by Sandra Hill
She bristled.
But did her mother notice, or care? No, she was adjusting the straps on Camille’s dress in a futile motherly attempt to raise the bodice.
Camille was tempted to swat her mother’s hands away.
“Be nice, Camille,” her mother said, patting her on the bare shoulder. “You will at least talk to him, won’t you? I’ve already told him you’re interested.”
“I already told you—” Camille started to say, but her mother was giving a little wave to more late arrivals at the door. Before leaving, her mother flashed Camille a pointed look of warning related to the newcomers, Dr. Julian Breaux, brother of the bride, and his very pregnant wife, Justine.
Her parents, and their friends, were academic snobs. They measured success not by wealth, but the number of degrees a person held. By their standards, she was an utter failure. Never mind that she was fighting to give them the freedom to pursue schooling to the nth degree. That was irrelevant.
As for her ex-fiancé, what did her mother think she was going to do? Dump a glass of wine in Julian’s too-pretty face? She’d already done that. Besides, her wineglass was empty. She set it on the tray of a passing waiter and took another. As for her former best friend, did her mother think she was going to karate chop her baby bump? Justine was history to Camille. Still her BFF, but instead of Best Friend Forever, she was now Bitch of a Former Friend. In Camille’s mind.
Taking a sip of the cool beverage for fortification, Camille sighed, then shrugged.
“What?” Harek asked.
“Huh?” She’d forgotten he was there. That’s how screwed up she was.
“You just muttered something about, ‘It is what it is.’ ”
“I did?”
“You did.” He asked something odd then. Well, odd to her. “Are you wealthy?”
“Me, personally? Hardly.”
“Your family. This little affair has to be costing twenty thousand dollars, and I’ve never seen so many Rolexes or expensive jewelry in one place. I get high just smelling all the gold here.”
It bothered her that Harek would be impressed by such things, but some men were like that. If he was looking to cash in with her, he was in for a rude awakening. She lived on a second lieutenant’s salary. “Wait until you see the wedding reception being planned by the bride’s family. Now, they are probably, as you say, reeking of gold. My parents are wealthy, too, depending on your definition of wealthy. Millionaires are a dime a dozen these days, I’ve been told.”
He nodded. “I recall a time when a handful of gold coins could buy a longship.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He was still surveying the room, probably mentally tallying the net worth of the whole gathering. Maybe he was really poor and unaccustomed to such excess.
She shouldn’t be so judgmental.
Maybe she was more like her parents than she’d thought.
“Listen, Harek, don’t be offended by my parents or some of the others here.”
“Because I am not wealthy?”
She shook her head. “No, the money is inherited. They’re intellectual snobs.”
He frowned in confusion. “I’m intelligent.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have doctor in front of your name, or a bunch of letters after your name.”
He was still obviously confused. “Why would that matter? Degrees are easy enough to obtain. I have an IQ of 200, but do you see me proclaiming that fact to the world? Why would I? My brothers would clout me aside the head with the flat side of a broadsword if I did.”
“Nobody has an IQ of 200,” she remarked with boozy irrelevance. She was beginning to feel the effect of her one glass of wine on an empty stomach.
He arched his brows at her in disagreement.
Despite herself, Camille kept looking over at Julian and Justine, who had garnered a small crowd, the men shaking his hand in congratulations and the women patting Justine’s big belly.
“Can I assume that is one of your near-husbands?” Harek asked, following the direction of her stares. He was too perceptive, or else she was too transparent. Probably the latter.
“Yes. Dr. Julian Breaux, a heart surgeon, is my third ex-fiancé. And that’s Julian’s wife, Justine. She used to be my best friend, since nursery school.”
“The third, huh? How long ago did you end the engagement?” he asked.
It was nice of him to assume that she was the one who’d broken the engagement, which she had been. With cause. But Camille didn’t want to talk about it. In fact, if it wouldn’t be too obvious, she’d like to slip out of the room and go somewhere to get drunk, or at least mind-numbing buzzed. None of this was Harek’s fault, though, and she didn’t want to be rude to him. “Six months ago,” she replied.
“Six . . . ?” Harek looked at Julian, Justine, and then Camille. “Ah!”
It didn’t take an IQ of 200 or even 100 to figure that one out.
“And they expect you to stand here and pretend naught is wrong?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure who the “they” was that he referred to, but she nodded.
“I do not think so,” he said. He placed his half-empty wineglass on a sideboard and took hers out of her hand, as well. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly, long and openmouthed and wet—there might have been tongues involved—until her knees started to buckle. The silence around them was loud as cymbals clashing. Even the music seemed to have paused. Only then did he wrap an arm around her shoulders and lead her toward the still open doorway.
“Prince Charming to the rescue?” she inquired. When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Are you going to be my Prince Charming, or something?”
“Or something.” She could see that anger simmered just beneath the surface of his stony face. On her behalf? That was nice. Not necessary, but nice.
“Where are we going?” she whispered, trying not to notice the stunned guests they passed. Or Julian, the louse.
“Does it matter?”
She thought only for a second before answering, “Hell, no!”
Chapter 6
The morning-after blues . . .
At five-thirty the next morning, Harek was sitting on the back verandah of Evermore, a historic Greek Revival home in the old Garden District of New Orleans—a home with a name, for cloud’s sake—watching as dawn emerged over the formal gardens spread out before him. Magnolias, lilies, dahlias big as saucers, roses . . . all contributed to the explosion of color.
His brother Ivak, who was renovating a run-down plantation in Terrebonne Parish known by the oxymoronic title of Heaven’s End, ought to see this; it would give him some good ideas for his own overgrown landscape. Not that Ivak didn’t have enough on his plate just removing snakes and kudzu and such.
This was the kind of place Harek would like to own. Old architectural details, but modern amenities. Understated elegance. Rare examples of antique Newcomb pottery made by eighteenth-century New Orleans artists were displayed throughout, but top-of-the-line appliances shone with stainless steel polish in the kitchen. The gleam of old patina showed in the grain on the mantels of many cypress fireplaces, even though the house boasted full-house air-conditioning. A home, or estate, with a name. He figured the house must be worth at least two million dollars, and if you added in some of its museum-quality oil paintings, double that.
Of course, a modern penthouse in a Manhattan skyscraper would be welcome, too.
Or a chateau in the French wine region.
But he would never get away with such blatant displays of wealth with Michael looking over his shoulder. If the archangel said once, he said a thousand times, “Poverty is next to godliness,” to which Harek usually replied, “I do not see the logic in that,” to which Michael usually replied, “Live with it!”
Truth to tell, Harek owned a discreet hideaway on a Caribbean island, which he’d managed to keep a secret for more than a year. It was only a matter of time before Michael found out, and Harek’s punishment wou
ld be immense. Betimes a pleasure was worth the pain, he had decided. Besides, it is a good investment, Harek declared to himself. He wondered if Michael would buy that defense.
He’d learned about the property from Zebulan, who was, of all things, a demon vampire, who happened to own a Caribbean island hideaway himself. Which was odd . . . that a devil would do a favor for an angel. The only thing a Lucipire gave a vangel under normal circumstances was trouble. Well, actually, Zeb was a double agent of sorts for Michael, but that was another story.
Harek held a mug of strong chicory coffee cradled between both palms. His laptop was open on a low table in front of his chair, along with a china plate holding a half-eaten beignet, still warm from the oven. He’d already eaten one of the delicious New Orleans confections. When he’d crept barefooted down the wide staircase of the silent house a short time ago, wearing only jeans and a white T-shirt, he’d fully expected to make his own cup of coffee, but there had been a servant in the kitchen already—the cook, Tenecia—preparing for what would be a busy wedding day in this household of the groom. In fact, there were several uniformed servants moving quietly about the house, polishing silver, dusting furniture. Although they didn’t refer to them as servants, or even “the help,” like that telling book of the same title a few years back. Too politically incorrect. They were household professionals.
The church wedding wouldn’t start until five p.m., and the reception was being held afterward at General’s Palace, right here in the Garden District, but there was still much activity that would be going on here. That was the reason for the early activity. Harek planned to be gone by then, and stay away most of the day. The less he was under the eagle eye of Camille’s mother, the better. Best not to raise too many questions about who, or what, he was. Besides, the woman annoyed him, especially the way she treated her daughter. It was none of his business, of course, but that didn’t mean he had to willingly expose himself to such condescension.
“You’re up early,” he heard a voice say behind him.
He half turned to see Camille standing in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee to her chest like it was the Holy Grail. Where was the beauty of last night? This creature was barefooted, like himself, wearing shorts with a matching tank top of a bright neon green color that hurt his tired eyes. No bra as far as he could tell, and he could tell things like that, not because he was a vangel, but because he was a man, a Viking man. Men had supersonic vision when it came to even the hint of a female nipple. Her makeup was smeared, creating a raccoon effect about the eyes and a smudged red, bruised effect on her lips. Her hair was a tangled mess, lopsided, where she must have been sleeping. She still wore one dangling silver earring. The other was in his suit pocket; she’d dropped it in one of the bars they’d visited in the French Quarter.
The last he’d seen of her, she’d still been wearing the sexy red dress, and she’d been plastered face-first on her bed where he’d delivered her about two a.m. She’d been deep in what they called in the old days “alehead madness.” In other words, schnockered.
“You’re up early, too. I thought you’d stay in bed all morning. You’ve only had three hours’ sleep,” he replied, watching as she managed to sink down into the chair next to him with a groan, being careful not to spill her coffee. She eyed the half-eaten beignet on his plate with distaste, and groaned when a bird chirped in a nearby tree.
Can anyone say hangover?
“Pfff! I have to be at the dressmaker’s by eight to have a first and final fitting for my bridesmaid dress.” Her upper lip curled with disgust as she added, “It’s pink.” She informed him of the color as if that should have some meaning to him.
It didn’t.
“Actually, its color is described as blush, but it’s been my experience that blush is just a bridal shop’s way of luring a customer into a putrid pink bridesmaid-from-hell confection. They have a surplus of these monstrosities they’ve been trying to unload for a hundred years. Just like celery means baby-poop green, and tangerine means screaming Halloween orange.” She sipped at her coffee after expounding that bit of female wisdom, which meant absolutely nothing to him. “I think Inez has lost her mind, having such a big wedding. At one point she even wanted a Southern belle theme. Hoop skirts, mint juleps, the works. Really, weddings turn even the most intelligent women into dingbats. I told her that, if she thought my brother was suddenly going to morph into Rhett Freakin’ Butler, I had a plantation called Tara I could sell her. Luckily she saw reason. The wedding reception will still be a bigass extravaganza, but at least I won’t have to wear hoops. Just pink.”
Camille’s woozy spiel amused Harek. She was probably still a little bit drunk.
“Well, you could go back to bed after the fitting, couldn’t you?”
“Are you kidding? I intend to be out of here for the rest of the day. My mother has lined up hairdressers, manicurists, makeup artists, a masseuse, and God only knows who else coming to the house to prepare us for the wedding. Did I tell you there are three hundred invited guests for the reception? I could puke.”
“Please don’t.”
“I already did.”
Too much information. “Where will you go?” Maybe she has a hideaway, like I do.
“I could take you sightseeing in Nawleans or on a swamp tour.”
Her offer was made so reluctantly that he had to laugh. “No need to entertain me. I intend to go visit my brother at his plantation outside Houma. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for the festivities.”
She looked at him with such yearning that he asked, “Would you like to go with me?”
“Yes! Could you wait ’til after my fitting? I’ll be done before nine.”
He tried to school his face not to show his disappointment. He’d been looking forward to this time alone, away from her tempting, troubling floral aura. And, yes, the air reeked of roses now, and not from the gardens, either.
“You’ll probably be bored. My brother Ivak and his wife, Gabrielle, have a child, and all they talk about is Mikey-this, Mikey-that.”
She smiled. “I like children.”
“Why don’t you have some of your own?”
“Why don’t you?”
I did. Once upon a time. Not all it’s cracked up to be, fatherhood. But then, I was not a good father. I wonder if I would be different now. Hah! No use wondering about that. Vangels were sterile. Across the board, none of them could breed children. Except for Ivak, who was the exception. A mistake. A blessed mistake, Michael was always quick to add, especially since the child was named after him. Ivak ever was a suck-up, always had been, in Harek’s opinion.
But all he replied to Camille was “Touché!”
“I’ll let you drive my Benz convertible if you take me with you?”
“You have a Mercedes Benz?” This woman never ceased to surprise him.
She nodded. “A gift when I graduated from high school. In hopes, no doubt, that I would go to college and excel academically and make my family proud of me. Especially my father, the cheater, who has two families and sees no irony in dishonoring his wife, and my mother, who puts up with the insult. Great role models!”
Huh? He could tell Camille immediately regretted her words, and Harek wasn’t about to delve into that personal family minefield. Instead he asked, “Are they not proud of you for your military career?”
“Not even a little.”
He could tell that was a sore subject, as well; so, he changed it. Even Vikings could be sensitive when they wanted to be. “If you own a luxury vehicle, why are we driving a Toyota?”
“I keep my car here. Can you imagine how I would be razzed back on the base if I rode around in a seventy-thousand-dollar vehicle? Actually, there are four Benz out in the garage. Mine, my mother’s, my father’s, and Alain’s. And probably his other . . . never mind. Suffice it to say, we’re a Benz family.” She waggled her eyebrows at him.
More examples of a wealth he yearned to have once again. And he wouldn’t even n
eed a Mercedes Benz. A BMW would do.
“You might want to shower and change before your fitting.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ll have to leave in an hour.”
She put a hand to her unruly hair and grimaced. “What? You’re embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“No. You can stagger along looking like you barely survived a longship ride on a stormy North Sea, for all I care, but if you run into your mother, she will never let you leave the house.” Actually, he was really glad that she looked so bad this morning. It took the edge off the dangerous attraction he’d been feeling toward her. Life mate? Hah!
“Oh Lord! You’re right. And I probably smell, too.”
“That you do,” he said. “Like a rose. A vomity rose.” He smiled at her to lessen the insult and did a mental high-five. Vomity roses held no appeal. He’d escaped a bullet this time, and he knew it.
The laughter he heard then probably came from some distant place in the house. Not in his head.
The ghosts of brides past . . .
The bridesmaid dress wasn’t as bad as Camille had expected and it hadn’t required much in the way of alterations. Definitely blush-colored, not pink-pink, it was a short-sleeved, figure-hugging silk gown, much like that worn by Pippa Middleton in the royal wedding. Unlike the notorious Pippa gown, Camille’s had a deeply scooped neckline, exposing some cleavage, not a draped one, and there were lots of tiny buttons in back, but instead of leading from the neck, Camille’s started mid-back and ended mid-butt. That’s all she needed, folks staring at her butt, not that she didn’t have a great butt, thanks to all those forced crunches. The finished product would be delivered to Evermore this afternoon. She could have done without the matching blush-colored high heels, but all in all, she felt as if she’d dodged a bullet.
Now she had to face the other bullet in her life. The chocolate-scented one that was screwing up her hormones and turning her brain to mush. Why else would she have invited herself along on his trip to visit his brother? And even worse, she’d almost jumped the man’s bones last night, and she couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol.