The Tycoon's Virgin Bride (12 page)

“Hell, Jenessa, I don't know! Just don't—I don't even want to go there. Let's go to bed, it's late.”

“I won't hide my feelings from you, Bryce—they're part of me.”

“I'm not asking you to. But be careful, that's all I'm saying.”

He was being punctilious about protection; they were certainly being careful that way. But how could she protect herself against her own heart? Wishing she'd kept her mouth shut, Jenessa wiped the counter, then went to the bathroom. When she came out, wearing her least unsexy nightgown because she'd forgotten to iron her silk pyjamas, Bryce was already in bed.

He looked very much at home, the sheets partway up his chest. As she climbed in beside him, he took her in his arms. His breath ruffling her hair, he said forcefully, “This is all so new, Jenessa. To both of us. We knew before we started that any relationship between us wouldn't be casual. But it's so far from casual that I'm way off balance. So bear with me, okay?”

“Okay,” she said; and five minutes later was fast asleep.

 

Bryce woke around three in the morning. He lay still in the unfamiliar bed, listening to Jenessa's soft breathing. In her sleep she'd curled against him, her spine pressed into his chest, her thighs warm against his legs. His arm
had fallen across her hip. He was in fine shape to make love to her right now, he thought ruefully. For the third time in less than twelve hours.

Would he ever get enough of her?

Easing away from her, he gazed into the darkness. Jenessa lived on a back lane in a small village. The only light was that of the stars; far away in the trees, the owl was still hooting. Maybe he should have thought twice—or three times—before embarking on this affair. Jenessa wasn't like the other women he'd known, easy come and easy go. She was vulnerable, capable of depths of feeling that scared the living daylights out of him.

Not a comfortable thought. Not for a man whose parents' marriage had been a walking disaster; and who knew firsthand the pain of abandonment.

Half an hour later, wide awake, Bryce slid out of bed. Hauling on his briefs, he went to the bathroom. Then, on his way back to the bedroom, on an impulse he didn't understand, he put his head in the studio door.

Half a dozen easels, five of them holding paintings. Carefully he felt for the light switch. Blinking against the brightness, his eyes swept over four abstracts vivid with color to find the painting that stood full under the skylight. His heart contracted. Suddenly cold, he wrapped his arms around his chest, his head hunched into his shoulders. For the space of a full minute he stood there, like someone waiting for the next blow.

How could oil paint slapped on canvas affect him so deeply? The whirling shadows Jenessa had depicted captured his childish terror of living with a man who could explode into violence at any moment and for no reason that a little boy could grasp. The streaks of red—oh, those were easy, Bryce thought grimly. Fletcher liked to draw blood. As for the ghostly trails of white, stark against the shadows, weren't they his mother? She'd had a smile as
bright as daylight, he remembered that. But hadn't Fletcher turned her into a wraith of herself?

The ghosts of his past, he thought with a shudder, pain clenching his gut, called up by the woman he was sleeping with. Coincidence or not, could Jenessa possibly know that much about him?

It was as if the secrets he'd been guarding for so many years were no longer his.

B
EHIND
him the faintest of sounds made Bryce whirl, his pulse racing. Jenessa was standing in the open doorway, her hand on the frame, her features blurred with sleep. “I woke up and I didn't know where you were,” she faltered.

He looked at her in silence, his fists bunched at his sides. Of all the emotions boiling in his chest, anger was uppermost; within a split second his decision was made. He had to tell her everything, even if it meant his long-held defences would crumble as if they'd never existed. The words spilling out of him, he snarled, “I never told you a single goddamn thing about the way I grew up—what are you, a witch?”

She flinched, her shocked gaze going from him to the canvas. “I just—”

“You got it all. The fear. The violence. The drinking, the shouting and cursing. The way she stayed with that bastard, day after day, month after month.”

“What bastard?” Jenessa whispered.

“My father. Of course.”

He suddenly turned his back on the painting; he couldn't stand to look at it anymore. “My father,” he repeated, advancing on her. “Fletcher Laribee. He's one reason I'll never marry. Let alone have any children of my own.”

Jenessa stood her ground. Although her chin was high, her cheeks, Bryce noticed distantly, were as ghostly white as the streaks in her painting. “What did he do, Bryce?” she asked. “And what happened to your mother?”

“Who, Rose? Oh, she left. Dumped me at a woman's shelter and never came back for me. Must have forgotten
she had a kid.” His laugh was like a fist shattering glass. “She's the other reason I'm not into commitment. I thought she loved me. I know I loved her. But she walked out the door and never came back.”

“So you decided you'd never love anyone else,” Jenessa said in a dazed voice.

“When they went looking for my dad, he'd gone, too. Vanished without a trace. Who knows? Maybe she went with him. Figured they were better off without me.”

Blindly Jenessa reached out for him, but Bryce took a sharp step back; her outstretched hand fell to her side. “How did you manage to paint all that?” he demanded. “How in God's name did you know? Have I been babbling in my sleep?”

“No! I wasn't painting you, Bryce. It just happened…I went where the brush took me.”

“It looks as if you know me better than I know myself,” he said harshly.

And he hated her for it, Jenessa thought with an inward shudder. Wishing she'd turned the painting to the wall rather than leaving it where it would be the first thing anyone would see when they walked into the studio, she said carefully, “Your father was a violent man?”

“You could say so. If beating up on my mother is what you call violent. Probably raping her, too, although I was too young to figure that one out.”

With an effort Jenessa kept her voice steady. “Did he hit you, too?”

“Just enough to keep me out from underfoot. I was only four when they both took off. Too little to defend my mum, but old enough to live in constant fear. Sober, he wasn't too bad. But drunk he was mean as a cut cat. That's why you'll never catch me having more than a couple of beers.”

Too shocked to be tactful, Jenessa blurted, “You're afraid you'll turn out like him?”

“Why wouldn't I—I've got his genes, he fathered me.
You think I'd ever inflict that kind of terror on a kid of mine? Better not to have the kid in the first place.”

“Bryce, I've never seen a trace of that kind of violence in you. Not once!”

Now that he'd started, Bryce couldn't seem to stop. “About a month after I turned four, my dad got royally drunk. Came bursting through the door and went for my mum. I picked up the truck I was playing with, rusted metal and sharp edges, and bashed him on the leg as hard as I could. He threw me clear across the room and when I came to, my mum was lying on the floor, bleeding, and he'd gone…later that day she took me to the shelter.”

“Didn't the police ever come?”

Bryce said cynically, “The people who lived in those streets weren't in the habit of calling the police. And if they did, it'd just go down on the books as one more domestic incident. There were a lot of those, and only so many cops.”

“So you were alone. No one to turn to.”

“I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me,” he said sharply. “I never had any intention of telling you this, you know that as well as I do. But when I saw that painting, it all—anyway, now you understand why marriage is a dirty word to me. Always will be.”

“Children of abusive parents don't necessarily turn out to be abusive,” she said fiercely. “Haven't you read any of the research?”

“What I know, I know in my blood,” he retorted. “I don't need the jargon that a bunch of academics can cook up.”

“Then you're the one who's stuck,” Jenessa said.

She hadn't meant to say that. Her chin a notch higher, she waited for his response.

His breath hissed between his teeth; his fists were still clenched at his sides. He said, “Aren't you afraid to be alone in the house with me, Jenessa?”

“No. I'm not.”

“What if I took it in my head to finish off that bottle of wine? To start on the next one? Then what would you do?”

“That's a rhetorical question. Because it's not going to happen.”

“You're very sure of yourself.”

“I'm the one who painted the picture.”

“So we're back where we began,” he said in an ugly voice.

“You're cold,” she said quietly. “Let's go to bed.”

Deep lines had carved themselves from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His eyes were like a winter sky, and with every line of his body he was repudiating her. “I'm going to stay up for a while. You go to bed.”

“I'm not going without you.”

“Then it'll be a long night.”

For a moment she quailed. Who was she, to break through the barriers of a lifetime? Barriers she more than understood now. She said implacably, “You have to believe that the painting has nothing to do with your past. But it will never be shown, or sold. I promise. Because it's not finished.”

“You could have fooled me,” Bryce grated, wondering where she was going with this, wishing she'd leave him alone.

“It's a work in progress,” she said dryly. “Which is what we are. You and me.”

“We're having an affair, that's all!”

“We're in so deep we're changing each other.”

“Speak for yourself,” he rasped.

She tossed her head, her hair rippling in the light. “Why haven't you ever made any attempt to trace your mother? Or your father?”

“What would I do that for?”

“For the same reason that you sent me that video of Leonora…to deal with a past that's holding you hostage.”

“You've been reading too much pop psychology,” he
sneered; and with a distant part of his brain knew he was behaving reprehensibly.

“I'm regaining the mother I never knew because of you,” Jenessa said evenly. “Now it's your turn. You know her name, the dates, the name of the shelter. Go find your mother, Bryce. Talk to her. Turn her into a real person. If you dare.”

He took a single step toward her. “Watch what you're saying.”

She held her ground. “I'm not afraid of you. Can't you tell? I don't believe you'd ever turn your fists on me.”

“You're far too trusting.”

“I've made love with you,” she flashed. “You think that doesn't teach me a whole lot about you?”

She wasn't quite as calm as she was pretending to be; beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown, her breast was rising and falling; her jawline was tense. He said irritably, “Did a maiden aunt give you that nightgown?”

“You could buy me a new one,” she said. “If you want to.”

His heart clenched as though a fist was squeezing it. This was the moment of choice. To stay with her or to leave. That was what she meant.

“You've got guts,” he said hoarsely, “I'll give you that.”

“You're worth fighting for.”

And how was he supposed to respond to that particular statement? Wishing he could force himself to close the distance between them and take her in his arms, Bryce said woodenly, “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone,” she flared. “I know it doesn't compare to what happened to you—but it's the reason I stay away from my father. One evening, when I was about seven, I was dancing all by myself by the lilac bushes on Manatuck…pretending I was a princess, or a beautiful
white swan. My father came 'round the corner and saw me. He picked me up and shook me as though I was a rag doll, I had bruises on my arms for days afterward. His eyes were crazed…then he froze and dropped me, and in a voice that cut like a knife he told me never to dance again or he wouldn't be responsible for the consequences.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bryce said. He could see the scene as clearly as if she'd painted it: the innocent little girl with her long blond hair, twirling to her own music; and the man who'd done his best to destroy her.

Her voice broke. “He never loved me for what I was. He only wanted me to be someone else. Someone, I see now, who was like Corinne—not like Leonora. But Leonora was my mother!”

Without even stopping to think, Bryce strode toward her and enfolded her in his arms. He pressed her face to his bare chest, wishing he'd been there to protect her, knowing at the same time the futility of such a wish. She was trembling very lightly. He picked her up with an exaggerated grunt, hoping to make her smile. “If your feet are as cold as mine, we're in big trouble.”

“My heart feels cold,” she said so quietly he could scarcely hear her. “Can you warm that, Bryce?”

He looked her full in the face and in a raw voice spoke the only truth he knew. “I don't know.”

“We could start with our feet,” she replied, giving him a tiny smile.

The emotion flooding his chest was new to him. Not in the mood to analyze it, Bryce carried her into the bedroom. Once they were in bed, he flung his thigh over hers, pulled her into his body and held her close. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was that ugly little apartment with its dirty windows and battered furniture. As a child he hadn't judged it; it had been home. Now, with hindsight, he recognized a poverty that went far beyond money.

It was a long time before he went to sleep again.

 

Once again, on Monday morning Jenessa was in her studio. Bryce had left the evening before to drive back to Boston. She arranged the silver tubes of paint on the table, her mind a long way away, and sighed, gazing out the window.

By Saturday morning, Bryce's revelations in the middle of the night had vanished as though they'd never happened. A couple of times she'd caught herself wondering if she'd dreamed them; and then assured herself she hadn't. When she'd reopened the topic of his childhood the next morning, suggesting he might want to go to social services and see what he could find out about his parents, he'd said in a voice of steel, “Jenessa, I don't want to talk about it. I should never have told you.”

“But you did.”

“If I hadn't come face-to-face with that painting in the middle of the night, I wouldn't have.”

“Bryce, you told me I needed to build some bridges with my family. For my own sake. Wouldn't you be better off knowing what happened to your mother and father?”

“No.”

And that had been the end of any conversation of depth between them. Sure, they'd had a good time the rest of the weekend, eating lunch in Masefield, working in the garden, making love with pleasure and inventiveness. But, for her at least, a shadow had lain across her happiness. The shadow of Bryce's past.

Because of his past, Bryce would never get married. Hence, she thought with an unhappy twist of her lips, this affair.

She could always end it. Before she got in too deep.

She didn't want to.

So that was that.

Jenessa worked hard all day, with results that left her in a foul mood. She was beginning to hate that nasty little
word
stuck.
Hate it with a passion. What was wrong with her that she couldn't quit wasting her money and her time lathering canvasses with paint, only to end up with something that looked awful?

She could always sell it at the local craft shop, she thought grouchily. Although her gallery wouldn't think much of that plan. She knew what she needed. She needed Bryce Laribee to walk in the door right now and make mad, passionate love to her for at least three hours.

He hadn't phoned to let her know he got home safely last night, and he hadn't phoned yet this evening. Damn him anyway. She didn't need him. Not for making love and not for anything else.

Stuck. Treading water. Spinning her wheels. Jenessa looked up a number in her address book, picked up the phone, then put it down again. Was she really going to do this?

Or was she clean crazy?

 

Two days later, after a four-hour shift at the shelter, Jenessa was standing in the tree-lined mall of one of Boston's most fashionable streets. Across the road was the 19th century mansion that belonged to her father. It was solid and imposing, with ranks of bay windows whose flower boxes trailed ivy and perfectly groomed geraniums. Roses nodded against the mellow brick. Corinne's touch, she thought absently.

Charles was expecting her. She couldn't stand here like a statue for the next half hour.

She crossed the street and pressed the brass bell, the scent of the roses filling her nostrils. Charles opened the door. “Jenessa,” he said heartily, “come in. Corinne's out, we've got the place to ourselves. Let me get you something to drink.”

He led her past a formal living room, where she had a quick glimpse of her painting hanging prominently over a grand piano, into a drawing room that overlooked the
back garden; it was a haven of shade and color. Then he started fussing with a tray of drinks. She said, “A glass of ice water would be lovely. It's really hot outside.”