Coffee, she thought, yawning, stretching to get the aches out of her limbs. Coffee and a shower. Maybe then the day would seem worth beginning.
While the coffee dripped through the grinds, she wandered to the kitchen window. A sudden movement caught her eye. Her whole body stilled.
A man was hunkered down in the vegetable garden, weeding, his shirt stretched tight across the muscles of his back, the early sun glinting in his blond hair. He looked very much at home and completely at ease, and it was this that made Jenessa forget any vestige of caution. She slammed her empty mug down on the counter, marched through the mudroom and hauled the back door open. The hinges squealed. The man looked up.
CHAPTER THREE
THE sun was behind Bryce, shining full on the woman on the porch. She looked utterly magnificent, he thought, brushing the dirt from his hands. She also looked extremely angry.
Good. He was all too ready to take her on.
She ran down the board steps in her bare feet, her cream silk pajamas brushing the swell of her breasts and clinging to her thighs. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, her eyes bluer than the sky and her cheeks the pink of the apple blossoms on the tree just behind him. To his dismay, his groin tightened involuntarily.
How could he desire a woman he so thoroughly disliked?
Was that one reason he was so angry with her? A reason that had nothing to do with Travis or Julie.
Standing up, he said cordially, “Good morning, Jenessa.”
She stopped three feet away from him, her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Weeding…isn’t it obvious?”
She glanced downward. “Weeding?” she squeaked. “You’ve just pulled up three-quarters of the beet seedlings.”
“You’re kidding. You mean those funny little red-colored things would have turned into beets?”
“If you hadn’t hauled them up by the roots, they would have!”
Realizing he was thoroughly enjoying himself, Bryce said, “You should have got up earlier…I thought you had a painting to start. Then I wouldn’t have done so much damage.”
“You should have gone back where you belong yesterday evening,” she stormed. “Why don’t you head back there right now? Ten minutes ago wouldn’t be too soon.”
“Boston’s where I belong,” he said. “I decided I’d given up entirely too easily yesterday, so I stayed in a charming bed-and-breakfast down the road. Whose owner, by the way, gave me the lowdown on you—on the lack of men in your life, and on the peculiarities of modern art as exemplified by your paintings.”
“Wilma Lawson,” Jenessa groaned, momentarily forgetting that she was in a rage.
“That’s the one. Why aren’t there any men in your life, Jenessa?”
“Because far too many men are just like you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not that bad.”
“Says who? And why is this discussion taking place at the level of a couple of seven-year-olds?”
“So I’ll keep my mind off how enchanting you look in those pajamas,” Bryce said promptly.
Hot color flooded her cheeks in a way that intrigued him. She was twenty-nine years old, he knew that from Travis. But she was blushing as though she were sixteen. As though she’d never been complimented by a man in her life.
Impossible. The way she looked, she must be surrounded by men. Day and night.
Not a thought he cared for.
He’d said she looked enchanting. He should have said sexy. Voluptuous. Seductive. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss those delectable, sleep-swollen lips. Feel the warmth of her skin beneath the smooth silk. Run his hands through that tumbled mass of hair.
For Pete’s sake, what was the matter with him? He’d come back here this morning to tell her she was going to Maine come hell or high water. Not to seduce her. That wasn’t on the cards. Apart from anything else, she was the kid sister of his best buddy.
Jenessa said in a strangled voice, “There aren’t any men in my life in Wellspring. For one thing, most of the men here are over sixty. More to the point, half the village is made up of gossips like Wilma Lawson. So I keep my love life and my home life separate. One in Boston. One here. Okay?”
No, Bryce thought irritably, it wasn’t okay. “Are you shacked up with anyone in Boston?”
“Are you?” she countered.
“Nope. No marriages, no divorces, no kids and no commitments.”
So he hadn’t changed, Jenessa thought, and to her intense annoyance found herself wondering why he’d never married. It was none of her business; he was nothing to her now. Nothing. She said crossly, “Why don’t we get back on track? I’ll repeat what I said yesterday—I can’t come to Maine, not before my show. You can tell my brother you did your best. Goodbye, Bryce Laribee. Have a nice drive back to Boston. Have a nice life. But from now on, stay out of my hair.”
Patently unimpressed, he remarked, “You blew it by not going to Travis’s wedding—now you’ve got the chance to redeem yourself. Simple.”
If only it were that simple. “Go away!” she exclaimed.
Closing the distance between them so that he was standing altogether too close, Bryce said lazily, “I can smell coffee. Aren’t you going to offer me any?”
Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and long-legged: none of that had changed, either. Elusively, the tang of his aftershave wafted to Jenessa’s nostrils. Fighting to keep her hands at her sides so she wouldn’t be tempted to run one finger down the cleft in his chin, she said, “I wasn’t planning on it, no.”
“I’m going to camp on your doorstep until you agree to come to the christening. So you might as well get used to having me around.”
“I’ll set the police chief on you!”
“Tom Lawson? First cousin of Wilma? I met him yesterday evening, told him I was here to see you, and that your brother and I were good friends. He seemed like a nice guy.”
Again Bryce had outwitted her. Jenessa took a long, slow breath. “You really are insufferable.”
“Coffee, Jenessa.” He indicated a paper bag on the bench under the apple tree. “A couple of Wilma’s Danish pastries—thought you might like one. They’re stuffed with raspberries and custard. They’ll go just fine with brewed Colombian.”
Jenessa stared up at him. Hadn’t his determined jaw and strong bones enthralled her from the start? Clearly a lot more than his jaw was determined. He wasn’t going to go away. And the longer he stuck around, the greater the chance he’d recognize her. Or that she’d fall on him like a sex-starved virgin, a prospect she couldn’t bear to contemplate.
She’d be better to send him packing, turn up at the christening in her most elegant outfit and make sure on any subsequent visits to her brother that Bryce Laribee was conducting business on the opposite side of the globe. She said evenly, “Okay. You win. I’ll come to Maine. So you can leave right now. Mission accomplished.”
Something flickered in Bryce’s eyes. “It’s