“There’s only one woman I’ve wanted as much as I want you right now—and she was scarcely a woman all those years ago.”

Jenessa smiled, a slow, secret smile. “You mean me?”

“You don’t need to ask.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one.

For a moment sheer terror gripped her throat. As desire was inexorably replaced by anxiety, her nerves tightened to an unbearable pitch. In a very short time Bryce would know that she hadn’t made love with anyone in the years since she’d ended up in his bed. That she was, at age twenty-nine, that anomaly—a virgin. And what would he conclude?

The Tycoon’s Virgin Bride
Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE ridiculous thing was—so Jenessa Strathern decided afterward—that she had no sense of premonition when the telephone rang around seven o’clock on that sunny May evening. Nothing warned her to ignore the ringing, or told her to run outdoors and hide her head among the hydrangeas.

So much for feminine intuition.

She’d just stopped work, because the light was fading and she was so close to finishing this painting that she didn’t want to risk any mistakes. Scrubbing a dab of alizarin crimson from her fingers with a stained rag, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Jen,” her brother said. “Got a minute?”

She smiled into the receiver, plunking herself down in the nearest chair.

Travis Strathern, older than she by six years, lived in Maine with his wife, Julie, and their three-week-old daughter, Samantha. “For you,” she said, “all the time in the world. How are you? Or I should say, how’s Samantha?”

“Are you suggesting I’ve been usurped?”

“Samantha’s cuter than you.”

“I can’t argue with that. Guess what? She can smile and hold on to my finger all by herself. Amazing, huh?”

Travis was a doctor who had a great many letters after his name and was highly qualified in tropical diseases. “Amazing,” Jenessa said solemnly.

“She’s the reason I’m calling. She’s going to be christened in three weeks, and we’d like you to come. More than that, we’d like you to be her godmother.”

Touched, Jenessa said, “That’s sweet of you, Travis. But you do realize I’m a total dunce when it comes to babies? When you passed her to me in the hospital, I couldn’t wait to pass her back—I was terrified I’d drop her.”

“You’ll learn,” Travis said. “Anyway, she won’t stay a baby for long. So you’ll come?”

Jenessa hesitated. “Where’s the christening taking place?”

“I knew you’d ask,” Travis said wryly. “On Manatuck, at Dad and Corinne’s. Do come, though, Jen…it’s time you and Dad buried the hatchet, wouldn’t you say? Especially now there’s another generation in the picture.”

She should say yes. She really should. It would hurt Travis’s feelings if she didn’t. As a child, she’d hero-worshiped her big brother, and as adult she both loved and respected him. Besides, she owed him a great deal, and although she hadn’t seen a lot of Julie, she genuinely liked her. Julie had nearly lost Samantha in the fourth month of pregnancy; as a result, she and Travis had delayed a posting to Mexico until after the birth. So Samantha, Jenessa knew, was doubly precious to both of them.

So what if the christening was on Manatuck Island? She could surely behave in a civil fashion to Charles Strathern for a few hours, no matter that she normally avoided him like the plague.

But as Jenessa opened her mouth to accept the invitation, her brother added, “There’s another reason I want you to come. We’ve asked Bryce to be Samantha’s godfather…you know who I mean, Bryce Laribee, my old school friend?”

The color fled from Jenessa’s cheeks and her heart began to thud as though a mallet was banging against her ribs. She made an indeterminate noise, her cold fingers clenched around the smooth plastic of the receiver. Oblivious to her reaction, Travis went on, “I don’t think you’ve ever met him. Although that’s hard to believe—I’ve known him since I was twelve. But now’s your chance. He’s a great guy, you’ll like him.”

Travis was wrong: Jenessa had met Bryce. Once, many years ago. And the feelings she’d had for him could scarcely be called liking.

She wasn’t about to tell her brother that, however. Some secrets were better kept, her lovemaking with Bryce Laribee being right up there at the top of the list. The only trouble with secrets, she now thought unhappily, is that they brought deception in their wake. She had no intention of ever finding herself within ten miles of Bryce again; but she couldn’t tell her brother that, either.

“Jen? Are you there?”

Frantically she tried to gather her wits. She had to get out of this somehow, which meant she’d have to stretch the truth. Considerably. What other choice did she have? She said, doing her best to sound convincing, “Travis, I’m sorry…but I can’t take the time. It’s a long drive all the way up to Maine from here, and I have a show opening in Boston early in July. At the Morden Gallery, so you know what that means.”

“The Morden? Good for you—you’re really going places.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Knowing this was no time to enter a discussion about artistic stagnation, Jenessa said, “I’m behind schedule—they want twenty paintings by the end of June. If I come to Maine, it’ll blow three or four days, and I just can’t afford that kind of time.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then Travis said in a voice Jenessa had only rarely heard him use, “Are you being straight with me, sis? Are you sure the real reason isn’t Charles? You know I’d understand if it were—he wasn’t what you’d call an ideal father.”

“I’m sure,” she said, glad she could, if only briefly, speak the truth. “This show is important for me—I’m on the brink of making some sort of name for myself. The alternative is to sink into oblivion, and I’ve worked too hard the last twelve years to risk that.”

She’d met Bryce twelve years ago, in her first year at Columbia’s School of the Arts, she thought with a sudden shiver. She’d been seventeen at the time.

With the ease of long practice, she closed her mind to that long-ago meeting with its lasting consequences. “I’m so sorry. But you know I’m devoted to Samantha, and that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”

“Julie’s going to be disappointed.”

“So are you, by the sound of it.”

“Yeah…you didn’t make it to our wedding, either.”

At which Bryce had been best man. Cursing the day she’d seen the poster advertising Bryce’s lecture at Columbia all those years ago, Jenessa said, “Once the show’s over, I promise I’ll come for a visit. If you’re both still speaking to me, that is.”

“Come off it,” Travis said, “you know we’re not like that. Tell you what—why don’t you let me pay for your airfare? That way you could do the whole trip in a day.”

“I owe you too much money as it is…I don’t want to go any deeper in debt.”

“A gift, Jen. No strings attached.”

“I can’t take any more money from you, Travis—I just can’t.”

There was another pregnant silence. Then her brother said, “You’ll have to accept the title of godmother-in-absentia, then. Because we don’t want anyone else but you.”

Tears pricked at Jenessa’s lids. Her mother had run away to France when she had been just a baby, and from the time she was little, her father had done his best to crush any wayward impulses in his only daughter. Simultaneously, he’d blatantly favored her twin brother, Brent. To this day, she and Brent were as distant as it was possible for twins to be. Travis had been the one who’d been her rock as she grew up, despite his long absences at boarding school. To disappoint him now, hurt her deeply.

But she’d been utterly humiliated by Bryce in his hotel room in Manhattan; how could she possibly face him again?

She couldn’t. It was out of the question.

She said valiantly, “How much does Samantha weigh? And is Julie getting enough sleep?”

Travis was happy to talk at some length about his daughter and his wife, both of whom he openly adored. In return, Jenessa described the new contract she had with her gallery, and the progress of her garden; finally, to her relief, Travis rang off. Slowly she put down the phone.

Once again she’d sidestepped any chance of coming face-to-face with Bryce Laribee. But the cost had been high; deep within her, Jenessa felt the slow burn of anger.

Against Bryce? Or against the young woman she’d been twelve years ago, so impressionable and so frighteningly vulnerable?

Late the following afternoon, Jenessa was down on her hands and knees in the vegetable garden. Tucked behind her tiny Quaker house, it was a peaceful spot, bathed in sunlight and alive with bees. A breeze whispered through the tall maples that bordered her property.

She’d finished the painting that morning. It was technically accomplished, as was all her work, its sunlit details overlying the sense of menace that haunted everything she painted.

She’d slept badly, dreaming of babies crying out from the high cliffs of Manatuck, and of her brother turning his back on her in an empty art gallery. And, of course, she’d dreamed of Bryce.

If only she’d never seen that poster on the bulletin board in the School of Arts…

His name jumped out at her first: Bryce Laribee. Best friend of her beloved brother, millionaire computer whiz. The title of his lecture was incomprehensible to her, although she did gather it had something to do with programming. It was his photograph in the top corner of the poster that held her skewered to the spot. Thick blond hair, gray eyes that looked right through her, a forceful bone structure that made her itch to draw his cleft chin, strong jaw and wide cheekbones.

An unapproachable face that drew her like a magnet.

Her artist’s soul, fledgling though it was, knew she had to see him in person. Perhaps the photo lied. Perhaps when she saw him, she’d realize his face was nothing out of the ordinary, and there was no reason for this overwhelming urge to sketch him.

A portrait, she thought with a surge of excitement. Head and shoulders. In oils. Although she was new to portraiture, she was almost sure she could do him justice.

Realizing she’d been gazing at the poster like a star-struck groupie, Jenessa hurried off to her watercolor class. Telling none of her friends, the next evening she went to the lecture, sitting well at the back where she could see Bryce Laribee without being seen. He was standing full in the light on the auditorium stage; in the flesh, he far exceeded the promise of the photograph.

She had to sketch him. She had to.

But more than his features drew her. His rich baritone sent shivers up and down her spine, his sense of humor made her laugh, while his lucid descriptions almost made her understand what he was talking about. There was a reception in the department lounge after the lecture. She went, again tucking herself in the background, waiting until the crowd thinned to make her move. She’d decided on her first sight of him that she wasn’t going to tell him she was Travis’s sister; he was more than capable of subtracting six years from her brother’s age and coming up with seventeen. If he knew she was that young, he’d never take her seriously. Game over before it began.

Bryce had approached the bar for another drink. She walked up to him, her heart racketing in her rib cage, and said with assumed calm, “My name is Jan Struthers, I’m an art student. I’m wondering if I could buy you a drink after this is over—I’d like to sketch you.”

He looked her up and down, his gray eyes just as unrevealing as she’d expected: deep-set gray eyes over cheekbones hewn with potent masculinity. She swallowed hard. Wasn’t his physical charisma exactly why she wanted to paint him? She couldn’t back down now. That would be cowardly, and she’d never thought of herself as a coward.

His survey of her was leisurely; her heartbeat accelerated. She knew what he’d see: her spiky hair, its tips dyed bright orange, her elaborate makeup, contacts that made her eyes almost purple, and an outlandish beaded leather outfit that more than hinted at a sexuality she wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. For the first time, she found herself regretting she’d succumbed to the peer pressure of the other art students with their outrageous outfits; that her father would be appalled by her getup wasn’t much help.

She should have toned herself down for this all-important meeting with Bryce Laribee.

As if proving her point, Bryce wasn’t bothering to hide his amusement. “You’re quite a creation. A work of art in itself.”

Jenessa looked pointedly at his tailored business suit and impeccable tie. “You have your uniform, and I mine.”

“Yours is more fun.”

“Either way, they’re what we hide behind.”

“So we’re basically the same underneath?”

She bit her lip, not sure what he was implying. “I didn’t say that.”

“And just what part of me did you want to sketch, Jan Struthers?”

She flushed; simultaneously, anger flickered to life. He was playing with her, cat to mouse. She could have told the truth: a head and shoulders portrait. Instead she said, “A good artist never narrows her options before she begins.”

“She stays open to all the possibilities?”

“Of course.”

The sparks in his eyes made her feel weak at the knees. Virgin though she was—a rarity among her classmates—there was no mistaking that he was flirting with her.

Flirting? Or was he putting the moves on her?

He couldn’t be. She was being overly sensitive to innuendo.

He said, “I have to say goodbye to the organizers of the lecture…do you mind waiting for a few minutes?”

“I’ll sharpen my pencils,” she said demurely.

He laughed, his white teeth flashing, his whole face alive with a masculine energy that shuddered along her nerves. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, and strode across the room toward a couple of tweed-jacketed professors.

Jenessa tossed back the last of her glass of wine. She’d suggest they go to a restaurant for coffee, or to a bar, where there’d be other people. She’d be quite safe.

She didn’t feel safe. She could recall every detail of Bryce’s face: the dark flecks in his irises, the determination in his jaw, the sensuality of his strongly carved mouth. He was a big man, towering over her, making her feel small and feminine. Oh, God, she thought helplessly, what was going on?

Then Bryce crossed the room toward her, and in a rush of adrenaline she knew she should have run for her life. Safe? Anywhere in his vicinity? Nothing about him was remotely safe. She was way out of her league.

But Jenessa, only a few months ago, had run away from home, obeying every instinct of body and soul that had urged her to forge her own destiny. Why should she play it safe now? Art was about risks, and how could she take risks on a square of canvas if she never took them in her personal life? Doing her best to look cool and sophisticated, she asked, “Are you ready?”

“I have a rented car outside. Let’s go.”

She glanced down at her attire. “You don’t care if they see you leaving with me?”

He raised his brows. “I don’t live by anyone else’s rules—maybe you should know that about me.” He took her by the elbow, the warmth of his fingers on her bare skin sending ripples of heat through her body.

“Where are we going?” she faltered. “A bar would be fine, providing it’s not too dark for me to see what I’m doing.”

“Oh,” he said deliberately, “I thought we’d go to my hotel. That way we won’t be disturbed.”

“I want to sketch you—that’s all!”

“Is it? Is it really, Jan Struthers?”

They’d left the auditorium; the corridor was deserted. Lifting his hand, Bryce traced the softness of her lips with tantalizing slowness, his fingers lingering on the silky skin of her cheek. As her eyes widened, every nerve in her body sprang to life. She swayed toward him, her heart pounding in her breast. He said softly, “Underneath all that war paint, you’re quite astonishingly beautiful.”

He meant it, she realized dazedly. And already this had gone far beyond flirting. He wanted her. He, Bryce Laribee, self-made millionaire, wanted her, Jenessa Strathern, seventeen-year-old virgin.

Run for your life, Jenessa.

He was pressing the elevator button for the car park. She gasped, “I left my sketch pad at the studio by mistake. I—”

He laughed. “It was a novel approach, I must admit.”

So all along he’d thought she was lying about her desire to sketch him…how dare he? Dragging her attention back to what he was saying, she tried to focus. “So tell me about yourself, Jan—what brought you to Columbia? It’s a fine school, so you must be talented. Should I be looking out for your name in a few years?”

He’d look a long time because her name was false. With a passion that surprised her, Jenessa said, “I don’t want to follow the latest trend—which is always in reaction to the trend before it. I’m not using the word fad, but it might well apply. I want to paint what’s true to me. Follow my instincts, my gut. No matter if it’s unfashionable and doesn’t fly.” Abruptly she fell silent, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Interesting,” he said. “Do you run your love life on the same principles?”

She had no love life. Had never really contemplated the possibility before this fraught meeting with her brother’s best friend.

Bryce was standing altogether too close to her in the elevator, and like a shock of cold water she wondered if all along she’d been deceiving herself about her motives for meeting Bryce, out of simple ignorance of the forces that could ignite between a man and a woman. Had it been an artistic need? Or a sexual one? Or a blend of both? Her mouth dry, she blurted the truth. “I think I wanted you the minute I saw your photo on the poster.”

“I’m a very rich man,” he remarked.

With a shocked gasp Jenessa moved away from him, her back pressing into the wall. “I’m not after your money! I couldn’t care less about it.”

Narrow-eyed, he stared at her in silence for a full five seconds. “You mean that, don’t you?”

The elevator doors slid open. She stayed where she was. “Yes, I do.”

Bryce took her by the elbow, jamming his foot against the door. “You’d be surprised how many women look right through me and see nothing but my net worth.”

She wasn’t quite ready to surrender. “I’m not one of them.”

“Then I apologize.”

“Do you?” Jenessa flashed. “Really? Or are you just mouthing the words?”

“We’re holding up the elevator,” he said irritably. “This is a one-night stand, we’re not talking marriage for life. So what does it matter?”

A one-night stand. How cheap that sounded. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she flared. “I really did want to sketch you—it wasn’t a come-on.”

“Look, I’ve apologized.” He tugged her out of the elevator. “What more do you want?”

Anger had hardened his jawline; his energy, fierce and unyielding, called up a matching response in her from a place she refused to deny. “I don’t like being called a liar.”

“I’m taking your words at face value—that you’re not interested in my money. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I guess it’ll have to be,” she retorted, her cheeks hot with temper.

With sudden impatience Bryce put his arms around her, pulled her to the length of his body and kissed her. His hunger, ruthless and imperious, wiped out her anger as if it had never been, replacing it with a surge of primitive passion that was utterly new to her. Drowning in it, she clung to him with all her strength. His hold tightened. Then she felt the first thrust of his tongue like the lick of fire. Instinctively molding her body to his, she opened to him; and in a rush of mingled amazement and pleasure realized that what he was demanding she was more than willing to give.

Abruptly Bryce released her, saying roughly, “The car’s just outside. Let’s go.”

Jenessa stumbled after him, knowing that in one brief kiss she’d learned more about the power of one man’s body over her own than she could have imagined. Enthralled. Swept off her feet. Bewitched. In a way that even ten minutes ago she couldn’t have anticipated.

Bryce ushered her into the passenger seat of a silver Mercedes, and without a word drove out of the lot. Soon he was navigating the noisy streets, weaving in and out of the traffic. As though there’d been no hiatus in their conversation, he said, “There’s something you should know about me. I fly to the west coast tomorrow and leave for Singapore the next day. I don’t do commitment and I always use protection.”

Something in his tone angered Jenessa profoundly. “Are you being purposely unromantic?”

“I’m telling you the way it is. If you don’t like it, it’s not too late to back out…I’ll buy you a drink and no hard feelings.”

Inadvertently he’d given her an excuse to escape from a situation that was way beyond her depth. She should take it, take it and run. It was perfectly clear to her that she’d never even have gotten into his car had he not been Travis’s friend, and thus known to her by hearsay.

But then she remembered the incredible power of that single kiss; mysteriously, hadn’t it transformed her into a woman truly aware of her own femininity? Was she going to run away from that?

With a barely discernible quiver in her voice, Jenessa said mendaciously, “My first rule is protection.”

“Fine. And your second?”

This time she was telling the hard truth. “That no one, but no one, controls my life but me.”

“Then we’re on the same wavelength,” Bryce said.

Jenessa sat back, trying to still the trembling of her limbs. Right now she was going on the assumption she’d have at least some control over whatever happened in Bryce’s hotel room.

But what if she was wrong? What then?

CHAPTER TWO

AS A CABDRIVER blared his horn, Jenessa gave a nervous start. She depended deeply on her intuition in the studio; it was now screaming that the next few hours could unalterably change her life in ways far more significant than any lost virginity.

She was under no illusions: she was about to go to bed with her brother’s best friend. It was a crazy plan. Plain crazy. But never before had her blood fueled her body with such an undeniable and imperative ache of desire.

She’d allow herself to be seduced by Bryce; and then she’d leave. If he ever found out who she was, she was sure he’d never tell Travis.

In that, at least, she was quite safe. And how much better to lose her virginity with an experienced man who was, however obliquely, known to her, than to any of the fumbling undergraduates who had only filled her distaste. She said coolly, “I’ll take a cab home afterward.”

Not taking his eyes off the constant traffic, Bryce asked, “How old are you, Jan?”

Her lashes flickered. “Twenty-one.”

“Do you graduate next spring?”

“No…I was late applying.”

He said in exasperation, “I can’t read you—you elude me. Usually women are an open book to me. But not you.”

“Perhaps open books aren’t worth reading.” She gave a sudden chuckle. “Which sounds like a Japanese koan, doesn’t it?”

“Mysterious? Paradoxical? You’re both.” He grimaced. “I’ll be back in New York in a couple of months. Will you give me your phone number?”

“No.”

Her answer, like everything else she’d done in the last hour, had been instinctive. Bryce said flatly, “You really are into control.”

Suddenly exhilarated as much by their verbal fencing as by his physical presence, Jenessa said provocatively, “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?”

Deliberately he took his hand from the wheel and slid it up her stockinged thigh, bared by her miniskirt. “I hope neither of us regrets this.”

“There’s no reason why either of us should,” she said, as much to herself as to him; and made no attempt to hide her shiver of response.

Leaving his hand heavy and warm on her thigh, he said, “Two more blocks.”

Ten minutes later, Bryce was ushering her through the double doors of the penthouse suite in one of the city’s most prestigious hotels. She gained a quick impression of gleaming parquet and opulent Chinese carpets before Bryce said with the underlying impatience she was already realizing was characteristic of him, “Do you want anything to eat? Or drink?”

The courage that had preserved her time and again in her childhood came to the fore. She slipped her feet out of her shoes and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “You and you,” she whispered.

With a strength that intoxicated her, he lifted her in his arms and carried her the width of a richly furnished living room, its tall windows jeweled with the lights of the city. His corded muscles were hard against her body; she could hear the heavy pounding of his heart, an intimacy that made her faint with longing. He pushed the bedroom door open, strode across a thick carpet to the bed and lowered her onto it. Then he straightened and yanked at the knot of his tie.

Mesmerized, Jenessa watched as he hauled off his jacket, tie and shirt. He kicked his shoes to one side. Socks and trousers followed. His watch, whose price tag would probably have paid her entire year’s tuition, he placed on the bedside table. Then, wearing only a pair of dark boxer shorts, he said softly, “Take off your clothes, Jan.”

Jan, she thought. Jan. Another woman, a fictional woman. When all she wanted was to be herself.

She sat up, unzipping her black jacket. Her brief camisole, skintight, joined his clothes on the floor. Her bra was also black. She eased out of her skirt and drew her stockings slowly down her legs, her eyes glued to his face; scarcely able to breathe, she murmured, “I want you to take off the rest.”

For a moment his gaze roamed the pale curves of her body. “You’re so beautiful,” he said huskily.

Wondering if she could die of waiting, Jenessa opened her arms to him. He plummeted to the bed, enveloping her in the heat of his body, flicking open the clasp of her bra and tossing it to the floor. Her breasts were firm, delicately pointed. With his tongue he found the soft peak, hardening it within seconds. Jenessa gave a startled gasp of pleasure, her body arching toward him. He circled her waist, lifting her so that they fitted together as though made for each other.

Against her pelvis she felt the hardness that was his essence: proof of his desire. Then he was kissing her, plundering her mouth for all its sweetness, his hands roaming her body. She tangled her fingers in the hair that curled on his chest, wanting to delay an exploration that melted every nerve she possessed, yet driven toward a completion she could only imagine.

Glorying in her nudity, she pressed thigh to thigh, hip to hip. He sank lower, his lips tracing the swell of her breasts, the sweet concavity of her navel and belly. Then he opened her legs, plunging to find all her sensitivities. She cried out his name, writhing beneath him, losing herself in rhythms that were sheer delight.

With a muttered exclamation, Bryce reached for the small envelope by the bed. “Wait for me,” he said roughly, “I want us to come together.”

She had been waiting for him for months, ever since she’d fled the house where she’d grown up, she thought dazedly; waiting for a lover capable of unleashing a passion she hadn’t known was hers. As she opened her thighs, he thrust between them, brushing her breasts with the hard wall of his chest.

Then she felt resistance, a sudden shaft of pain; despite herself, she flinched. With a suddenness that shocked her, Bryce pulled back. He said sharply, “Jan—you’re a virgin.”

“Yes. But I want you so much, I don’t care if—”

He was holding his weight on his palms, his elbows taut; he looked appalled. “You’ve never done this before?”

“No…so what? What difference does it make?”

He said, each word falling like a stone on the bed, “You told me you were experienced.”

“I didn’t!”

“Not in so many words. But that’s the impression you gave me. I don’t have one-night stands with virgins, Jan Struthers. It’s not my style. I want a woman who knows the score.”

There was a sharp pain in Jenessa’s belly; her skin was suddenly so cold that she was shivering like a half-drowned kitten. “You wanted me, you can’t deny that. Experienced or not, you wanted me.”

“I’m glad you put it in the past tense,” he said savagely.

She wrapped her fingers around his arm. “Please, Bryce, don’t stop now…I’ve waited all term to meet someone like you, someone who brings me to life and makes me realize why I’m made the way I am. I want you to be the first to make love to me. Please.”

He picked up her fingers and removed them from his arm, as though her touch disgusted him. Then he rolled off the bed, the hall light falling smoothly over the planes of his back. Picking up his clothes, he said, “Get dressed. I’ll drive you home.”

His muscles flowing like those of a jungle cat, he walked toward the bathroom. The door closed behind him with a decisive snap. Slowly Jenessa sat up.

It was over. He no longer wanted her.

With a whimper of distress she grabbed her scattered garments and pulled them on, her fingers trembling with haste. Her lacy underwear mocked her, as did her tight sweater and minuscule leather skirt. As a lover, she was a failure. As a woman, laughable.

She was fumbling with the zipper on her skirt when Bryce marched back into the bedroom, fully dressed. He said with cold precision, “So what was this really about? Were you planning a little blackmail? Well-known tycoon rapes virgin?”

She paled, her eyes huge. He was like Charles, she thought, misjudging her totally, always assuming the worst. Were all men like that? All except her brother, Travis: who was, of course, Bryce’s best friend.

What was she going to do next? Collapse in tears? Or call upon the pride that had been her salvation for the last many years?

She wasn’t going to cry in front of Bryce Laribee. That much she knew. Standing tall, Jenessa spat, “Don’t judge me by the standards of your other women!”

“Then what did you do this for?”

“If you don’t understand, there’s no point in me trying to explain,” she snapped, thrusting her arms into her jacket. “I’ll get a cab and you’ll never hear from me again. Goodbye, Bryce. It’s been instructive.”

“It certainly has. How old are you?”

She raised her chin, glaring at him. “Seventeen,” she said. “But still old enough to know better.”

“Seventeen?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And I believed every word you told me…you should be studying drama, not art.”

She said flatly, “If you think I’m going to stand here half the night while you insult me, you couldn’t be more wrong. Get out of my way.”

He seized her by the elbow. “I said I’d drive you home.”

“The only way you’ll do that is with me kicking and screaming every inch of the way—is that what you want?”

“You little hellcat,” he said with reluctant admiration, “you would, wouldn’t you? Have you got enough money for a cab?”

She raised her chin another notch. “You’re not the only person in the world with money.”

“You’re certainly behaving like some rich guy’s spoiled brat.”

He couldn’t have said anything more calculated to hurt: spoiled brat had been one of the phrases her father used to fling at her when she was little. She said steadily, knowing she had to get out of here, “Stick to your own league, Bryce—women who don’t challenge you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said softly.

Fear trickled like ice water down her spine. Her mind blank, she walked past him out of the bedroom, all her nerves straining to hear if he would follow her. The living room seemed endless, the green carpet as vast as a football field. Then, finally, the penthouse door clicked shut behind her. The elevator arrived, she walked in and was carried down to the lobby. Chin still high, she crossed it and let the doorman hail her a cab. It wasn’t until she got into her own little rented room in a very different area of town, the door latched and chained, that she allowed her pride to dissolve into tears of humiliation and pain.

Slowly Jenessa came back to the present. A hermit thrush was piping from the pines in her neighbor’s lot, clear, silvery notes that brought an ache to her chest; she had, without even knowing what she was doing, weeded the entire row of green beans. Twelve years had passed since that evening, and yet her humiliating dismissal was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. No wonder she couldn’t bear the thought of going to Samantha’s christening.

She got up, gathered the wilting weeds into her bucket and dumped them on the compost. The late May sun felt warm on her back; she should have put on shorts and a sleeveless top instead of her old gardening trousers and a baggy shirt.

Trying to shake off her mood, Jenessa looked around appreciatively. Her little peak-roofed house with its weathered, unpainted shingles and neat white trim, her tangled flower garden and tidy vegetable patch were where she belonged: haven and inspiration, the place where she could be herself. Five years ago, Travis had loaned her the money for the down payment; when she turned thirty, in a few months, she would receive her share of her grandfather’s trust fund, and the place would really be hers.

She glanced at her watch. Another fifteen minutes weeding, then she’d head indoors and make something for supper.

Jenessa sank to her knees. Tomorrow she must start her next painting; she’d already done some sketches, although nothing about them had hardened into certainty. Idly the images began drifting through her mind, one after another, colors shifting and changing in the light…

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice said, “I’m looking for Jenessa Strathern.”

That voice. That deep baritone voice. She’d have known it anywhere. And it was all too real: not part of her earlier reverie. The color draining from her face, Jenessa pushed herself upright and turned to face the intruder.

Bryce Laribee was standing on the garden path, not ten feet from her. He’d pushed dark glasses up into his sun-streaked blond hair; his eyes were still the unrevealing gray she remembered so well. Her throat dry, her cold palms pressed into her trousers, she croaked, “Who did you say?”

“I’m sorry,” he said quizzically, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I called out from behind the back porch, but you didn’t hear me. I’m looking for Jenessa Strathern.”

She hadn’t heard because she’d just had a brain wave for the background of the painting. For a wild moment she contemplated lying to him, telling him she had no idea who Jenessa Strathern was or where he could find her. But Wellspring, the village in which she lived, was too small for her to hide. Any one of her neighbors would direct him back to the little Quaker house on the lane.

And then he’d know she’d been lying, and would wonder why.

She faltered, “I’m Jenessa. Who are you?”

He grinned down at her dirt-stained fingers. “I hope I won’t insult you if I don’t offer to shake hands. I’m Bryce Laribee, your brother Travis’s friend.”

Through a jumble of disconnected thoughts, Jenessa gave thanks that she was in her most disreputable clothes, her curls jammed under her straw hat, her face innocent of makeup. She couldn’t look more different from the spike-haired, leather-clad siren she’d been at seventeen. “Oh,” she said, “hello,” and stretched her mouth in a smile that felt completely artificial.

He was wearing faded jeans and an open-necked checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. At his throat she saw his tangled body hair, on his arms blond hairs that caught the sun. As inevitably as one of her roses opening to the morning sun, desire blossomed in her belly, so impelling and ungovernable that she was terrified it would show in her face. She still wanted him, she thought with a sick lurch of her heart. Just as much as she had twelve years ago.

How could she?

Thank heavens for the dirt on her fingers; if he’d shaken her hand, she’d have been lost.

He said easily, “I can see I’ve interrupted you.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right,” she stumbled. “I was going to stop soon anyway.”

“You have a lovely spot here.”

“Yes. I’m very lucky.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit down? You’ve probably already guessed that Travis sent me.”

She hadn’t. Wiping her palms down her trousers, Jenessa indicated the wooden benches under the old apple tree. “We can sit there,” she said. Not for anything was she going to invite him indoors.

The tree was still in bloom, the pink and white flowers delicately scenting the air. Petals had collected on the flag-stones in drifts, like snowflakes. Jenessa sat down, the wood hard against her thighs. Think, Jenessa, she told herself. Think.

Bryce said pleasantly, “Travis phoned me last night after he’d spoken to you. Let me put my cards on the table. He’s hoping I can persuade you to come to the christening—despite the fact that it’s on Manatuck, and that your father, stepmother and mother will all be there.”

At any other time, Jenessa might have been amused by Bryce’s directness. She said with some semblance of spirit, “I told Travis I couldn’t come because of the pressures of work.”

Pointedly Bryce looked around the peaceful garden. “You don’t look particularly pressured to me.”

Her cheeks warmed with anger. “The reason I didn’t hear you calling me, Mr. Laribee, was because I was thinking about my next painting, which I have to start tomorrow morning. I have a major show in Boston in a few weeks, and I can’t afford the time to travel up to Maine and back. It’s that simple.”

“Travis told me about the show. You’re doing well.”

“If I am, it’s because I work hard. You’re a businessman, aren’t you? I’d have expected you to understand that.”

Bryce fished in his pocket and brought out a folded cheque. Holding it out, he said, “From Travis. To pay for your airfare.”

She kept her hands firmly at her sides. “I already told him I couldn’t take any more money from him. I owe him too much as it is.”

“Then I’ll pay your way.”

She raised her brows. “If I won’t take money from my brother, I’m not likely to take it from a complete stranger.”

“I’m Travis’s best friend. Scarcely a stranger.”

“This is about time, not money,” Jenessa said, her voice rising. “Can’t you understand that?”

“Okay, let’s cut out the euphemisms,” Bryce said evenly. “This discussion isn’t really about a christening. It’s about a whole lot more—you know that as much as I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen to me,” he said grimly, “and you will. Travis is your brother, he’s been very good to you over the years, and he loves you. You didn’t bother going to his wedding…God knows why. Surely you can understand how much Julie means to him, how important that ceremony was to both of them. Besides, Julie wants to get to know you. She’s a real sweetheart and deserves a lot better than being ignored.”

Jenessa hadn’t gone to the wedding because Bryce had been best man. “This isn’t about Travis. It’s about Charles and—”

“All right, so you don’t get along with your dad, your stepmother or your mother. Not one of them. But to stay away from Travis’s wedding because you can’t be civil to your family for the space of one day doesn’t wash with me. And now you’re doing the same thing all over again. Although this time you’re using your painting as an excuse. Your painting and money.”

“I have to earn my living,” Jenessa put in hotly.

But Bryce overrode her. “Julie nearly lost Samantha midway through her pregnancy—I’m sure you’re aware of that. So that little baby is the apple of their eye. They dote on her, they adore her…and now they’ve asked you to be her godmother. But do you care? No, ma’am. You can’t even spare a day to fly up there.”

Put like that, it sounded horribly selfish; no wonder Bryce couldn’t condone her behavior. Knowing she was probably only going to dig herself deeper into trouble, Jenessa said weakly, “Of course I know how much they love Samantha. But the timing’s as bad as it could be. A show at the Morden is a huge accolade, I can’t afford to play around right now.”

His jaw hardened. “The message I’m getting is that you’re totally self-absorbed. It doesn’t matter that your brother loves you and his wife wants to get to know you, and that by inviting you to be Samantha’s godmother they’re asking you to be an important part of their lives. You’ve shut yourself up in an ivory tower called art. And you’re far too pure-minded to descend to the level of ordinary people.”

With a gasp of pure rage Jenessa said, “What gives you the right to speak to me like this?”

“My friendship with Travis does. You say you owe him money. Well, I owe him my life,” Bryce announced in a voice like a steel blade. “If it wasn’t for him, I’d be on the streets, in jail or dead.”

He broke off so abruptly that Jenessa said flatly, “You didn’t mean to tell me that.”

“You don’t deserve any information about my private life.”

“It’s wasted on me anyway,” she said, not altogether truthfully. “My mind’s made up.”

“So I’m supposed to stand by and do nothing while you ignore what’s most important to Travis—his wife and his child?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to. Because it’s not your decision.”

“Do you really think you can do exactly what you please without hurting their feelings? Because that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? You’re disappointing both of them.”

Unerringly Bryce had found her most vulnerable spot. “Once the show is over, I’ll go and visit them,” Jenessa said in a thin voice. “I told Travis I would. In the meantime, I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”

“Frankly, having met you, I have no idea why he bothers to keep in touch.”

Jenessa stood up. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, Mr. Laribee,” she said tightly. “But you’re wasting your time and mine as well.”

“So that’s your last word?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Then you’d better go back to thinking about your painting, hadn’t you, Miss Strathern? I’ll tell Travis that daubing oil on canvas is more important to you than celebrating family occasions. Although I bet he’s already gotten that message.”

Bryce turned on his heel and strode along the path, disappearing around the corner of the house. A few moments later, Jenessa heard the sound of a car engine accelerating down the lane. Then, once again, silence fell over the garden. The only sound she could hear, apart from the drone of insects, was the thick pounding of her own heart.

He’d gone. He hadn’t recognized her. Hadn’t connected Travis’s sister with a young art student he’d gone to bed with many years ago, and then ruthlessly dismissed.

She sank back down on the bench, pulling her hat off and shaking out her mass of blond curls. Through the turmoil of emotion in her breast, one conclusion was clear: Travis must really want to see her to send his good friend Bryce to plead his cause.

Once again, she was disappointing her brother. Just as she had at his wedding.

Maybe she should tell Travis the truth, she thought, trying to ease some of the tension out of her shoulders. Confess what had happened—or rather, what hadn’t happened—all those years ago between her and Bryce. Get it over with. Surely such a confession wouldn’t damage his friendship with Bryce, not after this long. And it would put things straight between her and Travis, something she craved with all her heart.

But wouldn’t Travis then connect her confession with the lack of suitors in her life, with her continued refusal to become involved with someone, or to get married? He’d assume she’d been in love with Bryce. That Bryce had repudiated a lot more than her body. She couldn’t bear it if that happened. One humiliation was enough.

More than enough.

Jenessa staggered out of bed at eight-thirty the next morning. At two, three and four she’d been wide awake, staring into the darkness: her body craving the touch of the only man who’d ever swept her off her feet, her mind racing between a hotel room in New York City twelve years ago and her own garden the evening before. At three-thirty she’d gotten out of bed and gone to her studio, where she’d produced a series of very unsatisfactory sketches for her new work, tossed them aside and covered page after page with sketches of Bryce. Bryce in her garden, Bryce naked in the shadows of a luxurious bedroom, Bryce in her arms. These, too, she’d tossed aside. Finally, about five-thirty, she’d fallen into a dead and unrefreshing sleep that had mercifully been dreamless.

Coffee, she thought, yawning, stretching to get the aches out of her limbs. Coffee and a shower. Maybe then the day would seem worth beginning.

While the coffee dripped through the grinds, she wandered to the kitchen window. A sudden movement caught her eye. Her whole body stilled.

A man was hunkered down in the vegetable garden, weeding, his shirt stretched tight across the muscles of his back, the early sun glinting in his blond hair. He looked very much at home and completely at ease, and it was this that made Jenessa forget any vestige of caution. She slammed her empty mug down on the counter, marched through the mudroom and hauled the back door open. The hinges squealed. The man looked up.

CHAPTER THREE

THE sun was behind Bryce, shining full on the woman on the porch. She looked utterly magnificent, he thought, brushing the dirt from his hands. She also looked extremely angry.

Good. He was all too ready to take her on.

She ran down the board steps in her bare feet, her cream silk pajamas brushing the swell of her breasts and clinging to her thighs. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, her eyes bluer than the sky and her cheeks the pink of the apple blossoms on the tree just behind him. To his dismay, his groin tightened involuntarily.

How could he desire a woman he so thoroughly disliked?

Was that one reason he was so angry with her? A reason that had nothing to do with Travis or Julie.

Standing up, he said cordially, “Good morning, Jenessa.”

She stopped three feet away from him, her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Weeding…isn’t it obvious?”

She glanced downward. “Weeding?” she squeaked. “You’ve just pulled up three-quarters of the beet seedlings.”

“You’re kidding. You mean those funny little red-colored things would have turned into beets?”

“If you hadn’t hauled them up by the roots, they would have!”

Realizing he was thoroughly enjoying himself, Bryce said, “You should have got up earlier…I thought you had a painting to start. Then I wouldn’t have done so much damage.”

“You should have gone back where you belong yesterday evening,” she stormed. “Why don’t you head back there right now? Ten minutes ago wouldn’t be too soon.”

“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.”

“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.

Last summer Leonora had traveled to Maine and had sought out her children. In the intervening months she and Travis had built a solid relationship; but according to Travis, Jenessa was indifferent to the sudden appearance of a mother she’d never known and had always assumed was dead.

“Another family gathering,” Leonora said dryly. “I’m as well as could be expected.”

“Under the circumstances, you look great.”

She was tall and slim, her long black hair streaked with gray, her every movement imbued with a dancer’s grace. “So you’re to be Samantha’s godfather,” she said.

“And Jenessa’s the godmother,” Bryce replied with a lift of his brow. “I met her for the first time three weeks ago. Talk about the original ice maiden.”

“When I first saw Travis last summer, he was very angry with me for abandoning him when he was only six. In retrospect, I prefer his anger to the impeccable good manners with which Jenessa treats me. As though I was a chance-met stranger who means nothing to her.”

“She’s a very talented artist.”

“You’re right. I’d like to go to her opening at the Morden Gallery next month…will you be there?”

“I might.”

“She’s also exceptionally beautiful,” Leonora said, a twinkle in her eye.

“I’ve wondered if that’s why Travis asked me to go and visit her. Matchmaking. He ought to know better.”

Leonora laughed. “Perhaps you should go and say hello to him. The ceremony’s supposed to start in a few minutes.”

“We’ll talk again afterward,” he promised, and headed toward Travis and Julie; but on the way, he was hailed by Brent Strathern, Jenessa’s twin brother. “Hi there, Bryce, how’s it going?” Brent said breezily.

Brent was handsome, charming and—in Bryce’s opinion—spoiled rotten. “Fine. I’ll be happier when I’ve done my thing with Samantha,” he replied amiably.

Brent bared his teeth in a smile. “You’re like me—you’ve had the sense never to get hitched.”

Bryce didn’t like being bracketed with Brent, who was known to be a womanizer and suspected of dubious financial dealings. He said mildly, “Your sister doesn’t seem to have matrimony in mind, either.”

“Jenessa? Who’s she going to meet in a dump like Wellspring?”

“Artistically, it’s not doing her any harm.”

“Contemporary art’s nothing but a big scam,” Brent said edgily. “So she can slop paint on a canvas…big deal.”

It was interesting, Bryce thought, that the privileged twin was jealous of the twin who’d been ignored by her father for years. “I suspect there’s a little more to Jenessa’s paintings than that,” he said. “I guess I’d better say hello to my host and hostess…excuse me, Brent.”

“See you later,” Brent said.

Not if I can help it, thought Bryce, and strode between the rose beds toward Charles and Corinne.

Charles Strathern was tall and thin-haired, his handsome face underlaid by obstinacy rather than real strength. Corinne, as always, looked as serene and imperturbable as if she’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. However, her passion for roses was responsible for the beauty of their setting; Bryce had often thought there was more to Corinne than met the eye.

He shook Charles by the hand and kissed Corinne’s cool cheek. “It’s a real pleasure to be here,” he said. “The garden’s lovely, Corinne. And the weather couldn’t be better.”

“A very happy occasion,” Charles said bluffly.

“She’s a sweet baby,” Corinne added. “The charm of being a grandparent, of course, is that you can hand your grandchild back to the parents whenever you like.”

It was difficult to imagine Corinne dealing with a dirty diaper. Bryce kept this thought to himself, and answered Charles’s queries about his latest travels. “So you and Jenessa are to be the godparents,” Charles said. “I’m glad Jenessa came. She hasn’t been to Manatuck for many years.”

From Travis, Bryce already knew that Jenessa had no use for her father, whose main aim from the time she was little had been to crush her artistic impulses: impulses she’d presumably inherited from her runaway mother. “Then she’s seeing it at its best,” he said smoothly.

“She has a show opening next month in Boston,” Charles labored on. “We thought we might attend.”

Charles and Corinne owned a luxurious mansion in Back Bay, one of Boston’s most prestigious addresses. “Jenessa could be on the brink of a highly successful career,” Bryce said blandly.

“She graduated from Columbia’s School of the Arts,” Charles remarked. “A very fine school.”

Bryce’s heart gave a great jolt in his chest; the rose garden, the polite chatter of the assembly and the soft sighing of the waves vanished from his consciousness as if they no longer existed. “Columbia?” he rasped. “When?”

Not noticing Bryce’s tone, Charles did some quick mental calculations. “She enrolled twelve years ago. So she must have graduated when she was twenty-one.”

Twelve years ago Jenessa had been seventeen. The same age as the spike-haired art student who’d said she wanted to sketch him after that lecture he’d given at Columbia.

But the art student had had eyes that were almost purple.

Contacts, Bryce. Colored contacts.

The way Jenessa moved, the elegance of her lean, capable fingers, that elusive sense that somewhere he’d seen her before…his intuitions had been dead-on. He had.

In his bed. Twelve years ago.

Jan Struthers had been Jenessa Strathern. What a fool he’d been not to make the connection.

“Bryce, are you all right?” Corinne asked.

Hastily Bryce pulled himself together, furious that he’d revealed, if only partially, the shock of his discovery to Charles and Corinne. “Sorry, I was just wondering if I’d met her on a visit I made to Columbia some years ago,” he said with a minimal degree of honesty.

Charles gave a hearty laugh. “Computers and art don’t go together,” he said, “so I rather doubt it. Bryce, I saw that article about you in the Financial Times recently, where they were explaining how extremely well you’ve done by maintaining your independence from any of the big corporations. You’re to be congratulated, that’s not an easy road.”

Talk about your career, Bryce. Talk about anything other than the fact that Jenessa Strathern, a woman you lust after, has already been in your bed. When she was still a teenager. “That’s high praise, Charles,” he said wryly. “But you know me—what other choice did I have? I’m far too single-minded, not to say stubborn, to work for someone else.”

It was true. He’d always been a loner; for many years it had suited him to go his own way, both in his business life and his personal life. “But thanks for the compliment,” he added. “Now maybe I’d better go and say hello to the proud parents, and take a peek at Samantha. I only hope she doesn’t cry when I pick her up.”

“If she does, pass her back to her mother,” Corinne said with a mocking smile.

“Good advice,” he grinned. Excusing himself, Bryce crossed a pebbled path and a stretch of manicured lawn toward the arbor. Through his long struggle to reach the international reputation Charles had applauded, he’d learned a number of lessons, the first of which had been to mask his feelings. Discouragement, ambition, anger, despair: he’d taught himself to hide them all. But could he dissemble the chaos of emotion in his chest right now from his best friend and from the woman who’d gone to his hotel room when she was only seventeen? He wasn’t sure he could.

He’d soon find out. “Hi Travis, Julie,” he said. “Hello, Jenessa.”

Travis clapped him on the shoulder, his black hair ruffled by the wind; in a time-honored ritual, Bryce punched Travis lightly on the chest. The two men were similar in height, and since sports were one of their shared interests, were both of athletic build. But there the similarities ended, for Travis’s emotions, since he’d met Julie, were much more on the surface than those of his friend. Open up, man, Travis was apt to say to Bryce: with as much effect as if he’d addressed the walls of a squash court.

Julie gave Bryce a friendly kiss on the cheek, while Jenessa said in a voice as cool as the ocean, “Hello, Bryce.”

She looked rather like the ocean, he thought, in her pale turquoise linen dress, her matching hat circled by a froth of white flowers. Her unruly curls framed her face; her makeup accentuated the elegance of her cheekbones and the depths of her eyes. Blue eyes. Not purple. Fathoms deep, and unfathomable.