In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
waited until Adrian had jumped into his father’s waiting arms and was happily splashing his way toward a huge red ball floating on the water, then she said, “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
“Just that you and my future brother-in-law appeared too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.”
“He insisted on teaching me to use a face mask.” She mopped the dripping ends of her hair, then tucked the towel around herself, sarong-style. “And all I can say is, it’s a pity no one ever taught him how to take ‘No’ for an answer. He’s very bossy.”
“And you’re unusually flustered.”
Unwilling to debate the truth of that statement, she said, “Never mind me. How are you, this morning? You’re looking a bit more cheerful than you were last night.”
“That’s because you’re here. I don’t feel so alone anymore.” She gestured to the terrace. “Breakfast is ready. Shall we go over and sit down?”
Anne-Marie glanced covertly at Ethan who was still in the pool with his son. “Shouldn’t we wait for the lord and master to give us permission to eat?”
“He’s not an ogre, Anne-Marie! He won’t be upset if we help ourselves to coffee. Finish drying off and let’s go. I’m never properly awake until—”
“You’ve had your morning café au lait.” She laughed, then pulled on her cover-up and slipped her arm through Solange’s. “I remember!”
The inflated ball hit Ethan squarely on the shoulder and bounced into the water. “Papa,” Adrian called out reproachfully, “you’re not paying attention!”
“I know.” How could he be expected to, with her laughter floating through the air like music, and the graceful, easy way she moved her scantily-clad body distracting him every other second? But since he could hardly tell his son that, he sniffed conspicuously, boosted the boy onto the pool deck, and said, “I’m thinking about food instead. Jeanne made fruit crêpes for breakfast. I’ll race you to the terrace.”
The women were chatting animatedly as he approached, and Solange had color in her cheeks, for a change. “You’re looking more rested this morning, ma petite,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. “Having Mademoiselle Barclay here appears to agree with you.”
“Oui. I am very happy.”
“As happy as when you’re spending time with Philippe?”
His technique must leave something to be desired because, as usual, she didn’t recognize that he was teasing her. “Oh, never that, Ethan!” she said, horrified. “No one can take his place.”
“I’m glad to hear it, especially since he phoned this morning to say he’ll be home in time for dinner tonight.”
Her face lit up—she really was a pretty little thing which, no doubt, was what had first caught Philippe’s eye—but she had a fragility about her, and a desire to please at all costs which, combined with a lack of confidence in her own judgment, worried Ethan. This friend, this Anne-Marie Barclay with the long, tanned legs, minuscule bikini, and outspoken manner, didn’t strike him as the best influence. The sooner Philippe reappeared and kept Solange occupied, the better.
“So, Mademoiselle,” he said, taking a seat opposite his guest, “tell me something about yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
“WHAT would you like to know?” Anne-Marie asked pertly, ticked off by his patronizing attitude. Clearly, his expectations of her possible accomplishments hovered around zero.
He shrugged. “As much as you care to tell me. Let’s begin with your work. You’ve designed Solange’s wedding trousseau, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“As a professional, or is this a favor between friends?”
“Both,” she said sharply. “I’m a graduate of Esmode International in Paris, one of the foremost schools of fashion design in the world.”
“Very commendable, I’m sure. And you work—?”
“In Vancouver, on the west coast of Canada.”
“I’m aware of where it is, Mademoiselle. I’ve visited your beautiful city a number of times and greatly enjoyed its many attractions. But it hardly struck me as the center of haute couture. For which fashion house do you design?”
“My own.”
He almost curled his lip in disdain. “I see.”
“Do you?” she inquired, matching his condescending tone. “Then you’re no doubt aware that my designs have won a number of prestigious awards.”
“Anne-Marie worked in the movie industry in Hollywood for a while,” Solange cut in, trying to be helpful. “She was even nominated for an Oscar, once.”
“Hollywood?” This time, he did curl his lip, as if he’d discovered something disgusting crawling around in the mango-stuffed crêpe the butler placed before him. “The movie industry?”
“Yes,” Anne-Marie purred, taking a certain vengeful delight in his ill-contained horror. “Theatrical costume has always interested me.”
“But you’re no longer connected to the entertainment world? You’ve moved on to a less…flamboyant clientele?”
“Not really. We have a thriving movie industry in Vancouver, too, which is what originally drew me back to my hometown. As a result of the contacts I’ve made there and in California, I number quite a few well-known stars among my private clients, as well as celebrities from other walks of life.”
“And you’ve designed Solange’s wedding dress,” he said glumly, rolling his eyes. “Mon Dieu!”
“Why does that disturb you, Ethan?” she asked. “I assure you I’m up to the challenge of creating an appropriate wedding ensemble for the bride and her entourage.”
He compressed his rather beautiful mouth. “We are a small, close-knit community on Bellefleur. Tradition plays a big part in our lives. A wedding—particularly a Beaumont wedding—is a significant cultural event. My family has certain standards to uphold, certain expectations to meet.”
“What a shame,” she said blandly. “Where I come from, a wedding’s simply a happy event where people who care about the bride and groom come together to celebrate their commitment to one another. And although I don’t expect you’ll approve, it’s also an occasion when the bride gets to call most of the shots. It is, primarily, her day.”
“How unfortunate for the man who chose her as his bride.”
“Why?”
“Because such an attitude shows a distinct lack of consideration for what the groom might prefer—and that does not bode well for harmony in the marriage.”
“What a load of rubbish!” she scoffed, ignoring Solange’s gasp of petrified horror. “Marriage is a lifelong contract whose success depends on mutual consideration and respect. A wedding, on the other hand, is a one-day affair in which, historically, the bride takes star billing. For a man who professes to set such store by tradition, I’d have thought you’d know that.”
“And you’re qualified to make that distinction, as well as dictate fashions trends, are you?”
“I’ve never been married, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then you’ll forgive me if I take your opinions with a grain of salt.”
“Of course I will,” she said sunnily. “Just as I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I treat yours the same way since, as I understand it, you’re divorced—which certainly indicates you don’t have much of a grasp on how marriage is supposed to work, either.”
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