Contract Bridegroom. Sandra Field
to reveal itself. Panic-stricken, she muttered, “You have the advantage of me—you know how I earn my living. What do you do, Jethro?”
As though he’d read her mind, he reached over and stroked the soft line of her mouth, his finger lingering at one corner. She jerked her head back. “Don’t!”
“You wanted me to do that.”
She tossed her head, refusing to deny what was so obviously the truth. “You’ve been around the block a few times—you know you don’t always have to act out your impulses. Only children do that.”
“Sometimes adults do, too.”
“Not this one.”
“I could persuade you.”
The same panic was rattling round her ribcage like a terrified bird. “Perhaps you could. Although I’m surprised you need to get your kicks that way.”
He said, as though the words were being dragged from him, “Your voice…that night on the radio. There was something about it…I didn’t really come here to thank you. I came because I had to meet you. See what you were like.”
“Oh,” said Celia; and knew that she believed him instantly.
“Your voice is beautiful—I wondered if you sang?” Jethro added. He was now toying with the handle of his fork, and she didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell he was wishing this conversation had never started.
“I used to sing in a choir,” she replied; it had been in the expensive private school her father had sent her to at the age of fourteen, from which she’d managed to get herself expelled by the age of fourteen and a half. She’d been big into rebellion as a teenager. But she’d loved to sing. She did remember that.
“Soprano,” Jethro said with a twisted smile.
“That’s right.” Quickly she changed the subject. “You were going to tell me how you earn your living.”
“Oh, I’m in the boat industry,” he said vaguely, “I’ve always loved the sea.” As Sally plunked down their drinks, he took a white envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Celia, I wanted to help you out in some way—a more tangible expression of gratitude. I don’t know what your salary is—”
“I should hope not!”
“—but you could buy something with this, or take a trip… When you live in Collings Cove, the Bahamas must look pretty good in winter.”
“Money,” Celia said in a hostile voice.
“Yeah, money. Well, a check. You got anything against that?”
“I was just doing my job that night. For which I get well paid.”
She could see the effort it took Jethro to rein in his temper. “I expect you do. I’m talking about the jam on the bread, the icing on the cake.”
“I couldn’t possibly take your money.”
“You’re being overly scrupulous,” he said impatiently, passing her the envelope. “Everyone can use more money.”
She took the envelope from him and tore it in half, and all the while her eyes never left his face. Then she put the two pieces on the table near his plate and picked up her glass.
“How very melodramatic,” Jethro sneered.
Her nostrils flared. “You can pay for my dinner. Then we’re square.”
How ironic if she were to reveal to Jethro that her father was rich; added to which, at the age of twenty-five Celia had inherited her mother’s trust fund. She didn’t need Jethro’s money, she had more than enough of her own. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. Back in Washington she’d been chased too often for her money, Darryl Coates being the worst offender.
The thought of Darryl could still make her wince.
One of the blessings of Collings Cove was her anonymity. Her town house was modest and her vehicle was one she could afford on her salary. Her Cessna, bought when she’d inherited the first lump sum from her mother, was parked at the airport twenty miles from here. Her secret, shared only with Paul.
The thought of Paul could also make her wince, although not for the same reasons.
Jethro said tautly, “So how am I supposed to thank you if you won’t take money?”
“That’s easy. Two words. Thank you.”
“Words come cheap,” he said with a depth of cynicism that rang all her alarm bells.
“Not to me, they don’t.”
“We sure don’t agree on very much!”
“We don’t have to,” she said.
His eyes narrowed; he took another gulp of his beer. “You’re not from Newfoundland, Celia, the accent’s all wrong. The eastern states?”
“Washington.”
“So why are you working in Canada?”
“I have dual nationality—my mother was Canadian.”
“Was?”
“She died when I was five,” Celia said. And overnight her life had altered irrevocably. Her father’s crushing control over her had only started after he was widowed.
Something must have shown in her face. Jethro put down his beer glass and covered her hand with his own. “I’m sorry.”
He’d invested the commonplace words with real force. Celia stared down at the back of his hand, feeling an absurd urge to cry. She’d learned very soon not to cry for her mother; Ellis had seen to that. She tugged her hand free of Jethro’s lean fingers, with their scarred and bruised knuckles, their warmth that seared through her own skin. “It was a long time ago,” she mumbled.
“Is your father still alive?”
“Yes.” Just. And still trying to smother her with that confusing combination of over-protectiveness and emotional distance that had characterized their relations ever since her mother had died. For Ellis had retreated into a white-faced grief for his dead wife, grief that had been his companion for years, and that had shut Celia out as effectively as if he’d slammed a door in her face.
“You don’t want to talk about him any more than I want to talk about Starspray.”
With a wry grin, she said, “There’s always the weather. A ridge of high pressure is moving into the area. Visibility excellent, southerlies decreasing to ten knots.”
“Back off—that’s what you’re saying.”
“Hey, you’re quick.”
Anger glinted in his steely eyes. “You sure know how to get under my skin, Celia Scott.”
“I’d be willing to bet a night’s pay you’re used to women who bend over backwards to agree with every word you say.”
“And who’d take money from me any chance they got.”
Again there was real cynicism in his tone. She said lightly, “Kind of drastic that you just about had to drown yourself to meet someone who won’t let you go past $11.95 for a plate of scallops.”
“You’re forgetting the Coke.”
Celia laughed outright. “And the tip.” Her brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?”
He said roughly, “You’re so goddammed beautiful when you laugh.”
A blush scorched her cheeks, and for a moment that felt as long as an hour, Celia could think of absolutely nothing to say. Then she sputtered, “I’ll make you a deal, Jethro. You talk to me about Iceland and I’ll talk to you about Newfoundland. We’ll omit any mention of gratitude, fathers, lovers and money. Okay?”
“Why