The Marriage Bargain (22 page)

Julian shrugged. Obviously, he hadn’t considered that option.

“I know it’s none of my business. It’s your money and all.” Anxiety escaped in her nervous laughter. “But I just don’t understand why you’re spending money on a hotel when you’ve got a perfectly good yacht?” she said, even though she felt like she’d overstepped her boundaries.

Julian, on the other hand, looked like a light bulb had gone off inside his head. He turned to her, and seemed to be fighting a smile. “That’s a really good idea.” The anger and annoyance had deserted his voice, leaving behind nothing but indifference.

He nodded as if making the final decision and hit the intercom. “Sebastian, let’s go to the marina instead,” he said, and released the button.

The remainder of the drive passed in silence and the ever-growing presence of tension.

Was five million bucks worth all this? Was it worth six months of ridicule and hostilities from a man she could’ve easily fallen for? Was she seriously thinking she could survive that?

Not even close. No way.

S
ebastian opened the limousine’s door and a blast of warm, salty sea air hit Julian. He would’ve enjoyed it, if not for the circumstances. His main objective was to get onboard the Naoma Louise and go below deck where he planned on hibernating until he’d recovered from this malady. Or maybe he’d drop Camille off at the Naoma Louise and then head on over to the Beauvau.

If it weren’t for the reason he’d married her, to avoid a marriage with Madeleine, Julian would just give her the money he’d promised her and send her on her way. But that would put him right back where he started, and the one place he didn’t want to be. Available.

Julian stepped on board and without thinking, stopped and extended his hand to Camille. For the first time in his life, Julian had been civil without an ulterior motive. The consummate gentleman. His mother would be so proud.

He knew he was probably smiling at Camille, and he remedied that right away by plastering on his hardest, practiced stare.

She looked vulnerable. He wanted to believe the best of her, but she made it hard. Falling back into her snare wasn’t wise. Julian dropped her hand, letting it fall away.

He opened the door and again, subconsciously waited for her to enter first. Cool air wafted past as he followed her inside.

“The papers will be delivered later today, sealing our deal.” He moved to the bar, ready to pour himself a drink but changed his mind.

“Whatever.” She dropped to the couch, crossed her legs and played with her fingernails, which she’d changed to a bright red. Very different from the pastel shades of pink and orange he was used to seeing.

Julian searched the bar for water, opening several decanters and sniffing the liquids inside. All were liquor of some sort. Frustration balled inside him and knotted in his gut. What did a man have to do to get some water?

He grabbed the phone on the bar and punched in a number. “Soren. Can we get some water in here?” He didn’t immediately hang up. Instead, he added, “Thank you.”

That probably surprised Soren as much as it did Julian. Maybe he was getting sick. Figures. He’d caught a case of the pleasantries.

He leaned against a barstool, caressed his forehead and massaged his temples.

“Julian...?” She paused, hesitating.

He cut a stealthy gaze toward her. She looked like she’d been defeated. “Yeah?”

“I, ah, if leaving the house had anything at all to do with me.” She stopped and drew a breath before continuing. “I know you say it wasn’t me, but just in case I was any kind of factor.” She dared to look at him. “I-I’m sorry, if I played even a small part in that.”

Amazing. She looked genuinely sorry. How could she regret that and in the same breath, turn around and make a mental note to add it in her story?

It was probably just a ploy to make herself look better in the final copy. She was doing a good job of assuming the role of
victim
. If she wasn’t an actress, she’d missed her calling.

“I told you,” he said. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why?” she asked. “Why did we leave?”

Maybe he should tell her. Keep her off his back. Otherwise, she’d go on, incorrectly, telling herself that she had somehow played a part in this disaster.

“It’s not about you.” He smiled, feeling like he’d won some small battle. “It’s about Madeleine.”

“Madeleine?”

“Papa wants her to stay. I want her gone.”

Camille nodded. “I can understand that, considering the lengths you went to, to avoid marrying her.” She snickered.

Perhaps that hadn’t been the smartest idea. His selfishness had allowed a member of the press to infiltrate the family, undetected. It’s a good thing Papa still had his wits about him.

Julian stood and headed for the door, stopping only to glimpse over his shoulder at Camille. “Soren will come for you when the papers arrive.”

He slipped into the hallway, needing to put some space between himself and Camille.

C
amille was awakened by the knock at the door. She lifted her head off the pillow and looked around groggily.

Oh, yeah
. She’d grown tired of sitting in the upper deck lounge all alone, but remembered closing her eyes for just a second. Nothing made the time pass like sleeping your life away. She sighed and fell back on the couch.

The knock came again. More persistent this time. “Mrs. de Laurent?” Soren’s voice floated through the walls.

“Yes.” She sighed and closed her eyes. Maybe he’d go away. Doubtful. He worked for Julian.

“Mr. de Laurent asked me to come for you,” he called through the door. “Your signature is required.”

Camille pushed herself into a sitting position. “I’ll be there directly.”

Damn
. She was starting to sound like Julian. Camille drew in a deep breath and sighed.
Okay
.
Time to face the music
. She just wished the musician played a more agreeable tune.

Having no other choice was the factor that pushed her off the couch. The plush carpet offered little comfort as she studied her messy hair in the mirror. Not caring about impressions, she ran her fingers through it a few times, straightened her blouse and headed out into the hallway where Soren was waiting.

Okay. So now she needed a chaperone? What? Did Julian think she was going to steal the silver?

Camille followed Soren to the top deck salon. Julian and his attorney—oh, what was his name? —were huddled over the bar enthralled in deep conversation. Julian looked up. She could tell when he’d seen her, his demeanor soured.

“Here she is.” Julian offered no smile. His eyes didn’t light up. In fact, he just looked annoyed.

“Okay,” she said, dropping onto the couch. So he was going to be a jerk. Two could play that game. “Let’s get this over with.” She winced as the words poured from her mouth.

Julian shuffled across the room and sat beside her. Draping his arm around her, he whispered, “Now, darling.” He called her ‘darling’ instead of Chéri. She didn’t like that. “There’s no need to be a bitch.”

“No, that’s your girlfriend’s job.” She flashed him a look that must have been effective because his confidence wilted, if only for a second or two.

“Good one.” He winked at her and pushed himself off the couch. He stood over her, extending his hand. She took it, trying to erect a stronger guard against his charms.

Julian tugged her across the room, settling her at the bar where his attorney had a mass of paperwork laid out. She waited for an introduction. None came.

The lawyer handed her a fountain pen. She took it and looked at Julian. “You signed it already?”

He nodded.

“If you’ll just sign here.” The attorney pointed to a blank line beneath Julian’s signature.

Camille snatched the papers off the counter and began reviewing them. Julian snickered. She ignored him. He was not as cute as he thought.

If she kept telling herself that, sooner or later she might buy into the notion.

The document read pretty standard. She was selling her story exclusively to de Laurent Enterprises. Pretty amusing, since she hadn’t planned on writing one in the first place.

Camille signed all copies of the agreement and laid the gold-plated pen on the counter along with the papers.

“Is that all?” she said to Julian.

“For now.” He winked at her and turned away.

Jerk.

Camille pushed off from the bar and headed for the door. There wasn’t a reason in the world that she should put up with his asinine ways.

She let the door slam behind her as she left.

J
ulian jumped and laughed comically. She was mad. Good. So was he. “How long before the money is wired into the account?”

“Tomorrow,” Jasper
said, gathering the documents. “I’ll get these filed and bring your copies around tomorrow.”

“Can you bring some documentation from the bank confirming the transfer?”

“Of course,” he said, stuffing the paperwork inside his attaché. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” he added, closing the case.

“No, I think that’ll do it.” Julian moved behind the bar and headed for the liquor. It was time for a drink.

He grabbed a glass and filled it with a generous serving of the closest bottle. Julian studied it for a moment before pouring it into his mouth. He swished it and swirled it around, letting the sting diminish before swallowing the tart liquid.

He slammed the glass down on the bar. It wasn’t often that he got married and taken for a ride, all at the same time. There was almost something enticing about her outwitting him.

Almost.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
ithin two days Papa had moved Madeleine to town. For the first time, Julian felt he’d won in a battle of wills with his father. It wasn’t often that Papa gave up, in effect admitting defeat.

Too bad Julian’s victory was overshadowed by Camille’s deception. But still, he had to honor his end of the bargain no matter what her motives were for accepting the deal. He didn’t have to like it, but he had to accept the inevitable.

Camille had handled the constant shuffling between the house and the yacht like a champion. When he said it was time to go back to Pacifique de Lumière, she’d agreed without a second thought. She looked bored over the whole mess, more than anything else.

He’d been holding onto the filed papers and the bank transfer receipt for the last couple of days just because he could. Since they’d signed the documents, he wanted to see how long it’d take her to ask for the money. She hadn’t, and he found that irksome.

She spent her time inside their suite or in the garden. Usually alone. He felt sorry for her and envied her at the same time over her aloneness and her ability to find solitude in it. Having no one to beleaguer or infuriate you must be great, yet lonely. If there’s no one to bother you, there’s also no one to love you.

But since when had that mattered to him?

He opened the door to the main parlor in their suite. She was sitting facing the window. Her still frame didn’t move. She didn’t acknowledge his presence.

He tapped the manila envelope against his palm and cleared his throat. She glanced over her shoulder, stared right through him and turned back to the window. After a moment of immobility, she pushed herself up and turned to face him. Her stoic expression gave nothing away about what she was feeling.

Camille clasped her hands together and raised her gaze to meet his. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him with cold, hard eyes.

Julian vowed to show her just how little she affected him. He drew a breath and acknowledged the envelope in his hand. “I thought you might like these.” He kept his voice calm, and on a low, even keel.

She shrugged and folded her arms in front of her. As if the distance across the room wasn’t enough, she’d erected another barrier.

Part of him wanted to reach out to her, but it was smothered by the part that loathed her actions. Loathed that she’d come to him under false pretences. Loathed that she’d made him look like a fool.

Nobody got away with that.

“This is your copy of our agreement.” He waved the envelope in the air. “The bank receipt is in here, too. Your acceptance of this money seals our deal.” He paused, ruthlessness invading his tone. “Make no mistake, if you discuss this family with any outlets of the media, I will sue you.”

She came toward him, her eyes darkening dangerously. Ignoring the envelope, she reacted with nothing more than a couple of pronounced blinks. Other than that, she was like a statuette poised in permanent indifference.

“Have you nothing to say?” His anger escaped in a harsh growl.

“What do you want me to say, Julian?”

He moved a couple of steps toward her and she backed up.

Julian’s heart ached with defeat. He wanted her to say it was all a lie. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t do that. So what was the point?

“Can you say it’s not true?” he asked. “Can you tell me you’re not a writer and you weren’t employed at some tabloid when you met me?”

The look on her face—guilt—said it all. “I thought so.”

“You’ve already passed judgment on me.” The vibrancy left her face. “Anything I say from here on out is just wasting my breath.”

True. She had a point. He was beyond listening to or wanting to hear excuses.

Julian had to give her credit for having her own sense of self-respect, even if it was distorted.

It was going to be an awkward six months.

There wasn’t much left to do or say. He looked at the envelope in his hand, then to the sofa before moving on to the coffee table to the left. One more glimpse of her cold, stoic face convinced him to toss the envelope at the table. It sailed through the air and slid across the tabletop, stopping in the center.

Julian gave her one last consideration. She hadn’t moved or changed her expression. He was wasting his time. Irritation shoved his regret aside and pivoted him around, forcing him toward the door. He left, letting it swing shut with a bit of a slam. He winced and headed on down the hallway.