In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer
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