Contract Bridegroom. Sandra Field
So why was he so intrigued by the way her flame-filled hair contrasted with the dark pools of her eyes? How temper painted a flush over her cheekbones and the hollows beneath them? The delicious curve of her mouth when she laughed?
She laughed as though she meant it. Yet her dead mother still caused her sorrow.
Dammit, man, will you forget Celia Scott? You’re going to go back to Manhattan tomorrow morning and start planning your next challenge. After all, isn’t your whole life organized around challenging yourself? You can’t do any more solo races in Starspray. But those peaks in the Andes in Peru, you could take an expedition down there in the next six months….
Impatiently Jethro reached for the phone.
A gray jay squawked from the trees. The breeze smelled pungently of resin and peat, and impetuously Celia pulled off the elastic holding her ponytail and shook out her hair for the wind to play with. A seagull swooped overhead, pristinely white. Free, she thought. Free.
She’d broken her own record. Normally it took her an hour and a quarter to climb Gun Hill, the small mountain behind Collings Cove. But this afternoon she’d done it in sixty-five minutes.
Because she didn’t want to think about Jethro, who must have left town this morning on the early flight? She sure didn’t want to think about the dream she’d had, in which they’d both been stark naked in a bunk on a scallop dragger.
Or was her headlong rush up the hill to keep at bay the dilemma of her father, who wanted her married and settled and safe. What was she going to do about his request?
What could she do?
Nothing.
Celia sighed. She was glad she was going back to Washington. Even if she couldn’t get married to please Ellis, she could at least spend these last few months with him. And who knows, maybe they’d be able to bridge the gap that had widened so drastically with the years. She’d like that. She’d like it very much—enough to put all her energy and imagination into bringing it about.
She sat down on the wind-scoured rocks of the peak and took out an apple, chewing with keen pleasure, then tossing the core to a passing raven.
Behind her she heard a scrape on the rocks.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. She stood up. Picking each step so as not to make a sound, she crossed the rocks to the crest of the north face. Even though logic was telling her it was an unlikely place to find a wild animal, a rattle of falling stones came to her ears. A bear? And her face-to-face with it? Holding her breath, she peered over the edge.
A man was climbing the last few yards of the northern escarpment, every movement smooth and economical. Jethro.
He hadn’t left on the morning plane.
Her first reaction was sheer joy, her second dismay. She had no desire to come face-to-face with him, either, she thought, stifling that treacherous—and meaningless—surge of pleasure. Swiftly, before he could look up, she retreated from the edge. But there was nowhere to hide, and even if she scuttled back down the trail, Jethro would see her: the treeline was well down the slope. Is that what she wanted? To be found in retreat, scurrying for shelter like a frightened rabbit? No way.
So Celia stood her ground, and as Jethro’s crop of dark hair appeared over the crest of rock, she said cordially, “Good afternoon, Jethro.”
His body froze to utter stillness, his fingernails digging into the rock. He hadn’t known she was here: that was obvious. He must have parked on the north side of Gun Hill, where he wouldn’t have seen her car.
In a single lithe movement he hauled himself onto the peak: he wasn’t even breathing hard. Standing up, he rubbed the dirt from his fingers down the sides of his shorts. “Celia.”
She had no idea what he was thinking; inscrutability had been invented with him in mind. Of its own accord, her gaze fell lower, to his long, strongly muscled legs. In her dream, they’d wrapped themselves around her thighs, molding her to his body. She blurted, “I came up here to be alone.”
“So, oddly enough, did I.”
“I’ll leave then, I have to go home and get ready for the movers, they’re coming first thing in the morning and—”
Jethro took two steps toward her, put his arms around her and kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE
FOR A FULL two seconds Celia stood rigid with shock, too startled to struggle. Then the firm pressure of Jethro’s lips, the warmth of his skin, the sureness with which he was coaxing her lips apart, flooded her with a wild, sweet pleasure that rippled through her limbs as inexorably as the tides rose on the beach. Sheer heaven, Celia thought, and kissed him back, her body pliant in his embrace, her hands sliding up his chest to circle his nape.
He was the heat of the sun and the freedom of the wind: everything that was elemental. He was her dream, flowering into reality in her body.
Then Jethro strained her toward him, pulling her the length of his frame, one hand burying itself in her hair, the other moving from her waist to clasp the swell of her hip.
He was fully aroused. Desire was like a sunburst in her belly, aflame with hunger and golden with pleasure, to which she surrendered with a low moan of delight. As Jethro thrust with his tongue, the flames leapt higher, encompassing her in their implacable demands. She felt his hands sweep the curve of her spine, drawing her still closer, heard him mutter her name against her lips. Her nostrils filled with the male scent of a man she had expected never to see again.
Briefly he loosened his hold, his hands reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt. Her breath caught in her throat as desire was suddenly eclipsed by terror. Darryl had done the same thing. Kissed her, then tried to fondle her breasts. But Darryl hadn’t listened when she’d asked him to stop.
She pulled back with an inarticulate cry. “Don’t, Jethro! Please, don’t.”
Her palms were flat against his chest; he was wearing a T-shirt that was like a second skin, through which she could feel the taut curve of his ribs and the heavy pounding of his heart. He said tersely, “What’s wrong?”
“Everything! We shouldn’t be doing this, it’s crazy—”
“Don’t try and tell me you didn’t like it—I know better.”
“Maybe I did like it. But not any more.”
Very deliberately he released her, stepping back, his face like a carved mask; the bruise on his jaw stood out like a brand. “Why not?”
“We don’t even know each other, we—”
“I’d say we found out one hell of a lot about each other in that kiss.”
“I’m leaving here on Sunday and we’ll never see each other again—what are you looking for, a quick lay?”
His jaw tightened. “Why were you up here waiting for me, then?”
“Waiting for you?” she squawked, almost inarticulate with rage. “You think I was waiting for you?”
“You must have known I was coming up here—I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Then you’d better expand your horizons. I most certainly didn’t know you were up here or I’d have stayed away. I told you, I wanted to be alone.”
“Come off it—you saw my Nissan parked down below and you climbed the south slope because it’s quicker.”
If she had any sense, she’d run straight back down the south slope: Jethro looked angry enough to be a greater threat than any bear. “I’ve got better things to do than chase men up mountains,” Celia blazed. “I said goodbye to you last night and I meant it. I don’t play games and I sure didn’t climb all the way up here just to have a fight with you.”
“So what