The Marriage Bargain (15 page)

She opted for her room across the hall instead, with thoughts on taking a nice, hot shower.

The shower was refreshing, but Camille was still left with a sense of unease. After the terrycloth robe had drained the excess moisture from her body, she slipped out of it and into the silk robe Julian had given her. She liked the feel of the smooth fabric against her bare skin.

She was getting married this evening, but she couldn’t help feeling something was going to go wrong.

T
he owner of the finest salon in Paris had been flown in to doll up the wedding party. Jean-Jean was attractive and hip and definitely not gay. He’d flirted relentlessly with Tasha the whole time he worked on her hair. He’d agreed to style Claudette, Lecie, Tasha and Camille’s hair, saving the bride for last. He’d brought along an assistant to tend to everyone else.

Camille wanted to ignore the dark clouds rolling across the sky, but Jean-Jean had turned her toward the window to keep her from watching him in the mirror as he styled her hair.

She was faced with letting that nagging feeling that her wedding—as fake as it was—was going to get rained out consume her.

“Are you sure?” she asked Jean-Jean of his suggestion, more like insistence that he style her hair up off her shoulders.

“Leave it to me,” he said. “I am the beauty expert.”

Yeah, well, that’s debatable
. But that was just her own insecurities talking. Actually, Jean-Jean was the epitome of style. His high-end designer jeans and tee-shirt underneath a leather vest, off-set by those snakeskin boots, was the embodiment of cool. But still, a look Camille would never shoot for. She was much too conservative. Or as Tasha would say—drab.

Tasha meant well. There was no maliciousness in her at all. Not where Camille was concerned. Tasha had often tried to ‘color’ Camille up, but she just wasn’t interested.

“If I don’t like it,” Camille told Jean-Jean of her hair, “I’m going to take it down.”

“Oh, no.” He paused, perched a hand on his hip. “You must not deface a creation by Jean-Jean.” He used his comb as a pointer, admonishing Camille.

She didn’t take her overbearing hairdresser seriously. He was overshadowed by the clouds outside as they thickened and darkened.

The door opened. No knock. No request to enter. From a diffused reflection in the window, Camille saw Tasha stormed in, wearing a mid-thigh length robe.

“What is up with that Madeleine chick?” She dropped onto the bed, and eyed the red silk robe Camille was wearing.

Jean-Jean snorted, but continued to work on Camille’s hair.

Camille groaned, wanting to look at her hair but Jean-Jean refused.

“What’s her deal?” Tasha said again. “She’s awfully pissed about something.” She toed out of her slippers and lay down on her side, propping her bare feet on the bed.

“She’s not the bride.” A smart-alecky tone escaped Camille.

Jean-Jean laughed.

“Seriously?” Tasha sat up and dangled her feet off the side of the bed. “She’s Julian’s ex?”

“Well, according to her, she’s not an ex.”

“In her dreams,” Jean-Jean said. “She’s never been anything more than a booty call.”

“According to her and Maurice,” Camille said, “she’s just what Julian needs.”

“Yeah, maybe if he’s hard up.” Jean-Jean snickered.

All three laughed.

“Man, I need to steer clear of her.” Tasha stated.

“Well, good luck with that one,” Jean-Jean said. “She’s finagled her way into indefinite guest status here.”

“Boy, I tell you...” Tasha shook her head. “I just don’t understand French customs.”

“Oh, honey, it’s not a French thing,” he said, waving his comb in the air. “It’s a bitch thing.”

“That’s true.” Camille agreed, recalling their lunch date. “She leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to tact.”

“So, how many of Julian’s ex-girlfriends are coming to the wedding?” Tasha’s dramatic flair centered in her contemptuous laughter.

Only Camille. This could only happen to her. Who else would end up in a beautiful chateau in France, about to marry a billionaire—one that wasn’t too hard on the eyes—but only as a business arrangement, and with his concubine staying in the same house with them. Any minute now, she’d awaken.

Jean-Jean giggled. “I like you,” he said to Tasha. “You can stay.”

“Cool.” She turned to him. “So where do you hide all the hot French guys?”

“Oh, we keep them in during the day.” His friendly bantering came across in a relaxed manner.

“Ooh, they come out at night?” Tasha pressed her fingertips to her lips.

Whatever. So long as Tasha left Andre alone, that’s all Camille cared about. She didn’t want to spend the next six months listening to Julian bitching about how Tasha broke Andre’s heart.

C
amille stared out the window at the unfolding scene on the lawn. The guests were starting to arrive. And she still didn’t have a dress. It should’ve been
delivered an hour ago. She glanced at the sky, thick and heavy with some of the blackest clouds she’d ever seen. Great. If she was the suspicious kind, and she was getting married for real, she’d say the day’s uneasy events were starting to look like a sign.

She went to Julian’s door and knocked.

“Come in.” Madeleine’s voice, velvet-edged and sickeningly sweet, filtered through the walls.

Could this day get any worse?

Camille plastered on the face of indifference as she opened the door. Seeing Madeleine sprawled out on Julian’s bed was enough to push even the sanest of women over the edge.

She drew in a breath and forbade the claws to emerge. “Where is Julian?” Camille asked, staying in the entryway and hanging onto the doorknob.

“Shower.” Madeleine’s snarky tone and her expression irked Camille.

Camille tilted her brow and looked at Madeleine with ambiguity.

“Well,” Madeleine laughed at her, “You don’t want him standing beside you, declaring to keep himself only unto you, while he reeks of me, do you?”

She thought about backing out of the room. She thought about asking Madeleine to pass on a message—like that would happen. She thought about barging into Julian’s bathroom. Camille opted for the latter.

“Hey?” Madeleine objected as Camille headed across the room. “You can’t go in there.”

Camille stopped at the door, her hand resting on the knob, and glanced over her shoulder. She tried to stop it, tried not to stoop to Madeleine’s level, but her pride interjected. “There’s nothing in there that I haven’t seen before.”

She didn’t wait for Madeleine’s response, just opened the door and hot steam rolled out. “Julian?” she called out, entering and closing the door behind her.

“Chéri?” Laughter chased his enduring term for her. “Have you come to join me?”

God, what nerve. She wasn’t about to take Madeleine’s sloppy seconds. Not today. But it was nice to know Julian was so virile. At least, he thought he was. And Julian wasn’t the kind of guy to start something he wasn’t certain he could finish.

Camille thought about what he’d told her about Madeleine making sure Camille caught them in bed. She wasn’t sure if he meant that literally or figuratively. And she didn’t have the courage to ask him. Whether or not Julian was sleeping with another woman wasn’t any of her business.

“Julian!” Camille stomped her foot on the tile. “My dress was not in the delivery from the designer in Paris.”

The water stopped. “What?” His hardened tone shredded the single word inquiry.

“My dress—” All her hopes for a trouble-free wedding were crushed in her diminishing, barely audible voice. “—It’s not here.”

By the time Julian opened the shower door, he’d wrapped a towel around his waist. Her disappointment was overshadowed by the view of his torso. Rippling muscles engraved on his bronzed skin, defined his manliness and nearly floored Camille.

Julian grabbed his cell phone off the nearby counter and hit the speed dial. He waited for an answer on the other end, and Camille got caught up in the water droplets dangling off his wet hair. Finally, they dripped onto his shoulders and followed well-carved paths down his chest. She tried to fend off the overwhelming desire to grab a towel and ‘dry him off’ with long, slow sensuous strokes.

He spouted words in French, pulling Camille out of her wishful thinking. She had no idea what he was saying, but by the tone of his voice, she’d say it wasn’t good. He paused every so often and with each gap his ensuing tone softened. Finally, she thought he’d apologized just before he disconnected the call.

That surprised Camille. It wasn’t in Julian’s makeup to administer apologies.

He laid the phone on the counter and looked at Camille with sorrow shading his eyes. “Marie insists the dress was in the delivery.” He spoke as if the words weighed heavy on his family’s good name. “It’s disappeared since arriving here.” His face winced and the frown set into his features.

“Who would do such a thing?” Camille asked, even though she had a pretty good guess.

“I’ll find your dress,” he said and stormed out.

Camille followed him into his room.

Surprise, surprise. Madeleine was gone, right along with Camille’s dress.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CAMILLE CHANDLER DE LAURENT
had been the picture of grace and poise during a wedding disaster like no other. First, her dress had disappeared, but she’d graciously gone to her closet and picked out a simple peach evening gown that Julian had bought her in London.

Claudette’s hairdresser had done an excellent job of fashioning Camille’s hair on top her head and leaving loose tresses framing her face and resting on her neckline. Between the dress and her hair, she reminded Julian of a goddess holding court on Mount Olympus rather than a woman he should be fortunate enough to wed.

Then the rain came. It destroyed her perfectly coiffured hair and drenched her designer gown, which would’ve shrunk several sizes had it not been forced to retain some of its shape by her womanly figure. At the reception, though, the dress had begun to dry and now brimmed several inches above her ankles.

Julian hated that he hadn’t been able to find Camille’s dress. He’d failed his new wife, but he was determined to win her forgiveness. Why he felt this way, he didn’t know. Their marriage was nothing more than a deal and she was being well-compensated for her share. Still, to those on the outside, it looked like a personal disaster for the bride, and that was unacceptable for Julian.

Soren.
Where is Soren
? He would help Julian fix this, or at least make it seem less painful. With Soren’s help, he’d find a way to ease Camille’s embarrassment.

Finally, Julian spotted Soren directing the servants in the makeshift kitchen.

A
crew specializing in weddings had turned the inside of a rented tent into a temporary haven of enchanted opulence. Camille sat in a stiffened pose, trying to appear as regal and confident as possible, but detesting every second of her time at a table in the center of the pavilion.

She wasn’t sure if she could pin the rain on Madeleine—unless the French had found a way to control the weather. If anybody could, Camille’s money was on her new father-in-law. But the wedding gown? That mystery had Madeleine’s name scribbled across it in big red letters.

Julian and Soren standing on the edge of the pavilion caught her eye. The two men were in a deep conversation, like two thieves plotting their next heist.

What were they up to
? Camille’s curiosity soared, and landed somewhere in the vicinity of tonight.

Not that she expected to have a night of wedded bliss with Julian, but the thought of him sleeping with another woman on this night just didn’t seem right. Even though they weren’t consummating the marriage, somehow she thought tonight should be about them. Camille and Julian. Not Julian and Madeleine.

On the other side of the bride and groom’s table, Andre and Tasha sat whispering into one another’s ears. One of Andre’s arms rested on the back of Tasha’s chair, and he was caressing her upper arm with his free hand. She, in turn, had laid her hand on his chest and leaned in toward him as she whispered into his ear.

Camille had told her not to do that. She didn’t need Julian’s dejected brother added to the mix. Keeping herself on the path of an unbroken heart was hard enough, especially now that the path had begun to narrow.

And if she thought this day couldn’t get any worse, right on cue, Madeleine invited herself to sit in Julian’s chair. She looked at Camille and gave her one of those fake smiles that makes you want to smack the girl across the face.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Camille asked, determined to keep a civil tongue.

Madeleine frowned. “You poor dear.” Her face skewed into a crooked smile and she followed it with laughter. “How ridiculous you look. No wonder your husband is clear across the room.”

Camille played with the diamond-studded bands Julian had placed on her ring finger. Her way of pointing out something that Madeleine lacked. “I guess ridicule is in the eye of the beholder.” Camille shrugged, well on her way to losing the fight with her pride. “How’d it feel to watch the man you want to marry, wed someone else?”

“Pretty much the same way it’s going to feel when he stops coming to your bed at night because he’s wrapped up in mine.”

Camille’s throat tightened and she hesitated, fighting for control of her temper. A thousand comebacks shuffled across her mind. If she didn’t confront this challenge right away, the next six months would be hell. “Fancy yourself a permanent room here at Pacifique de Lumière, do you?” Camille flashed her a look she hoped was bathed in mockery. “You’d be surprised at how much influence a wife has over her husband where the mistress is concerned.”

Madeleine’s brittle laughter gave away her waning confidence, and she grabbed a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter.

“Make no mistake, Madeleine,” Camille said, her self-assurance continuing to swell. “You and I will not be living in the same house.”