Contract Bridegroom. Sandra Field

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      “Jethro, will you marry me?”

      “What?”

      For the first time since she’d met him, Celia saw she’d knocked Jethro off balance.

      “Did you ask me to marry you?”

      “Yes,” she gulped. “I—I should have said I’ve got a proposal for you. A business proposal. I need a husband for three months. A temporary marriage, that’s all, drawn up legally with a contract. I’d pay you, Jethro. Sixty thousand dollars.

      “There are conditions to this marriage,” she continued. “One of them is a high degree of privacy.”

      “Do tell me the others.”

      “No sex. No contact after the time’s up—you’d sign a contract to that effect.”

      “Charming,” Jethro said.

      “It’s a business deal—not the romance of the century.”

      “I get the message. No sex?” he repeated softly. “Are you sure about that?”

      Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada; she says the silence and emptiness of the North speaks to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city which is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience; I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”

      Contract Bridegroom

      Sandra Field

      MILLS & BOON

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      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 ONE

      CELIA Scott was one hour into her regular twelve-hour shift at the Coast Guard. Her second-last shift, she thought moodily, staring out the wide windows at the sea. One more night after tonight, and she was through.

      The Coast Guard offices were situated on the shores of Collings Cove, in southern Newfoundland. It was mid-September, nearly dark, the sky mottled a theatrical mix of magenta and orange. In four days she’d be gone from here. Gone home. Back to Washington and to her father.

      Where was home? Here? Or with her father? Could there be any greater contrast than that between the treelined avenue where Ellis Scott’s stone mansion stood and the narrow streets of Collings Cove?

      Celia wriggled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension from them. It was time for a change. She’d been here four years, and she needed a new challenge. Something that would stretch her as, at first, this job had stretched her.

      Fiercely she fought against remembering the outrageous request her father had broached just before she’d left. If she complied, she’d certainly be taking on a new challenge. But it wasn’t a challenge she’d ever sought out. Or wanted.

      She was, of course, totally blocking out how desperately ill her father was. She couldn’t bear to think about it.

      She reached for the pile of mail. But before she could open the first envelope, the security buzzer sounded. Celia glanced up at the black-and-white television screen, noticing that a four-wheel-drive Nissan was now parked in front of the building. She clicked to a view of the main door, which was always locked at night.

      A man was standing by the door. A tall man, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Celia zoomed the camera in closer, noticing his rugged good looks, the stillness with which he was waiting for a response. He looked utterly self-contained. He also was quite extraordinarily attractive.

      She said into the intercom, “Can I help you?”

      His voice surged into the room, a voice she recognized instantly; it was the same deep baritone of the man who had radioed a distress signal a few nights ago. “My name’s Jethro Lathem, skipper of Starspray. Would you please let me in?”

      He’d phrased it as a question. But it came across as a command. “I’m sorry,” she said, “no one’s allowed in on the night shifts.”

      “Rules are made to be broken.”

      “Not this one, Mr. Lathem.”

      “You’re the woman who took the Mayday call, aren’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’ve come a long way, Miss Scott, and my time’s limited. This’ll only take a few minutes.”

      How did he know her name? “I’m here alone,” Celia said crisply, “and the nearest houses are two miles down the road. The security rules are for my own good—try looking at it from my point of view.”

      His face was a hard mask. “What time does your shift end?”

      She hesitated. “Seven tomorrow morning. But—”

      “I’ll be here,” he said and turned on his heel.

      The intercom had gone dead, leaving Celia with any number of retorts on her tongue. Like, no thanks. Like, I’m a zombie at the end of my shift. Like, if I’m going to meet you, buddy, I need all my wits about me. Just don’t ask me why.

      Jethro Lathem was walking back toward his vehicle across the well-lit parking lot. In the monitor, Celia watched his long-legged stride, his smooth swing into the driver’s seat. Then he drove away without a backward look.

      When she’d taken the Mayday call, his voice had sounded pushed to the very limits of his endurance, yet still very much in control. She hadn’t expected she’d ever see him in person: even in that brief, fraught interchange, she’d gained an impression of someone who wouldn’t take easily to asking for help. Especially from a woman.

      Search and Rescue had sent out a helicopter, airlifting him and his companion to the hospital in St. John’s. She hadn’t heard any more than that because, at the end of her shift that night, she’d caught a few hours’ sleep, then flown to Washington, getting back this afternoon in time for work.

      If he was a man who hated asking for help, he was also unused to having his orders disobeyed. One look at his face on the television monitor had told her that. She also knew she didn’t want to meet him.

      Her reaction