by Carolyn Zane
As Luc and Juliet were now.
Cheek resting on the back of her hand, Marie-Claire’s thoughts traveled back to that morning after her sisters had left so that she could dress. That she hadn’t mustered the wherewithal to pick out an outfit was beside the point.
Within moments of Lise and Ariane’s departure, she’d overheard Francie, Ariane’s gossip-mongering, addle-brained, man-eating—and these were her better qualities—lady-in-waiting, out in the hall regaling several of the chambermaids in a most conspiratorial, “in-the-know” tone, with big news.
“—and a press conference has been called here at the palace for tomorrow night. They say it’s to calm fears that Rhineland is on the verge of overtaking St. Michel. But, I think the real reason is to cover up a big secret.”
“What?” The breathless chambermaids were hanging on Francie’s every word.
“Promise you won’t say anything to anyone?”
Marie-Claire rolled her eyes.
“We promise. Yes, of course.”
“Well, all right. You know I’m dating one of Simone’s security guards? Well, he said that Sebastian LeMarc is…Philippe’s son!”
A guttural groan welled in Marie-Claire’s throat. With Francie on the job the news would spread like greased fire.
“And,” Francie gushed, “I’m also dating the son of Simone’s personal assistant, and he says, until they can figure out how to tell the world, they are using the Rhineland takeover thing as a distraction to keep the paparazzi away. Can you believe it? Sebastian LeMarc as…” the harebrained Francie paused for dramatic effect, then shrieked, “the crown prince!”
“Eeeeee!” The high pitch of their cries surely had St. Michel’s canine set yowling in harmony.
“Isn’t he fabulous?”
Just beyond her door, Marie-Claire heard the ecstatic cavorting of happy feet.
She was going to be sick.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t seem to tear herself away from this morbid fascination she had with learning more of Sebastian’s future.
Francie was only too delighted to fill in the missing details. “Plus, another man I am dating from the kitchen crew—”
Marie-Claire stared in wonder at the door. Was there anyone on the staff that Francie was not dating?
“—he says that this morning, Simone is meeting with her secretary, a slew of press and political advisors, the prime minister, Rene Davoine, and Sebastian LeMarc—”
“Eeeeee!” the groupie maids couldn’t contain their glee. “George Clooney’s better-looking little brother will be living here,” one of them screeched.
“Yes! And,” the man-hungry Francie went on, “they’ve hired Luc Dumont, some cute guy from St. Michel security who I’d like to get my hands on. Is this the most exciting thing to hit St. Michel in years, or what?”
“Eeeeee!”
“There will be a big party in the Crystal Ballroom immediately following tomorrow night’s press conference, to celebrate St. Michel’s continued independence from Rhineland. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”
Their hysterical hubbub told Marie-Claire that they all hoped to be called upon to work this party, as it was sure to go down in history as St. Michel’s finest hour. Marie-Claire’s head thunked against the door, scattering the magpies in the hall.
It had taken her several hours and a half bottle of antacid to recover from that blow.
The double squawk of Sebastian’s Peugeot locking snapped Marie-Claire from her morose ruminations and back to the present.
This “pre-press conference” meeting, she decided, must be the reason he was there. A raw yearning filled her belly as she watched him nod at Juliet, and then disappear into the palace.
Her gaze drifted back to her reserved stepsister, and Marie-Claire briefly wondered what she had to chat about with that guy from security. Marie-Claire knew that Juliet was spending some time comforting their young half sister, Jacqueline. But beyond that…a twinge of guilt niggled because of what she didn’t know about Juliet. Really, the woman was so shy and bookish, one scarcely noticed whether she was present or not.
Marie-Claire watched as Luc handed her stepsister into her car, closed her door, then leaned against it and continued to visit through the open window.
Hmm.
Luc hadn’t seemed convinced that Claudette was telling the truth yesterday, either. With a thumbnail, Marie-Claire rubbed the edge of her lip. Perhaps she should meet with him, and compare notes.
Perhaps Juliet could introduce them.
Marie-Claire’s eyes narrowed. Was he probing Juliet for information? Or was he flirting? Marie-Claire couldn’t imagine Juliet flirting with anyone, let alone a sophisticated, rather mature guy like Luc Dumont. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for Juliet, and hoped that she didn’t go and do something stupid like fall in love with an older man.
A handsome older man.
A handsome older man who might turn out to be some damned member of the family…
With a grimace, Marie-Claire pushed off the window seat and back onto the floor where she’d been sprawled all afternoon doing “homework” of sorts. Armed with a pile of pillows, a bowl of popcorn, a pitcher of lemonade, a stack of fashion magazines, library books, genealogy websites, nail polish, cotton balls, a television remote control and a notepad and pen, she’d been digging like an archeology student during dead week.
And it was hard work, this. She’d already spent some time on the Internet, reviewing what she could find of Claudette’s history, researching the subject of pathological liars—Claudette fit the profile to a T—and trying to find something, anything on a woman named Katie Graham who’d fallen in love with her father, thirty-three years ago.
Since she’d run into some dead ends, she decided to change tack and concentrate on her quest to help Sebastian see that she was the woman for him.
Aiming the remote, she turned the sound back up on the television. As far as she was concerned, the Americans cornered the market on pushy sexuality. At Ariane’s prompting, she’d begun her studies with American TV that very morning and would branch out to other cultures, once she got some answers.
So far, she’d flipped through several hundred cable networks making notes here and there, and she had just now landed on The Jerry Springer Show. Leaning forward, she peered at the screen to decipher today’s topic. A jolt of excitement skittered down her spine as she realized that—oddly enough—the subject was: Men who have married their cousins, and the women who love them.
Microphone in hand, Jerry spun to face his first guest, a Mrs. Lula Parnell, twenty-eight-year-old mother of seven. Marie-Claire stared at the poor thing in astonishment. Gracious sakes, the woman looked eighty-eight.
Jerry glanced at his note cards and then affected a sympathetic expression. “Lula, you married your first cousin, Junior Parnell, when you were thirteen years of age. Is that correct?”
“Yessiree. Thirteen and a half, actually. He was fullgrowed, though, and already out of the fifth grade.”
“Together, you and Junior have seven children?”
“And a little bun in the oven.” Lula gave her tummy a maternal pat.
“Junior is unaware that you are pregnant?”
“He’s gonna find out right here, on your show.”
“Yes. Junior is waiting backstage with his current wife and stepsister, Ona.”
The veins in Lula’s neck suddenly bulged. “Yessir. That bleeeep stole my bleeeeping man from me and when I get my hands on that bleeping bleep, I’ll bleep her bleeping bleep until she can’t tell her bleepity bleep from a gopher hole!”
Marie-Claire frowned. These sound effects made it difficult to keep up, but the gist of the matter was clear. Lula was upset with Ona.
Jerry arched a brow at the camera. “Let’s bring out Ona.”
The audience hissed and jeered as the twenty-one-year-old Ona pranced out, looking three or four times her own age, but decidedly fighting the aging process kickin
g and screaming. Her leather bustier was two sizes too tight, squeezing her generous cleavage out the top.
And bottom.
Her nails were several inches long and festooned with racecars and tobacco slogans. Her wild hair was as brash as her makeup and her spiky heels had her towering over Lula. She shook her fist in a menacing fashion at the audience and then made a gesture to Lula that Marie-Claire figured had a more regional significance.
Nostrils flared, Lula lunged at Ona and Jerry smiled serenely at the camera. “Don’t go away. We’ll be right back with Junior, after these important messages.”
Marie-Claire slowly nodded. Clearly, she needed to toughen up, if she was going to fight for her man. Perhaps she should practice her pithy expletives as well. A Tae-Bo class wouldn’t hurt either, if Lula’s high-kickin’ style meant anything. And definitely she needed to reexamine her choices in clothing. She considered her wardrobe and realized she was far too conservative. Marie-Claire furiously scribbled some notes on her pad. Get in shape. Outrageous clothes.
Okay. Tongue protruding, she flipped through the channels till she landed on The Ricki Lake Show.
“Ricki, we used to think that men were from Mars and women were from Venus.” The guest author gave her head a smug little wobble. “Wrong.”
“Wrong?” Ricki leaned forward and frowned.
“Yes. We now know that men are really from Uranus.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I know, it sounds far-fetched, but the key to success in a relationship with any man is knowing that Real Men Are From Uranus.” The expert held up her new book and smiled.
Marie-Claire stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Uranus? Which one was that? She should have paid more attention in astronomy, she decided as she scribbled, find copy of Real Men Are From Uranus in palace library.
Pointing the remote, she next landed on The Sally-Jesse Raphael Show.
“Marsha,” Sally-Jesse adjusted her signature glasses, “you realize that by not telling your son that he was adopted until he was a teenager, you were risking alienating him emotionally?”
“Sally, there just didn’t seem to be any reason.”
“Yes, but Marsha, clearly you and your husband are Caucasian. Chuck is African-American. Surely, you knew that someone would eventually let the cat out of the bag.”
Marie-Claire scribbled, lies about adoption lead to alienation and again pointed the remote to pause at CNN.
“And in other international news, government officials in Rhineland today announced that they are making plans to reabsorb St. Michel, a tiny province just north of France. The two countries have existed independently from one another since the seventeenth century. A crucial water route leading from inland ports to the North Sea has been the subject of contention for years, more so now that St. Michel has recently upped the usage tax. In a statement made earlier today, St. Michel’s Prime Minister Rene Davoine revealed that he has not met with Rhineland’s Prince Etienne Kroninberg on this matter and has no immediate plans to do so. In other news…”
Marie-Claire snapped off the TV, feeling that she’d reached saturation with this venue and picked up a magazine. She peered at the cover she held. Why, in no time at all, according to this, she’d be ten pounds lighter and have her man eating out of her hand.
A sudden and loud pounding woke Marie-Claire with a start. Confused, she peeled her face from the shiny cover of the magazine upon which she’d been napping and blinked at her door.
“Marie-Claire?”
Sebastian! Flustered, she rolled over, rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair out of her face. A glance into the bottom of a full-length wall mirror told her everything she needed to know. Bad hair. Bad face. Bad mood.
Bad timing.
“Uh, who is it?” She hoped she sounded breezy. Cool. Indifferent. Not as if she’d just been snoring and drooling on the cover of Glamour.
“It’s me, Sebastian.”
“Who?” Like a dog chasing its tail, Marie-Claire crawled in tight circles and wondered what to do first. What on earth was he doing here? He couldn’t be here. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t done all of her homework. Her order from Victoria’s Secret had yet to arrive. And she still hadn’t gotten through to Dr. Laura.
Okay, think.
She had to change her clothes. What would Ona wear? Certainly not the flouncy pink baby dolls that she sported now. No, Ona would wear something tight. Something made of leather and sheet metal screws. And she’d carry a whip.
“C’mon, Marie-Claire. Open up.”
Up on her haunches, she gave her cheeks a couple of bracing smacks and glanced around the room. It looked as if a rebel faction bent on mass destruction had visited; self-help materials, books on adoption and genealogy and half-tested beauty products littered every spare area.
He could not come in here. No way.
Hands forming a plow, she shoved the mountain of magazines she’d been highlighting under her bed. Then, breathing hard, she clutched her comforter and attempted to haul herself to her feet. Unfortunately, the comforter came undocked and Marie-Claire fell back, pulling the great, downy monster over her head, where she grappled about, searching for terra firma. All nature of library books slid to the floor, along with some spicy lingerie catalogs and a volume on the history of the polygraph test.
“Marie-Claire, may I come in?”
Marie-Claire froze. Was that her door opening? He sounded awfully near.
The door closed and the sound of Sebastian’s footsteps came from inside the room.
Chapter Eight
Rats. This was not the picture of sophistication she’d planned on exuding the next time she and Sebastian met. Static electricity had her hair standing on end as Marie-Claire peeked out from under the comforter. His shoes came into view first and she noted with chagrin that he was standing on a book whose title blared, Combat Love.
Her gaze traveled up his powerful legs, over his barrel chest and to his face. She saw thankfully that he was looking at her and not the book. Blood rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. Her heart pounded and she began to sweat.
She couldn’t let him see that idiotic book.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Her mind raced back to the vast sea of information and advice she’d collected over the last hours and came to a screeching halt at Ariane’s pearl of wisdom. Treat him like a brother. Isn’t that what he wants? Do all the things a kid sister would do with a big brother.
With a defiant toss of her head, she stared up at him, nostrils flaring. “Me? Well, since you’re here, I was hoping we might, uh,” she cast a panicky glance at the book beneath his feet, “wrestle.”
She bit back a mortified groan.
Could she be any more idiotic? Her eyes slid closed at the image of her and Sebastian going for it, right there in the middle of her room, thumping and hollering and whatever it was kid brothers and sisters did when they were horsing around.
He gave his temple a quizzical scratch. “Wrestle?”
“Sure.” She could tell he thought she was nuts. Oh well, better nuts than a sobbing jilted lily, she guessed. “Like this.” Charging at him, headfirst, she collided with his shins, knocking him off balance and giving herself a dilly of a headache in the process.
“Owww.” Their protests harmonized. She was going to kill Ariane.
As he fell to his knees, Marie-Claire launched the incriminating Combat Love book into her closet with a move she’d learned in soccer camp, back when she really was eight.
He stared at her, the disbelief in his voice warring with irritation. “Are you crazy?”
Yes. Crazy in love. With a grunt, Marie-Claire clutched him around the thighs and tugged him completely off balance. They rolled around on the floor, Sebastian with bewilderment and Marie-Claire with purpose. Feet frantically scrambling, she winged the lingerie catalogs, along with a copy of a wedding magazine under her bed with the rest. Sebastian caught an errant fist in the process.<
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“What the hell? Owww! Marie-Claire, dammit, what are you doing? I don’t want to wrestle with you.”
“What’s wrong, pretty boy? Afraid I’ll win?” Elbowing her way over the top of his chest, she flailed about until she could flip her extremely private journal and a well-padded WonderBra beneath her armoire. In this rather enjoyable process of tidying up, she accidentally managed to knee him in the jaw. The sound of his teeth crashing together gave her a twinge of sympathy, but really, she hadn’t invited him to come snooping.
“Ouch! Damn! Auughh!” One hand flew to his jaw, the other to her ankle. “I think I just broke a tooth!”
“If you are very good, maybe the tooth fairy will leave some money under your pillow tonight.”
An ominous growl suddenly had Marie-Claire questioning Ariane’s logic. Perhaps this kid-sister thing was the wrong tack. Before she could ponder the issue further, Sebastian yanked her by the leg and she found herself flipped onto her back and lying beneath his body. After some heavy breathing and a lot of struggle, he managed to pinion her wrists together over her head. Her flouncy pink baby doll had tangled around her waist in a most provocative manner.
“I don’t think this is a legal wrestling move.” Marie-Claire grunted, wriggling about, trying to escape just far enough to pull her pajamas back down where they belonged.
“Tough,” he growled and locked his feet around hers. Noses just a thumb’s-width apart, he stared at her, and Marie-Claire could feel his lungs laboring and his heart pounding in tandem with hers. Their breath mingled, and Marie-Claire felt a yearning envelop her, nearly rendering her unconscious.
“Marie-Claire, why are you doing this?”
Hoping and praying she appeared casual, she breezed, “Isn’t this what brothers and sisters do? I’m just trying to feel my way into our new relationship.” Eyes wide with innocence, she blinked up at him.