It didn’t help any that the heat grew intolerable. Heavy as a wet cloth pressed to one’s face, it sapped both her energy and her normally sunny disposition.
“You’re awfully crabby,” Solange remarked, toward the end of the second day.
“You would be, too, if you were shackled to a sewing machine for fifteen hours at a stretch in weather like this!” she snapped.
Solange flinched. “Oh, you’re working too hard, and it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have imposed on you like this.”
Ashamed, because she knew how brittle her friend’s self-esteem was, Anne-Marie took as deep a breath as the humidity would allow, and said apologetically, “It’s no one’s fault but my own, Solange, and I had no business taking my frustrations out on you.”
Nor had she. She was twenty-eight years old, and if she didn’t have a string of past lovers to draw on for comparison, she’d at least been around long enough to know that impulsive one-night stands seldom amounted to anything permanent. Never mind that Ethan had said and done all the right things after the fact. He was too much the gentleman to behave otherwise.
That evening, the clouds swept in from the east, dark and threatening. Rather than get caught in a downpour, she and Solange had an early dinner delivered to their quarters. By eight o’clock, lightning split the night sky, and thunder rolled down the hillside. A gale rattled the palm tree fronds and tore blossoms from the shrubs bordering the little terrace. Shortly after, the lights went out.
“Power failures happen regularly during stormy weather,” Solange told her, lighting candles. “It’s the one drawback to living here. But candlelight’s so romantic, don’t you think?”
“For you, perhaps,” Anne-Marie said, and took herself off to her own rooms, there to lie alone in a bed large enough for two, but with only the filmy mosquito netting for company.
She awoke the next morning to tranquil skies, calm seas and the overwhelming scent of freshly washed flowers. Bellefleur was living up to its name in fine style.
Refreshed herself, for the storm had cleared her mind as well as the air, she hung the finished gowns in garment bags and supervised their shipping to the main house, for storage until the big day. After seeing them safely stowed in an empty dressing room, she came back along the upper hall to find Ethan waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
“I hear you’ve been busy,” he said, his glance sweeping over her as she descended to the main floor.
“I hear you’ve been away,” she shot back, and could have slapped herself for sounding so piqued.
His lips twitched. “Did you miss us, Anne-Marie?”
“I missed Adrian,” she said scornfully. “But you? I barely noticed you were gone.”
The twitch became a full-blown grin. “We missed you, too.”
“Sure you did,” she said, hanging on to her annoyance because it was her only defense against such an onslaught of charm. “And the little pigs of Bellefleur have wings, and fly.”
He pressed his lips together, but although that contained his laughter, it did nothing to quell the amusement dancing in his eyes. “There are no pigs on Bellefleur, Chérie. Only sheep, horses and cattle. Oh yes, and a little boy who’s learning to sail, and panting to have you come and applaud his progress.” He caught her hand and drew her down the last two stairs. “And now that you’re finally done with the wedding gowns, you have no reason to refuse him.”
Resolve growing weaker by the second, she muttered, “I suppose not.”
“Excellent! Perhaps you’d like to try handling a small boat yourself?”
“I’m not prepared to go quite that far,” she said, turned weak at the knees by the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her, “but I’d love to see how Adrian manages.”
They went to a different beach, one she hadn’t visited before, with a boathouse, and a launching ramp. After strapping a life jacket on Adrian, Ethan released a small, low-slung, lateen-rigged boat down the ramp into the water.
“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” he asked her, as his son dog-paddled after him and climbed into the shallow cockpit. “There’s room for three, an extra life preserver on board, and we’re not going out more than a couple of hundred yards.”
“I’m sure,” she said, chilled despite the warmth of the sun, at the thought of being out of her depth on such a flimsy craft.
“I won’t let you drown, I promise. You’re too important to Solange for me to take chances with your safety.”
“Only to Solange?” she mocked, hearing the teasing note in his voice.
“Not only to Solange,” he said. “To me, and to my son.”
They were words she lived to hear, but even they couldn’t persuade her to climb aboard that frail-looking little dingy. So she lifted the camera slung around her neck and said, “Go give your son his lesson, then. I’m happy to be the official photographer.”
And so the remaining days spun out, with her accompanying them when they went sailing, or swimming off the beach. And willingly, foolishly, she let herself slip into a surrogate mother role, making sure Adrian wore sunscreen and a hat, and wrapping him in a towel to dry him off when he fell overboard.
She was the one he ran to for comfort when he scraped his knee on a chunk of coral. And hers was the heart he melted when he wound his little arms around her neck and told her she was pretty, and that he loved her and didn’t want her to go away, not ever.
The nights followed a different theme, one of secret, searing passion between adults. With long hours stretching ahead and nothing to distract them from each other, Ethan came to her, sometimes on the beach, under a full, benevolent moon, and sometimes in her villa.
Yet at some level, she knew that he did so with a reluctance outpaced only by his raging hunger; that he wished he could rise above such carnal needs. Sometimes, she suspected he hated himself for wanting her so much, and even though, deep down, instinct told her that such self-loathing could lash out and direct itself at her, she didn’t care. He swept her into a world so deeply, thrillingly sexual that she lost her sense of survival, and lived only for the pleasure of the hours they shared.
To touch him, to taste him, and to know that with her mouth and hands she could smash through his formidable reserve and connect with him at the most intimate, elemental level, became, during those star-filled nights, her raison d’être.
She lived for his kiss. Died a tiny death every time he brought her to orgasm. And, responsive to his slightest touch, was born again within minutes.
When foreplay tore his self-control to shreds, she loved the feel of him entering her. She loved the power and thrust of his manhood; his stamina and strength. She gloried in hearing him groan helplessly against her mouth as she teased his flesh; in feeling the muscles of his belly flex like tempered steel as he cajoled her to yet another climax while fighting to delay his own.
She loved the battle, the way the balance of power shifted between them. Relished her fleeting little victories. But in the end, he always won, hurling her beyond the limits of mortal endurance in a shattering explosion of sensation and release. After, she clung to him, sometimes weeping from the intensity of the experience, and always amazed that she’d survived so wrenching an emotional catharsis.
But unlike his son, Ethan always withheld a part of himself. He never begged her not to leave the island. Never, no matter how rich or full the passion between them, forgot himself so far as to tell her he loved her. And if part of her brain warned her that she was a temporary diversion only and was setting herself up for heartbreak by pretending otherwise, another, larger part refused to listen.
Today was all that mattered. And if she made it matter enough to Ethan, perhaps tomorrow would never come.
Sadly, though, it did, and so abruptly that she was caught completely unprepared.
“I’m afraid this is the last time we’ll be able to spend the afternoon fooling around like this,” he announced, hauling the boat into its covered berth, the Saturday be
fore the wedding. “The first of the off-island guests arrive tomorrow, which means my time won’t be my own between now and the day itself. Nor, come to that, will yours, seeing that my aunt still isn’t up to par.”
Although not a cloud marred the perfection of the sky, suddenly the sea appeared less blue, the sun not quite as bright. Unable to hide her dismay, she said, “Why so soon? The wedding’s still a week away!”
“True, and most people won’t arrive until a day or two before. But for close friends flying in from halfway around the world, it’s the chance to visit before the event, and make a holiday of it. We’ll have a full house by Monday, with more arriving daily.”
“If the main house is full, where will the rest of them stay?”
“Some will take rooms at the Plantation Club, and others will stay with friends who live here year-round. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, fitting everyone in, but we’ll manage somehow.”
“You must be wishing I wasn’t taking up an entire guest villa all to myself,” she said, hoping he’d take her not-so-subtle hint and rush to assure her that he liked her living arrangements just as they were because, that way, they could continue their midnight trysts undetected.
Instead, he replied, “In light of everything you’ve done to help out, you’ve more than earned the right to a little extra comfort. We’re all very grateful to you, Anne-Marie.”
Grateful: the word assaulted her, sharper than a blade sliding between her ribs to rip open her heart.
“And is that what these last days all come down to, Ethan?” she cried, detesting the shrill edge in her voice, but helpless to control it. “You’re grateful?”
“Of course. You’ve been wonderful, stepping in whenever we’ve needed you. What else did you expect—that we’d simply take you for granted?”
Thoroughly deflated, she said, “No.”
“But you’re upset.”
“‘Upset’ doesn’t begin to cover it, but how like a man to understate matters!”
“And how like a woman to take exception to a perfectly innocuous remark,” he said, casting a pointed glance at Adrian who, although he didn’t fully grasp the gist of the conversation, clearly picked up on the tension underlying it.
Filled with remorse at the confusion and fear she saw printed on the child’s face, she said, “You’re quite right. I don’t know what possessed me to overreact like that. All I can say is that, for months, I’ve looked forward to seeing Solange and Philippe get married, but now that the time’s here, I’m almost sorry.”
“Why is that? Are you having second thoughts about their chances of making it work?”
“No, not that.” She drummed up a smile, even though the effort made her face ache. “I suppose, if truth be told, I’d like things to remain the same as they’ve been for the last little while.”
It was as close as she dared come to admitting outright all that was in her heart, but it didn’t elicit a similar response from Ethan. “Nothing stays the same forever, Anne-Marie,” he said, averting his eyes. “We’ve both known that from the beginning.”
Just to hammer home the message, life as she knew it at the Beaumont estate underwent dramatic change from that point on. With the growing influx of international guests, lunches became more formal, dinners more elaborate, and the social calendar more crowded.
If they weren’t out sailing, or riding horses, or playing croquet, or a round of golf, the visitors lolled around the pool, a sophisticated crowd of jet-setters whose unflagging amiability set Anne-Marie’s teeth on edge.
“Thanks,” she said, when Ethan urged her to join in the fun while it lasted, “but I suspect Adrian’s feeling a little neglected, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll spend some time with him instead.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he replied.
Oh, that’s me, all right! she thought bitterly. Thoughtful, helpful—and stupid to a fault for falling in love with a man who’s not the least bit interested in a permanent addition to his household.
For distraction, she turned again to work, more than happy to go along with Adrian’s request that she make him something special to wear at the wedding “because I’m carrying the rings and that’s important,” he said.
“Tell me what you’d like, then,” she said.
“A space suit,” he replied promptly. “A silver one, with a helmet.”
“Okay, let’s see what I come up with.”
Fifteen minutes later, she submitted three drawings for his approval. “That one,” he decided, selecting a Pierrot-style jumpsuit with flared legs and ruffled collar.
“That’s my favorite, too,” she said, hugging him.
The next morning, they went into town, to a little shop on the waterfront, and chose a length of fine white fabric in a silk-linen blend with just enough shine to it that it might have passed for silver if a person used his imagination. Afterward, they stood at a booth in the market and ate crayfish sandwiches, before climbing in the Mercedes and being driven back to the estate.
He was such a delight, and so happy to have her shower him with attention. Every morning, he’d show up at her door, and stand patiently while she measured and fitted the garment.
“You’ll be the best-dressed man there,” she told him, fashioning the underside of the ruffled collar from a scrap of turquoise silk left over from the bridesmaid’s dresses. “Every lady will want to dance with you at the reception.”
But, “I’m only going to dance with you,” he said. “You’re my favorite lady in all the world. I love you, Anne-Marie.”
“Oh, darling!” She sighed, her heart breaking for him, that he’d latched onto her, a stranger, when his mother should have been the recipient of his affection. “I love you, too.”
Something of her own unhappiness must have shown in her voice because, after looking at her from his big, dark eyes a moment, he observed with preternatural insight, “Loving people is scary sometimes, isn’t it? Sometimes, it’s better not to, then you don’t get sad if they don’t love you back, but you can’t always help it, can you?”
Dear God! she thought. That a child so young should have learned such a painful lesson already is nothing short of criminal!
If she could have, she’d have kept them both down at the guest villa, and stayed away from the main house altogether. She’d have hoarded every second of the time the time she had left on that magical island, and lavished him with all the love she had to give. That, though, wasn’t an option.
“You need a little adult conversation once in a while, and Ethan still needs a hostess,” Josephine informed her, catching her one day when she stopped by the main house on an errand for Solange. “I can do my part at lunch, but I’m too old to stay up half the night, smiling at people whose names I can’t remember, and laughing at jokes I don’t understand. You’ll have to fill in for me, child, and that’s all there is to it.”
Of course, Anne-Marie agreed, but it was difficult to preserve a serene facade when she went hot all over every time Ethan looked at her, and every time she looked at him. To be so close and not be allowed to touch, made her ache. And for all his apparent willingness to let their affair lapse, there were times, when some other man in the party perhaps drank a little too much champagne and paid her too much attention, that she thought she detected in Ethan’s eyes a proprietary interest that amounted almost to jealousy.
Was this how the rest of her time on Bellefleur was destined to play itself out? she wondered, as the week progressed. With her teetering on the edge of despair, and him alternating between bland indifference and covert possessiveness?
On the Thursday before the pre-wedding party at the Tourneaus, she got her answer. Pleading fatigue, she’d excused herself shortly after dinner, and was on her way out of the salon when Ethan caught up with her and murmured simply, “Later?”
Her weariness evaporated in a flash, replaced by such exhilaration that she didn’t know how she remained earth-bound. “Later,” she breathed, her sp
irits soaring, and sped back to the guest villa on winged feet.
He did care, at least a little bit! And a little was better than nothing.
In a haze of euphoria, she took a leisurely bath, knowing the social hour at the main house was far from over and that she had plenty of time in which to make herself pretty for him. She shampooed her hair and rinsed it with rose water. Massaged lightly perfumed body lotion into her sun-kissed skin. Then, wearing nothing but moon shadows for a nightgown, she pulled the mosquito netting around the bed and slipped under the fine cotton sheets, to wait for him.
At last, when the music and laughter no longer drifted on the air, and the estate had sunk into a sleepy silence broken only by the occasional night sound of the jungle, Ethan emerged from the shadows.
It had been six nights since they’d made love and she, it appeared, was not the only one to have suffered from it. With a harsh intake of breath, he crossed the room, flung back the netting surrounding her bed, and reached for her in a frenzy of pent-up desire.
She rose up to meet him, and he buried his mouth against hers in a long, fierce kiss. Ran his hands up her back and down again, as if he were blind and every vertebra, every rib, every delicate muscle and tendon, spoke to him in Braille.
And when that wasn’t enough to ease the ache of wanting, he ripped off his clothes and came to her in a driving rhythm so powerful that it rocked the world on its axis. So intimate that it cocooned them in a universe all their own, with neither space nor time nor wish for any other soul to share it with them.
“Mon Dieu,” he rasped against her mouth, as the tempo of their loving raced toward a stupendous finale, “what have you done to me, woman, that I’m so bewitched by you?”
She clung to him, desperate to halt the encroaching tremors building within her and prolong the pleasure. She turned her face to his neck and tasted the salt of his sweat as he fought his own demons of desire.
With her legs locked around his waist, she drew him deeper into her, fusing him to her so tightly that there was no discerning where he ended and she began. “I love you, Ethan,” she whispered, in thrall to the convulsive pleasure overtaking her. “I love you!”
In the Best Man's Bed Page 12
