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Guilt churned in Celia’s stomach, as no doubt her father had intended. Her second year in university, she and Ellis had had a terrible row, and for the next few years she hadn’t seen him at all; she already felt hugely guilty for that long separation. She, tentatively, had been the one to make the first gesture of reconciliation, just two years ago. Ellis had responded with very little grace. But he had responded, and since then they had at least been in touch.
Now, however, she wanted more than that. Much more.
If only she could rein in her restless spirit. Be more like her brother, so contented with his conservative job, his country estate, his unassuming wife and obedient children. If only she could marry to please Ellis. To make his last weeks happy.
“I promise I’ll think about it,” she said.
Ellis said abruptly and with patent honesty, “I worry about you, Celia. It would set my mind at ease to know you were married to a good man…then I could die in peace.”
Tears flooded her eyes. “I don’t want you to die….”
“Yes. Well. I can’t control that, can I?” He looked at his watch. “Hadn’t you better leave for the airport? That’s another thing, piloting your own plane. A lot of nonsense. Far too dangerous.”
Celia took her courage in her hands. “If my mother hadn’t been killed in a car accident all those years ago, would you be saying that?”
“That’s an impertinent and unwarranted remark!”
“We’ve got to talk about the past! We can’t act as if my mother didn’t exist.”
“I’ll ring for Melcher to bring down your bags.”
Celia pushed back her chair. She felt like the little girl she’d once been, controlled at every turn, unheard and always a disappointment to her father in ways she could scarcely fathom. He’d never allowed her to talk about her mother. Not once. She trailed after him to the front door, where the limousine was waiting to drive her to the airport, and kissed him dutifully on the cheek.
The transmitter rasped. With a jerk, Celia came back to the present, to her office and the demands of her job. But as she spoke to a lobster fisherman about the fog patches down the bay, she found she could no longer push her dilemma to the back of her mind. Hadn’t it been sitting on her chest like a lead weight ever since Ellis had mentioned the word marriage?
It was a dilemma she was no nearer solving now than at the front door of her father’s mansion, where Ellis had offered her a chilly goodbye. She was going to have to refuse his last request—what other choice did she have? —and thereby close another door, one that might have led to a new closeness between father and daughter.
A closeness she longed for with all her heart.
With an impatient sigh, Celia began writing up her log. At six-thirty, she washed her face, brushed her chestnut hair smooth and French-braided it. The tangerine lipstick didn’t look its best with her purple sweater. Too bad, she thought, and put on a pair of earrings that she’d found in the bottom of her backpack, dangly copper earrings that, she hoped, would distract from the smudges of tiredness under her eyes.
Jethro Lathem might not turn up.
However, at ten to seven, the four-wheel-drive Nissan turned into the yard and parked in the same spot it had the night before. Thirty seconds later, Wayne, her replacement, also drove in. But at five past seven, just as Celia let herself out of the office, she saw Pedro striding down the corridor to meet her. His freighter was moored further down the bay; he must be here to say goodbye.
And goodbye it would be. No proposals of marriage from her. Smiling at Pedro, she said, “Buenos dias.”
Two people were coming down the stairs.
Jethro straightened. One of them was a sea captain in a smart navy-blue uniform with rather a lot of braid: a good-looking man, his head bent to hear what the woman at his side was saying.
The woman was beautiful.
She was young, her chestnut hair glowing like a beacon, her body, even in an oversized sweater, slender and lithe. She was talking animatedly to her companion.
She hadn’t seen him. She wasn’t even looking.
He moved back, watching as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stood, facing each other, both of them smiling. Then the man raised one of her hands to his lips, kissing it with lingering pleasure. The woman said something else that made him laugh, and then they hugged each other with the ease of long acquaintances. The man, Jethro noticed, was in no great hurry to release her.
But finally he did. With a last salute, he headed down a corridor away from the main door. For a moment the woman stood watching him go, still smiling.
So she had a lover, did Celia Scott; because Jethro was quite sure this was Celia Scott. Or perhaps the handsome sea captain was her husband. It would be a logical choice for a Coast Guard operator.
There was nothing logical about the surge of possessiveness that had rocketed through his body when the captain had kissed her hand. Just as illogical was the way he’d been unable to get the sound of her voice out of his mind, ever since he’d heard it over the radio when he’d sent the Mayday signal. A calm voice, beautifully pitched, as clear and true as a perfectly cast bell. He’d spent the first two days after the rescue in hospital in St. John’s, recovering from exposure and the flu. The third day had been spent in a hotel dealing with various business matters, one of which had been a phone call to the Coast Guard station in Collings Cove to find out the name of the operator who’d taken the Mayday call and when her next shift was.
He’d asked no further questions. Out of pride? Or out of anger that she should even matter, this woman unknown to him?
A woman who was partly responsible for saving his life.
He hated being beholden to a female.
The woman he was watching so intently squared her shoulders and opened the door, stepping right into the early morning sun. Her smile fading, she blinked a little.
Her hair caught fire, gleaming in the light. Her eyes, Jethro saw, were a very dark brown, soft and warm as velvet. Her winged brows, her high cheekbones, the seductive curve of her lower lip were all part of her beauty. The rest of it was more elusive and more complex, he thought, depending on the play of expression in her face, the vividness of her emotions.
He moved forward into the sun himself and said formally, “Are you Celia Scott? I’m Jethro Lathem.”
Because the sun was right in Celia’s eyes, the man’s body loomed larger than life, a dark silhouette that was obscurely threatening. She raised her hand to shield her vision and took refuge in an equal formality. “Yes, I’m Celia Scott. How do you do, Mr. Lathem?”
“Jethro, please,” he said unsmilingly. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast? I noticed a restaurant on the way out here.”
Again Celia had the sense of an order framed as a request. She moved further from the door, taking a moment to assess him.
Dynamite, she thought blankly. Pure dynamite.
Six-foot-two or thereabouts. Brown hair. Although a boring word like brown didn’t in any way do justice to thick, dark curls that had the polish of mahogany. Startlingly blue eyes, the deep, steel-blue of a sky at dusk, set in a face with the weathered tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. A formidable jaw, now marred with a purpling bruise. As for his body…well, she wasn’t going to go there right now. Much too early in the morning.
She said pleasantly, hoping she hadn’t been gaping at him like a groupie, “No, I can’t do that. I’m on duty again tonight, so I have to go home and get some sleep or else I’m dead in the water.” Her smile flickered and was gone. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
“Dinner before work, then. You have to eat, surely?”
She bit her lip. “Can’t we say anything that needs saying right here?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Then perhaps we don’t have anything to say.”
“We’re talking dinner at the Seaview Grill—not the Ritz.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“I wasn’t aware of doing so.”
He’d look very much at home at the Ritz, thought Celia. “So what happens if I say no? That I’ve got a date with my fiancé who’s six-foot-five?”
“The man you came downstairs with—is he your fiancé?”
“I don’t think you came all the way from St. John’s to Collings Cove to inquire about my love life, Mr. Lathem.”
“I came here to thank you for saving my life,” Jethro said curtly.
“You don’t look very grateful.”
He said tautly, “Do you have a fiancé? Six-foot-five or five-foot-eight or anywhere in between?”
“I do not. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“What about a husband? Or a lover?”
Celia’s jaw dropped. “What on earth—look, it’s nearly seven-thirty, I’ve been awake all night and I’ve had enough of this. I’m glad you and your friend Dave are alive and well, I’m sorry your boat sank and goodbye.”
His lips thinned. Unwillingly, she added, “Your yacht—you loved her, didn’t you?” Like a woman, isn’t that what Dave had said? Women must flock round this man like gulls round a lobster boat.
“I don’t really think that’s any of your business.”
“Then less and less do I see why you’d have the slightest interest in taking me out for dinner,” she said crossly and turned away from him.
He took her by the elbow, the tensile strength of his fingers making her suddenly wary. “I’ll pick you up at five.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“I could always follow you home.”
She said sweetly, “Are you aware that right this minute we’re under surveillance? Cameras cover this entire parking lot. All I’d have to do is struggle a little, and someone would be out here. Pronto.”
“All the more reason for you to behave, Miss Scott,” he said, mockery gleaming in his eyes.
“Behave—huh! Do what you want me to do, that’s what you mean.”
“Precisely.”
It was, Celia knew, the moment of choice. All she had to do was look into the camera over the door and signal for help, and this charade would be over. But she’d never been one to play it safe; her recklessness was one of the reasons behind her father’s request. “I’ll meet you at the Seaview Grill sharp at five,” she said. “I’ll have to leave there no later than twenty to seven. And if you follow me home, the deal’s off.”
“In that case,” Jethro said with dangerous softness, “I wouldn’t think of following you.” He ran his eyes down her body. “Sleep well, Celia Scott.”
A blush flamed her cheeks. But he didn’t see it, because he’d already pivoted and was walking toward his vehicle. Standing as if she were glued to the spot, Celia watched him reverse and drive away from her, just as if she didn’t exist.
What had possessed her to agree to have dinner with him? She wasn’t just reckless, she was plain crazy.
CHAPTER TWO
THE alarm woke Celia at four-fifteen that afternoon. After a quick shower, she dressed in a denim skirt and leather boots, with a green silk blouse. No baggy sweaters. No frayed jeans. And plenty of blusher and mascara, she decided, making her face up with care.
Rather pleased with the result, she checked her watch and got up with an exclamation of dismay. She didn’t want to start off this dinner date with an apology for being late. Not a good strategy.
At one minute to five she parked beside Jethro Lathem’s green Nissan at the Seaview Grill and ran up the wooden steps. Jethro had nabbed the best table. Surprise, surprise, she thought ironically, and gave him a cool smile as he got to his feet.
He pulled out her chair and briefly she felt the brush of his hand on her shoulder as she sat down. The contact shivered through her, and it was this that decided Celia to go on the offensive. As he sat down across from her, she said, “So…are you all set to thank me very nicely for alerting Search and Rescue?”
He’d picked up the menu; she watched his nails dig into its laminated covering. “You’re obviously good at your job, and I’m very grateful not to be at the bottom of the sea. So I most certainly thank you for your part in that.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Oh, the usual pile-up of errors,” he said tersely. “Do you want to start with a drink?”
“Not before work, thanks. When I first asked for your position, you took a long time to answer.”
“Things weren’t exactly normal,” he grated. “What do you recommend? Is the seafood good?”
“The scallops are divine.” Clearly, he was going to tell her nothing more, Celia thought, and added, “Your jaw—I presume that very impressive bruise wasn’t from a barroom brawl in St. John’s? Did it happen on Starspray?”
His lashes flickered. “Quit prying.”
“Jethro,” she said, aware of how much she liked the sound of his name on her lips, “you’re the one who insisted we have dinner together. I hate talking about the weather—I talk about it for at least thirty percent of my shift. Dave told me you’d had the flu, that’s why he was at the wheel when you went aground.”
“When did he tell you that?” Jethro lashed.
“He phoned last night. He didn’t want me thinking the Mayday signal was your fault.”
“The skipper’s always responsible. You know that as well as I do.”
“He also told me you saved his life.”
“He told you a great deal too much,” Jethro said tightly. “Are you having the scallops?”
“You bet. With home fries and coleslaw and a big glass of Coke that’s loaded with caffeine so I’ll stay awake all night.” She grinned at him. “So when did you bash your jaw?”
“Just before the helicopter arrived on the scene when I was so close to launching the life raft it wasn’t funny. The yacht was taking on water fast, faster than I could pump.”
Impulsively, Celia leaned forward, resting her fingers on his wrist. “I’m truly sorry about Starspray, Jethro.”
It was her left hand. He said, “No rings. No fiancé and presumably no husband. Although you never did tell me about your lovers.”
Lovers. In the plural. If she wasn’t so angry, she might find this funny. Celia snatched her hand back. “I can see that sympathy is lost on you.”
“I’m not used to failure,” he snarled. “What happened out there on that reef—I blew it. Big time.”
“Come off it,” she said impatiently. “If you and Dave had drowned—now that’s what I’d call failure.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Jethro’s face broke into a genuine smile. “I suppose you’re right…certainly I wouldn’t be around to talk about it. Do you always refuse to tell people what they want to hear, Celia Scott? Or is there something special about me?”
His smile crackled with masculine energy. “I don’t have to answer either of those questions,” she said weakly, and turned to the waitress. “Hi, Sally. I’ll have my usual, please, along with an extra slice of lemon.”
“The same, but beer instead of Coke,” Jethro said.
Sally gave him a smitten grin. “Yes sir. Right away.”
Once Sally was out of earshot, Celia said peevishly, “Do women always fall all over you like that?”
