In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer
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.
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