Contract Bridegroom. Sandra Field

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 aren’t you married?”

      “Because I don’t want to get married!…Oh thanks, Sally, that looks great, and you remembered the extra lemon,” Celia babbled.

      “Can I get you anything else?” Sally asked, eyeing Celia’s scarlet cheeks with interest.

      “That’s fine, thanks,” Jethro said, with a note in his voice that sent Sally scurrying back to the kitchen. Then he said flatly, “That sea captain—he’s your lover, right?”

      “Pedro? Oodles of charm waiting for the right heiress to come along. Pedro and I are friends, Jethro. Friends.”

      “Friendship’s impossible between a man and a woman.”

      “I disagree!”

      “Do you mean to say you never got into his bed?” he grated. “Or should I say his bunk?”

      “That’s precisely what I’m saying,” Celia announced and ferociously stabbed a scallop onto her fork.

      Jethro leaned back in his chair. “Don’t take it out on your dinner, Celia. Tell me to get lost.”

      “I’m going to finish eating first. I’ve got a twelve-hour shift ahead of me, or are you forgetting that?”

      “Friend,” he repeated in an unreadable voice.

      “That’s what I said. Why do you find it so hard to believe?”

      “Oh, that’s a long story and not one I’m about to tell. So why don’t we talk about Iceland instead? We were only there three days—just long enough for me to contract the flu. But while we were there, a friend of Dave’s drove us to the Hekla volcano.”

      As he kept talking, Celia ate another scallop, willing the color to fade from her cheeks. But Jethro was both entertaining and informed, and soon she forgot her self-consciousness, asking questions, telling him about her trip up the Labrador coast on the freight boat, and some of her adventures in scallop draggers offshore. Sally brought two pieces of chocolate cream pie, followed by coffee. Celia was leaning forward laughing at something Jethro had said, when he remarked, “I think that man wants to talk to you.”

      Celia glanced up; her smile vanished as if it had been wiped from her face. “Paul…” she faltered.

      Dr. Paul Fielding ran the clinic in Collings Cove. He was pleasant-faced, hard-working, and head over heels in love with her. She’d done nothing to encourage him, even while wondering why she didn’t—couldn’t—fall in love with him. He was everything Darryl wasn’t, he’d be unfailingly good to her, and he didn’t care about her money.

      But she’d never felt impelled into his bed. He’d have been willing; she was the one with the problem.

      “Paul,” she said, “this is Jethro Lathem. You remember I told you about the Mayday call last week? It was Jethro’s boat.”

      “How do you do?” Paul said, without any real warmth.

      “Why don’t you join us for coffee?” Jethro said smoothly.

      Sally was hovering in the background, as bright-eyed as if her favorite soap opera was playing. “Want a piece of pie to go with your coffee, doc?”

      “Just the coffee, Sally, thanks.” Paul switched his attention to Celia. “All set for the dinner on Saturday? Six-thirty, isn’t it?”

      He was, with no subtlety whatsoever, laying claim to her. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with him? If she’d accepted the heirloom ring he’d kept pressing on her, it would have made her father happy. She’d be married. Settled in Collings Cove for the rest of her life, and what could be safer than that? “Six-thirty for seven,” she said, and started describing the clinic to Jethro. She didn’t want Jethro knowing it was a farewell dinner.

      Sally brought the coffee in record time. Her blond curls bobbing, she said, “Celia, you make sure you come back here before you head to Washington. I’ll see you get a piece of pie on the house, you betcha.”

      “You’re leaving here?” Jethro demanded.

      “Tonight’s her last shift,” Paul said glumly.

      “You didn’t tell me that,” Jethro said.

      “Why should I?” Celia responded in open defiance. She glanced at her watch. “Talking of shifts, I’ll have to go in five minutes.”

      Sally brought the bill, Jethro paid, and all three of them got up. As Celia walked past the cash register, Sally winked at her. “Have a good evening.”

      “I’m going to work,” Celia said repressively, stomped down the steps and marched toward her car, Paul hot on her heels. As she unlocked the door, he grabbed her in his arms, planted a clumsy kiss in the vicinity of her mouth and said loudly, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

      With a brief nod at Jethro, he climbed into his battered Jeep and drove off, gravel spitting from his tires. Jethro said, “Why don’t you marry him and put him out of his misery? The man’s besotted with you.”

      “I know you must find this difficult to believe—most men do—but I don’t want to marry anyone!”

      “I could better that kiss.”

      The keys dropped from her hand. The evening sun gilded Jethro’s dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders in his leather jacket, his flat belly under his denim shirt. He was three or four inches taller than Paul; he possessed in spades what Paul lacked. Sex appeal. Charisma. Animal magnetism.

      And didn’t he know it!

      She picked up her keys, swung into her seat and slammed the door. “You’re not going to get the chance to try. Thanks for dinner. You can write me off the books—you don’t owe me a red cent.”

      He was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I’ll decide what I do or don’t owe you, Celia.”

      If only he wasn’t so devastatingly attractive. If only he didn’t make her blood thrum in her veins and all her recklessness leap to the fore. As she turned the key in the ignition, she found herself gazing at him as though she wanted to imprint him on her memory; because, of course, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. “Goodbye, Jethro,” she said, and suddenly gave him a wicked grin. “You’ve left Sally with enough gossip for the next week. Not bad for one scallop dinner.”

      “Then maybe I’ll have to eat there again.”

      She didn’t want him staying in Collings Cove. She wanted him gone. Out of her life. She said coolly, “Stay away from the steak, it’s as tough as your hide.”

      Unexpectedly he began to laugh. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners made her want to salivate. Get me out of here, Celia thought wildly.

      She jammed the Toyota into reverse, swung round and drove away as fast as she could.

      Jethro watched Celia drive off. Then he went back to his motel, where he phoned the airport, discovering there was a flight out early in the morning. “I’ll call you in five minutes to confirm,” he said.

      Going straight to the top drawer of the bureau, he unfolded the weekly issue of the local paper that was stashed there. It had come out two days after Starspray had sunk. Quickly he ran his eyes down the column. The journalist had done her homework. The article referred to Jethro as an international financier, owner of a huge fleet