There was a small bottle of perfume on the counter and intrigue pushed her to examine it. The name was in French and she had trouble reading it, but she thought it had something to do with flowers or maybe the sun. She couldn’t tell. She pressed the gold-tipped sprayer into the air and sniffed. The scent reminded her of orange blossoms.
Camille shrugged and sprayed it over her naked body. She thought about dressing in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt but grabbed the robe instead.
It is silk, she thought, wrapping herself in the soft luxury, enjoying the feel against her bare skin.
She went back to the bedroom and paused a moment. Did the robe make her look promiscuous? Who cares? She pushed the uneasiness aside and opened the door. Julian was her husband and they needed to at least look like they were intimate, especially to the staff—whom she had no doubt were reporting back to Maurice.
The red silk clung to her skin as she strolled through the hallway and out into the ship’s main lounge.
A taupe couch hugged the far wall and rounded both corners, covering half the room’s parameter. Dozens of pillows, the colors of creamy butter, crimson, and a pale green had been placed on the couch to provide guests with added comfort. Artwork hung on the walls above the couch, and artifacts, probably priceless ones, were displayed strategically around the room. Everything had a feminine touch to it. Claudette was better than most interior decorators.
Julian was sitting on a stool at the bar nestled in the corner, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats. The black fleece hugged his waist, the color didn’t distract from the chiseled muscles rippling underneath his bronzed skin. His ebony curls, still damp from the rain, glistened against the soft lights illuminating the wet bar.
Camille surveyed the room one more time. The couch’s center had a direct line to his stool and seemed like the best vantage point. She dropped to the sofa and covered a large portion with her long legs, crossing one over the other.
Glancing up, she saw Julian staring at her. Anxiety pounded her heart against her chest. Nobody had ever looked at her like that.
Thunder roared and vibrated through the boat and shook Camille’s composure. She jumped up and charged toward the window, analyzing the rough seas. Hopefully, they weren’t going to set sail in this mess.
She sucked in a deep breath and turned to Julian, pointing out the window. “We aren’t going out in this weather, are we?”
“No.” He shook his head. “We’ll wait until the storm clears. Probably tomorrow.” He drained his glass and poured another. “Can I get you a drink? Dinner is about half an hour away.”
“Sure.” She folded her arms in front of her and turned back to the window, mesmerized by the storm’s ferocity.
Camille had a feeling she was going to need a drink. Lots of them. Between the boat thing—she’d never learned to swim—and a creeping desire for Julian—her husband in name only—she was going to need all the help she could collect.
Julian rose and strolled behind the bar. He’d anticipated her need for a drink and put some champagne on ice as soon as he’d changed out of his wet clothing. His competitive nature enjoyed it when his hunches proved right.
Camille clutched her hands behind her back, fidgeting. Julian suspected the missing dress was to blame. It wouldn’t surprise him. He couldn’t censure her for thinking twice after what happened with her wedding gown and then the weather. She’d graciously and valiantly gone through with the ceremony, wet hair and all, in one of the outfits he’d bought her earlier in the week.
Julian still believed Madeleine had something to do with the missing garment.
It made Madeleine look like a fool, and a hopeless one at that. Imagine thinking a missing dress would stop the wedding. Thankfully, it was just a business arrangement and while Camille had expressed disappointment over not getting the chance to wear the dress, she had gladly and graciously agreed that any outfit would suffice.
He grabbed a couple of glasses from the rack, sat them on the counter and reached for the bottle of chilled champagne.
As soon as he figured out what Madeleine had done with the dress, he was going to retrieve it and give it to Camille as a gift so she could wear it when she was ready for a bonafide marriage.
And Andre thought Julian was selfish. Shows how much he knows.
Lightning flashed, casting a brief but welcomed glimpse of her beauty. Curves outlined her shapely figure beneath her silk robe as she approached the bar and hopped onto a stool. Loose tendrils of still damp blonde hair softened and framed her flawlessly stunning face.
Julian poured champagne and handed her a glass. “You were a great sport today, wearing a replacement gown at the ceremony.”
She wrapped her fingers around the flute’s stem. “Well, it’s not like it was that important.” She sipped the champagne. “Omens don’t count for arranged marriages.” She smiled girlishly, and the sight of it swept through Julian leaving him wanting to kiss her.
“Omens?” He moved around the bar and sat on the stool beside her.
“Well, if we were getting married for real...I would’ve called it a sign.”
“Maybe it’s still a sign.”
“Nah, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Then how does it work?”
“It’s only a bad sign if we were actually in love.”
“Who says signs have to be bad?”
“A missing dress is bad.” She slipped off the bar stool and moved to her original position on the couch.
“I can see why you’d think that.” He followed her, draining his glass.
His empty champagne flute clinked as it made contact with the marble-top coffee table. Julian sat, leaving little space between himself and Camille, leaned back and looked at her. It’s a shame a woman such as her—with all her beauty, wit and charm—couldn’t have a real wedding night to go with the very legal ceremony.
“What do you think happened to the dress?” Camille’s soft, sweet voice invaded his happy thoughts.
He’d give her three guesses and the first two didn’t count. In a word—Madeleine. But without proof, Julian wasn’t comfortable making accusations. “I could only guess, Chéri.”
“Yeah, and your first two don’t count.”
What the hell? A manic, crazed feeling slammed Julian’s heart to the floor. He swallowed the panic and lugged his heart up into his chest. “When we return to Marseilles,” he said, commanding himself to relax, “I will find out what happened to your dress.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter.” She shrugged, disappointed. “It’s not like there was really anything to spoil by stealing it.”
Her words left no guessing on the matter. She suspected, just as Julian did, that someone, probably Madeleine, had stolen the dress.
“But the dress is yours, Chéri,” he said, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa. “No matter the circumstances. The dress was made for you. It belongs to you.”
She smiled and seemed to soften, melting into a display of agreeability. “You’re an awfully nice guy, Julian.” A tremor touched her lips. “No wonder Madeleine’s blowing a gasket.”
Julian laughed. Partly because the last thing he ever wanted to be thought of was a nice guy, but mostly because he found her American point of view hilarious. Blowing a gasket. How amusing.
An attendant appeared in the doorway next to the wet bar. He waited until Julian acknowledged him with a slight nod.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Will you and Mrs. de Laurent be dining in here, or do you prefer one of the dining areas?”
Julian looked at Camille. She shrugged, a clueless look shaping on her face. He thought about a romantic candlelit dinner up on deck overlooking the sea, but it was still raining. Eating in here in the lounge was out of the question. He didn’t have many memories of his mother, but one of the few he had was about this place. She’d never allowed food in this room, beyond hors d’oeuvres.
“The dining room,” he said.
He reached for his glass of wine, needing to sate the fires ignited while he’d gazed upon Camille in the candlelight. Her crystal eyes sparkled in the flame’s glow. Her mouth was inviting and begged to be kissed—long, slow, and hard.
Moaning desire charged up Julian’s throat. He disguised it by clearing it out in a regimented cough.
Camille looked agitated. How was he going to get her to relax? What had her so wound up? Surely the dress wasn’t an issue still. Granted, he saw how the whole missing dress episode could be unsettling, but he and Camille weren’t actually committed to one another. It wasn’t like it was a real omen. She’d pointed that out. Maybe it was all for show. A real bride would be devastated. And Camille was, after all, an actress.
But he couldn’t help thinking there was something more to her anxiety. She’d been fiddling with her silverware. Cutting, poking and stirring the food on her plate all through dinner and dessert. Finally, she laid the fork down, the prongs resting on the edge of the dish, and raised her gaze to meet his.
“We need to talk.” She rested her wrists against the edge of the table and rubbed her thumb against her forefinger.
Ah, perhaps I’m about to find out what’s gotten her so upset. Julian sighed. If he knew what was bothering her, he could fix it. There was always a way to fix a woman’s disappointment. You just had to know how to go about it, and Julian was an expert in that department.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, opening the door to any possibility.
“Look, I know where you and I stand on our marriage,” she said provisionally. “But you yourself have said, more than once, that you want it to appear real.”
That notion aroused old anxieties. “To everyone, including my family, our marriage must appear authentic.” Obviously, she was worried about that and he needed to know why. “You think someone may not believe our authenticity?”
“Well...” She hesitated and shifted uneasily. “Some may doubt our sincerity, especially with your booty call hanging around.”
“Booty call?”
She raked her fingers nervously through her hair. “I mean, I know it’s none of my business and all, but, it’s kind of hard to expect people to believe our marriage is real if there are noticeable indicators suggesting otherwise.”
Somewhere in her rambling, she had a point. Madeleine was the whole reason for this ersatz marriage. That amplified Camille’s point. But Julian had already realized that—which is why he’d taken steps at the reception to neutralize the awkward and problematic concerns.
To Julian’s surprise, Camille was also coming across as a bit jealous of Madeleine, and he knew there was nothing quite so tempting as a man who was wanted by another woman. Especially when there was no love lost between the women. He was pretty sure Camille didn’t think much of Madeleine.
“I can see your point.” He leaned back in his chair and fed her his practiced, captivating grin. The one that charmed the ladies out of their good graces. “It’s probably not a good idea to let a seemingly harmless idiosyncrasy poke holes in our otherwise perfect plan.”
“Then you really need to get Madeleine in check.”
Smart girl. She was getting rid of the thorn in her side and doing it diplomatically. Who could argue with the case she’d made?
“I’ve already taken care of that.” It was best to let her know she’d triumphed over Madeleine. He was counting on it winning him points. “Either she’s gone by the time you and I return, or we will be moving into town.”
Just as he suspected, a victorious smile spread over her face. “Really?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.”
“Why?” He hadn’t shown Madeleine any sort of particular favor since he and Camille had returned from America. Perhaps it had something to do with Madeleine being a guest at the house.
“Well, you know...” Her words drifted into a hushed whisper and she looked away shyly.
Julian laid his hand on the table, regretting they were so far apart that he couldn’t touch her. “Chéri...?”
“Look, I know it’s really none of my business who or what you do.” Her tone was lit with a possessive desperation. “But since you’re the one who wants it to look real, you probably should use a bit more discretion in your dalliances with Madeleine.” She looked almost embarrassed.
Julian laughed. Camille thought he was carrying on a running affair with Madeline. And she was jealous. Huh. Imagine that. “Did she tell you we were...?” Or maybe she didn’t like having it thrown in her face.
“Yes.” Camille nodded. “In graphic detail.”
No wonder she was angry.
“Chéri, have you forgotten...?” He paused, and managed to contain his laughter to just a thought. “Madeleine is the reason I married you.”
A look of torment crossed her face. “I just don’t get that.” She paused, waving a gesture into the air. “Why didn’t you just marry her? In your room this morning, she made it clear you’ll be continuing your affair.”
“What are you talking about?” He tried to hide his confusion, but it escaped in his coolly disapproving tone.
“She was in your room this morning.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Yes, she was.”
“When?” There was no way Madeleine was in his room, and he didn’t understand why Camille thought otherwise.
“Oh, she was there. You were in the shower.”
He shook his head, hardly able to believe Madeleine’s nerve. “She must have come in when I got in the shower.”
“Of course.” Camille closed her eyes and seemed to be letting reality sink in. “You said she’d do this.” She shook her head in a slow, rhythmic movement and looked at Julian. “I feel like an idiot,” she said, almost laughing at herself. “She insinuated she’d been there all night.”
A sense of sadness hung a long brittle silence in the air. He shook his head regretfully. “She’s crazy. She was no more in my room last night than I was in yours.”
“You did say she’d set out to have me catch the two of you in bed together,” Camille said. “I just didn’t realize it would all be a charade.”
He felt bad now, that Madeleine—who thought the marriage was authentic—had thrown a faux affair in his wife’s face.
“Chéri, I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes for a second or two and then looked back at Camille. “Even in a business arrangement, you didn’t deserve to be humiliated.”
Her cheeks reddened a tinge. He could see it, even in the dimly lit candles’ glow.
Should he make his move? Or, should he bid her goodnight and let her contemplate all she’d learned?
He had to be very careful. Moving too quickly could ruin his chances forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AT SOME POINT during the night the storm had passed and the Naoma Louise had set sail. The night had been restless for Camille. What possessed her to think she could pretend to be married to a guy like Julian de Laurent for six months and not develop a consuming desire to have sex with the man?
All night long, he’d invaded her thoughts, her dreams, her heart. The only place he hadn’t invaded was her bed. And that was the one place she wouldn’t have turned him away, even though it was the smart thing to do. But he’d slept on the sofa in their bedchamber.
She’d thought it looked uncomfortable, but he’d fallen asleep almost instantly and hadn’t awakened, even after she’d started moving around in the bathroom that morning.
Sunshine and blue skies peeked in through the window. She slipped into a black bikini that fit like it had been made specifically for her body. Camille studied herself in the mirror, surprised at how good she looked. She grabbed a towel and her sunglasses and ventured outside.
Finding a swimming pool on the upper deck surprised and pleased Camille. She grabbed a
lounge chair and made herself at home. For a while, she drank in the sight of the open sea, observing nothing but water and small dots of land off in the distance. Soon, drowsiness accompanied her into a nap.
She couldn’t be certain how much time had passed since she’d fallen asleep, but footsteps fell over the deck and Camille opened her eyes behind her sunglasses. Julian in a pair of deep green boxer shorts jolted her heart. She swallowed hard. Acting on such an attraction—no matter how much she wanted to—would be perilous, because in six months he’d send her packing.
His eyes raked daringly over her, and his mouth softened. “Good morning, Chéri.” He straddled the chair beside her. “I trust you slept well last night?”
Hell, no. She’d had the worst night ever. And how dare he tease her like that? “Fine, thanks.” Fortunately, she had the shades to cover her eyes, which probably contradicted her lie.
“How about lunch? Are you hungry?” He extended his hand, his knuckles skimming against her bare thigh.
She inched her leg away and tipped her sunglasses, peering at him with one eye closed. “What’s on the menu?”
“Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want. A slight moan trickled up her throat. To stop it from blasting out in a full-blown expression, she lunged forward and threw her legs over the edge of the chair. “Lunch. That sounds like a plan.”
Julian chuckled and stood, reaching for her hand. She draped her fingers over his, igniting a quick shiver that rolled through her. On the far side of the boat, a fully furnished table under an umbrella commandeered her attention.
He let go of her hand and seated her with her back to the sun. She worried about him as he moved to the other side, hoping the umbrella would provide him with shade.
The attendant, Jonathan, appeared with two lobster tails, fresh fruits, and various green and pasta salads.
Lobster tails? For lunch? “Oh, no,” she said, thinking about the fat and calories that came as a packaged deal with all this rich food.
“What?” Julian asked, as if his feelings had been hurt. “You don’t like lobster?”
The Marriage Bargain Page 14