seem interested in his money, no matter that she’d read the newspaper article. Nor in pursuing him in any way. Which—again if he were honest—had irritated the hell out of him. He was used to fighting women off. Not chasing after them. But wasn’t the decisive way she’d said goodbye last night one of the several reasons he hadn’t gotten on the first plane out of here this morning?