In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer
she hardly knew how to answer the question disturbed her. What he thought of her shouldn’t matter. And yet, it did. Rather more than she cared to admit.
Heart pounding, she breast-stroked to the ladder, grasped the lowest rung and pushed off her mask. Then, aware of his gaze focused on every inch of her as she climbed out of the water, she hoisted herself onto the pool deck, resisted the impulse to check that her bikini remained in place, and said, “Thank you for the lesson.”
Then, with as much nonchalance as she could muster, she strolled to where Solange waited with Adrian on the bench at the shallow end of the pool. “I thought you’d never get here,” she muttered, picking up a towel.
A smile twitched at the corners of Solange’s mouth. “I hardly think you missed me.”
Anne-Marie waited until Adrian had jumped into his father’s waiting arms and was happily splashing his way toward a huge red ball floating on the water, then she said, “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
“Just that you and my future brother-in-law appeared too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.”
“He insisted on teaching me to use a face mask.” She mopped the dripping ends of her hair, then tucked the towel around herself, sarong-style. “And all I can say is, it’s a pity no one ever taught him how to take ‘No’ for an answer. He’s very bossy.”
“And you’re unusually flustered.”
Unwilling to debate the truth of that statement, she said, “Never mind me. How are you, this morning? You’re looking a bit more cheerful than you were last night.”
“That’s because you’re here. I don’t feel so alone anymore.” She gestured to the terrace. “Breakfast is ready. Shall we go over and sit down?”
Anne-Marie glanced covertly at Ethan who was still in the pool with his son. “Shouldn’t we wait for the lord and master to give us permission to eat?”
“He’s not an ogre, Anne-Marie! He won’t be upset if we help ourselves to coffee. Finish drying off and let’s go. I’m never properly awake until—”
“You’ve had your morning café au lait.” She laughed, then pulled on her cover-up and slipped her arm through Solange’s. “I remember!”
The inflated ball hit Ethan squarely on the shoulder and bounced into the water. “Papa,” Adrian called out reproachfully, “you’re not paying attention!”
“I know.” How could he be expected to, with her laughter floating through the air like music, and the graceful, easy way she moved her scantily-clad body distracting him every other second? But since he could hardly tell his son that, he sniffed conspicuously, boosted the boy onto the pool deck, and said, “I’m thinking about food instead. Jeanne made fruit crêpes for breakfast. I’ll race you to the terrace.”
The women were chatting animatedly as he approached, and Solange had color in her cheeks, for a change. “You’re looking more rested this morning, ma petite,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. “Having Mademoiselle Barclay here appears to agree with you.”
“Oui. I am very happy.”
“As happy as when you’re spending time with Philippe?”
His technique must leave something to be desired because, as usual, she didn’t recognize that he was teasing her. “Oh, never that, Ethan!” she said, horrified. “No one can take his place.”
“I’m glad to hear it, especially since he phoned this morning to say he’ll be home in time for dinner tonight.”
Her face lit up—she really was a pretty little thing which, no doubt, was what had first caught Philippe’s eye—but she had a fragility about her, and a desire to please at all costs which, combined with a lack of confidence in her own judgment, worried Ethan. This friend, this Anne-Marie Barclay with the long, tanned legs, minuscule bikini, and outspoken manner, didn’t strike him as the best influence. The sooner Philippe reappeared and kept Solange occupied, the better.
“So, Mademoiselle,” he said, taking a seat opposite his guest, “tell me something about yourself.”
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