The Tycoon's Virgin Bride

“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.”