The Tycoon's Virgin Bride

“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.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRYCE stepped off the launch onto the long wharf that jutted out from the island of Manatuck, where, money no object, Travis’s father Charles had built a castle that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Austrian alps. Bryce had seen the towers and turrets of Castlereigh before, and they had never failed to amuse him. Today, however, he had something other than castles on his mind.

Had Jenessa come to the christening as she’d promised? Would he discover when he saw her again that she was just another woman, beautiful of course, but nothing exceptional? Certainly nothing to warrant the way she’d been lodged in his mind the last three weeks. He’d spent one week in Brussels, and the last couple of days in Finland; the rest of the time he’d been home in his house on Beacon Hill. He’d thought about her in all three places far more than he was comfortable with.

She hadn’t phoned. Not that he’d expected her to. Nor had he visited her, although he could have; she lived only an hour or so outside the city.

He strode up the slope, aware that he was probably the last guest to arrive; there’d been a delay unloading the luggage at the airport. Friends and family were gathered in the rose garden between the boathouse and the woods. The June weather had cooperated wonderfully, giving a clear sky with only a few scudding clouds. A light wind was laden with the scents of evergreens, of roses and the sea.

Then he saw Jenessa standing under a white-painted arbor, talking to Travis and Julie, and a spring that had been tightly coiled inside his chest relaxed. She’d come. She’d kept her word.

Judging by his heart rate, he’d just rowed across the bay that separated Manatuck from the coastline of southern Maine, rather than standing peacefully on the deck of the launch. Dammit, Bryce thought. I don’t need this. She’s an uptight, unfriendly woman who’s the sister of my best friend, and if I was smart I’d keep my distance. Big time.

What he really wanted to do was march past the roses, take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

That’d really impress the guests. As for her reaction, he could think of several possibilities, all of them hazardous to his health.

“Hello, Bryce.”

He dragged his eyes away from Jenessa and said with genuine pleasure, “Leonora, how are you?”

Leonora Connolly was the mother of Travis and the twins, Brent and Jenessa. Soon after the twins were born, she’d fled to Paris to pursue her career as an avant garde dancer. The reaction of her husband, Charles, had been to tell six-year-old Travis that she was dead; by dint of threats ensure that she never got in touch with any of her children; and then divorce her secretly. Two years after her departure, he’d married Corinne, a woman who couldn’t have been more different from Leonora.