Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | In The Best Man′s Bed

In The Best Man's Bed
Catherine Spencer


The scene is set for a wedding in the Caribbean until the best man and the maid of honor take an instant dislike to one another!Ethan Beaumont thought he could never trust another woman but his desire for Anne-Marie Barclay cannot be ignored! They decide to keep the peace at least until the wedding is over and end up making love! Ethan feels their relationship must begin and end in his bed. However, Anne-Marie isn't prepared just to be the best man's mistress…









She closed her eyes and waited…waited….


“Am I supposed to kiss you now, Anne-Marie?” he said raggedly.

She’d have been humiliated beyond endurance if she hadn’t detected the torment behind his remark. “How about a little truth for a change, Ethan? How about ‘I want to kiss you, Anne-Marie’?” she said.

“No,” he muttered. But his hands betrayed him and slid through her hair. “No,” he said again, almost savagely. “It’ll never happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be a mistake.”

But either he didn’t really believe what he was saying or he, too, was at the mercy of impulses beyond his control, because his head dipped lower and his lips searched out hers. Their imprint scorched her and left her melting against him. At length he broke all contact and stepped back. “I was right,” he said hoarsely. “That was a big mistake.”

“Sometimes people can learn a great deal from their mistakes,” she said.




In the Best Man’s Bed

Catherine Spencer















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 ONE


ETHAN BEAUMONT…Ethan Andrew Beaumont…Monsieur Beaumont. Ever since the wedding date had been set, his was the name on everyone’s lips; his was the name uttered with the kind of reverence normally accorded only to royalty, popes or dictators.

So given that it’s Philippe Beaumont who’s marrying my best friend, what’s wrong with this picture? Anne-Marie Barclay wondered, sipping thoughtfully at her champagne. Why is it that, where other people’s weddings are concerned, the bride and groom take center stage, but in this instance, it’s all about Ethan Beaumont? And why is Solange allowing it?

“If you look just beyond the tip of the starboard wing, Mademoiselle, you’ll catch your first glimpse of Bellefleur.” Moving with surprising stealth and grace for such a big man, the flight attendant materialized from the galley at the rear of the private jet, and pointed over Anne-Marie’s shoulder. “It’s the island shaped like a crescent moon.”

She craned her neck and scanned the specks of land floating like emerald gems on the sapphire-blue water, thousands of feet below. “Yes, I see it,” she said, and wondered why the sight of the island, tranquil and beautiful even from this distance, should fill her with such odd apprehension. “How long before we land?”

“We’ll begin our descent shortly. Please remain seated and keep your seat belt fastened.” His smile flashed brilliant white in his ebony face. “Not that you need to be reminded. You haven’t moved since we left the mainland. Are you by chance a nervous flyer, Mademoiselle?”

“Not as a rule.” She glanced again out of the window and found nothing but blue sky beyond, as the jet banked in a steep turn. “But nor do I usually travel in so small an aircraft.” Especially not over miles of open water.

He smiled again, kindly. “You’re in excellent hands. Captain Morgan is a most capable pilot. Monsieur Beaumont hires only the best.”

There it was again, the Beaumont name rolling off the steward’s tongue with lilting Caribbean reverence, as if her host ranked head and shoulders above other mortals. And again Anne-Marie felt that disturbing little surge of misgiving. She was not looking forward to meeting the almighty Monsieur Beaumont.

“He’s nothing like Philippe, although there’s quite a strong family resemblance, even though they’re only half brothers,” Solange had told her, when she phoned with news of the forthcoming wedding. “He’s larger in every respect. Larger than life, almost, and certainly lord of all he surveys. They practically curtsy to him when he passes through the town. I can see why Philippe was a little anxious about breaking news of our engagement to him. Ethan can be…how shall I put it? Un peu formidable.”

“In other words, he’s a tyrant.” Anne-Marie had rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Imagine a grown man being afraid to tell his family that he’s getting married. It’s positively medieval! If you ask me, all that wealth and power has gone to the formidable Ethan Beaumont’s head.”

A thoughtful pause followed before Solange replied, “Oui, he is powerful, but underneath it all, he’s a very good man. Not cuddly like mon cher teddy bear, of course—he’s much too distant for that. I can’t imagine him ever allowing grand passion to rule the day.”

“He did, at least once,” Anne-Marie pointed out. “He’s got a son to prove it.”

“But alas, no wife. Maybe he inherited too much English reserve from his mother, and that’s why his marriage lasted so short a time.” Solange sighed, and Anne-Marie had imagined her shrugging in that uniquely French way of hers. “Such a pity! Such a waste!”

“Such a blessing, you mean! No woman needs the kind of man in her life who’d deprive her of her child. I feel sorry for the little boy, being at the mercy of such a father.”

“But that was not Ethan’s fault, Anne-Marie! The mother chose to leave both her husband and her son.”

“Which just goes to show how bad things must have been for her, that she’d give up her baby rather than put up with the husband!”

Solange’s initial burst of laughter, rippling over the phone like music, had dwindled into hushed alarm, as if she were afraid she’d be sent to her room without dinner for disturbing the peace. “It’s all right to say such audacious things to me in private, but you must take care not to speak so in front of other people when you join me on Bellefleur. They would not take kindly to a stranger criticizing their Seigneur.”

Seigneur, indeed! Anne-Marie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes as the blue Caribbean Sea rushed up to meet the jet on its final approach to the island. How feudal—and how utterly absurd!



Feudal, perhaps, but her notions of absurdity wavered alarmingly during the journey from the airport to the Beaumont estate. Seated in solitary splendor in the back of a black Mercedes limousine, she experienced instead the unsettling sense that she was the only anomaly on Bellefleur.

As the chauffeur-driven car rolled sedately through the winding streets of the small town, residents stopped to acknowledge its passing with a respectful nod which came close to a bow. Dark-eyed children waved chubby hands.

Should she wave back? she wondered, hating the sudden uncertainty usurping her normal self-confidence, or wouldn’t the Seigneur approve?

Probably not!

“He’ll be very charming, very attentive to your comfort and needs, but don’t expect him to treat you the way a North American host would,” Solange had warned. “He’s much too reserved for that. He’ll probably call you Mademoiselle Barclay, the entire time you’re here. It took him ages to unbend enough to call me by my first name.”

When she’d descended the steps from the jet and set foot on the tarmac, the sun’s shimmering heat had hit Anne-Marie like a wall, and she’d been glad to take refuge in the dim, air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes. But as the vehicle left the town behind and climbed the hill leading to the Beaumont estate, her friend’s warning settled unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach like a too-large meal of badly prepared food.

More than a month of having to bow and scrape to some domineering individual given to feudal delusions of grandeur was enough to kill anyone’s appetite! Worse, it promised to leach all the pleasure out of her coming to Bellefleur to be her best friend’s maid of honor, and instead threatened to turn the visit into a penance for sins not yet committed.

That an autocratic stranger should wield such power that he cast a pall over Solange’s wedding was indefensible. But more troubling by far, in Anne-Marie’s opinion, was the fear that his domination would spill over and influence the marriage, as well.

She had met Philippe Beaumont, and liked him. He and Solange were well-matched. But he’d never struck Anne-Marie as a particularly strong or forceful man. Given a choice, he’d choose the easy route over the difficult, and whether he’d be any match for his assertive half brother seemed questionable, given what she knew about the latter.

Her concerns intensified as the Mercedes swept through the gates guarding the entrance to the family estate and, a short time later, drew up in the forecourt of the main house.

She was no stranger to luxury. She’d attended the best schools, seen something of the world, never known what it was to lack money or material comforts. Yet, quite apart from its architectural beauty, the sheer size and opulence of the Beaumont mansion overwhelmed her.

She’d heard that royalty had slept under its roofs and she could well believe it. This was no mere villa, no rich man’s private island hideaway. This was a palace which, surrounded though it might be with smothering tropical heat, nevertheless exuded an intimidating aura of cool, dignified formality. If it was representational of its owner, then small wonder Solange held him in such awe.

“Mademoiselle?”

With a start, Anne-Marie realized the passenger door stood open, and a manservant, immaculate in starched white Bermuda shorts and tailored, short-sleeved white shirt, waited to hand her out of the car. Bracing herself to cope with whatever situation might await her, she slid across the leather seat and stepped into the courtyard.

Somehow, that made all the difference to her perceptions. Everywhere she looked, she saw flowers. But rather than viewing them from behind the tinted windows of the Mercedes, her eyes were assaulted by the splendor of color spilling over cream stucco walls, and tumbling from huge stone jardinieres in a riot of purple and scarlet and bright orange.

She became instantly aware of the cooling splash of fountains, and the raucous shriek of brilliantly feathered birds; of the exotic scent of gardenias; of ginger blossom and plumeria.

Shading her from the sun with an exquisitely painted parasol, the manservant escorted her up a shallow flight of steps and into the building—not by way of a front door because, for all its luxury, the villa didn’t appear to possess one. Instead, a pair of curved iron gates, so delicately wrought that they resembled black lace, led directly to a covered inner courtyard, circular in shape and large enough to serve as a ballroom.

Solange waited there, her dark eyes liquid with emotion, her smile tremulous. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed softly, gliding forward over the marble-tiled floor, and kissing Anne-Marie on both cheeks. “Welcome to Bellefleur, ma chère, chère amie! I’m so glad to have you here at last!”

“Glad?” A little teary-eyed herself, Anne-Marie held her friend at arm’s length and inspected her searchingly. “If you’re so glad, why are you crying?”

“Because I’m happy.”

“You don’t look happy, Solange.”

Solange gave her little Gallic shrug, cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, and said, “Come, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. We can talk more freely there. Ethan instructed the staff to put you in the guest pavilion next to mine.”

“You mean to say you’re not staying here in the house?”

“Not until I’m a married woman. Ethan wouldn’t approve. Philippe might be tempted to sneak into my bed at night.”

“The way he did when you were still living in Paris, you mean?”

“Hush!” Solange pressed a nervous finger to her lips. “No one must know that, Anne-Marie. Standards are different here.”

“So I gathered,” she muttered, following Solange through another curved gateway on the opposite side of the foyer, to a paved terrace overlooking an enormous, infinity-edged pool. The view beyond was breathtaking; a sweeping panorama of sky and sea framed with swaying coconut palms and poinciana trees. “Tell me, do the guest pavilions have doors and windows, or must we whisper all the time we’re there, as well, in case anyone overhears?”

“We’ll be quite private, except for when our maids are present. Then we must be discreet.” She led the way down a shady path which wound among a series of ponds connected to each other by miniature waterfalls and pebbled, man-made streams. “We’re a good distance from the main house, as you’ll see, but the suites are very luxurious and spacious.”

“That’s good. I’ll need plenty of room to finish working on the dresses.”

Solange flung a glance over her shoulder and, just for a moment, her usual vivacity showed in her face. “I can hardly wait to see mine. The drawings you sent were gorgeous.”

“We can have a fitting later on, if you like, to give you an idea of how you’re going to look in the finished product.”

“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Because you’ve been traveling all day, we’re having an early dinner, and I expect you’ll want to shower and change first.”

“Presumably, I’ll be meeting the formidable Ethan Beaumont.” Anne-Marie grimaced. “I’ve got indigestion already!”

“Not tonight, you won’t,” Solange said with a laugh. “I ordered a private meal to be delivered to my suite. Ethan’s aunt and uncle are visiting friends until tomorrow afternoon, and he’s away on business.”

“I understood running this island and the lives of everyone on it was his business.”

“Mon Dieu, non! He has investment and real estate portfolios all over the world, though he’s recently begun delegating Philippe to take charge of them, and concentrating all his energy on his oil interests. That’s what’s taken him away this time.”

“To the Middle East? Good! The farther away he is, the better! I already dislike the man and I’m in no hurry to meet him.”

“Oh, he’s much closer than the Middle East, I’m afraid. Just off the coast of Venezuela, in fact, which is no great distance from here at all. He’ll be back in a few days, I’m sure, but until then you’ll have to make do with his aunt and uncle, who also live on the estate, and with Adrian.”

“Who’s Adrian?”

“Ethan’s son.” Her voice softened. “He’s an adorable little boy. I don’t think you’ll find being around him a very great hardship, regardless of how you feel about his father.”

The path opened onto a wide expanse of lawn just then, and she stopped to point out a pair of villas perched high above the sea. “Well, here we are, chérie. This where we’ll be living for the next little while.”

Given her first impressions of the Beaumont estate, Anne-Marie ought not to have been surprised by the sight confronting her now. Surrounded by showy flower beds, and separated from each other by a covered walkway, the villas were miniature replicas of the main house, with the same deep verandahs, lacy iron French doors, and a smaller version of the infinity-edged swimming pool.

“I have to say that, whatever else his shortcomings, your future brother-in-law knows how to treat guests,” she exclaimed, captivated by the serene elegance of the setting. “This is paradise, Solange. Perfection! We’re going to have a lot of fun here over the next few weeks.”

Solange smiled wistfully. “I hope you’re right.”

“There shouldn’t be any question but that I am! The days leading up to the wedding are supposed to be a happy time for the bride, and I don’t understand why you’re not glowing with your usual radiance. What is it, Solange? Are you having doubts about marrying Philippe? Because if you are, it’s not too late to call the whole thing off.”

“Oh, it’s not Philippe! I adore him, more than ever, and I’m always happy when he’s with me. But the rest of the time…” Her mouth drooped sadly. “…it seems so foreign here.”

“How can it be foreign? It might be a long way from Paris, but it’s still French. Imagine how much worse it would be if everyone spoke Spanish or Portuguese, and you couldn’t understand a word they were saying.”

“Perhaps what I should have said is that, even though the language is familiar, I feel like a foreigner.” She gestured at the lush spread of land stretching to either side, and the jungle-clad hill rising behind the estate. “There are two kinds of people on this island, Anne-Marie: those who belong because they were born here, and the rest of us, who weren’t.”

“If that’s true, how are you going to cope with living here?”

“Philippe tells me that once we’re married and start a family, I’ll feel differently. I’ll be accepted. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been alone too much lately.”

“Why hasn’t Philippe been with you?”

“He’s been taking care of business in Europe, and Asia. Right now, he’s in Vienna and has been for the last week. Ethan says that since he’ll soon be a married man, he has to take a more active role in the family business.”

Ethan says, Ethan thinks, Ethan decrees…!

“Tell me Solange, has anyone ever dared to say, to hell with what Ethan wants?”

Solange rolled her eyes like a frightened foal caught in quicksand. “Mon Dieu, don’t ever say something like that in front of anyone else! It would be considered….” She fluttered her hands, groping for the right word.

“Treason?” Anne-Marie supplied witheringly. “Good grief, girlfriend, who is this browbeaten little creature reciting the party line with every breath? What’s happened to the woman I used to know?”

“I’m still the same inside.” Solange squared her shoulders and made a determined effort to look more cheerful. “I’ve just had a little difficulty adjusting to my new situation. But now that you’re here, I’ll soon be my old self again.”

They’d reached the guest houses by then, and looking through the open entrance to the one she’d been assigned to, Anne-Marie saw that her luggage had been delivered and that a maid was busily unpacking her suitcases.

“I don’t want her messing around with the wedding outfits, so I’d better get in there and take charge before the hired help starts on the travel trunk,” she said. “But this conversation is far from over, Solange. You might fool everyone else with your polite, subdued little smile, and your docile acceptance of the all-important rules, but you aren’t fooling me. Something’s not quite right in paradise, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“It’s nothing—just pre-wedding nerves and difficulty settling into a new situation,” Solange insisted, edging nervously toward her own suite. “I’ve always been shy, you know that, and it’s all taking a bit of getting used to, especially with Philippe away so much. I suppose, if truth be told, I’m just plain lonely.”

Small wonder! Anne-Marie thought. And that’s something else we can thank the almighty Ethan Andrew Beaumont Lewis for!



She thought she’d sleep late the next morning, but even though she’d fallen into bed exhausted the night before, Anne-Marie awoke at sunrise. It would be hours before breakfast was served, but after last night’s dinner, she needed exercise more than food, especially if she wanted to fit into the dress she’d be wearing at the wedding.

“Always assuming,” she murmured, slipping between the folds of filmy mosquito netting draped around the bed, and hunting through the dresser drawers for a bikini, “that the wedding takes place which, from everything I’ve surmised, might not happen if the lord and master has his way.”

The pool glimmered invitingly when she looked outside, but there was no sign of life from Solange’s villa, which was probably a good thing. She’d looked very pale and hollow-eyed by the time dinner was over, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep, and could probably use a few more hours of rest.

Better not to disturb her, Anne-Marie decided, pulling a cover-up over her bikini and slinging her camera around her neck. Hiking down the hill to wade in the milk-warm Caribbean would serve just as well as a dip in the pool.

Finding a way down to the beach turned out to be a more frustrating experience than she’d expected, though. Even in the bright light of midday, many of the paths winding through the estate gardens lay in the protective shade of trees. At that hour of the morning, with the sun still not high enough to penetrate the dense green canopy overhead, she found it almost impossible to keep track of the direction she took.

Twice, she ended up back where she’d begun. Another time, she found herself on the edge of the cliff, with a sheer drop down to the shore. Finally, when she was so confused that she wasn’t certain she’d even find her way back to her villa, she came across a man tending one of the ponds.

He knelt with his back to her, and her first thought was that he must have spent most of his life toiling in the hot sun for Ethan Beaumont. How else would he have developed such a physique, or his skin acquired such a deep and glowing tan? And who else but a manual laborer would be allowed to wander about the estate wearing nothing but faded denim cutoffs?

“Bonjour,” she began, unsure of the protocol involved in approaching a gardener—because whatever else she might have missed at dinner the previous evening, she’d quickly learned that, with regard to the house staff, protocol was paramount. The wine steward did not refill the water goblets; the butler who served the food did not remove the empty plates.

That being the case, it was entirely possible that this lowly employee with his face practically submersed in the pond, might not be allowed to speak to guests. Certainly, the way he ignored her greeting suggested as much—unless he was deaf or didn’t understand her French.

“Excusez moi,” she said, stepping closer and speaking a little louder. “S’il vous plait, monsieur—”

Irritably, he flapped his hand at her and, in case she hadn’t understood the message that was supposed to convey, said curtly, “Lower your voice. I heard you the first time.”

His English might be flawless, albeit slightly accented, but his manner left a great deal to be desired. Offended, she snapped, “Really? And how do you suppose your employer would react, if he knew how rude you were to one of his guests?”

“Disturbed,” he replied, still bent double over the pond. “But not nearly as disturbed as he’d be with the guest for interfering with the delicate business of keeping his prize koi alive and well.”

“You’re the fish man?”

The way his broad shoulders sort of rippled and shook at the question made her wonder if he was having some sort of fit. “You could call me that, I suppose.”

“What does your employer call you?”

“Nothing,” he said carelessly. “He’s never conferred a title on me. In his eyes, I’m not important enough to warrant one.”

“Yet you continue to work here. You must love what you do, to put up with that sort of abuse.”

“Oh yes, lady,” he replied, his deep baritone suddenly adopting a musical Caribbean lilt. “Master lets me feed and tend his fish. Gives me hut to live in, and rum to drink. Fish man very lucky guy.”

“There’s no need to be so offensive. It’s not my fault if the work you do isn’t properly appreciated.” She tipped her head to one side, intrigued by his preoccupation with the task at hand. “Exactly what is it that you’re doing?”

“An egret’s had a go at the koi. I’m repairing the damage.”

“I didn’t know that was possible. How do you do it?”

“I get the fish to come to the surface so that I can treat their injuries.”

“Of course you do,” she said mockingly. “And because they’re obedience trained, they stay put while you bandage them.”

“Not quite. But they stick around long enough for me to disinfect the puncture wounds inflicted by the bird.”

She stepped closer and saw that he wasn’t exaggerating. One fish, over a foot long, was happily nibbling food pellets from one of his hands and, with the other, allowing him to dab some substance on the nasty-looking hole piercing its back.

“You really care about them, don’t you?” she said, impressed despite herself.

“I respect them,” he said. “Some are over fifty years old. They deserve to be well cared for. Is there a reason you’re wandering around the gardens at this hour?”

“I’m looking for a way to get down to the beach. I’d like to go for a swim.”

“What’s wrong with the guest pool?”

“My friend’s still sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her. She hasn’t had a very easy time of things lately.”

“How so? Isn’t she about to marry the man of her dreams?”

“It’s the other man that’s part of the package who’s causing her grief.”

He ran a caressing finger over the back of the fish he’d been tending. “There’s another man in the picture? That hardly bodes well for the marriage.”

“Not that kind of other man. But never mind. I shouldn’t even be discussing the matter with you. Monsieur Beaumont wouldn’t approve.”

“No, Monsieur Beaumont certainly wouldn’t,” he said. “There isn’t a path to the beach on this side of the property. If you want an early swim, I suggest you go up to the main house and use the pool there.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s probably against the rules for a guest to dip her toe in the family pool without invitation.”

“You don’t seem fond of the Beaumonts. Do you know them well?”

“Except for the bridegroom, hardly at all. I haven’t even met the big cheese yet, but what I’ve heard hasn’t exactly swept me off my feet.”

He wiped his hands on the seat of his cutoffs, and jumped lithely to his feet. He was very tall. Very. “The big cheese will be crushed to hear that.”

“Who’s going to tell him—you?”

He laughed, and turned toward her just as the sun lifted over the side of the hill and afforded her first good look at him, and she almost cringed.

This was no common laborer! He had the face of an aristocrat, with high, elegantly carved cheekbones, and a mouth set in the lines of one unaccustomed to suffering fools gladly. His jaw, faintly shadowed, was lean, and his eyes, vivid beneath dark sweeping brows, the bluest she’d ever seen. And she didn’t need an introduction to know his name.

“You don’t work here!” she said, weakly.

“Certainly I do. Very hard, in fact.”

“No, you don’t, and you’re not the fish man. You’re Ethan Beaumont!”

He inclined his head. “And where is it written that I can’t be both?”

Oh, rats! Talk about putting her foot in it! “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Because it was more informative listening to you running off at the mouth. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about myself?”

“No,” she mumbled, so embarrassed she wanted to die. “I don’t have anything else to say right now.”

“In that case, allow me to escort you up to the house where, at my invitation, you may swim in the pool to your heart’s content.”

“I don’t think I feel like swimming anymore. I think I’ll just go back to the guest house.”

“And disturb the delicate bride-to-be? I won’t hear of it.” He towered over her and took her elbow in a not-to-be-thwarted grip. “Come along, Mademoiselle. Let’s not waste any more time debating the issue. It’s already been settled. By the big cheese.”




CHAPTER TWO


“YOU’RE supposed to be digging for oil in Venezuela,” she panted, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.

“We don’t dig, we drill.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Oh yes,” he assured her, the seductive baritone of his voice laced with irony. “You have a way with words which leaves a man in little doubt about their meaning.”

Although she’d sooner have poked hot needles in her eyes than offer an apology, she knew one was called for. “I’m afraid I was out of line, talking to you the way I did when I first saw you, and I’m sorry.”

“You should be. Is it customary in your part of the world to criticize one’s host to his employees?”

The distaste with which he said “your part of the world” made it sound as if she’d emerged from under a very unsavory rock. “No,” she said. “But where I come from, hosts aren’t usually so inhospitable. Nor do they go around impersonating other people.”

“Inhospitable?” His sleekly elegant brows rose in mock surprise. “Your accommodation falls short of your expectations? The food is not to your liking? My staff have treated you discourteously?”

“Dinner was exquisite, your staff couldn’t be kinder or more helpful, and my accommodation,” she replied, thinking of the delicately fashioned iron four-poster bed with its Sea Island cotton sheets, and elegant draperies which more closely resembled silk wedding-veil tulle than mosquito netting, “is everything I could wish for. It’s the atmosphere around here that leaves something to be desired.”

“A sentiment which my future sister-in-law appears to share. Dare I ask why?”

“Let’s just say she’s hardly the poster child for bridal bliss, and leave it at that.”

He held back the fronds of a giant fern and waited for her to pass by. Just there, the path was narrow, an iridescent green lane awash with the scent of the jungle, a thousand hidden flowers—and him.

He smelled of morning and cool water faintly kissed by the tropics. He oozed raw strength, the kind which defied the elements. He would neither wilt under the sun’s heat, nor bend before the storms which swept over the island during hurricane season, and as long as she didn’t look at him, she could prolong the illusion that he was exactly what she’d first assumed him to be: a subordinate born to the grinding, endless toil of working the cotton plantation or tending the gardens.

But one glance at the elegant conformation of bone and muscle underlying the gleaming skin, at the well-shaped hands, the patrician features, and most of all, at the intelligence in those cool, spectacular eyes, and she felt herself dwindle into insignificance. This was a giant of a man, not so much because of his size and physical beauty, which were considerable, but because of the innate bearing in his manner. The mantle of authority, of culture and refinement, sat easily on his shoulders.

“Please proceed,” he said, waving her ahead with an imperious gesture. “And explain your last remark.”

She scuttled past and muttered, “I’ve forgotten what it was.”

“Then allow me to refresh your memory. You said you don’t find Solange the picture of bridal bliss.”

“Well, do you?”

“I hardly know her well enough to say.”

“Oh, please! Even a complete stranger, if he bothered to take a good look at her, would see at once that she’s anything but brimming over with happiness.”

“She has struck me as moody and difficult to please.” He gave a careless shrug. “Unfortunate traits in a woman about to become a wife, wouldn’t you say?”

Irked by the casual way he’d pigeon-holed Solange without bothering to learn what was really causing her so much distress, Anne-Marie said tartly, “Almost as unfortunate as finding yourself related by marriage to a man so ready to assume the worst of you!”

“If I’ve misjudged her—”

“There’s no ‘if’ about it! I’ve known Solange for over ten years and I can assure you she’s normally the most equable woman in the world. But finding herself sequestered as far away from the main house as possible, as if she’s carrying some horrible, contagious disease, doesn’t do a whole lot for her self-esteem.”

“I’m preserving her good reputation.”

“You’re isolating her and making her feel unwanted!”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said bluntly. “During the day, she’s welcome to spend as much time as she likes with the rest of the family.”

They’d reached the upper terrace by then. “She’s too intimidated,” Anne-Marie said, stopping to admire a bed of tall pink lilies with burgundy leaves. “She’d feel she was imposing, especially on those days when Philippe isn’t there to run interference for her.”

“If she thinks he’ll constantly be at her side once they’re married, she’s in for a rude awakening. By his own choosing, Philippe has led a very carefree bachelor life up until now, and is no more equipped to be a husband than I am to tame a tiger. In order to fulfill his marital obligations, he’ll be kept very busy learning to pull his own weight in the family business. And that, I’m afraid, will involve his spending a certain amount of time off the island.”

“Will it?” she said heatedly. “Or is this simply your way of sabotaging a marriage you don’t approve of?”

His mouth curved in displeasure. “I’ve never found it necessary to stoop to such underhand measures. If I don’t like something, I make no secret of my intent to change it.”

Who did he think he was—God? “And what if you can’t?”

“There’s always a way,” he said impassively. “It’s simply a matter of finding it. But you may rest easy on one score at least. I take no pleasure in reducing innocent women to tears or despair. Whatever else might be upsetting Solange, she has nothing to fear from me. I have only her best interests at heart.”

“I’d like to believe that’s the case.”

“I’m not in the habit of lying, Mademoiselle.”

He uttered the words with such a wealth of dignity that she was ashamed. No, he would not stoop to lying. Whatever his faults, he would never compromise his integrity.

He indicated the pool, stretching before them like an eighty-foot length of satin undulating in a whisper of breeze. “Enjoy your swim. You look as if you need it. You’re more than a little flushed.”



Hidden by the shadowed fretwork of the door opening onto his bedroom verandah, he watched her approach the shallow end of the pool, and cautiously lower herself over the side. In every other respect, she appeared to be exactly as he’d anticipated: brash, abrasive, and disagreeably self-confident, like most North American women.

It surprised him that she was so tentative in the water, and it annoyed him, too. He didn’t want to be made aware of any vulnerability she might possess. Dealing with Solange’s fragility was more than enough.

“Papa!” The door burst open and Adrian catapulted into the room. “When did you come home?”

“Last night,” he said, scooping his son into his arms.

“You didn’t kiss me good night!”

“Of course I did. But you were sleeping so soundly, you didn’t know.”

“I’m scared when you go away, Papa.” The sweetly-rounded arms crept around his neck and held on tight. “What if you forgot to come home again?”

“Don’t be scared, mon petit,” he said. “Parents never forget to come back to their children.”

“They do, sometimes. I heard Tante Josephine say that’s why I don’t have a mama.”

Damn you, Lisa! Inwardly cursing his ex-wife, he said, “You’ll always have me, son,” and made a mental note to remind his aunt to watch her words around the boy.

Adrian wriggled to the floor and tugged at his hand. “Teach me to swim some more, Papa.”

His glance slewed back to the pool. She’d ventured in a little farther and was floating on her back, with her hair fanned out around her head like the tentacles of a pale sea anemone. Just as well she wasn’t expending much energy. Any sudden movement, and she’d lose the flimsy excuse for a bathing suit clinging precariously to her frame.

To her very slender, distractingly feminine frame.

He turned away, annoyed again. “Not right now, son. Later, perhaps.”

“But you said you would as soon as you came home again. You promised! And you’ve been home for hours!”

“You’re right.” He sighed, accepting defeat.

“And you told me it’s bad to break a promise.”

“Right again.” He buried a smile. “Okay, you win. Give me ten minutes to clean up and change, and we’ll have a quick lesson before breakfast.”

Perhaps she’d be gone by then, and they’d have the pool to themselves.



The water lapped around her like warm cream. Very pleasant, very relaxing. I could make a habit of this, she thought, stretching luxuriously and breathing deeply of the flower-scented air. Given enough time and exposure, I might even learn to enjoy it.

From within the house came the faint clink of dishes and the whispery sound of soft-soled shoes hurrying over marble-tiled floors. She had no idea of the time, but it occurred to her that if the servants were readying breakfast for the family, she should vacate the premises. She had no wish for further contact with Ethan Beaumont. She’d seen enough of him, for one day.

But even as she rolled over and swam sedately toward the steps at the corner of the pool, a child in bright blue swimming trunks came roaring across the terrace, squealing with glee the whole time. And right behind him came Ethan.

“Wait!” he called out.

But the child either didn’t hear or chose not to, and with another squeal, shot through the air like a bullet and landed practically on top of her. The relatively calm surface of the water churned in a turbulent froth, smacking her in the face and blinding her. Choking, she lunged for the side of the pool, misjudged the distance, and went under.

To panic when she knew all she had to do was stand up and she’d find herself only waist-deep in water was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop her from flailing and thrashing around like a wild thing. The humiliation of that exhibition, though, paled beside the insult of suddenly finding herself being hauled upright by the hair.

Spluttering, she surfaced again and came eyeball to eyeball with Ethan Beaumont. He knelt on the tiled deck, his mouth quivering with suppressed laughter. “Idiot!” he said softly.

“Caveman!” she spluttered. “Do you make a habit of dragging women around by the hair?”

“Only when they’re in danger of drowning or otherwise causing themselves grievous bodily harm.” Releasing her, he rose smoothly to his feet, and she saw that he’d exchanged the denim shorts for black swimming trunks which showed rather more tanned skin than she felt able to cope with at that moment. “Stay put and I’ll give you a lesson on water survival.”

“No, thanks,” she told him, but she might as well have saved her already tortured breath. He’d turned away and was striding to the other end of the pool, and any inclination she might have had, to escape while she could, faded as she watched him. Tall, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the waist, he moved with the sort of masculine grace few men possessed.

A splashing at her side drew her attention to the child treading water furiously to stay afloat. “That’s my papa,” he panted, his sweet little face beaming with pride. “He can teach you to swim. He can do everything.”

Perhaps not everything, she thought, swinging her gaze back just in time to see Ethan Beaumont dive into the pool so cleanly that he barely caused a ripple, but I can see why his son might think so. The man is frighteningly competent.

He surfaced next to her, his hair seal-dark against his skull and water streaming down his torso in sparkling rivulets. “Lesson number one,” he said. “Learn to be comfortable with your face submerged.”

“It’ll never happen,” she said flatly. “At least, not with me.”

“That’s what Adrian said, in the beginning. But he soon changed his mind.” He looked at her inquiringly. “Have you met my son?”

“Not formally. I’d hoped to meet him last night, but by the time we’d finished dinner, it was past his bedtime.”

“Then allow me to introduce you now.” He extended his arm for the child to grasp. “This is Adrian, who just turned five.”

“Hello, Adrian.” She smiled at him. He was a beautiful child, black haired like his father and with huge dark brown eyes fringed in long black lashes. “I’m Anne-Marie.”

He smiled back, but Ethan frowned disapprovingly. “I prefer that he call you Mademoiselle.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she didn’t care what he preferred, but decided it was something better said when they didn’t have an audience. So, keeping her smile in place even though doing so made her face ache, she said, “I should be getting back to my quarters. Solange is surely awake by now, and wondering where I am.”

“No hurry,” he said, clamping his free hand around her wrist. “I sent a message for her to join us for breakfast on the terrace. She should be here any moment. We’ll make use of the time until she arrives, and start your swimming lesson. Now, to begin—”

“I’m sure you mean well, Ethan,” she said, taking private delight in the way his mouth tightened at the familiarity, “but just as you have your preferences, so do I have mine. And I prefer not to take advantage of your offer, especially not if it means leaving your son to his own devices when he’s clearly expecting to spend this time with you.”

He released her just long enough to boost Adrian onto the pool deck and murmur something in his ear which sent the boy scooting over to a canopied stall loaded with towels and swimming paraphernalia. Then, turning his attention back to her, he said implacably, “Adrian doesn’t mind waiting a few minutes. So, to begin, I’ll fit you with a face mask. That way, you’ll be able to see under water without discomfort to your eyes.”

“I don’t want a face mask. I don’t want a lesson. How much more plainly do I have to put it?”

“You’re afraid.”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Is that all right with you?”

“No, it isn’t. As long as you’re cavorting in pools on my property, I’m responsible for your well-being. I could ensure it by forbidding you to use them, but in this climate they’re less a luxury than a necessity. So for your own comfort and my peace of mind, I must insist you allow me to teach you the rudiments of water safety.” He paused and surveyed her mockingly. “If a five-year-old can master them, surely a woman your age can at least try to do likewise?”

For a moment, she glared at him without replying, but already the heat was intense and she knew that, as the day progressed and the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky, it would only get worse. So when it became obvious he wasn’t about to accept silence as an answer, she said grudgingly, “Much though I loathe to admit it, it’s possible you’re right. On all counts.”

He selected one of the two masks Adrian had dropped on the side of the pool, declared with irritating superiority, “Of course I am, so let’s get on with it,” then proceeded to clamp the wretched contraption snugly over her face, and adjust the strap holding it in place. “How does that feel?”

“Fine, I suppose,” she said, vibrantly conscious of his touch and the proximity of their near-naked bodies. Although harmless enough on the surface, there was something implicitly intimate about the situation.

“Excellent!” Quickly, he slipped on the other mask, and taking her by both hands, backed away from the steps.

Instantly, the fear grabbed at her. “Don’t pull me into deep water!” she begged, resisting him.

“Relax, Mademoiselle! All we’re going to do is remain perfectly still and look at the bottom of the pool, like so….” He took a breath, lowered his face into the water, blew out a stream of bubbles, then raised his head. “Very simple, very safe, yes?”

“You make it look easy.”

“Because it is. Try it and see for yourself.”

Cautiously, she followed his instructions and surprised herself. It wasn’t nearly as terrifying or alien an experience as she’d expected. The tiles on the bottom of the pool glimmered in the sun-shot blue light. By turning her head slightly, she could see the steps in the corner, a reassuring sight. And when she felt herself running short of air, she simply lifted her face and filled her lungs with a fresh supply.

“I can’t believe I’m able to do this!” she said, absurdly pleased with her small accomplishment.

“But you are, and very well, too.” Without warning, he tugged her off her feet. “So now we progress to the next level and float.”

“Ahh!” She let out a little yelp of fright as, powerless in his hold, she found herself traveling even farther away from the steps.

But he wouldn’t let fear get the better of her. “Concentrate,” he ordered, his voice low and hypnotic as he towed her effortlessly alongside him. “Remember—lift and breathe, lower and blow.”

She did, becoming so engrossed in following his directions that she didn’t notice how far they’d traveled until a shadow fell across the water and, looking up, she found herself under the diving board at the deep end of the pool. Again, the familiar panic rose up, and again, before it got the better of her, he tightened his hold and said soothingly, “You’re perfectly safe, Mademoiselle. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I believe you,” she panted, and the amazing thing was, she did. A total stranger had lured her far out of her depth and into dangerous territory, and for some insane reason, she trusted him implicitly. Not for years, not since she was a little girl, had she known such a sense of security, and she rather liked it.

Her voice must have betrayed something of what she was feeling because he pushed up his face mask and, for the first time since they’d met, he smiled. The problem then was not that she’d forget to breathe properly with her face in the water, but that she’d forget to breathe at all. Because his smile transformed him and he became not merely handsome, but truly gorgeous. Flawless in every detail, from his dazzling white and perfect teeth to the brilliant azure of his eyes. And she, fleetingly paralyzed by the moment, could only gaze in spellbound admiration.

Slowly, he disentangled his fingers from hers, as if he were as reluctant to release her as she was to have him let go. “One more thing, and then it’s Adrian’s turn,” he said, giving her slight push. “Swim to the ladder over there, under your own steam.” Then, before she could give voice to the protest rising in her throat, he added. “It’s either that or make your way back to the shallow end which is five times the distance away.”

Did pride give her the courage to do as he asked, or was winning his respect what motivated her? That she hardly knew how to answer the question disturbed her. What he thought of her shouldn’t matter. And yet, it did. Rather more than she cared to admit.

Heart pounding, she breast-stroked to the ladder, grasped the lowest rung and pushed off her mask. Then, aware of his gaze focused on every inch of her as she climbed out of the water, she hoisted herself onto the pool deck, resisted the impulse to check that her bikini remained in place, and said, “Thank you for the lesson.”

Then, with as much nonchalance as she could muster, she strolled to where Solange waited with Adrian on the bench at the shallow end of the pool. “I thought you’d never get here,” she muttered, picking up a towel.

A smile twitched at the corners of Solange’s mouth. “I hardly think you missed me.”

Anne-Marie waited until Adrian had jumped into his father’s waiting arms and was happily splashing his way toward a huge red ball floating on the water, then she said, “Exactly what do you mean by that?”

“Just that you and my future brother-in-law appeared too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.”

“He insisted on teaching me to use a face mask.” She mopped the dripping ends of her hair, then tucked the towel around herself, sarong-style. “And all I can say is, it’s a pity no one ever taught him how to take ‘No’ for an answer. He’s very bossy.”

“And you’re unusually flustered.”

Unwilling to debate the truth of that statement, she said, “Never mind me. How are you, this morning? You’re looking a bit more cheerful than you were last night.”

“That’s because you’re here. I don’t feel so alone anymore.” She gestured to the terrace. “Breakfast is ready. Shall we go over and sit down?”

Anne-Marie glanced covertly at Ethan who was still in the pool with his son. “Shouldn’t we wait for the lord and master to give us permission to eat?”

“He’s not an ogre, Anne-Marie! He won’t be upset if we help ourselves to coffee. Finish drying off and let’s go. I’m never properly awake until—”

“You’ve had your morning café au lait.” She laughed, then pulled on her cover-up and slipped her arm through Solange’s. “I remember!”



The inflated ball hit Ethan squarely on the shoulder and bounced into the water. “Papa,” Adrian called out reproachfully, “you’re not paying attention!”

“I know.” How could he be expected to, with her laughter floating through the air like music, and the graceful, easy way she moved her scantily-clad body distracting him every other second? But since he could hardly tell his son that, he sniffed conspicuously, boosted the boy onto the pool deck, and said, “I’m thinking about food instead. Jeanne made fruit crêpes for breakfast. I’ll race you to the terrace.”

The women were chatting animatedly as he approached, and Solange had color in her cheeks, for a change. “You’re looking more rested this morning, ma petite,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. “Having Mademoiselle Barclay here appears to agree with you.”

“Oui. I am very happy.”

“As happy as when you’re spending time with Philippe?”

His technique must leave something to be desired because, as usual, she didn’t recognize that he was teasing her. “Oh, never that, Ethan!” she said, horrified. “No one can take his place.”

“I’m glad to hear it, especially since he phoned this morning to say he’ll be home in time for dinner tonight.”

Her face lit up—she really was a pretty little thing which, no doubt, was what had first caught Philippe’s eye—but she had a fragility about her, and a desire to please at all costs which, combined with a lack of confidence in her own judgment, worried Ethan. This friend, this Anne-Marie Barclay with the long, tanned legs, minuscule bikini, and outspoken manner, didn’t strike him as the best influence. The sooner Philippe reappeared and kept Solange occupied, the better.

“So, Mademoiselle,” he said, taking a seat opposite his guest, “tell me something about yourself.”




CHAPTER THREE


“WHAT would you like to know?” Anne-Marie asked pertly, ticked off by his patronizing attitude. Clearly, his expectations of her possible accomplishments hovered around zero.

He shrugged. “As much as you care to tell me. Let’s begin with your work. You’ve designed Solange’s wedding trousseau, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“As a professional, or is this a favor between friends?”

“Both,” she said sharply. “I’m a graduate of Esmode International in Paris, one of the foremost schools of fashion design in the world.”

“Very commendable, I’m sure. And you work—?”

“In Vancouver, on the west coast of Canada.”

“I’m aware of where it is, Mademoiselle. I’ve visited your beautiful city a number of times and greatly enjoyed its many attractions. But it hardly struck me as the center of haute couture. For which fashion house do you design?”

“My own.”

He almost curled his lip in disdain. “I see.”

“Do you?” she inquired, matching his condescending tone. “Then you’re no doubt aware that my designs have won a number of prestigious awards.”

“Anne-Marie worked in the movie industry in Hollywood for a while,” Solange cut in, trying to be helpful. “She was even nominated for an Oscar, once.”

“Hollywood?” This time, he did curl his lip, as if he’d discovered something disgusting crawling around in the mango-stuffed crêpe the butler placed before him. “The movie industry?”

“Yes,” Anne-Marie purred, taking a certain vengeful delight in his ill-contained horror. “Theatrical costume has always interested me.”

“But you’re no longer connected to the entertainment world? You’ve moved on to a less…flamboyant clientele?”

“Not really. We have a thriving movie industry in Vancouver, too, which is what originally drew me back to my hometown. As a result of the contacts I’ve made there and in California, I number quite a few well-known stars among my private clients, as well as celebrities from other walks of life.”

“And you’ve designed Solange’s wedding dress,” he said glumly, rolling his eyes. “Mon Dieu!”

“Why does that disturb you, Ethan?” she asked. “I assure you I’m up to the challenge of creating an appropriate wedding ensemble for the bride and her entourage.”

He compressed his rather beautiful mouth. “We are a small, close-knit community on Bellefleur. Tradition plays a big part in our lives. A wedding—particularly a Beaumont wedding—is a significant cultural event. My family has certain standards to uphold, certain expectations to meet.”

“What a shame,” she said blandly. “Where I come from, a wedding’s simply a happy event where people who care about the bride and groom come together to celebrate their commitment to one another. And although I don’t expect you’ll approve, it’s also an occasion when the bride gets to call most of the shots. It is, primarily, her day.”

“How unfortunate for the man who chose her as his bride.”

“Why?”

“Because such an attitude shows a distinct lack of consideration for what the groom might prefer—and that does not bode well for harmony in the marriage.”

“What a load of rubbish!” she scoffed, ignoring Solange’s gasp of petrified horror. “Marriage is a lifelong contract whose success depends on mutual consideration and respect. A wedding, on the other hand, is a one-day affair in which, historically, the bride takes star billing. For a man who professes to set such store by tradition, I’d have thought you’d know that.”

“And you’re qualified to make that distinction, as well as dictate fashions trends, are you?”

“I’ve never been married, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then you’ll forgive me if I take your opinions with a grain of salt.”

“Of course I will,” she said sunnily. “Just as I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I treat yours the same way since, as I understand it, you’re divorced—which certainly indicates you don’t have much of a grasp on how marriage is supposed to work, either.”

Only eyes as intensely blue as his could assume such a hard, metallic sheen. “We appear to have strayed from the subject at hand,” he said coldly. “Namely, this family’s wedding.”

“Which you’re afraid I’ll turn into a tasteless Hollywood spectacle.”

He inclined his head in offensively tacit agreement. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“Insult me?” Very much aware of Adrian taking in everything without really understanding the subtext of what was being said, she swallowed the temper threatening to get the better of her, and cooed sweetly, “You’re down-right offensive, Ethan, and on the strength of what? You know next to nothing about me.”

“I know that you’re afraid of water.”

He, too, spoke lightly, as if trying to defuse the tension swirling through the air, but she was having none of it. “I’m not afraid of you, though,” she said. “Nor do I care what you think of me or my achievements. I’m here to lend moral support to Solange, not win your approval.”

“I applaud your loyalty, but just for the record, Mademoiselle Barclay, you’re not the only one with Solange’s best interests at heart. We all want to see her happy.”

“Then we really don’t have anything to disagree about, do we, Ethan? And since I’m calling you by your given name, you may call me Anne-Marie.”

He choked on his coffee at that. “Thank you, I’m sure,” he said, when he recovered himself. “So tell me, Mademoiselle, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“I’ll be working on Solange’s wedding gown.”

“Would you care to join us for lunch and perhaps take a tour of the island this afternoon?”

“No, thank you.”

He lifted his brows in faint surprise. Clearly, he wasn’t accustomed to being turned down. Well, he might as well get used to the idea, she thought, pushing her chair back from the table, because I’ve got a feeling he’s in for quite a few more upsets before this visit’s over.

Ever the perfect gentleman, he also rose to his feet. “You’re leaving so soon? I hope I’m not the reason. Just because we don’t see eye to eye—”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ethan. You have nothing to do with my leaving. As I said a moment ago, I have work to do.”

“Very well. Would you like me to send our in-house seamstress to give you a hand?”

“That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of mastering this project on my own.”

For a moment, he chewed on the concept that the world could indeed spin without his directing it, and didn’t seem to find the notion very appealing. At length, he said, “You have everything you need in the way of equipment?”

“Absolutely…except for—”

“Ah!” He favored her with another smile, a Cheshire-cat kind this time, full of smug satisfaction, as though to say I knew all this fine independence wouldn’t carry you very far.

“I will need an ironing board.”

“We have staff who take care of ironing.”

“Not with my projects, you don’t! I’m the only one who touches them.”

“As you wish.” He inclined his aristocratic head again, as though conferring enormous favors on an undeserving minion. “Is there anything else I can supply?”

“Yes,” she said, spurred to be difficult just for the sake of proving that he wasn’t as all-powerful as he liked to believe. “I could use a worktable—something about eight feet long and at least three feet wide—with a padded muslin top to protect the delicate dress fabrics I’m working with.”

“I’ll see to it that one is delivered to your suite immediately,” he replied, promptly dispelling any illusion she might have entertained that she could play one-upmanship with him and win. “You do realize, of course, that it’s going to leave you rather short of living space?”

“That’s not a problem. I’m sure Solange won’t mind sharing her sitting room with me, should the occasion arise that I need one.”

“If she does, feel free to relax here at the main house.”

I’d rather live in a hovel on the beach than spend a moment more than I have to under your roof! she was tempted to reply but, aware of Solange nervously following the tenor of the conversation, said only, “Thank you. I appreciate the offer.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned down to ruffle his son’s dark hair. “I’ll arrange for the worktable to be delivered. Come along, Adrian.”

The boy looked hopefully at Solange. “I want to play at Solange’s house.”

“You’ll just be in the way now that Mademoiselle Barclay is here. She’ll be keeping Solange very busy.”

“As long as he doesn’t mind my borrowing her for a fitting once in a while, he won’t be in the way at all,” Anne-Marie said, smiling at the child. “Let him come. It’ll give us a chance to get to know one another better.”

“Very well.” As he passed behind her chair, Ethan laid a surprisingly affectionate hand on Solange’s shoulder. “Just phone when you’ve had enough, chérie. Don’t let him wear you out.”

“He almost sounds as if he cares about you,” Anne-Marie muttered, watching Ethan lope gracefully up the steps and disappear inside the villa.

“He does. I already told you, he’s very kind and very well-intentioned.” Solange covered her mouth to smother a giggle. “But you were deliberately baiting him, Anne-Marie, and succeeding rather well, I might add. I nearly had a heart attack at the way the two of you were going at each other.”

“He’s the kind of man who brings out the worst in me.”

“Is that what you call it?” This time, Solange didn’t try to hide her amusement. “From where I sat, it looked more like two people taking refuge in hostility, because they didn’t want to admit to the instant attraction between them.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard!”

Although her reply held a convincing ring of certainty, Anne-Marie couldn’t prevent an annoying shudder of awareness skating over her skin. Ethan Beaumont’s penetrating blue gaze had unnerved her—more than she was willing to acknowledge. She was vibrantly conscious of the physical presence of the man, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.

“I didn’t say it made sense,” Solange replied cheerfully. “That sort of spontaneous combustion seldom does. But that’s no reason to deny it.”

Oh yes, it was! Just because Ethan Beaumont was all smooth, male beauty on the outside didn’t mean he wasn’t full of flaws on the inside, and she wasn’t about to compromise her heart by allowing a purely physical reaction to rule the day!



He heard the laughter long before he reached the guest pavilions: Adrian’s high and exuberant, Solange’s rippling with unusual delight—and hers, breathless, musical, alluring.

Emerging noiselessly from the path, he stood a moment in the filtered shade cast by a giant tibouchina at the edge of the terrace, and saw at once the cause of so much hilarity. A kitten, one of the stable cat’s latest litter and not yet as surefooted as it should be, was chasing a balloon tethered to a length of ribbon tied around Adrian’s wrist.

The gleeful expression on his son’s face sent a stab of pain through Ethan’s heart. There’d been too much grief and not nearly enough laughter in the boy’s life. Too many nights filled with bad dreams and tears; too many questions left unanswered. Because how did a man explain to a three-year-old that the woman he’d once called “Mommy” had grown tired of the role? Had gone and was never coming back?

Ethan’s personal sense of betrayal had long ago faded into indifference. If he thought of his ex-wife at all—and it happened rarely—the most he felt was pity and disgust. But what she’d done to their son left a permanently bitter taste on his tongue. It had been two years since she ran off, and although Adrian no longer asked about her, the damage she’d done had left its mark on the boy.

Certainly, Ethan tried to pick up the slack. Loved enough for two parents. Did everything in his power to create a secure, impregnable world. His shoulders were broad enough to carry the child all day, if need be; his arms strong.

But when the gremlins came and filled the night with terror, he lacked a woman’s tender touch, her soft, reassuring voice and sweet, welcoming curves. And seeing how Adrian leaned against the North American visitor and instinctively hid his face against her breasts as the kitten lunged at him, Ethan realized with fresh awareness just how much was missing from his son’s life.

“You ought to stay out of the sun, Mademoiselle,” he said, driven forward less by concern for her welfare than the surge of jealousy which struck out of nowhere and whispered that she had no right trying to supplant him. She was a stranger, a temporary fixture in their lives. She didn’t belong and never would. He didn’t want her insinuating herself into his boy’s affections, just to leave him high and dry when she grew bored with playing nursemaid. “Fair-skinned people like you burn very quickly in this part of the world.”

“I used sunscreen,” she said offhandedly, nuzzling Adrian’s neck.

She’d exchanged the bikini for a yellow sundress held up by shoestring straps. Her arms and feet were bare. As for the parts in between…unwillingly, Ethan noted how the fabric clung to her tiny waist, flared over her narrow hips, and ended halfway down her thighs.

The kitten swatted again at the balloon, missed, and attacked her toes instead. Giggling helplessly, Adrian curled up in her lap and wiggled his toes, too.

“That’s enough, Adrian!” Ethan called out, more sharply than he intended. “You’re making a nuisance of yourself.”

Fending off the kitten, she hugged the boy and stroked the hair from his forehead. “No, he’s not. We’re having a wonderful time playing, aren’t we, Adrian?”

“Yes.” He squirmed against her, and wound his arms around her neck.

Almost choking on outrage, Ethan said, “I thought you were here to work, Mademoiselle.”

“I am,” she said, the sweetness in her voice belied by the evil glance she cast him from beneath her lowered lashes. “But since I’m my own boss, I don’t need anyone else’s permission to take time off for a little fun.”

And if he didn’t soon put a leash on her tongue, she’d create even more trouble than was already brewing! “That doesn’t give you the right to countermand my instructions to my son.”

“Good grief!” Rolling her eyes, she released Adrian, gave him a little pat on his behind, and said, “The master calls, sweet pea. Better not keep him waiting. But come back soon, okay?”

“I know how busy you are, Ethan,” Solange cut in, eyeing him apprehensively, “and if you’d phoned, I could have brought Adrian home and saved you having to come and get him.”

“I was headed down here anyway,” he said, wishing she wouldn’t tiptoe around him as if she were walking on eggshells all the time. “I wanted to be sure Mademoiselle Barclay has everything she needs for her work.”

“I do,” the other one said, rising languidly to her feet and tugging the skirt of her sundress snugly around her thighs.

He averted his gaze and pretended an interest in the diving board. “The table’s satisfactory?”

“Perfectly. Thank you.”

“Would you like to see my wedding gown?” Solange asked. “It’s truly gorgeous, Ethan.”

“He’s not interested,” her bossy friend informed her. “He’s got more important things to do,”

Not sure what demon of curiosity provoked him—she herself or merely her work—he said, “Certainly I’m interested! Nothing’s more important than pleasing my family, Mademoiselle. By all means, show me the dress.”

Anne-Marie Barclay stared at him, her mouth set in a delectably stubborn pout, and for a moment, he thought she’d refuse him. After a moment’s reflection though, she grudgingly led the way to her villa and waved him inside.

Brushing past her—an unsettling experience, fraught with awareness of her scent and the proximity, again, of her cool, creamy skin—he paused under the covered entrance and stared in disbelief at the sight before him.

Except for the foyer which looked more or less as usual, he barely recognized the place. Gone were the elegant arrangement of furniture, the silk-shaded reading lamps, the bowls of fresh fruit and vases of cut flowers.

The silver candelabra normally gracing the middle of the table in the dining alcove had been banished in favor of her sewing machine, with the iron and ironing board stationed close by.

The main salon was barely recognizable. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room for the worktable, leaving so little floor space that two people couldn’t pass one another without body contact—something he’d be wise to avoid where she was concerned, he reminded himself.

“Well, there it is.” She indicated some sort of dummy figure in the corner, with the wedding gown draped over it. “Perfectly respectable, as you can see.”

“I never doubted that for a moment.”

“Oh, please!” she exclaimed, putting the length of the table between them in order to make some small adjustment to the dress. “You anticipated nothing of the sort. The only reason you professed an interest in seeing my work was to prove conclusively how totally ill-equipped I am to handle the task I’ve undertaken.”

“Possibly.” He inched his way down the other side of the table and circled the garment, taking note of the myriad pearl-headed pins holding the cobweb-fine fabric in place. Even he, ignorant though he was when it came to the finer points of women’s fashions, could appreciate the clean, clever lines of the bodice and the artful drape of the skirt. “But if so, my reservations were clearly misplaced, although I confess I expected the dress would be more or less finished by now. As it is, you appear to have quite a bit of work still to do.”

“It just needs to be put together,” she said, as if such a major feat of engineering was a mere trifle to a person of her expertise. “I wanted to be sure of a perfect fit before any permanent stitching went into place. This fabric’s too delicate to tolerate much in the way of alterations.”

“So you did the preliminary work ahead of time on the dummy? How’d you manage to fit it into a suitcase?”

“I didn’t,” she answered saucily. “I pack my equipment in a small cabin trunk and although it’s roomy enough for most things, try as I might, I couldn’t squeeze myself inside. But if you’re referring to the dress form, it comes apart and actually takes up very little space.”

Unable to repress a smile, he said dryly, “We appear to have difficulty communicating, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she replied, around a mouthful of pins. “I think we understand one another perfectly. Neither of us is the least bit impressed with the other. If it were up to you, I’d be on my way home by now.”

The glance she flung at him dared him to deny it, nor was he inclined to do so. “Yes, you would,” he admitted. “But since that’s clearly not about to happen, the question now becomes, what can we do to reverse such an unfortunate state of affairs?”

She removed the pins from her mouth and poked them into a fat pink cushion designed for the purpose. “You mean to say, you’re not even going to pretend to deny one exists?”

“Certainly not. I have good reason to mistrust you, although I fail to see why you should be so antagonistic toward me.”

Her mouth fell open, whether in mock surprise or because she truly was amazed by what she obviously interpreted as unabashed arrogance on his part. But much though he’d have preferred to take advantage of her discomposure and emerge the winner in their little contest of wills, he found to his chagrin that his attention was drawn to how deliciously pink and ripe her lips were. Would they taste as sweet, he wondered.

She planted her fists on her hips. “What possible reason do you have to mistrust me?”

“It’s not something I’m prepared to discuss at present,” he said, glancing meaningfully to where Adrian was playing with his kitten under the covered walkway. “More to the point, why are you so hostile?”

“That’s easily answered,” she said bluntly. “You’re not my type. I’ve never cared for overbearing men. Not that either issue matters one iota since I’m here for only a few weeks and, once the wedding’s over, we’ll never have to see each other again.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/catherine-spencer/in-the-best-man-s-bed-42418978/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.