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The Tycoon's Virgin Bride
“There’s only one woman I’ve wanted as much as I want you right now—and she was scarcely a woman all those years ago.”
Jenessa smiled, a slow, secret smile. “You mean me?”
“You don’t need to ask.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one.
For a moment sheer terror gripped her throat. As desire was inexorably replaced by anxiety, her nerves tightened to an unbearable pitch. In a very short time Bryce would know that she hadn’t made love with anyone in the years since she’d ended up in his bed. That she was, at age twenty-nine, that anomaly—a virgin. And what would he conclude?
The Tycoon’s Virgin Bride
Sandra Field
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 FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE ridiculous thing was—so Jenessa Strathern decided afterward—that she had no sense of premonition when the telephone rang around seven o’clock on that sunny May evening. Nothing warned her to ignore the ringing, or told her to run outdoors and hide her head among the hydrangeas.
So much for feminine intuition.
She’d just stopped work, because the light was fading and she was so close to finishing this painting that she didn’t want to risk any mistakes. Scrubbing a dab of alizarin crimson from her fingers with a stained rag, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jen,” her brother said. “Got a minute?”
She smiled into the receiver, plunking herself down in the nearest chair.
Travis Strathern, older than she by six years, lived in Maine with his wife, Julie, and their three-week-old daughter, Samantha. “For you,” she said, “all the time in the world. How are you? Or I should say, how’s Samantha?”
“Are you suggesting I’ve been usurped?”
“Samantha’s cuter than you.”
“I can’t argue with that. Guess what? She can smile and hold on to my finger all by herself. Amazing, huh?”
Travis was a doctor who had a great many letters after his name and was highly qualified in tropical diseases. “Amazing,” Jenessa said solemnly.
“She’s the reason I’m calling. She’s going to be christened in three weeks, and we’d like you to come. More than that, we’d like you to be her godmother.”
Touched, Jenessa said, “That’s sweet of you, Travis. But you do realize I’m a total dunce when it comes to babies? When you passed her to me in the hospital, I couldn’t wait to pass her back—I was terrified I’d drop her.”
“You’ll learn,” Travis said. “Anyway, she won’t stay a baby for long. So you’ll come?”
Jenessa hesitated. “Where’s the christening taking place?”
“I knew you’d ask,” Travis said wryly. “On Manatuck, at Dad and Corinne’s. Do come, though, Jen…it’s time you and Dad buried the hatchet, wouldn’t you say? Especially now there’s another generation in the picture.”
She should say yes. She really should. It would hurt Travis’s feelings if she didn’t. As a child, she’d hero-worshiped her big brother, and as adult she both loved and respected him. Besides, she owed him a great deal, and although she hadn’t seen a lot of Julie, she genuinely liked her. Julie had nearly lost Samantha in the fourth month of pregnancy; as a result, she and Travis had delayed a posting to Mexico until after the birth. So Samantha, Jenessa knew, was doubly precious to both of them.
So what if the christening was on Manatuck Island? She could surely behave in a civil fashion to Charles Strathern for a few hours, no matter that she normally avoided him like the plague.
But as Jenessa opened her mouth to accept the invitation, her brother added, “There’s another reason I want you to come. We’ve asked Bryce to be Samantha’s godfather…you know who I mean, Bryce Laribee, my old school friend?”
The color fled from Jenessa’s cheeks and her heart began to thud as though a mallet was banging against her ribs. She made an indeterminate noise, her cold fingers clenched around the smooth plastic of the receiver. Oblivious to her reaction, Travis went on, “I don’t think you’ve ever met him. Although that’s hard to believe—I’ve known him since I was twelve. But now’s your chance. He’s a great guy, you’ll like him.”
Travis was wrong: Jenessa had met Bryce. Once, many years ago. And the feelings she’d had for him could scarcely be called liking.
She wasn’t about to tell her brother that, however. Some secrets were better kept, her lovemaking with Bryce Laribee being right up there at the top of the list. The only trouble with secrets, she now thought unhappily, is that they brought deception in their wake. She had no intention of ever finding herself within ten miles of Bryce again; but she couldn’t tell her brother that, either.
“Jen? Are you there?”
Frantically she tried to gather her wits. She had to get out of this somehow, which meant she’d have to stretch the truth. Considerably. What other choice did she have? She said, doing her best to sound convincing, “Travis, I’m sorry…but I can’t take the time. It’s a long drive all the way up to Maine from here, and I have a show opening in Boston early in July. At the Morden Gallery, so you know what that means.”
“The Morden? Good for you—you’re really going places.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. Knowing this was no time to enter a discussion about artistic stagnation, Jenessa said, “I’m behind schedule—they want twenty paintings by the end of June. If I come to Maine, it’ll blow three or four days, and I just can’t afford that kind of time.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then Travis said in a voice Jenessa had only rarely heard him use, “Are you being straight with me, sis? Are you sure the real reason isn’t Charles? You know I’d understand if it were—he wasn’t what you’d call an ideal father.”
“I’m sure,” she said, glad she could, if only briefly, speak the truth. “This show is important for me—I’m on the brink of making some sort of name for myself. The alternative is to sink into oblivion, and I’ve worked too hard the last twelve years to risk that.”
She’d met Bryce twelve years ago, in her first year at Columbia’s School of the Arts, she thought with a sudden shiver. She’d been seventeen at the time.
With the ease of long practice, she closed her mind to that long-ago meeting with its lasting consequences. “I’m so sorry. But you know I’m devoted to Samantha, and that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”
“Julie’s going to be disappointed.”
“So are you, by the sound of it.”
“Yeah…you didn’t make it to our wedding, either.”
At which Bryce had been best man. Cursing the day she’d seen the poster advertising Bryce’s lecture at Columbia all those years ago, Jenessa said, “Once the show’s over, I promise I’ll come for a visit. If you’re both still speaking to me, that is.”
“Come off it,” Travis said, “you know we’re not like that. Tell you what—why don’t you let me pay for your airfare? That way you could do the whole trip in a day.”
“I owe you too much money as it is…I don’t want to go any deeper in debt.”
“A gift, Jen. No strings attached.”
“I can’t take any more money from you, Travis—I just can’t.”
There was another pregnant silence. Then her brother said, “You’ll have to accept the title of godmother-in-absentia, then. Because we don’t want anyone else but you.”
Tears pricked at Jenessa’s lids. Her mother had run away to France when she had been just a baby, and from the time she was little, her father had done his best to crush any wayward impulses in his only daughter. Simultaneously, he’d blatantly favored her twin brother, Brent. To this day, she and Brent were as distant as it was possible for twins to be. Travis had been the one who’d been her rock as she grew up, despite his long absences at boarding school. To disappoint him now, hurt her deeply.
But she’d been utterly humiliated by Bryce in his hotel room in Manhattan; how could she possibly face him again?
She couldn’t. It was out of the question.
She said valiantly, “How much does Samantha weigh? And is Julie getting enough sleep?”
Travis was happy to talk at some length about his daughter and his wife, both of whom he openly adored. In return, Jenessa described the new contract she had with her gallery, and the progress of her garden; finally, to her relief, Travis rang off. Slowly she put down the phone.
Once again she’d sidestepped any chance of coming face-to-face with Bryce Laribee. But the cost had been high; deep within her, Jenessa felt the slow burn of anger.
Against Bryce? Or against the young woman she’d been twelve years ago, so impressionable and so frighteningly vulnerable?
Late the following afternoon, Jenessa was down on her hands and knees in the vegetable garden. Tucked behind her tiny Quaker house, it was a peaceful spot, bathed in sunlight and alive with bees. A breeze whispered through the tall maples that bordered her property.
She’d finished the painting that morning. It was technically accomplished, as was all her work, its sunlit details overlying the sense of menace that haunted everything she painted.
She’d slept badly, dreaming of babies crying out from the high cliffs of Manatuck, and of her brother turning his back on her in an empty art gallery. And, of course, she’d dreamed of Bryce.
If only she’d never seen that poster on the bulletin board in the School of Arts…
His name jumped out at her first: Bryce Laribee. Best friend of her beloved brother, millionaire computer whiz. The title of his lecture was incomprehensible to her, although she did gather it had something to do with programming. It was his photograph in the top corner of the poster that held her skewered to the spot. Thick blond hair, gray eyes that looked right through her, a forceful bone structure that made her itch to draw his cleft chin, strong jaw and wide cheekbones.
An unapproachable face that drew her like a magnet.
Her artist’s soul, fledgling though it was, knew she had to see him in person. Perhaps the photo lied. Perhaps when she saw him, she’d realize his face was nothing out of the ordinary, and there was no reason for this overwhelming urge to sketch him.
A portrait, she thought with a surge of excitement. Head and shoulders. In oils. Although she was new to portraiture, she was almost sure she could do him justice.
Realizing she’d been gazing at the poster like a star-struck groupie, Jenessa hurried off to her watercolor class. Telling none of her friends, the next evening she went to the lecture, sitting well at the back where she could see Bryce Laribee without being seen. He was standing full in the light on the auditorium stage; in the flesh, he far exceeded the promise of the photograph.
She had to sketch him. She had to.
But more than his features drew her. His rich baritone sent shivers up and down her spine, his sense of humor made her laugh, while his lucid descriptions almost made her understand what he was talking about. There was a reception in the department lounge after the lecture. She went, again tucking herself in the background, waiting until the crowd thinned to make her move. She’d decided on her first sight of him that she wasn’t going to tell him she was Travis’s sister; he was more than capable of subtracting six years from her brother’s age and coming up with seventeen. If he knew she was that young, he’d never take her seriously. Game over before it began.
Bryce had approached the bar for another drink. She walked up to him, her heart racketing in her rib cage, and said with assumed calm, “My name is Jan Struthers, I’m an art student. I’m wondering if I could buy you a drink after this is over—I’d like to sketch you.”
He looked her up and down, his gray eyes just as unrevealing as she’d expected: deep-set gray eyes over cheekbones hewn with potent masculinity. She swallowed hard. Wasn’t his physical charisma exactly why she wanted to paint him? She couldn’t back down now. That would be cowardly, and she’d never thought of herself as a coward.
His survey of her was leisurely; her heartbeat accelerated. She knew what he’d see: her spiky hair, its tips dyed bright orange, her elaborate makeup, contacts that made her eyes almost purple, and an outlandish beaded leather outfit that more than hinted at a sexuality she wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. For the first time, she found herself regretting she’d succumbed to the peer pressure of the other art students with their outrageous outfits; that her father would be appalled by her getup wasn’t much help.
She should have toned herself down for this all-important meeting with Bryce Laribee.
As if proving her point, Bryce wasn’t bothering to hide his amusement. “You’re quite a creation. A work of art in itself.”
Jenessa looked pointedly at his tailored business suit and impeccable tie. “You have your uniform, and I mine.”
“Yours is more fun.”
“Either way, they’re what we hide behind.”
“So we’re basically the same underneath?”
She bit her lip, not sure what he was implying. “I didn’t say that.”
“And just what part of me did you want to sketch, Jan Struthers?”
She flushed; simultaneously, anger flickered to life. He was playing with her, cat to mouse. She could have told the truth: a head and shoulders portrait. Instead she said, “A good artist never narrows her options before she begins.”
“She stays open to all the possibilities?”
“Of course.”
The sparks in his eyes made her feel weak at the knees. Virgin though she was—a rarity among her classmates—there was no mistaking that he was flirting with her.
Flirting? Or was he putting the moves on her?
He couldn’t be. She was being overly sensitive to innuendo.
He said, “I have to say goodbye to the organizers of the lecture…do you mind waiting for a few minutes?”
“I’ll sharpen my pencils,” she said demurely.
He laughed, his white teeth flashing, his whole face alive with a masculine energy that shuddered along her nerves. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, and strode across the room toward a couple of tweed-jacketed professors.
Jenessa tossed back the last of her glass of wine. She’d suggest they go to a restaurant for coffee, or to a bar, where there’d be other people. She’d be quite safe.
She didn’t feel safe. She could recall every detail of Bryce’s face: the dark flecks in his irises, the determination in his jaw, the sensuality of his strongly carved mouth. He was a big man, towering over her, making her feel small and feminine. Oh, God, she thought helplessly, what was going on?
Then Bryce crossed the room toward her, and in a rush of adrenaline she knew she should have run for her life. Safe? Anywhere in his vicinity? Nothing about him was remotely safe. She was way out of her league.
But Jenessa, only a few months ago, had run away from home, obeying every instinct of body and soul that had urged her to forge her own destiny. Why should she play it safe now? Art was about risks, and how could she take risks on a square of canvas if she never took them in her personal life? Doing her best to look cool and sophisticated, she asked, “Are you ready?”
“I have a rented car outside. Let’s go.”
She glanced down at her attire. “You don’t care if they see you leaving with me?”
He raised his brows. “I don’t live by anyone else’s rules—maybe you should know that about me.” He took her by the elbow, the warmth of his fingers on her bare skin sending ripples of heat through her body.
“Where are we going?” she faltered. “A bar would be fine, providing it’s not too dark for me to see what I’m doing.”
“Oh,” he said deliberately, “I thought we’d go to my hotel. That way we won’t be disturbed.”
“I want to sketch you—that’s all!”
“Is it? Is it really, Jan Struthers?”
They’d left the auditorium; the corridor was deserted. Lifting his hand, Bryce traced the softness of her lips with tantalizing slowness, his fingers lingering on the silky skin of her cheek. As her eyes widened, every nerve in her body sprang to life. She swayed toward him, her heart pounding in her breast. He said softly, “Underneath all that war paint, you’re quite astonishingly beautiful.”
He meant it, she realized dazedly. And already this had gone far beyond flirting. He wanted her. He, Bryce Laribee, self-made millionaire, wanted her, Jenessa Strathern, seventeen-year-old virgin.
Run for your life, Jenessa.
He was pressing the elevator button for the car park. She gasped, “I left my sketch pad at the studio by mistake. I—”
He laughed. “It was a novel approach, I must admit.”
So all along he’d thought she was lying about her desire to sketch him…how dare he? Dragging her attention back to what he was saying, she tried to focus. “So tell me about yourself, Jan—what brought you to Columbia? It’s a fine school, so you must be talented. Should I be looking out for your name in a few years?”
He’d look a long time because her name was false. With a passion that surprised her, Jenessa said, “I don’t want to follow the latest trend—which is always in reaction to the trend before it. I’m not using the word fad, but it might well apply. I want to paint what’s true to me. Follow my instincts, my gut. No matter if it’s unfashionable and doesn’t fly.” Abruptly she fell silent, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
“Interesting,” he said. “Do you run your love life on the same principles?”
She had no love life. Had never really contemplated the possibility before this fraught meeting with her brother’s best friend.
Bryce was standing altogether too close to her in the elevator, and like a shock of cold water she wondered if all along she’d been deceiving herself about her motives for meeting Bryce, out of simple ignorance of the forces that could ignite between a man and a woman. Had it been an artistic need? Or a sexual one? Or a blend of both? Her mouth dry, she blurted the truth. “I think I wanted you the minute I saw your photo on the poster.”
“I’m a very rich man,” he remarked.
With a shocked gasp Jenessa moved away from him, her back pressing into the wall. “I’m not after your money! I couldn’t care less about it.”
Narrow-eyed, he stared at her in silence for a full five seconds. “You mean that, don’t you?”
The elevator doors slid open. She stayed where she was. “Yes, I do.”
Bryce took her by the elbow, jamming his foot against the door. “You’d be surprised how many women look right through me and see nothing but my net worth.”
She wasn’t quite ready to surrender. “I’m not one of them.”
“Then I apologize.”
“Do you?” Jenessa flashed. “Really? Or are you just mouthing the words?”
“We’re holding up the elevator,” he said irritably. “This is a one-night stand, we’re not talking marriage for life. So what does it matter?”
A one-night stand. How cheap that sounded. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she flared. “I really did want to sketch you—it wasn’t a come-on.”
“Look, I’ve apologized.” He tugged her out of the elevator. “What more do you want?”
Anger had hardened his jawline; his energy, fierce and unyielding, called up a matching response in her from a place she refused to deny. “I don’t like being called a liar.”
“I’m taking your words at face value—that you’re not interested in my money. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I guess it’ll have to be,” she retorted, her cheeks hot with temper.
With sudden impatience Bryce put his arms around her, pulled her to the length of his body and kissed her. His hunger, ruthless and imperious, wiped out her anger as if it had never been, replacing it with a surge of primitive passion that was utterly new to her. Drowning in it, she clung to him with all her strength. His hold tightened. Then she felt the first thrust of his tongue like the lick of fire. Instinctively molding her body to his, she opened to him; and in a rush of mingled amazement and pleasure realized that what he was demanding she was more than willing to give.
Abruptly Bryce released her, saying roughly, “The car’s just outside. Let’s go.”
Jenessa stumbled after him, knowing that in one brief kiss she’d learned more about the power of one man’s body over her own than she could have imagined. Enthralled. Swept off her feet. Bewitched. In a way that even ten minutes ago she couldn’t have anticipated.
Bryce ushered her into the passenger seat of a silver Mercedes, and without a word drove out of the lot. Soon he was navigating the noisy streets, weaving in and out of the traffic. As though there’d been no hiatus in their conversation, he said, “There’s something you should know about me. I fly to the west coast tomorrow and leave for Singapore the next day. I don’t do commitment and I always use protection.”
Something in his tone angered Jenessa profoundly. “Are you being purposely unromantic?”
“I’m telling you the way it is. If you don’t like it, it’s not too late to back out…I’ll buy you a drink and no hard feelings.”
Inadvertently he’d given her an excuse to escape from a situation that was way beyond her depth. She should take it, take it and run. It was perfectly clear to her that she’d never even have gotten into his car had he not been Travis’s friend, and thus known to her by hearsay.
But then she remembered the incredible power of that single kiss; mysteriously, hadn’t it transformed her into a woman truly aware of her own femininity? Was she going to run away from that?
With a barely discernible quiver in her voice, Jenessa said mendaciously, “My first rule is protection.”
“Fine. And your second?”
This time she was telling the hard truth. “That no one, but no one, controls my life but me.”
“Then we’re on the same wavelength,” Bryce said.
Jenessa sat back, trying to still the trembling of her limbs. Right now she was going on the assumption she’d have at least some control over whatever happened in Bryce’s hotel room.
But what if she was wrong? What then?
CHAPTER TWO
AS A CABDRIVER blared his horn, Jenessa gave a nervous start. She depended deeply on her intuition in the studio; it was now screaming that the next few hours could unalterably change her life in ways far more significant than any lost virginity.
She was under no illusions: she was about to go to bed with her brother’s best friend. It was a crazy plan. Plain crazy. But never before had her blood fueled her body with such an undeniable and imperative ache of desire.
She’d allow herself to be seduced by Bryce; and then she’d leave. If he ever found out who she was, she was sure he’d never tell Travis.
In that, at least, she was quite safe. And how much better to lose her virginity with an experienced man who was, however obliquely, known to her, than to any of the fumbling undergraduates who had only filled her distaste. She said coolly, “I’ll take a cab home afterward.”
Not taking his eyes off the constant traffic, Bryce asked, “How old are you, Jan?”
Her lashes flickered. “Twenty-one.”
“Do you graduate next spring?”
“No…I was late applying.”
He said in exasperation, “I can’t read you—you elude me. Usually women are an open book to me. But not you.”
