The Tycoon's Virgin Bride. Sandra Field

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