“I’m still the same inside.” Solange squared her shoulders and made a determined effort to look more cheerful. “I’ve just had a little difficulty adjusting to my new situation. But now that you’re here, I’ll soon be my old self again.”
They’d reached the guest houses by then, and looking through the open entrance to the one she’d been assigned to, Anne-Marie saw that her luggage had been delivered and that a maid was busily unpacking her suitcases.
“I don’t want her messing around with the wedding outfits, so I’d better get in there and take charge before the hired help starts on the travel trunk,” she said. “But this conversation is far from over, Solange. You might fool everyone else with your polite, subdued little smile, and your docile acceptance of the all-important rules, but you aren’t fooling me. Something’s not quite right in paradise, and I intend to find out what it is.”
“It’s nothing—just pre-wedding nerves and difficulty settling into a new situation,” Solange insisted, edging nervously toward her own suite. “I’ve always been shy, you know that, and it’s all taking a bit of getting used to, especially with Philippe away so much. I suppose, if truth be told, I’m just plain lonely.”
Small wonder! Anne-Marie thought. And that’s something else we can thank the almighty Ethan Andrew Beaumont Lewis for!
She thought she’d sleep late the next morning, but even though she’d fallen into bed exhausted the night before, Anne-Marie awoke at sunrise. It would be hours before breakfast was served, but after last night’s dinner, she needed exercise more than food, especially if she wanted to fit into the dress she’d be wearing at the wedding.
“Always assuming,” she murmured, slipping between the folds of filmy mosquito netting draped around the bed, and hunting through the dresser drawers for a bikini, “that the wedding takes place which, from everything I’ve surmised, might not happen if the lord and master has his way.”
The pool glimmered invitingly when she looked outside, but there was no sign of life from Solange’s villa, which was probably a good thing. She’d looked very pale and hollow-eyed by the time dinner was over, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep, and could probably use a few more hours of rest.
Better not to disturb her, Anne-Marie decided, pulling a cover-up over her bikini and slinging her camera around her neck. Hiking down the hill to wade in the milk-warm Caribbean would serve just as well as a dip in the pool.
Finding a way down to the beach turned out to be a more frustrating experience than she’d expected, though. Even in the bright light of midday, many of the paths winding through the estate gardens lay in the protective shade of trees. At that hour of the morning, with the sun still not high enough to penetrate the dense green canopy overhead, she found it almost impossible to keep track of the direction she took.
Twice, she ended up back where she’d begun. Another time, she found herself on the edge of the cliff, with a sheer drop down to the shore. Finally, when she was so confused that she wasn’t certain she’d even find her way back to her villa, she came across a man tending one of the ponds.
He knelt with his back to her, and her first thought was that he must have spent most of his life toiling in the hot sun for Ethan Beaumont. How else would he have developed such a physique, or his skin acquired such a deep and glowing tan? And who else but a manual laborer would be allowed to wander about the estate wearing nothing but faded denim cutoffs?
“Bonjour,” she began, unsure of the protocol involved in approaching a gardener—because whatever else she might have missed at dinner the previous evening, she’d quickly learned that, with regard to the house staff, protocol was paramount. The wine steward did not refill the water goblets; the butler who served the food did not remove the empty plates.
That being the case, it was entirely possible that this lowly employee with his face practically submersed in the pond, might not be allowed to speak to guests. Certainly, the way he ignored her greeting suggested as much—unless he was deaf or didn’t understand her French.
“Excusez moi,” she said, stepping closer and speaking a little louder. “S’il vous plait, monsieur—”
Irritably, he flapped his hand at her and, in case she hadn’t understood the message that was supposed to convey, said curtly, “Lower your voice. I heard you the first time.”
His English might be flawless, albeit slightly accented, but his manner left a great deal to be desired. Offended, she snapped, “Really? And how do you suppose your employer would react, if he knew how rude you were to one of his guests?”
“Disturbed,” he replied, still bent double over the pond. “But not nearly as disturbed as he’d be with the guest for interfering with the delicate business of keeping his prize koi alive and well.”
“You’re the fish man?”
The way his broad shoulders sort of rippled and shook at the question made her wonder if he was having some sort of fit. “You could call me that, I suppose.”
“What does your employer call you?”
“Nothing,” he said carelessly. “He’s never conferred a title on me. In his eyes, I’m not important enough to warrant one.”
“Yet you continue to work here. You must love what you do, to put up with that sort of abuse.”
“Oh yes, lady,” he replied, his deep baritone suddenly adopting a musical Caribbean lilt. “Master lets me feed and tend his fish. Gives me hut to live in, and rum to drink. Fish man very lucky guy.”
“There’s no need to be so offensive. It’s not my fault if the work you do isn’t properly appreciated.” She tipped her head to one side, intrigued by his preoccupation with the task at hand. “Exactly what is it that you’re doing?”
“An egret’s had a go at the koi. I’m repairing the damage.”
“I didn’t know that was possible. How do you do it?”
“I get the fish to come to the surface so that I can treat their injuries.”
“Of course you do,” she said mockingly. “And because they’re obedience trained, they stay put while you bandage them.”
“Not quite. But they stick around long enough for me to disinfect the puncture wounds inflicted by the bird.”
She stepped closer and saw that he wasn’t exaggerating. One fish, over a foot long, was happily nibbling food pellets from one of his hands and, with the other, allowing him to dab some substance on the nasty-looking hole piercing its back.
“You really care about them, don’t you?” she said, impressed despite herself.
“I respect them,” he said. “Some are over fifty years old. They deserve to be well cared for. Is there a reason you’re wandering around the gardens at this hour?”
“I’m looking for a way to get down to the beach. I’d like to go for a swim.”
“What’s wrong with the guest pool?”
“My friend’s still sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her. She hasn’t had a very easy time of things lately.”
“How so? Isn’t she about to marry the man of her dreams?”
“It’s the other man that’s part of the package who’s causing her grief.”
He ran a caressing finger over the back of the fish he’d been tending. “There’s another man in the picture? That hardly bodes well for the marriage.”
“Not that kind of other man. But never mind. I shouldn’t even be discussing the matter with you. Monsieur Beaumont wouldn’t approve.”
“No, Monsieur Beaumont certainly wouldn’t,” he said. “There isn’t a path to the beach on this side of the property. If you want an early swim, I suggest you go up to the main house and use the pool there.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s probably against the rules for a guest to dip her toe in the family pool without invitation.”
“You don’t seem fond of the Beaumonts. Do you know them well?”
“Except for the bridegroom, hardly at all. I haven’t even met the big cheese yet, but what I’ve heard hasn’t exactly swept me off my feet.”
&
nbsp; He wiped his hands on the seat of his cutoffs, and jumped lithely to his feet. He was very tall. Very. “The big cheese will be crushed to hear that.”
“Who’s going to tell him—you?”
He laughed, and turned toward her just as the sun lifted over the side of the hill and afforded her first good look at him, and she almost cringed.
This was no common laborer! He had the face of an aristocrat, with high, elegantly carved cheekbones, and a mouth set in the lines of one unaccustomed to suffering fools gladly. His jaw, faintly shadowed, was lean, and his eyes, vivid beneath dark sweeping brows, the bluest she’d ever seen. And she didn’t need an introduction to know his name.
“You don’t work here!” she said, weakly.
“Certainly I do. Very hard, in fact.”
“No, you don’t, and you’re not the fish man. You’re Ethan Beaumont!”
He inclined his head. “And where is it written that I can’t be both?”
Oh, rats! Talk about putting her foot in it! “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Because it was more informative listening to you running off at the mouth. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about myself?”
“No,” she mumbled, so embarrassed she wanted to die. “I don’t have anything else to say right now.”
“In that case, allow me to escort you up to the house where, at my invitation, you may swim in the pool to your heart’s content.”
“I don’t think I feel like swimming anymore. I think I’ll just go back to the guest house.”
“And disturb the delicate bride-to-be? I won’t hear of it.” He towered over her and took her elbow in a not-to-be-thwarted grip. “Come along, Mademoiselle. Let’s not waste any more time debating the issue. It’s already been settled. By the big cheese.”
CHAPTER TWO
“YOU’RE supposed to be digging for oil in Venezuela,” she panted, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.
“We don’t dig, we drill.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Oh yes,” he assured her, the seductive baritone of his voice laced with irony. “You have a way with words which leaves a man in little doubt about their meaning.”
Although she’d sooner have poked hot needles in her eyes than offer an apology, she knew one was called for. “I’m afraid I was out of line, talking to you the way I did when I first saw you, and I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Is it customary in your part of the world to criticize one’s host to his employees?”
The distaste with which he said “your part of the world” made it sound as if she’d emerged from under a very unsavory rock. “No,” she said. “But where I come from, hosts aren’t usually so inhospitable. Nor do they go around impersonating other people.”
“Inhospitable?” His sleekly elegant brows rose in mock surprise. “Your accommodation falls short of your expectations? The food is not to your liking? My staff have treated you discourteously?”
“Dinner was exquisite, your staff couldn’t be kinder or more helpful, and my accommodation,” she replied, thinking of the delicately fashioned iron four-poster bed with its Sea Island cotton sheets, and elegant draperies which more closely resembled silk wedding-veil tulle than mosquito netting, “is everything I could wish for. It’s the atmosphere around here that leaves something to be desired.”
“A sentiment which my future sister-in-law appears to share. Dare I ask why?”
“Let’s just say she’s hardly the poster child for bridal bliss, and leave it at that.”
He held back the fronds of a giant fern and waited for her to pass by. Just there, the path was narrow, an iridescent green lane awash with the scent of the jungle, a thousand hidden flowers—and him.
He smelled of morning and cool water faintly kissed by the tropics. He oozed raw strength, the kind which defied the elements. He would neither wilt under the sun’s heat, nor bend before the storms which swept over the island during hurricane season, and as long as she didn’t look at him, she could prolong the illusion that he was exactly what she’d first assumed him to be: a subordinate born to the grinding, endless toil of working the cotton plantation or tending the gardens.
But one glance at the elegant conformation of bone and muscle underlying the gleaming skin, at the well-shaped hands, the patrician features, and most of all, at the intelligence in those cool, spectacular eyes, and she felt herself dwindle into insignificance. This was a giant of a man, not so much because of his size and physical beauty, which were considerable, but because of the innate bearing in his manner. The mantle of authority, of culture and refinement, sat easily on his shoulders.
“Please proceed,” he said, waving her ahead with an imperious gesture. “And explain your last remark.”
She scuttled past and muttered, “I’ve forgotten what it was.”
“Then allow me to refresh your memory. You said you don’t find Solange the picture of bridal bliss.”
“Well, do you?”
“I hardly know her well enough to say.”
“Oh, please! Even a complete stranger, if he bothered to take a good look at her, would see at once that she’s anything but brimming over with happiness.”
“She has struck me as moody and difficult to please.” He gave a careless shrug. “Unfortunate traits in a woman about to become a wife, wouldn’t you say?”
Irked by the casual way he’d pigeon-holed Solange without bothering to learn what was really causing her so much distress, Anne-Marie said tartly, “Almost 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.”
In the Best Man's Bed Page 2
