The Marriage Bargain (3 page)

Granted, that wasn’t his intent when he placed his ad in the L.A. Trades. She was just supposed to find out what the mega-wealthy Frenchman was up to, and boy, did she ever. Not in Camille’s wildest dreams would she have ever imagined her hard-nosed boss would make such demands. Who knew rejecting a proposal for an arranged marriage was shunning her job duties. She’d missed that memo.

A little piece of Camille—the part that found Julian de Laurent as fascinating as he was handsome—had pushed her to his doorstep. But mostly, her fear of being homeless, not to mention broke and in debt, was her main motivation for relenting and giving in to his business proposal.

She glanced down at the red fitted skirt and tailored jacket she’d snagged off the clearance rack at JC Penney, the best an intern at Disclosure Magazine could afford. Should she have worn something sexier?

Sexier? Who was she kidding? Sex appeal didn’t come easy to Camille, not like her friend Tasha. The most flattering comment Camille had ever received was that she had nice eyes. Not very gratifying when the same guy told Tasha, “
God, you’re gorgeous
.”

Julian de Laurent must have liked something about her because he’d said she was perfect for the part. If he’d changed his mind, she was screwed.

Just breathe
. Her stomach churned with the misgivings of her well-intended but ill-conceived scheme. Maybe this was a mistake. She considered a turn-and-run tactic before someone answered the door.

Too late.

Soren, de Laurent’s shadow, appeared from behind the door. The two times she’d met with Julian, this guy was with him. It made her wonder.

“Ms. Chandler, what a pleasant surprise.” Soren’s stoic expression showered Camille with intimidation.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. de Laurent.” The words trembled up her throat, right along with the desperation.

“Please come in.” Soren stepped back, moving aside. “I’ll let Mr. de Laurent know you’re here. Please make yourself comfortable.” Heading toward a closed door on the other side of the room, he gestured about the suite’s living area decorated with plush couches and chairs and other opulent furnishings that probably cost more than her car.

I was comfortable until he waltzed into my life
. She stormed to the nearest couch and plopped down. The sofa melded around her like a cloud. Damn. Of course he lived in luxury. God takes care of children and fools. Anybody who’d place an ad in the L.A. Trades looking for an actress to pretend to be his wife for six months had to be crazy.

Mr. Crazy—AKA, the extremely hot Julian de Laurent, as Tasha would call him—entered from an interior room. The suit he wore, custom-tailored and no doubt silk, clung to him and maneuvered
with his athletic frame as he moved toward her with laid-back grace.

Although a bit on the arrogant side, he was all about making those around him as comfortable as possible. Julian’s attentiveness was sexy as hell. His assumption that he knew what was best for everyone was just as exasperating.

Camille shot up from the couch, tried to feign indifference and waited for his lead.

“Ms. Chandler. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked in a low voice that sounded a lot like how chocolate tasted. Divine. “Have you changed your mind, perhaps?” His inquiry hadn’t come off as a question so much as an insinuation.

Was she that obvious? Did she have the words
I’m desperate
blinking above her in pink and green neon?

Camille shifted her shoulders and arched them back. She drew a breath that needed to contain both the confidence and the capability to get her through this nutty scheme. “I’ve been thinking about your...offer.”

“Really?” he said in a polite but patronizing voice. She had little time to think about his arrogance as he lured her back to the couch with a persuasive, cajoling gesture. “I took your rejection of my project proposal yesterday as your final word.”

Project proposal? God, he made it sound like a damned business venture. Something she had to convince herself of if she wanted to avoid failure. Failure wasn’t an option. Neither was stupidity.

“Let’s just say that given a little time, I was able to see some of the hidden benefits of your proposal.” Camille paused as a whiff of citrus and light spices danced through the air and played with her senses. The manly aroma, an effective calming agent, had her dreaming about cool refreshing breezes on warm summer evenings. “I’m willing to negotiate.” She pushed her anxiety and the temptation aside. “Unless you’ve come to an agreement with someone else.”

Julian’s arm stretched across the back of the couch behind Camille. He didn’t touch her, but she had a corporeal reaction to his nearness. It shivered through her like an arctic chill when he flashed his to-die-for smile.

“No. The position is yours if you want it.”

She sucked in a breath of relief and doused it with logic. “We have to set a few ground rules.”

“Such as?”

Like, you can’t change your mind once you meet Tasha
. Letting him meet her bombshell friend was probably a mistake. Nix that idea.

Camille cast her insecurities and attraction to Julian aside in favor of a stereotypical cold and heartless business persona. Julian de Laurent could not find out about the recent change in her employment status, or that she had a slight ‘thing’ for him—which she fully intended to conquer. She had no intention of falling for him. Her mother had fallen for her father, and look how that turned out. The man deserted her long before Camille was born.

“I have some loans that need to be paid off before I leave the U.S.” She hoped her monotone voice came across as a shrewd negotiator, instead of a desperate fraud. “I don’t want to ruin my credit.” She added, hoping to downplay the loans’ significance.

“Done,” he said without asking how much.

That set Camille’s worry back in motion. Who would agree to such a thing without knowing the particulars?

“Our marriage must appear real.” The seriousness in his voice drew her focus back to him, just as his lips curled into a goading smirk. Camille couldn’t decide if she wanted to smack him or kiss him. “You and I will have to share a bedroom wherever we go.”

She nibbled at his baiting comment, trying not to let it get to her. “Wherever we go?”

“My family is very well known in Europe. The media lurks around every corner. You’ll have to be mindful of every move you make, including those in front of my family.” His aloofness siphoned the confidence from her soul, leaving her too spooked to do more than nod. Julian continued like he was relating a P&L statement. “Above all others, my family must believe the marriage is real.”

Was sex part of the bargain? Not that Camille found the thought of sleeping with him out of the question, but she wasn’t ready to start trading her favors for money either.

“You can’t buy me.” Defiance rumbled through her like a run-away train. “Not like that.”

“Chéri, if we make love, it will be your idea.” With a wink, he tilted closer and his devilish grin ignited the allure of temptation.

“We won’t. And I won’t.” She hoped he bought the resistance.

“Whatever you say, Chéri.” His mischievous smile gave way to roguish laughter. He turned her on. She didn’t mind that so much as not being able to control the desire itself.

Calling her by the wrong name bruised her ego and earned him a vengeful tone. “My name is Camille.”

“I know that,” he said, undaunted. “Chéri is, how do you Americans say...a term of endearment. I called you
darling
.”

“Sorry.” The bitter tang in her apology stung, but she didn’t give him time to exploit her blunder. “So, once we’re married, as long as I don’t leave you or tell anyone the marriage is merely a business contract, at the end of six months we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll get five million dollars for my troubles?”

“That is the deal,” he said through a half-smile with nothing behind it but teeth.

Damn. This guy must be really loaded.

“What do you want to pretend to be married for, anyway?” she asked. The reason he gave seemed a little extreme. “Why can’t you just tell your dad to get off your back?”

Julian stood. “Chéri, you will understand that better after you meet him.” He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and towered above her like a hungry vulture eyeing his cornered prey.

“I see.” The words tumbled from her mouth. But frankly, she didn’t see at all. It made no sense.

“So, do we have a deal?” he asked, carefree and smoothly. He slid his hand out of his pocket and volunteered it as a gesture of good faith.

“There’s just one more thing.” She evaded his handshake overture. “We have to get married before we leave the States.” Considering she was born to distrust people, she insisted on a formal guarantee before her feet left American soil.

“If that makes you feel better. Sure.” He shrugged, way too calm, or foolish.
“But we have to keep the American marriage under wraps.”

“Why?”

“There will be another, more elaborate wedding when we arrive in France. The six months will start after that one—”

“Wa...wait.” Camille flew up like a bottle rocket and teetered at his side. “When will the French wedding take place?” she asked, intrigued by the lengths he’d go to in order to pull off his ruse.

“Two weeks. A month.” His eyebrow quirked as if amused. Apparently he’d seen disapproval in her reaction, rather than intrigue.

Displeasure clamped her mouth shut and bulleted her head back.

“Surely, Chéri, for five million dollars an extra couple of weeks won’t matter?” Julian said, reading her all wrong.

But since he had, maybe she should just go with it. Evidently, it was what he expected and Camille thought it better to please. “You said six months.” She made it up as she went along. “Not six months and two weeks, or seven months.” Agitation echoed in her voice, unnerved and alarming. It scared even her. She added for good measure, “Six. Months.”

The rant made her question the whole crazy notion more than it solidified her decision to hop on board.
What kind of idiot agrees to become some stranger’s wife for six months, anyway? One who’s lost her job, thanks to him. One who has a ton of student loans coming due, and no way to pay them. One who was afraid of being penniless and forced to live on the streets
.
That’s who.

Margo’s promise to blackball her on the L.A. circuit hadn’t done a thing to temper that fear. In fact, it magnified it. Whether her ex-boss could do that kind of damage or not was overshadowed by the possibility. And when she added all that to Julian’s vulnerable expression when he talked about not wanting to get roped into a loveless marriage, Camille found saying ‘no’ impossible.

That settled it. She was a desperate idiot who was about to agree to marry a hopeless fool.

J
ulian wanted to distract his father, and Camille Chandler was the perfect facade as well as a most agreeable diversion.

“Chéri, I can promise you it won’t be as bad as you imagine.” He’d stop calling her Chéri, but he liked the way it angered her and brightened her eyes.

Feistiness was the one quality she’d need, the spunkier the better, to mount a satisfactory defense against his father and Madeleine, Papa’s choice for Julian. Camille would have to be warned, he couldn’t risk them blindsiding her. But not until they arrived in France.

Acutely aware of his selfishness, Julian decided to wait because he didn’t want to begin his search again for a suitable replacement. It wasn’t like he was doing Camille a disservice. She’d held her own against him and she’d hold her own when confronted by his nemeses.

He eased back down onto the couch and gestured to the empty space at the other end. She looked at the vacant gap between them, at him and then back at the sofa again. Her hands nervously smoothed her skirt before she grudgingly sat and folded her hands in her lap.

“I promise it won’t be that bad,” he said again, not quite sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

“Yeah, so you say.” Her tone told him all he needed to know. She didn’t trust him.

“All right. Care to make a little wager?” The suggestion was nothing more than a means to ease the tension. Besides, a side bet might be fun. And who knew, if she’d enter into wagers so easily, then perhaps she’d end up in his bed just as effortlessly.

She cut her eyes at him. “What kind of wager?”

“Of course it will require that you declare complete honesty.” He let the mystery linger a little longer, simply because it aggravated her.

“How will you know I’m being completely honest?”

“I trust you, Chéri.” He held back the snicker, only releasing bits and pieces.

She let out a snort and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be as honest as you are sincere.”

“Aren’t they the same?”

She skewed her face into a twisted knot. “Can we get back to the point?”

Ah, good. She wouldn’t let his father or Madeleine trick her into disclosing information. “The point is that Pacifique de Lumière is well-known throughout Europe. You won’t be able to resist its charm and beauty.”

“Pacifique de Lumière,” she repeated, not nearly as fluently or confidently.

“It’s my family’s home near Marseilles.”

“So, what do you...live in a castle or something?” She snickered, as if her words were funny. “You know, I hear those things are like cold and damp.”

“No, Chéri. Not a castle.” A happy memory from his childhood, of his mother chasing him and Andre through the grove, paraded through his thoughts. A mild, pleasurable chuckle rippled up his throat. “Just a chateau that’s been in my family for about four hundred years.”

She sighed and frowned again.

“Oh, it’s been fully renovated and updated with all the latest modern-day amenities.”

That didn’t get her either. Her stoic expression suggested she couldn’t care less about his family’s home.