Julian stood. “Chéri, you will understand that better after you meet him.” He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and towered above her like a hungry vulture eyeing his cornered prey.
“I see.” The words tumbled from her mouth. But frankly, she didn’t see at all. It made no sense.
“So, do we have a deal?” he asked, carefree and smoothly. He slid his hand out of his pocket and volunteered it as a gesture of good faith.
“There’s just one more thing.” She evaded his handshake overture. “We have to get married before we leave the States.” Considering she was born to distrust people, she insisted on a formal guarantee before her feet left American soil.
“If that makes you feel better. Sure.” He shrugged, way too calm, or foolish. “But we have to keep the American marriage under wraps.”
“Why?”
“There will be another, more elaborate wedding when we arrive in France. The six months will start after that one—”
“Wa...wait.” Camille flew up like a bottle rocket and teetered at his side. “When will the French wedding take place?” she asked, intrigued by the lengths he’d go to in order to pull off his ruse.
“Two weeks. A month.” His eyebrow quirked as if amused. Apparently he’d seen disapproval in her reaction, rather than intrigue.
Displeasure clamped her mouth shut and bulleted her head back.
“Surely, Chéri, for five million dollars an extra couple of weeks won’t matter?” Julian said, reading her all wrong.
But since he had, maybe she should just go with it. Evidently, it was what he expected and Camille thought it better to please. “You said six months.” She made it up as she went along. “Not six months and two weeks, or seven months.” Agitation echoed in her voice, unnerved and alarming. It scared even her. She added for good measure, “Six. Months.”
The rant made her question the whole crazy notion more than it solidified her decision to hop on board. What kind of idiot agrees to become some stranger’s wife for six months, anyway? One who’s lost her job, thanks to him. One who has a ton of student loans coming due, and no way to pay them. One who was afraid of being penniless and forced to live on the streets. That’s who.
Margo’s promise to blackball her on the L.A. circuit hadn’t done a thing to temper that fear. In fact, it magnified it. Whether her ex-boss could do that kind of damage or not was overshadowed by the possibility. And when she added all that to Julian’s vulnerable expression when he talked about not wanting to get roped into a loveless marriage, Camille found saying ‘no’ impossible.
That settled it. She was a desperate idiot who was about to agree to marry a hopeless fool.
Julian wanted to distract his father, and Camille Chandler was the perfect facade as well as a most agreeable diversion.
“Chéri, I can promise you it won’t be as bad as you imagine.” He’d stop calling her Chéri, but he liked the way it angered her and brightened her eyes.
Feistiness was the one quality she’d need, the spunkier the better, to mount a satisfactory defense against his father and Madeleine, Papa’s choice for Julian. Camille would have to be warned, he couldn’t risk them blindsiding her. But not until they arrived in France.
Acutely aware of his selfishness, Julian decided to wait because he didn’t want to begin his search again for a suitable replacement. It wasn’t like he was doing Camille a disservice. She’d held her own against him and she’d hold her own when confronted by his nemeses.
He eased back down onto the couch and gestured to the empty space at the other end. She looked at the vacant gap between them, at him and then back at the sofa again. Her hands nervously smoothed her skirt before she grudgingly sat and folded her hands in her lap.
“I promise it won’t be that bad,” he said again, not quite sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself.
“Yeah, so you say.” Her tone told him all he needed to know. She didn’t trust him.
“All right. Care to make a little wager?” The suggestion was nothing more than a means to ease the tension. Besides, a side bet might be fun. And who knew, if she’d enter into wagers so easily, then perhaps she’d end up in his bed just as effortlessly.
She cut her eyes at him. “What kind of wager?”
“Of course it will require that you declare complete honesty.” He let the mystery linger a little longer, simply because it aggravated her.
“How will you know I’m being completely honest?”
“I trust you, Chéri.” He held back the snicker, only releasing bits and pieces.
She let out a snort and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be as honest as you are sincere.”
“Aren’t they the same?”
She skewed her face into a twisted knot. “Can we get back to the point?”
Ah, good. She wouldn’t let his father or Madeleine trick her into disclosing information. “The point is that Pacifique de Lumière is well-known throughout Europe. You won’t be able to resist its charm and beauty.”
“Pacifique de Lumière,” she repeated, not nearly as fluently or confidently.
“It’s my family’s home near Marseilles.”
“So, what do you...live in a castle or something?” She snickered, as if her words were funny. “You know, I hear those things are like cold and damp.”
“No, Chéri. Not a castle.” A happy memory from his childhood, of his mother chasing him and Andre through the grove, paraded through his thoughts. A mild, pleasurable chuckle rippled up his throat. “Just a chateau that’s been in my family for about four hundred years.”
She sighed and frowned again.
“Oh, it’s been fully renovated and updated with all the latest modern-day amenities.”
That didn’t get her either. Her stoic expression suggested she couldn’t care less about his family’s home.
“Yeah, whatever.” She rolled her eyes and her voice faded, losing its steely edge. “What’s your point?”
“If you are not entirely mesmerized by the view, if not the chateau itself, I will double your pay.”
Finally, her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
“And just so we’re clear.” She paused, fidgeting in her seat. “What exactly do you get if I am somehow mesmerized?” She covered her mouth and coughed out something that sounded a lot like, “Bullshit.”
“Nothing quite so dark and lurid.” He propped his elbow atop the couch and chuckled before taking on a more serious tone. “Our six month marriage will begin on the day we are wed in France.”
She reached for his forehead like his mother used to do when he was a child, but Camille’s touch was different. It sparked hunger, warm and soft and unfamiliar, and sent it surging through to his core. He grabbed her wrist, a feeble attempt to distract himself from his intense emotions.
“I haven’t known you for very long,” she said over a half-giggle rippling through the air, “but I think there might be something wrong with you.”
He laughed and laced their fingers together. “Camille, you are going to drive my father insane.”
Her face relaxed into a knowing expression. “I thought so.” She made no move to withdraw her hand.
“You may not know as much as you think.”
“You may be surprised.”
“Hm...that’d be a first.” He wasn’t being terse. Women rarely surprised him. They were an open book, one that could be read from cover to cover in about five seconds but were seldom worth the time. Until now. Every word, action, hint and suggestion about Camille Chandler held him captive. He hoped he didn’t end up disappointed.
“Well that’s a pretty cynical outlook for a guy who’s got the world at his feet.” The spunk in her tone had returned full-force.
“The world at my feet?” he asked, more for amusement’s sake than curiosity.
“Well, anybody that’ll wager five million dollars on a bet that can easily be fixed has to have the world at their feet.”
> She had a point. She could lie. He’d be surprised if she didn’t. Money had a way of motivating people to do strange things. His motivation was freedom. Luckily, he had a virtually unlimited supply of cash to support his quirks.
But more than that, he got the impression she could use a break.
“Being me is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“And why is that?”
“Enough about me.” He leaned toward Camille and looked her over seductively. How he’d like to tangle his hand in those dark tresses and draw her to him. “Are you ready to leave the United States?”
“Just as soon as we’re married.”
Oh, that. “All right. I’ll leave the arrangements to you. It’s probably more efficient that way.” Julian had no interest in supervising the tedious preparations. The only thing he cared to oversee was the pre-nuptial agreement.
“Vegas.”
“Vegas?” What? She wanted to gamble? Perhaps his instincts had failed him and he’d made a bad choice.
“Vegas. It’s the quickest, easiest, simplest way to get hitched.”
Hitched? Oh, yes, an American idiom. Relief washed over Julian and relaxed his shoulders. Thank God. He’d hate to think he’d lost his edge.
“Vegas. That’s where we want to go.” Her eyes lit up, like she was enjoying herself. He liked it. “When do you want to go? Today? Tomorrow? I’m not sure when we can get a flight out.”
“Oh, we can go anytime you’re ready—”
“Let me guess.” She cut him off. “You have your own plane?”
“That I do, Chéri.”
“Look.” Her shoulders dropped and she blew out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve got to stop calling me that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Why?”
“I’m not really your darling. It’s not like we’re a real couple or anything.”
“For the next six months, Chéri, we will give every appearance of being just that.”
And if she succumbed to his charms during that time, so much the better.
She was beginning to blush a little and when she started to fidget, Julian grew anxious. He didn’t want her to get antsy and have second thoughts.
“Would you like to pack a few things, or purchase a new wardrobe?”
“Is that really necessary?” She paused, as if letting the idea of her clothes being inadequate settle into her thoughts. “Well, I guess my JC Penney look isn’t quite up to par for the de Laurent family, huh?” She opened herself up for a shot at ridicule. A quality only for the brave. She didn’t take herself seriously. Another trait Julian could appreciate.
“Camille.” He used her name purposely this time. “I think you look great no matter what you wear...but, as the wife of Julian de Laurent, certain responsibilities and expectations come with the arrangement.”
The look on her face said she understood. It also said she wouldn’t want the job for good.
“And being your wife includes dressing the part.”
She caught on quickly. Another positive. “You’ll wear the latest fashions from the finest designers. You’ll be draped in jewels that most people can’t even imagine. Those who can will envy you. Enjoy it, Chéri.” He went back to calling her by the French endearment. She needed to get used to it, because people would expect nothing less from a member of the de Laurent family.
“Are you going to make up some fantastical yet completely bogus background for me as well?” Her brittle tone oozed out and she stiffened with a disinterested, casual lack of concern. Clearly, she felt belittled and didn’t like it. That wasn’t his objective.
“You are who you are. The story is yours to tell.”
Julian had to make sure Camille was as comfortable as possible, because soon enough she’d learn about the couple of bulldogs waiting in her near future. It just couldn’t be right now.
Sure, the story may be mine to tell...but is he going to end up dictating it to me?
Even though Camille had her reservations, she intended to go through with his charade. What other choice did she have? Life on the streets in L.A. wasn’t pretty, and she didn’t want a firsthand look.
Marrying Julian wasn’t a jail sentence or anything. She’d love to know what it was like to slip into a one-of-a-kind Christian Dior, if only for a little while. And slipping into Julian’s arms wasn’t a bad idea either.
She peered at him, trying to find a reason to back out while sifting through all the advantages of following through at the same time. Money. A hottie husband—who cared if it wasn’t real. No worries for six months. Some potentially great sex. Luxuries beyond anything she could envision.
“Well, it might be fun to play rich for a little while,” she said, selling herself on the idea.
“On the contrary, Chéri, you will be rich, moderately so anyway. Remember, I am paying you five million dollars.”
Julian did have a point. But Camille had a feeling the degree of wealth she was about to experience was beyond her wildest dreams.
A fun prospect, but she was more concerned about ending up homeless and unable to find a job in the field which she’d spent tens of thousands of dollars on in educational fees.
She just wanted to get on with it and secure her future. And right now, marrying Julian de Laurent for the whole of six months seemed appealing for more than one reason. Of course, the option would cruise out the window real quick if he knew why she’d changed her mind.
No way could she tell him she’d lost her job at Disclosure Magazine when she refused to accept his proposal and turn the experience into a story. Like he’d really believe that now.
The question was, could they get to a wedding chapel in Vegas before he found out she and her employer had parted ways—or worse yet, ran across her bombshell of a friend Tasha?
CHAPTER THREE
CAMILLE HURRIED CLOSE behind Julian as they ascended the stairs up to the aircraft. He paused long enough to grab hold of her hand before entering a private jet that rivaled the size of most commercial airliners.
Her stomach churned with the uncertainty of not knowing if she was doing the right thing. Too late now. Her career was already ruined. And Julian owned at least part of that blame. If only he hadn’t come to America in search of a temporary wife.
Geez, weren’t there any gold diggers in Europe? Did he have to travel halfway around the world to buy himself a temporary wife?
Julian’s redeeming quality, besides his appeal, was that he seemed like a nice enough guy. Yeah, and they say Ted Bundy was charismatic too. Trusting him had gotten a whole lot of women killed.
Good Lord. Camille shook the insecurities out of her head. Julian was no killer. Unless you counted kindness and his to-die-for good looks as a weapon.
He stopped just inside the cabin and turned to face her with a gorgeous smile curling on his lips. “Make yourself comfortable.” He fanned a hand about the cabin. “I must speak with the captain, but I’ll return momentarily.”
Julian disappeared through a door near the plane’s entryway, leaving Camille alone with her paranoid insecurities.
Just breathe. Camille scanned the cabin. She should take a seat but she questioned her choice to be there. Did she deserve a five million dollar reward for perpetrating a fraud?
Probably not. But she didn’t deserve to be forced out on her ear either. She had no prospects of employment here in L.A.—thanks to Julian—and thousands in overdue student loans that he had agreed to pay off as part of their arrangement.
She’d bet the plush couches, even the chairs, were sumptuously comfortable and would lull her into a quick nap. The prospect of an uncertain future in L.A. lured her toward a beige leather chair. Easing down, she felt like she was settling into a cloud. She’d never experienced such luxury or comfort and welcomed it, encouraging it to settle her nerves.
Camille opened her eyes and studied the door where Julian had disappeared. She grabbed her pu
rse and dug out her cell phone. Not that there were too many people who’d be looking for her if she came up missing now that she’d lost her job, but there was Tasha. She’d make a big fuss. Camille didn’t want that. She’d better contact her but not on her cell. She brought up Tasha’s home number and set the call.
After a couple of rings, Tasha’s seductive voice greeted her caller. “Hey, it’s Tash. If you don’t know my cell then leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.” Her flirtatious delivery was overshadowed by her cutting words pointing out that some callers had limited access.
“Hey, Tash, I tried your cell but got nothing.” The lie came easily since it was for the greater good. “Listen, Margo gave me that big promotion I’ve been waiting for. The catch is, I’ve got to go out of town on a story. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone but it’ll probably be an extended assignment.” She stopped talking when Soren entered the cabin and approached her.
“Ms. Chandler, may I get you something to drink during our short flight to Las Vegas?” He paused, resting his hands behind his back. “Mr. de Laurent asked if the Bellagio will be satisfactory until we leave the U.S.?”
“I’ll call you later, okay?” she said into the phone. “Don’t worry. Everything’s cool.” After a bit of brief hesitation she disconnected the call. After a brief interlude of silence she turned to Julian’s valet. “Soren. Is that your first name?” she asked, slipping her phone into her bag.
“Yes ma’am.” He stood waiting for her direction.
“Can I just get some water or something?” Alcohol and her empty stomach weren’t a good match.
“Of course.” He moved to a small bar on the far side of the cabin. “And I take it the Bellagio will do?” Behind the counter, Soren prepared to serve her request.
Not used to having someone wait on her, Camille went to Soren’s side. Politely, she slipped the bottled water and the ice-filled glass from his hands and filled it herself.
“Sure.” She tried to hide her surprise and anticipation of a visit to the ritzy hotel. “The Bellagio is fine with me.”
The Marriage Bargain Page 3