The Tycoon's Virgin Bride. Sandra Field
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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