Contract Bridegroom. Sandra Field

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СКАЧАТЬ the monitor, Celia watched his long-legged stride, his smooth swing into the driver’s seat. Then he drove away without a backward look.

      When she’d taken the Mayday call, his voice had sounded pushed to the very limits of his endurance, yet still very much in control. She hadn’t expected she’d ever see him in person: even in that brief, fraught interchange, she’d gained an impression of someone who wouldn’t take easily to asking for help. Especially from a woman.

      Search and Rescue had sent out a helicopter, airlifting him and his companion to the hospital in St. John’s. She hadn’t heard any more than that because, at the end of her shift that night, she’d caught a few hours’ sleep, then flown to Washington, getting back this afternoon in time for work.

      If he was a man who hated asking for help, he was also unused to having his orders disobeyed. One look at his face on the television monitor had told her that. She also knew she didn’t want to meet him.

      Her reaction puzzled her. So he was a macho hunk, this Jethro Lathem. So what? She could deal with hunks who wanted to invade her personal space. She was considered a beautiful woman—she knew this without any particular vanity—and lots of men in Collings Cove and elsewhere seemed to think she’d spent her entire life waiting for them to carry her off into the sunset. She rather prided herself on the adeptness with which she could defuse such expectations. So why did she feel suddenly and illogically threatened by the prospect of Jethro Lathem turning up at 7:00 a.m.?

      He was only a man.

      And she was quite sure he had no intention of carrying her off into the sunset. Or, more accurately, the sunrise.

      The transmitter rasped out a request for the latest marine weather in the Port aux Basques area. Celia sat down in her swivel chair. Quickly she gave out the information to a fishing captain she’d spoken to many times over the years. They chatted a few minutes, Celia automatically running her eyes over the banks of equipment: computer, digital recall system, scanners and receivers. Sixty percent of her shift was spent sitting here, by herself, waiting for something to happen. It really was time for a change, she thought stoutly, as she said goodbye to the captain and reached for the first letter.

      It was a note from her boss. He was pleased with her swift response to Starspray’s emergency call the other night, and he’d be delighted to attend her farewell staff dinner on Saturday. As she picked up the next envelope, the telephone rang. “Canadian Coast Guard, Scott speaking,” she said.

      There was a slight pause. “Celia Scott?”

      “That’s right. How can I help you?”

      “My name’s Dave Hornby…I was crewing for Jethro Lathem the night Starspray sank. I was told this is your first shift since then—so I’m calling to thank you for your part in the rescue.”

      His voice was pleasant, very different from Jethro Lathem’s autocratic baritone. “You’re welcome,” Celia said.

      “There’s another reason I’m phoning—I didn’t want you thinking Jethro was in any way to blame for what happened.”

      “That’s really not—”

      “No, let me finish…it’ll be on my conscience, otherwise. You see, we’d been in port in Iceland, and a couple of days later Jethro came down with a bad case of flu; so I was on watch that night. I’m not the world’s best sailor. I fell asleep at the wheel, went off course in a sudden squall and drove Starspray onto the rocks. Not sure Jethro’ll ever forgive me for losing her—he loved that boat like she was a woman. More, probably. Anyway, I fell overboard, he rescued me, then he sent out the Mayday, manned the pumps and in the middle of it all saw that I didn’t die of hypothermia. More than I deserved…I’ll never live it down.”

      “I’m glad it all ended happily,” Celia said diplomatically, wondering why she should feel so irritated that the high-and-mighty Mr. Lathem was a hero as well as a hunk.

      “Jethro’s one of the finest skippers around and the best of friends besides.”

      She made a noncommittal noise. After expressing his gratitude once again, Dave rang off. Celia put the receiver back in its cradle. She could picture the scene only too well. The elegant lines of the yacht impaled on the wind-whipped rocks of the reef; the driven spray and terrifyingly tall waves. It was something of a miracle that both men hadn’t drowned. A miracle whose name was Jethro Lathem, the rangy, dark-haired man who was going to meet her after work tomorrow morning.

      She always looked her worst coming off a shift. Right now she was wearing her oldest jeans, and her entire stock of makeup consisted of a stub of tangerine lipstick.

      The state of her jeans or her lipstick had never bothered her when she’d been out with Paul.

      Resolutely Celia marched into the kitchen connected to her office and took a can of soup out of the cupboard. She was hungry and tired, that was all. She’d accept Jethro Lathem’s thanks tomorrow morning with all the grace she had long ago learned as her father’s daughter, and send him on his way. And before she knew it, she’d be in Washington, her job, Starspray and Paul all part of her past. As well as Mr. Macho Lathem.

      The hours of darkness passed slowly. Celia ate, wrote some letters and dealt with a few routine calls. There was far too much time to think on her job, especially on the night shifts. She didn’t want to dwell on her father, so ill and so intent on controlling her life to the very end. But it was impossible to keep the images at bay, or to forget that last half hour she’d spent at Fernleigh, his mansion in Washington.

      Dr. Norman Kenniston, who’d been the family doctor for as long as Celia could remember, and whom her father trusted more than she did, was finally getting to the point. Celia’s stomach clenched with anxiety. “Three months, Celia…no guarantees after that. Most unfortunate. Tragic. Yes, indeed.” And he’d twirled the ends of his long gray moustache.

      She’d known her father was ill; but not that ill. She burst out, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

      “Every possible stone’s been turned,” Dr. Kenniston said huffily. “Do you think I’d—ah, there you are, Ellis…I was about to leave.”

      Ellis Scott looked keenly at his daughter’s face. “Tomorrow at ten, Norman,” he said, then waited until the doctor had left the room. “I see he’s given you the prognosis, Celia. Just as well. No use blinding ourselves to the facts. Which brings me to something I want to say to you.”

      Numbly Celia sank down into the nearest chair. “I can hardly believe…there must be some sort of treatment or—”

      “Apparently not. Norman called in a couple of specialists, top-notch men.” Ellis eased himself into the chair across from her. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”

      Celia bit her lip, seeing anew her father’s shuttered gray eyes and rigid shoulders. Had she ever really known him? Or felt close to him? And now time was running out. Fast. “Of course, I’ll do anything I can.”

      “I want to see you married. Before I die.”

      “Married?”

      “Like your brother Cyril. Settled. Safe. Instead of gallivanting around the world taking one ridiculous job after another.”

      Her nails were digging into her palms. “Being a Coast Guard operator’s a very responsible job.”

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