The Tycoon's Virgin Bride (16 page)

Bryce had shown her the miracle of intimacy; and now had snatched it away. How could she not be lonely?

Why had she been so stupid, so unutterably foolish, as to fall in love with him?

A
BACK STREET
in the Left Bank district of Paris, well past midnight. Once again, Bryce couldn't settle down to sleep in his luxurious hotel room; once again, he'd taken to the streets in an effort to tire himself out.

Hamburg had been the same. Business had gone well in both Germany and France; he was far too professional to allow his inner confusion to show, let alone get in the way of the expertise and creative thinking that were his trademark. But when he wasn't working, he was a walking disaster.

Literally, he thought wryly, striding along the worn cobblestones, catching a glimpse of the river between two buildings. He'd got up at dawn and jogged for an hour, and at noon had availed himself of the company fitness center with its weights and rowing machines; yet here he was, as restless as the wind-rippled Seine.

He still had no idea what he was going to say to Jenessa when he phoned her. That he missed her day and night, her absence as pervasive as a missing limb? That the intensity of feelings she aroused in him terrified him? That his past enclosed him as claustrophobically as the dark alleys he was passing?

She was no slouch. He wouldn't be telling her anything she didn't already know.

He couldn't keep her waiting forever; that wouldn't be fair. The next step was up to him. Underlying his confusion was the sure knowledge that the decision he made this weekend would affect the rest of his life. A water-shed.

The breeze ruffled his hair. He increased his pace, came
around a corner and briefly saw the tableau in front of him as though it was frozen in time. Two men, balaclavas pulled over their faces, and a cowering woman.

Bryce ran straight for them, his brain working at top speed. He'd learned any number of dirty moves on the back streets of Boston; and had added to that in his twenties a brown belt in karate. As one of the men snatched at the woman's purse and the other raised his fists to knock her down, Bryce gave a ferocious yell, tripped the first man so he fell with a bruising thud onto the stones, and swung the other man around to meet his own fists. From the corner of his eye he saw the fallen attacker stagger to his feet. Whirling, he flattened him with a single kick. The second man turned to flee, abandoning the purse and his accomplice; who, groaning, dragged himself out of Bryce's range, then clawed his way upright using the side of the building as support. Then he, too, staggered off into the darkness.

Breathing hard, Bryce turned to the woman. She was in her forties, he guessed, smartly dressed and obviously frightened out of her wits. Speaking in French, he said gently, “It's all right, they won't bother you now.”

“I didn't even hear them approaching,” she quavered. “
Monsieur,
how can I thank you?”

“By allowing me to accompany you to your destination,” he suggested. “And there's no need to thank me, it was my pleasure.” He meant it, he realized, the adrenaline still racing through his veins. Routing two muggers was just what he'd needed.

Making small talk, he walked with her until they came to a more brightly lit street, where he left her at the doorway of her small hotel. Her profuse thanks already forgotten, he strode to his own hotel, nodded at the doorman and took the elevator to his suite. Entering it, he locked the door. Then he sank down on the leather chesterfield, his head in his hands. The little boy he'd once been had been unable to protect his mother; a rusty toy truck hadn't
been enough. But tonight, putting the run on a couple of louts who'd been threatening an unknown woman, he felt as though he'd somehow made amends for that long-ago failure.

His mother would have forgiven his inability to protect her; indeed, would have seen nothing to forgive. Because Rose had loved him.

For the first time in thirty-two years, Bryce allowed that love to expand in his chest. To unfold like a rose, slowly and beautifully filling his heart.

Dimly he became aware that tears were running down his face, the difficult tears of a man who'd learned very young not to cry. His mother had been making plans to escape and take her son with her; to build a better life. Then she'd made her mistake: gone alone to the apartment, and found Fletcher waiting for her.

It was a mistake she'd paid for with her life. But of her courage and her love for her small son, Bryce had no doubt.

For a long time he stayed hunched over on the smooth leather, his chest shuddering with a grief he'd locked away years ago. Then, worn out, he fell into bed.

 

Because he'd forgotten to set his alarm, Bryce overslept. He felt like the one who'd been kicked on the cobblestones, he thought ruefully, heading straight for the shower. The hot water pummeled his aching muscles, and eventually cleared his head. If he didn't hurry, he'd miss his flight. Then it would be too late to phone Jenessa when he landed.

He made the flight with five minutes to spare, slept like a dead man most of the journey, and took a limo to his town house. Boston was baking under the afternoon sun; he was grateful for the shade of the tall trees as he ran up his front steps and into the air-conditioned cool of the foyer. Dumping his case by the door, he hurried to the phone. But after he'd punched in the numbers, he was
met with an empty, repetitive ringing. Then Jenessa's voice mail clicked on.

He'd told her he'd phone on the weekend. This was only Friday. Bryce banged the receiver down. He didn't want to leave a message; he wanted to talk to her. Although, if he were honest, he still had no real idea what he was going to say.

Was that why he hadn't called her on his cell phone, earlier?

The need to see her, face to face, burned through his veins. He raced up to his bedroom, changed into casual cotton trousers and an open-necked shirt, then grabbed his car keys from the bureau.

He might well be going on a fool's errand. Sure, she could be out in the garden. Equally, she could be in California, making love to a surfer.

Did he really believe that? Did he honestly think Jenessa capable of so easily switching her affections from him to someone else, all within a week and a half?

He was still avoiding the word
love.
Yet wasn't her love as trustworthy as Rose's had been? Swearing under his breath, Bryce headed for the garage.

Focusing his attention on the road, he drove to Wellspring in record time; but when he walked into Jenessa's peaceful, sunlit garden, where carmine and white hollyhocks nodded in the breeze and dahlias stood like sentinels against the old stone wall, he found himself alone there. He climbed the back steps, knocked on the door and waited. Then he tried the door, which was, as usual, unlocked. “Jenessa?” he called. “It's Bryce—are you home?”

He was met with a silence overlaid by bird calls from the garden. Maybe she was in Boston, visiting Charles and Corinne. Or in New York with Leonora. He walked through into the kitchen, where, to his huge relief, he saw that she'd left a mug of coffee and a bunch of spinach on the counter.

A bunch of spinach—wilting spinach, at that—had the power to make him feel as though he'd been granted a reprieve?

Bryce looked around him. It was an unpretentious little house, surrounded by flowers and smelling faintly of oil paint. But didn't it hold all that he wanted? For it was home to a woman whose courage and integrity he'd come to trust absolutely; a woman who was creative, passionate and honest.

Jenessa. The woman he'd been waiting for all his life.

Because he loved her.

Somewhere a fly was buzzing against a windowpane. Bryce listened to it absently. He'd had to leave Jenessa, travel to a faraway city beside a river, and rescue an unknown woman from danger in order to free himself of the past and allow himself a future. A future to which Jenessa was pivotal. Essential. As necessary as the air he breathed.

As soon as she came back, he'd tell her that he loved her.

She must be somewhere nearby. On automatic pilot, Bryce wandered into the studio. The painting that had caused all the trouble was carelessly leaning against other canvasses on the floor; its certainties assailed him now, as they had then. As he shifted his gaze to the easel, he drew in a sharp breath.

The only certainty in this work was that there was no certainty. Nothing was to be trusted, love least of all.

It was an indictment of the way he'd lived his life. Even more strongly did it condemn the way he'd treated Jenessa, falling into her bed but rigidly refusing her an equal intimacy the rest of the time.

He could have lost her so easily; and it would have been no one's fault but his own.

Unable to stay in the same room with the painting, equally unable to sit still and wait for Jenessa to return, Bryce stepped outdoors again. He didn't want to stay in
the garden either, so peaceful and full of color, scent and birdsong. Restlessly, he set off down the lane.

He'd walked for perhaps five minutes when he heard, carried on the breeze, the high-pitched shouts of children. Curious, he followed the sound, sighting through the trees a restored Colonial house surrounded by a large, untidy garden. In the apple orchard a long trestle table was set with colorful plates and napkins. The children, girls as well as boys, were playing a rowdy game of soccer in the field behind the house. Then his heart gave a great leap in his chest. Chasing after the ball, her hair flying in the wind, was Jenessa.

She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, her breasts bouncing with her exertions. She appeared to be playing with very little regard for the rules, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips. But she was also making sure that everyone got a chance at the ball, from the littlest girl to the biggest boy. With no fuss whatsoever, Bryce fell a little more deeply in love.

How could he not love her? Generous, talented, fiery-tempered and passionate; kind and fun-loving; willing to change: all these were facets of the woman he'd probably loved since she'd hustled him out of her house before the christening, afraid that he'd recognize her.

If he were honest, she'd gained a foothold in his heart when she was only seventeen.

Into his mind dropped an image of that earlier, joyful painting. He was no longer remotely frightened by it because he understood it now: its fiery hues and deep knowledge were his as much as hers. He pushed open the gate in the white picket fence, closing it carefully behind him.

He was emerging from the orchard before Jenessa caught sight of him. She stumbled, tripped over a tussock of grass and rolled in a heap to the ground. In a few quick strides Bryce was at her side. “Sweetheart,” he said urgently, “are you hurt?”

“What did you call me?” she gasped.

Her cheeks were flushed from running, her breast rising and falling under her thin shirt. Bryce said hoarsely, “Will you marry me?”

The soccer ball thumped her on the shoulder. Two little boys scurried up, one forking the ball away with his foot, the other yelling, “Sorry, Jen.”

She said faintly, “You're the last of the romantics. Haven't you heard of candlelight and violins?”

“If you'll marry me, I'll light a bonfire and hire an orchestra,” Bryce said, and waited for her reply. His breath was stuck in his throat; his heart was racing as though he was the one who'd been running the length of the field.

“Am I dreaming?” she said suspiciously. “Is this a case of classic wish fulfillment?”

“You're wide awake,” he said, clasping her by the shoulders and lifting her to her feet. “I don't deserve you, I've been an unmitigated idiot, but I love you with all my heart. Today, tomorrow and always. Marry me, Jenessa. Please.”

She jabbed her finger hard into his chest. “You feel real,” she said. “Maybe you should kiss me. Then I'd know for sure.”

As a chorus of yells from the far end of the field signaled a goal had been scored, Bryce bent his head and with all his newly found love kissed Jenessa until he had to come up for air. Against his mouth she muttered, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

She looked up, her eyes brilliant with joy. “Yes, you're real. Yes, I'll marry you. Even though it's been the worst ten days of my whole life.”

“I'm sorry, my darling, more sorry than I can say. I can't even really explain it.” Wrapping his arms around her so she couldn't possibly escape, he stumbled out a description of the mugging on a Paris street and the resulting brawl. “When I got back to the hotel, two things
happened. I let myself feel all the grief for my mother that I've buried for years…but even more important, I realized how much I loved her, and how strongly she'd loved me. Somehow that freed me, in a way I still don't really understand.”

“It makes perfect sense to me,” Jenessa interjected.

“As soon as I got home, I headed here,” Bryce continued, “and when I saw that bunch of spinach on the counter, I knew. I just knew.”

“Spinach?”

“Yeah, spinach—don't ask.” He grinned. “So I headed out to find you, and when I saw you playing soccer—breaking every rule in the book, I might add—I figured it was past time I got my priorities straight and asked you to marry me.”

“I don't quite understand what the spinach had to do with it, but I sure like the results,” Jenessa said, running one finger down his cheek to the cleft in his chin. “You really do want to marry me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“We'll have to invite Maybelline,” she said.

“And Charles and Leonora and Samantha.”

“Samantha,” Jenessa repeated, looking suddenly stricken. “I know I'm a raw beginner when it comes to babies, but I want to have one—yours and mine. Are you willing to have children? Or are you still afraid you won't be a good father?”

Two little girls in mud-stained party frocks ran up to them, panting and puffing. One of them tugged at the hem of Jenessa's shorts. “Jenessa, Keith won't let us have the ball…he's being really mean.”

“Okay, I'll be right there,” Jenessa said, looking harassed. “You must tell me the truth, Bryce. It's important.”