The Tycoon's Virgin Bride (11 page)

Vulnerable.

He was glad when Jenessa woke up and expressed a wish to walk along the beach. When they returned, their jackets damp from the mist, she took out her painting gear, and three-quarters of an hour later said shyly, “Want to see?”

In watercolors she'd painted beach and ocean, the sand disappearing into the sea, the sea vanishing in the mist.
No sharp edges, everything blending into everything else. He said, “That's how it feels when I'm in bed with you.”

“So you understand.”

“Would you give me that painting, Jenessa?”

“I was hoping you'd ask.”

He said roughly, “We'll have to leave in a couple of hours. Come to bed with me before we go.”

“I was hoping you'd ask that, too.”

Their lovemaking was wild and tumultuous, as though they craved to imprint each other on their flesh. Afterward, spent in her arms, Bryce said, “I'm out of town again all week—in Texas and then Maryland. When I get back on Friday, can I come and stay overnight at your place?”

Underlying his request was the need to make love to her in her bed, on her territory. She said, fluttering her lashes at him, “You mean I have to wait that long?”

“I could stay in Wellspring all weekend. And I'll call you from Texas.”

Her smile was brilliant. “Okay and okay,” she said. Color rising in her cheeks, she added, “I know I have no basis for comparison. But you're the most wonderful lover I could possibly have asked for.”

“And you're more than I could have imagined.”

For a moment he thought he saw pain flicker across her features; but it was gone before he could be sure. Sitting up on the bed, she said lightly, “We're turning into a mutual admiration society. Who's first in the shower?”

Bryce stretched to his full length, yawning. “You are. I feel as lazy as all get-out.”

“When your muscles move like that,” she said rapidly, “I want to jump you. It's not decent. Not after what we just did.”

“Friday's only five days away, Jenessa my darling.”

Her lashes flickered. “Five days is one hundred and twenty hours,” she said. “And I loathe cold showers.”

She stalked toward the bathroom stark naked. Bryce
had already figured out that five days was about four too many; and only when he was in the tropics did he favor cold showers.

Texas and Maryland in July? Yeah, he could legitimately turn on the cold tap. The other thing he could do was check off the hours until he'd arrive at Jenessa's little house and fall into bed with her.

This weekend had only made him want her more.

M
ONDAY
morning found Jenessa face-to-face with a blank canvas.

Her mind was blank, too. Any sketches she'd done hadn't approximated the emotions seething in her body. The mother she'd never known, the lover she'd never had: those gaps in her psyche had now been replaced by Leonora's warm spirit, and Bryce's passion. When she closed her eyes, she could feel the strength of his arms about her body, and hear the huskiness in his deep voice just as if he were standing beside her.

He wasn't. He was on his way to Texas.

Instead, she was standing beside a canvas on which she ached to transfer in color, texture and form the huge shifts of the last few days.

Wing it, Jenessa.

She tried. Her palette rich with cadmium red and cobalt blue, with chrome yellow and the deepest of greens and purples, she did her best; but brush and knife, hand and eye wouldn't translate whatever it was she was so desperately seeking.

She was trying too hard.

She put some Mexican music on her CD player, danced around the room, laughed at herself because she had none of Leonora's fluidity, and tried again. Painting and over-painting, daubing and scraping, she gained the smallest of inklings of what she was searching for. But the rest of the canvas was a mess. Ninety-nine percent mess, she decided gloomily, realizing that her back was full of kinks and she was hungry.

She glanced at the clock. Four-thirty? It couldn't be. But it was.

No wonder she was hungry.

Yesterday morning Bryce had fed her slices of melon in bed, his fingers wet with juice, his gray eyes stormy. Bryce. Who had taken her body by storm and altered her unutterably.

Maybe she was as afraid of the power he had over her as she was of her aborted painting. She had allowed him to enter far more than her body; and she'd understood from the very beginning that at some point he would leave her. Not today. Not next week. But someday he would move on, to other women and to beds other than her own; and she would be alone as she'd never been before. To be alone when that was all she'd ever known had the familiarity of long experience. To be abandoned having known the bliss of intimacy: just thinking about it scared her to death.

She wasn't sure how she would bear it.

So what was she trying to paint? Passion or terror?

With an exclamation of disgust Jenessa cleaned her brushes, pulled a face at the canvas and stamped into the kitchen. Prepackaged macaroni and cheese, along with a salad from her garden, made her feel minimally better. She spent the evening baby-sitting for her friends Susan and David down the lane; three small boys under the age of ten were more than enough to keep her mind off abandonment, creativity and Bryce.

When she got home, there was a message on her voice mail. “If you get in before midnight, call me,” Bryce said, and reeled off the number of his hotel room.

It was ten forty-eight. Quickly Jenessa hit the number keys, and then his voice surged over the line. “Bryce Laribee.”

“I wish you were here,” she said.

“Are you in bed?”

“Standing by the kitchen table.”

“Have you ever made love on the kitchen floor?”

“You know I haven't. But I'm willing to try,” she said. “Next weekend.”

In a few very explicit sentences Bryce described exactly what he'd like to do to her. Her cheeks flaming, Jenessa said weakly, “I'd have to sweep the floor first…I'm not the best of housekeepers.”

He laughed. “How big's your bed?”

“Plenty big for you and me.”

“This has turned into an obscene phone call.”

“Another first,” she said demurely.

“I fly in midafternoon on Friday. Why don't you make a reservation for dinner someplace near you?”

“I already have.”

“Good food?” he asked sceptically.

“The very best…the chef's a blonde.”

“You're supposed to be painting. Not cooking.”

“Don't even mention painting,” she said darkly. “How were your meetings?”

They talked for another half an hour, then Bryce said abruptly, “You'd better get some sleep. Get lots of sleep this week, Jenessa.”

Her knees felt weak and she ached with longing. “I'm going to end this conversation the way I began it,” she said. “I wish you were here.”

“I will be. It can't be soon enough. 'Bye.” The connection was cut.

It can't be soon enough.
Those weren't the words of a man intent on leaving her.

Hugging to herself the timbre of his voice and the seductive images he'd conjured in her mind, she went to bed. Bryce phoned her again on Wednesday. Although she did her regular stint at the shelter, and went for a swim at the pool on Thursday afternoon, Jenessa spent hours in the studio that week. She made several promising starts, only to have them founder before they had the potential to satisfy her. On Thursday evening she talked to Leonora,
whose advice, not surprisingly, was to persevere: and when Jenessa felt really defeated, to take a deep breath and persevere some more.

“Thanks a lot,” Jenessa said wryly.

“My pleasure. And I mean that literally. It is such a pleasure to talk to you, Jenessa.”

“And for me. To talk to you,” Jenessa said incoherently but with real sincerity.

“May I ask you something? Did you thank Bryce for sending the video?”

“Oh. Yes. I did.”

“Good. You might want to persevere there, too. You'll never be satisfied with anyone facile.”

“That word does not apply to Bryce Laribee,” Jenessa said vigorously.

“My mistake when I was young was to interpret Charles's dynamism for depth.”

“So Bryce has both…that's what you're saying?”

“Depth. And darkness, too.”

Jenessa shivered. “I should go, Leonora.” After they'd said their goodbyes, Jenessa rang off, then walked into the studio, where she lined up her four canvasses in a row. Too much raw color. Altogether too hectic, she thought, her eyes narrowed. Tomorrow she'd try for darkness, and perhaps that would take her where she needed to go.

In the early morning light, she worked like a woman possessed. Blue black, ebony black and lamp black swirled onto the canvas in a chaotic blend of shadows backlit with streaks of white and a lurid scarlet that looked like blood. Abruptly Jenessa put down her brush and stared at the canvas. Black, white and red: she'd produced an artistic cliché, she thought, near despair. What in heck had she been thinking of? And what would she title it? Struggle To Approximate Emotions Not Yet Understood? Or, more tritely, Work in Progress?

Despite the cliché, she was—maybe—one small step closer to an unknown destination.

Leaving the canvas full in the light, feeling tired and strangely vulnerable, Jenessa went out into the garden. Weeding, as always, soothed her. The crop of beets she'd planted to replace those Bryce had pulled up were flourishing. He'd be here tonight. In her bed.

Where he belonged.

Her fingers stilled. Yes, he belonged in her bed. But only temporarily, she mustn't forget that. For Leonora was right. He was a man of darkness, and many secrets. None of which he planned to share with her.

 

By the time five o'clock on Friday afternoon rolled around, Jenessa was in a fine state of nerves. What if she and Bryce couldn't recapture the bliss they'd found in each other's arms last weekend? What if he'd spent the week in the company of sophisticated and sexy business-women who knew the score and thought affairs were the only way to go? What if her inexperience no longer charmed him?

She wasn't an urban sophisticate. She was a struggling artist who'd buried herself in the country.

An artist, moreover, who was no longer in control of her life. She'd let Bryce into it, whereupon any illusion of control had vanished.

Chewing on her lip, Jenessa added a few last minute touches to the dinner table, which was set in the screened porch. The porch overlooked the garden; it was hung with grapevines that kept the air cool and tinged the shadows with gold and green. The pasta sauce had turned out perfectly, her salad was made entirely from her garden, and she'd produced a chocolate mousse as smooth as velvet. She was wearing her flowered skirt and halter top, her hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head, curls teasing her nape. What if Bryce had an accident on the way? What if his plane had crashed?

What if she'd run out of things to paint?

With an impatient exclamation Jenessa poured herself a glass of wine. A car pulled into her driveway, the tires crunching in the gravel.

Her heart racing, she hurried to the front door. Bryce was taking the steps two at a time, his jacket slung over his arm, his tie loose, an overnight bag in one hand and a great sheaf of deep pink roses in the other. As Jenessa walked out onto the verandah, he looked up and stopped in his tracks. “Each time I see you, you're more beautiful,” he said.

Her worries dropped from her shoulders as if they'd never been; the look in his eyes alone would have reassured her that she was both desired and desirable. “Roses,” she said. “Lots and lots of roses.”

“Yeah…I know you've got a garden full of them. But they reminded me of the color of your cheeks after we make love.”

She held the door open. “Then I can scarcely say they're pretty, can I?”

He walked inside, dumped his bag on the floor, his jacket and the roses on the nearest chair, and took her in his arms. His kiss was lengthy, thorough and passionate. With a deep sigh of repletion Jenessa said, “I was afraid you might not want me anymore.”

“I want you entirely too much. As I'm sure you can tell.” He grinned at her, his teeth very white. “But first I need a shower and a shave—I didn't bother going home, just drove straight from the airport. A glass of wine would go down okay, too.”

“You can have whatever you want,” she said with a sly grin.

He nuzzled his face into her throat. “You smell delicious. Have we got time for you to show me how big the bed is before dinner?”

“We've got all weekend,” she said, her laugh a cas
cade of pure happiness. “The bathroom's this way. Let me get you some towels, then I'll pour your wine.”

He yanked his tie off, tossing it on top of his jacket. “You could kiss me again first.”

“Another kiss like the last one and I won't be able to find the bathroom, let alone the towels.”

“We'll risk it,” Bryce muttered, and closed his mouth over hers.

She was trembling when he released her; the pulse in the V of his shirt was throbbing against his skin. “Who needs wine when you're here?” he said, grabbed his leather toilet kit from his bag and headed for the bathroom.

A foolish smile plastered to her face, Jenessa put the roses in a vase and poured a second glass of wine, then carried both glasses into her bedroom. The water was running in the shower. After taking off all her clothes, she put on Bryce's jacket and tie. Then, arranging herself on the bed in a pose worthy of a centerfold, she stuck one of the pink roses behind her ear.

Bryce walked into the bedroom, his hips swathed in a white towel. Laughter lines creasing his eyes, he said, “You look ten times better in that jacket than I do. The rose is a nice touch.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“It's not all I like,” he said roughly. “I want your hair loose, Jenessa.”

She sat up, slipped off his jacket and took the pins from her hair, her breasts bouncing gently as she moved. In the soft light of evening, her skin was pale as ivory, smooth as rose petals. Shaking her hair free, she held out her arms. “Come here, Bryce.”

He fell on her like an eagle on its prey. But Jenessa matched him kiss for kiss, caress for caress, as wild and imperious as an eagle herself. Their climax was explosive;
scarcely able to breathe, Jenessa clung to him as though she was drowning and he was her lifeline.

His breath was sobbing in his throat. “My God, woman,” he gasped, “what did you do to me?”

She could scarcely find her voice, let alone think of anything to say. “It's a good thing supper's already made,” she croaked. “I'm not sure I can stand up.”

Reaching over her, the heat of his skin brushing her rib cage, he passed her a glass of wine, then picked up his own. “To weekends,” he said.

“To us,” she responded, her chin high.

Points of fire in his irises, Bryce said, “To the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“To the sexiest man.”

He said flatly, “This isn't just about sex, Jenessa. Us, I mean.”

She wouldn't have expected him to say that. Her throat tight, she muttered, “No. It's not.”

“But don't ask me what it is about.”

He was restlessly moving his bare shoulders in a way that both entranced and frightened her. “I think we should eat,” she said, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

It was one of those meals where everything turned out perfectly. They ate by candlelight, the scents of the garden drifting through the screen, the faraway hooting of a barred owl punctuating their conversation. After lingering over coffee, they washed the dishes; in the midst of this domestic task, Jenessa reached around Bryce for a saucepan, he grabbed her by the hip and suddenly they were making love against the refrigerator door.

Her arms around his neck, happiness flooding her veins, Jenessa said, “Better than the kitchen floor.”

“I'm saving that for tomorrow.”

She buried her face in his shoulder. “I'm so glad you're
here, Bryce,” she said in a muffled voice. “I missed you. All week I felt like I'd been locked in a room without paper or pencils or paint. As though part of me was missing.”

Abruptly he moved away from her, straightening her skirt. “Maybe we should go to bed. And this time, go to sleep.”

“Did I say something I shouldn't?”