In The Best Man's Bed

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.”

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