by Aria Scott
Camille staggered back a few steps. “Monsieur wants a wedding dress and complete wardrobe in two hours?”
I glanced at Aubrey. She gave me a slight nod yes.
“Mademoiselle wants it,” I answered. “Can you do it or not?”
“Oui, Monsieur, if anyone can do it, I can.” Camille immediately began to shuffle through style books piled on a countertop.
Aubrey walked away and examined a few dresses on mannequins, caressing the material and examining the beads. Occasionally she looked my way, as if searching for reassurance, and I nodded. Anything and everything in the store would be hers, if she wanted it.
The shop owner paused to watch her with wide eyes. “She is perfection, is she not?”
“She is,” I agreed.
“So slender, yet soft and curvy. Your hand must ache to touch her.”
Unwilling to admit how close Camille had come to the truth, I grunted in reply.
“Yes, she’s quite a beauty,” the older woman went on. “No wonder you want to marry her. And with you so big and handsome, the two of you make a delightful pair.”
Even though it was unintentional, every word Camille said seemed to drive a knife deeper into my heart. I looked pointedly at the style books. “What do you have for her?”
Camille refocused on the books. “Shall I call mademoiselle over here to choose?”
“I’ll choose.”
“Oui, right.” The older woman’s eyes passed over me like a scanner--clearly my attitude had intrigued her. “What style of wedding dress are you interested in?”
“Traditional.”
“And your budget?”
“The price doesn’t concern me. Just make sure that on our wedding day, she’s wearing something that flatters her.”
Camille eyed me with consternation. “Of course she’ll be dressed in something that flatters. It is insulting for you to suggest I’d sell you anything else. I’ll call Raphael’s Bridal Couture, and consult with Raphael. We’ll have something delivered to your penthouse within the week.”
I nodded, aware that a young guy with slicked back hair, expensive-looking jeans and a striped linen shirt had just walked into the store. I saw these kinds of guys all the time in Miami--models for Gucci or Givenchy, who made millions smiling at the camera and thought the world was theirs for the taking. This one was checking Aubrey out--his gaze was roving greedily over her breasts and down her legs, as if he could see right through her shirt and jeans.
When she looked up and noticed him, she smiled casually, in a friendly way, and this was all he needed. Next thing I knew, he was returning her smile with a broad one of his own and winding through the displays in her direction. She hesitated, clearly confused by his approach, and he took this pause as even more of an invitation. He walked eagerly toward her, a come-on already trembling on his lips.
Immediately I saw red. No way was some phony model going to make friends with my wife, only to fuck her later when I wasn’t looking. Besides that, she wasn’t some loose piece of ass for another man to strip down with his gaze. I crossed the room in the blink of an eye and grabbed the back of his shirt, just as he reached her.
“Get away from her, buddy,” I growled, as I hauled him backward and shook him like a rat. “You touch her, and I’ll smear you from one side of this store to the other.”
The model’s eyes bugged out his head. Aubrey stepped back, her expression stunned. Camille flew across the room and grabbed my arm. “Let him go, let him go! He meant no harm. He’s just a boy.”
A snarl curling my lip, I dropped him.
The kid immediately stood up and scurried back. “Sorry, dude!”
Camille grabbed his arm and hustled him toward the door, scolding in both English and French the entire time. Neither Aubrey nor I moved while she was gone. Once she had him out of the store, she returned to my side.
“Monsieur, I am so sorry,” Camille said. “He’s so stupid, that kid. He is my nephew, and every time he comes in here, he does something stupid and I have to throw him out.” She dragged in a breath, then shrugged. “Ah, but he is French too, and he can’t help but appreciate a beautiful woman.” She looked at both of us to assess the effect of her apology.
I raised a mocking eyebrow. I still wanted to punch someone.
The older woman frowned and turned to Aubrey. She took Aubrey’s hands in her own. “He’s promised to stay away. Please, can we forget this happened?”
“Of course,” Aubrey said, her voice faint.
“Very good.” Camille was suddenly all business. “You, Monsieur, go sit down,” she ordered, pointing to a pink velvet sofa. “We will consult with you when we need you.”
Scowling, I took a seat on the sofa and watched as Camille pointed Aubrey to some style books, and then brought out swatches of material for her to sample. They looked at sheer fabrics for lingerie, examined bras and panties, and then began paging through a magazine containing wedding dresses.
I picked up a magazine too, and pretended to be absorbed in it, but in reality I was straining to eavesdrop on what Camille was saying to Aubrey. I wanted to make sure Aubrey was treated with both friendship and respect--two things that she apparently hadn’t gotten at the Papillon d'Or.
“Chase is very possessive of you,” I heard Camille saying. “And he’s going to have to fight many men to keep you.”
Anger simmering in my gut, I flipped a magazine page.
“You are very innocent-looking,” the older woman observed, her voice kindly. “And yet, one has only to glance at you, and think of the bedroom. It’s a devastating combination. He would have done better to fall in love with me.”
Aubrey’s hand paused over a piece of silk. “It’s not like that.”
“Oui, ma cherie, it is. He almost killed my nephew just for looking at you.”
“Oh.”
I looked up then, and saw her gaze fastened on me. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes, along with a shy kind of longing I’d never seen before.
Heat coiled in my gut at the way she was looking at me. I knew what she was telling me, and what she wanted, even if she didn’t know it herself. Determined to remind her how good it would feel to surrender to me, I caught her gaze and refused to release it. Her lips parted, and I saw that she was breathing more quickly. Deliberately I focused my attention lower, on her breasts, and then to those long legs of hers, noticing that her gaze remained on my face as I did so. She clearly couldn’t look away.
I smiled as I returned my attention to her face, and then settled it on her lips. I saw them trembling. Her entire body seemed to be quivering.
My smile becoming wider, I finally looked back down at the magazine.
“Come, Aubrey,” Camille urged. “Let’s look at a few dresses.” She clapped her hands and drew the sales girls around her. “Ladies, we need to pull an entire wardrobe together in two hours. We are looking for sexy--” She shot a quick, concerned glance at me, then hurried on. “--but classy. I want greens, blacks, blues, purples. No oranges or yellows. And if you’re daring, show me something pink.”
Suddenly feeling better about everything, I put the magazine down. What followed was a fashion parade of sales girls modeling one outfit after another for Aubrey. Aubrey picked the ones she liked and, slowly, Camille assembled enough clothes to fill in one side of my walk-in closet. After the clothes came shoes--some high heels, and others more casual. With Camille’s guidance, Aubrey picked out at least a dozen pairs, and then turned to purses, a few of them so big they could have doubled as saddle bags.
By three o’clock, we had the job done. While Aubrey relaxed with a glass of wine, I paid the bill--and didn’t even wince at the fifty-thousand-dollar price tag. Having her feel comfortable around the Miami crowd was worth it to me, and looking good was the most important thing anyone could do, at least where Miami was concerned.
We had about an hour before her appointment at the salon, so I decided to take her to a little place I’d never stopped at befo
re, but I thought she would like. It was called the Pukita Kitty Cafe, and supposedly satisfied both coffee connoisseurs and cat lovers. We needed a break, and I figured that this was just the place to do it.
Her exclamation of delight when we walked inside proved me right. Straight ahead, a coffee bar offering dozens of different types of coffees and coffee-based frothy drinks; and to the right, a large room with sofas, chairs and tables, all done in pink and white. The owners, a friendly couple who said they were long-time cat fanatics, explained that you could buy coffee, and then take it into the Cat Play Room to hang with the cats, who lounged on the furniture and played with feathers, felt mice and springy toys.
Her eyes shining with happiness, she took the coffee frappachino I bought for her, and we went together into the Cat Play Room. While I chatted with the owners and found out how they’d managed to set a place like this up--by taking advantage of a few loopholes in city laws--Aubrey petted the cats and fed them treats. By the time we were ready to leave, an idea was forming in the back of my head. I made a mental note to investigate further, and then call Gage to get the ball rolling in Grove.
Once we finished our coffees and she’d finally managed to part with the cats, we continued on to the salon, where the salon’s owner, Danny, personally attended to her and advised her on the best services and products for her hair. After I was sure she was all set and would be busy for an hour or so, I strolled over to Cartier’s and picked out a diamond platinum engagement ring with a four-carat rock. Yeah, I was being a little extravagant for a fake marriage, but I figured that expensive might make our wedding more believable. Again, I paid a big bill and then returned to the salon with the ring in my pocket.
Just as I walked through the door, she came out of the back of the salon, and I stopped short on seeing her. Danny had straightened her curly red hair, until it hung like a silk curtain down her back. He’d done something else to her hair--highlights, maybe--and had put makeup on her, too. She was so gorgeous, I could barely drag my gaze away.
She smiled with a confidence that told me she loved what Danny had done. “Hey Chase, I’m ready.”
I glanced at the paper bag she had hanging from her wrist. “You bringing some stuff home?”
“It’s just hair products and makeup.” She gave me an uncertain glance. “Is that okay?”
I grinned as I grabbed her arm, drew her close, and kissed the top of her shining head. “Of course.” I turned and threw Danny a grateful look. “Thanks, buddy.”
“She’s a sweetheart,” Danny replied.
I went to the counter and paid yet another big bill, then escorted her outside. Slowly we wandered toward the parking garage, with me keeping a close eye on the other men who saw her and did a double-take. “You hungry?” I asked.
“Not really. Danny had snacks.”
I hid a smile at the thought of Danny’s reaction, if he’d heard her calling his hors d’oeuvres snacks, and steered her toward a fountain surrounded by exotic flowers.
Impulsively she grabbed my hand. “I feel like Cinderella after a visit from her fairy godmother.”
I looked behind my shoulder blades, then reported, “No wings back there.”
She laughed. We walked companionably for a few more minutes. I had a sudden, painful vision of what things could really be like if we were lovers and a couple in reality. Then, she stopped and turned to me. Her eyes looked dark. “What am I going to do with all of these clothes once we’re...ah...divorced?”
“You’ll keep them,” I replied.
She gave me an incredulous look. “Keep them? Are you serious?”
“What am I going to do with them?” I asked nonchalantly. “Consider them a perk of the job.”
“Thanks.” She sounded overwhelmed. Her grasp on my hand tightened.
I steered her over to the fountain with the exotic flowers. We paused there, admiring the artistry of it. After a few seconds, I released her hand and dug into my pocket. “I have something else for you.”
Her eyes widened. She searched my face with an intense look.
I pulled out the ring and held it up for her to see. It sparkled in the sun and sent out rainbows of color against the concrete walkway.
She gasped. Stared. And finally said, “It’s beautiful.”
“Will you marry me, Aubrey?” I asked gently.
She lifted her left hand for me. I saw that she was shaking. “I will.”
I took her hand in mine and slowly slid the engagement ring onto her ring finger. Once it was down past her knuckle, I let her go. She stared at the ring on her finger and seemed to be struck mute.
I tilted her head up to mine, so I could look into her eyes. I saw that they were moist with tears. Impulsively I pressed a very light kiss against her lips.
She gulped and looked down at her hand again. “It’s just business.”
“Just business,” I agreed.
Without warning, someone touched my arm. I turned and saw a young couple smiling widely. They were pushing a stroller with twins in it and had stopped at the fountain too.
“Congratulations,” the woman said. “You two, you’re beautiful together. I remember when we were in love like that.”
“Then the twins came,” her husband added with a little laugh. “Make sure you wait a few years and enjoy each other before starting a family.”
Chapter 14
Aubrey
“Why are we doing this again?” Small beads of sweat began to gather on my forehead as we circled up yet another flight of stairs.
Chase grimaced. “This is great exercise for my ankle, and the therapist said I have to keep trying to strengthen it, even after it’s healed. Just one more floor to go. C’mon. At least try to keep up with me, slowpoke.”
As I climbed the last few steps, my pace slowed to a crawl. “This doesn’t seem like such a great idea, Chase. If this guy is such an expert, he’ll see right through our charade.”
He stopped at the top of the landing waiting for me to make it up. “Relax, Aubrey. We’re not trying to fool him. He’s a relationship coach. My agent said he’s a master at helping couples get through rough patches in their relationships. For us, he’ll help us feel more comfortable together, so we look and act more natural together as a couple.”
I finally made it to the top step. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a shrink before.”
“He’s not a shrink. He’s a coach. Big difference.”
A plaque on the wall indicated that Dr. Arjun Goswami was located in Suite 3B, which was down the hall to the right. I reluctantly followed Chase towards Dr. Goswami’s office.
I was positive that this was a big mistake. Maybe Chase’s agent had convinced him, using terms Chase was familiar with like ‘coach’ instead of counselor or therapist, but I wasn’t fooled. This man, with the jumble of letters after his name – none of which I recognized – was bound to psychoanalyze us every which way to Sunday and it would all be rubbish since it was all predicated on a lie. At best, this was likely a waste of time and at worst a complete nightmare, but Chase had been so enthusiastic about it helping us that I had stupidly agreed to go along with it.
We reached the door to his office. “I’m not sure this is going to help. It’s not too late to rethink this, Chase.”
He couldn’t be persuaded. “Joe said this guy is one of the best in the country and very discreet. Celebrities have gone to him. He certainly charges a pretty penny, so he better be damn good.”
Before I could protest further, he opened the door. I was expecting to enter a waiting room of sorts, but instead, we were greeted by Dr. Goswami himself.
As we entered, he stood up from behind a large wooden desk. He was a middle-aged man of Indian descent with thick-framed glasses and dark hair graying at the temples. He introduced himself speaking with an Indian accent. “Namaste. I am Dr. Arjun Goswami. Please have a seat so we can exchange pleasantries.”
At first glance, the small room appeared an ordinary therapist�
�s office. Distinguished looking man seated behind an organized desk. Neutral colored décor – beige drapes, beige carpeting and a beige couch that sat across from the desk. Even a small table with a coffee maker and coffee fixings placed against the far wall.
But as Chase and I settled onto the couch, I immediately noticed some oddities. Besides the colorful poster of India on the wall, all the other artwork was erotic in nature. Naked women. Naked men. Couples in impossible sexual positions. Orgies even. I wouldn’t consider most of the sketches and paintings tastefully done – they were crude and vulgar. On the good doctor’s desk, were sculptures of the same nature, many of them quite obscene.
I arched an inquiring eyebrow at Chase, but he just shrugged. Maddeningly, he didn’t seem to find anything amiss.
Dr. Goswami steepled his fingers as he rested his elbows on the desk. “Well, I can see that you are quite uncomfortable, Miss. Do you find coitus to be dirty?”
I blinked as I mentally deciphered his heavy accent. “Coitus? You mean, sex? No, I don’t think it’s dirty.”
“Yet, you act childishly when presented with it. I sense sexual repression with you. It is very common. We can fix that quite easily if you are willing.” Dr. Goswami began retrieving something from a drawer in his desk.
“Take this, Miss.” Dr. Goswami leaned across his desk and handed me the object he had retrieved from the drawer.
It was a smooth rock, surprisingly heavy, about the size of my palm with an indentation carved out of the middle of it. The indentation looked well worn, like it had been rubbed smooth for many centuries.
“This represents your yoni. Cradle it in your hand,” Dr. Goswami instructed. “Place the fingertip of your other hand in the center of your yoni and stroke up and down. Breathe deeply with each stroke.”
I failed to see how this was going to help us convincingly fake a marriage, but I did as the doctor instructed.
The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “A little bit faster…”