In The Best Man's Bed

“Am I supposed to kiss you now, Anne-Marie?” he said raggedly.

She’d have been humiliated beyond endurance if she hadn’t detected the torment behind his remark. “How about a little truth for a change, Ethan? How about ‘I want to kiss you, Anne-Marie’?” she said.

“No,” he muttered. But his hands betrayed him and slid through her hair. “No,” he said again, almost savagely. “It’ll never happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be a mistake.”

But either he didn’t really believe what he was saying or he, too, was at the mercy of impulses beyond his control, because his head dipped lower and his lips searched out hers. Their imprint scorched her and left her melting against him. At length he broke all contact and stepped back. “I was right,” he said hoarsely. “That was a big mistake.”

“Sometimes people can learn a great deal from their mistakes,” she said.

In the Best Man’s Bed

Catherine Spencer

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

ETHAN BEAUMONT…Ethan Andrew Beaumont…Monsieur Beaumont. Ever since the wedding date had been set, his was the name on everyone’s lips; his was the name uttered with the kind of reverence normally accorded only to royalty, popes or dictators.

So given that it’s Philippe Beaumont who’s marrying my best friend, what’s wrong with this picture? Anne-Marie Barclay wondered, sipping thoughtfully at her champagne. Why is it that, where other people’s weddings are concerned, the bride and groom take center stage, but in this instance, it’s all about Ethan Beaumont? And why is Solange allowing it?

“If you look just beyond the tip of the starboard wing, Mademoiselle, you’ll catch your first glimpse of Bellefleur.” Moving with surprising stealth and grace for such a big man, the flight attendant materialized from the galley at the rear of the private jet, and pointed over Anne-Marie’s shoulder. “It’s the island shaped like a crescent moon.”

She craned her neck and scanned the specks of land floating like emerald gems on the sapphire-blue water, thousands of feet below. “Yes, I see it,” she said, and wondered why the sight of the island, tranquil and beautiful even from this distance, should fill her with such odd apprehension. “How long before we land?”

“We’ll begin our descent shortly. Please remain seated and keep your seat belt fastened.” His smile flashed brilliant white in his ebony face. “Not that you need to be reminded. You haven’t moved since we left the mainland. Are you by chance a nervous flyer, Mademoiselle?”

“Not as a rule.” She glanced again out of the window and found nothing but blue sky beyond, as the jet banked in a steep turn. “But nor do I usually travel in so small an aircraft.” Especially not over miles of open water.

He smiled again, kindly. “You’re in excellent hands. Captain Morgan is a most capable pilot. Monsieur Beaumont hires only the best.”

There it was again, the Beaumont name rolling off the steward’s tongue with lilting Caribbean reverence, as if her host ranked head and shoulders above other mortals. And again Anne-Marie felt that disturbing little surge of misgiving. She was not looking forward to meeting the almighty Monsieur Beaumont.

“He’s nothing like Philippe, although there’s quite a strong family resemblance, even though they’re only half brothers,” Solange had told her, when she phoned with news of the forthcoming wedding. “He’s larger in every respect. Larger than life, almost, and certainly lord of all he surveys. They practically curtsy to him when he passes through the town. I can see why Philippe was a little anxious about breaking news of our engagement to him. Ethan can be…how shall I put it? Un peu formidable.”

“In other words, he’s a tyrant.” Anne-Marie had rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Imagine a grown man being afraid to tell his family that he’s getting married. It’s positively medieval! If you ask me, all that wealth and power has gone to the formidable Ethan Beaumont’s head.”

A thoughtful pause followed before Solange replied, “Oui, he is powerful, but underneath it all, he’s a very good man. Not cuddly like mon cher teddy bear, of course—he’s much too distant for that. I can’t imagine him ever allowing grand passion to rule the day.”

“He did, at least once,” Anne-Marie pointed out. “He’s got a son to prove it.”

“But alas, no wife. Maybe he inherited too much English reserve from his mother, and that’s why his marriage lasted so short a time.” Solange sighed, and Anne-Marie had imagined her shrugging in that uniquely French way of hers. “Such a pity! Such a waste!”

“Such a blessing, you mean! No woman needs the kind of man in her life who’d deprive her of her child. I feel sorry for the little boy, being at the mercy of such a father.”

“But that was not Ethan’s fault, Anne-Marie! The mother chose to leave both her husband and her son.”

“Which just goes to show how bad things must have been for her, that she’d give up her baby rather than put up with the husband!”

Solange’s initial burst of laughter, rippling over the phone like music, had dwindled into hushed alarm, as if she were afraid she’d be sent to her room without dinner for disturbing the peace. “It’s all right to say such audacious things to me in private, but you must take care not to speak so in front of other people when you join me on Bellefleur. They would not take kindly to a stranger criticizing their Seigneur.”

Seigneur, indeed! Anne-Marie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes as the blue Caribbean Sea rushed up to meet the jet on its final approach to the island. How feudal—and how utterly absurd!

Feudal, perhaps, but her notions of absurdity wavered alarmingly during the journey from the airport to the Beaumont estate. Seated in solitary splendor in the back of a black Mercedes limousine, she experienced instead the unsettling sense that she was the only anomaly on Bellefleur.

As the chauffeur-driven car rolled sedately through the winding streets of the small town, residents stopped to acknowledge its passing with a respectful nod which came close to a bow. Dark-eyed children waved chubby hands.

Should she wave back? she wondered, hating the sudden uncertainty usurping her normal self-confidence, or wouldn’t the Seigneur approve?

Probably not!

“He’ll be very charming, very attentive to your comfort and needs, but don’t expect him to treat you the way a North American host would,” Solange had warned. “He’s much too reserved for that. He’ll probably call you Mademoiselle Barclay, the entire time you’re here. It took him ages to unbend enough to call me by my first name.”

When she’d descended the steps from the jet and set foot on the tarmac, the sun’s shimmering heat had hit Anne-Marie like a wall, and she’d been glad to take refuge in the dim, air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes. But as the vehicle left the town behind and climbed the hill leading to the Beaumont estate, her friend’s warning settled unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach like a too-large meal of badly prepared food.

More than a month of having to bow and scrape to some domineering individual given to feudal delusions of grandeur was enough to kill anyone’s appetite! Worse, it promised to leach all the pleasure out of her coming to Bellefleur to be her best friend’s maid of honor, and instead threatened to turn the visit into a penance for sins not yet committed.

That an autocratic stranger should wield such power that he cast a pall over Solange’s wedding was indefensible. But more troubling by far, in Anne-Marie’s opinion, was the fear that his domination would spill over and influence the marriage, as well.

She had met Philippe Beaumont, and liked him. He and Solange were well-matched. But he’d never struck Anne-Marie as a particularly strong or forceful man. Given a choice, he’d choose the easy route over the difficult, and whether he’d be any match for his assertive half brother seemed questionable, given what she knew about the latter.

Her concerns intensified as the Mercedes swept through the gates guarding the entrance to the family estate and, a short time later, drew up in the forecourt of the main house.

She was no stranger to luxury. She’d attended the best schools, seen something of the world, never known what it was to lack money or material comforts. Yet, quite apart from its architectural beauty, the sheer size and opulence of the Beaumont mansion overwhelmed her.

She’d heard that royalty had slept under its roofs and she could well believe it. This was no mere villa, no rich man’s private island hideaway. This was a palace which, surrounded though it might be with smothering tropical heat, nevertheless exuded an intimidating aura of cool, dignified formality. If it was representational of its owner, then small wonder Solange held him in such awe.

“Mademoiselle?”

With a start, Anne-Marie realized the passenger door stood open, and a manservant, immaculate in starched white Bermuda shorts and tailored, short-sleeved white shirt, waited to hand her out of the car. Bracing herself to cope with whatever situation might await her, she slid across the leather seat and stepped into the courtyard.

Somehow, that made all the difference to her perceptions. Everywhere she looked, she saw flowers. But rather than viewing them from behind the tinted windows of the Mercedes, her eyes were assaulted by the splendor of color spilling over cream stucco walls, and tumbling from huge stone jardinieres in a riot of purple and scarlet and bright orange.

She became instantly aware of the cooling splash of fountains, and the raucous shriek of brilliantly feathered birds; of the exotic scent of gardenias; of ginger blossom and plumeria.

Shading her from the sun with an exquisitely painted parasol, the manservant escorted her up a shallow flight of steps and into the building—not by way of a front door because, for all its luxury, the villa didn’t appear to possess one. Instead, a pair of curved iron gates, so delicately wrought that they resembled black lace, led directly to a covered inner courtyard, circular in shape and large enough to serve as a ballroom.

Solange waited there, her dark eyes liquid with emotion, her smile tremulous. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed softly, gliding forward over the marble-tiled floor, and kissing Anne-Marie on both cheeks. “Welcome to Bellefleur, ma chère, chère amie! I’m so glad to have you here at last!”

“Glad?” A little teary-eyed herself, Anne-Marie held her friend at arm’s length and inspected her searchingly. “If you’re so glad, why are you crying?”

“Because I’m happy.”

“You don’t look happy, Solange.”

Solange gave her little Gallic shrug, cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, and said, “Come, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. We can talk more freely there. Ethan instructed the staff to put you in the guest pavilion next to mine.”

“You mean to say you’re not staying here in the house?”

“Not until I’m a married woman. Ethan wouldn’t approve. Philippe might be tempted to sneak into my bed at night.”

“The way he did when you were still living in Paris, you mean?”

“Hush!” Solange pressed a nervous finger to her lips. “No one must know that, Anne-Marie. Standards are different here.”

“So I gathered,” she muttered, following Solange through another curved gateway on the opposite side of the foyer, to a paved terrace overlooking an enormous, infinity-edged pool. The view beyond was breathtaking; a sweeping panorama of sky and sea framed with swaying coconut palms and poinciana trees. “Tell me, do the guest pavilions have doors and windows, or must we whisper all the time we’re there, as well, in case anyone overhears?”

“We’ll be quite private, except for when our maids are present. Then we must be discreet.” She led the way down a shady path which wound among a series of ponds connected to each other by miniature waterfalls and pebbled, man-made streams. “We’re a good distance from the main house, as you’ll see, but the suites are very luxurious and spacious.”

“That’s good. I’ll need plenty of room to finish working on the dresses.”

Solange flung a glance over her shoulder and, just for a moment, her usual vivacity showed in her face. “I can hardly wait to see mine. The drawings you sent were gorgeous.”

“We can have a fitting later on, if you like, to give you an idea of how you’re going to look in the finished product.”

“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Because you’ve been traveling all day, we’re having an early dinner, and I expect you’ll want to shower and change first.”

“Presumably, I’ll be meeting the formidable Ethan Beaumont.” Anne-Marie grimaced. “I’ve got indigestion already!”

“Not tonight, you won’t,” Solange said with a laugh. “I ordered a private meal to be delivered to my suite. Ethan’s aunt and uncle are visiting friends until tomorrow afternoon, and he’s away on business.”

“I understood running this island and the lives of everyone on it was his business.”

“Mon Dieu, non! He has investment and real estate portfolios all over the world, though he’s recently begun delegating Philippe to take charge of them, and concentrating all his energy on his oil interests. That’s what’s taken him away this time.”

“To the Middle East? Good! The farther away he is, the better! I already dislike the man and I’m in no hurry to meet him.”

“Oh, he’s much closer than the Middle East, I’m afraid. Just off the coast of Venezuela, in fact, which is no great distance from here at all. He’ll be back in a few days, I’m sure, but until then you’ll have to make do with his aunt and uncle, who also live on the estate, and with Adrian.”

“Who’s Adrian?”

“Ethan’s son.” Her voice softened. “He’s an adorable little boy. I don’t think you’ll find being around him a very great hardship, regardless of how you feel about his father.”

The path opened onto a wide expanse of lawn just then, and she stopped to point out a pair of villas perched high above the sea. “Well, here we are, chérie. This where we’ll be living for the next little while.”

Given her first impressions of the Beaumont estate, Anne-Marie ought not to have been surprised by the sight confronting her now. Surrounded by showy flower beds, and separated from each other by a covered walkway, the villas were miniature replicas of the main house, with the same deep verandahs, lacy iron French doors, and a smaller version of the infinity-edged swimming pool.

“I have to say that, whatever else his shortcomings, your future brother-in-law knows how to treat guests,” she exclaimed, captivated by the serene elegance of the setting. “This is paradise, Solange. Perfection! We’re going to have a lot of fun here over the next few weeks.”

Solange smiled wistfully. “I hope you’re right.”

“There shouldn’t be any question but that I am! The days leading up to the wedding are supposed to be a happy time for the bride, and I don’t understand why you’re not glowing with your usual radiance. What is it, Solange? Are you having doubts about marrying Philippe? Because if you are, it’s not too late to call the whole thing off.”

“Oh, it’s not Philippe! I adore him, more than ever, and I’m always happy when he’s with me. But the rest of the time…” Her mouth drooped sadly. “…it seems so foreign here.”

“How can it be foreign? It might be a long way from Paris, but it’s still French. Imagine how much worse it would be if everyone spoke Spanish or Portuguese, and you couldn’t understand a word they were saying.”

“Perhaps what I should have said is that, even though the language is familiar, I feel like a foreigner.” She gestured at the lush spread of land stretching to either side, and the jungle-clad hill rising behind the estate. “There are two kinds of people on this island, Anne-Marie: those who belong because they were born here, and the rest of us, who weren’t.”

“If that’s true, how are you going to cope with living here?”

“Philippe tells me that once we’re married and start a family, I’ll feel differently. I’ll be accepted. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been alone too much lately.”

“Why hasn’t Philippe been with you?”

“He’s been taking care of business in Europe, and Asia. Right now, he’s in Vienna and has been for the last week. Ethan says that since he’ll soon be a married man, he has to take a more active role in the family business.”

Ethan says, Ethan thinks, Ethan decrees…!

“Tell me Solange, has anyone ever dared to say, to hell with what Ethan wants?”

Solange rolled her eyes like a frightened foal caught in quicksand. “Mon Dieu, don’t ever say something like that in front of anyone else! It would be considered….” She fluttered her hands, groping for the right word.

“Treason?” Anne-Marie supplied witheringly. “Good grief, girlfriend, who is this browbeaten little creature reciting the party line with every breath? What’s happened to the woman I used to know?”

“I’m still the same inside.” Solange squared her shoulders and made a determined effort to look more cheerful. “I’ve just had a little difficulty adjusting to my new situation. But now that you’re here, I’ll soon be my old self again.”

They’d reached the guest houses by then, and looking through the open entrance to the one she’d been assigned to, Anne-Marie saw that her luggage had been delivered and that a maid was busily unpacking her suitcases.

“I don’t want her messing around with the wedding outfits, so I’d better get in there and take charge before the hired help starts on the travel trunk,” she said. “But this conversation is far from over, Solange. You might fool everyone else with your polite, subdued little smile, and your docile acceptance of the all-important rules, but you aren’t fooling me. Something’s not quite right in paradise, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“It’s nothing—just pre-wedding nerves and difficulty settling into a new situation,” Solange insisted, edging nervously toward her own suite. “I’ve always been shy, you know that, and it’s all taking a bit of getting used to, especially with Philippe away so much. I suppose, if truth be told, I’m just plain lonely.”

Small wonder! Anne-Marie thought. And that’s something else we can thank the almighty Ethan Andrew Beaumont Lewis for!

She thought she’d sleep late the next morning, but even though she’d fallen into bed exhausted the night before, Anne-Marie awoke at sunrise. It would be hours before breakfast was served, but after last night’s dinner, she needed exercise more than food, especially if she wanted to fit into the dress she’d be wearing at the wedding.

“Always assuming,” she murmured, slipping between the folds of filmy mosquito netting draped around the bed, and hunting through the dresser drawers for a bikini, “that the wedding takes place which, from everything I’ve surmised, might not happen if the lord and master has his way.”

The pool glimmered invitingly when she looked outside, but there was no sign of life from Solange’s villa, which was probably a good thing. She’d looked very pale and hollow-eyed by the time dinner was over, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep, and could probably use a few more hours of rest.

Better not to disturb her, Anne-Marie decided, pulling a cover-up over her bikini and slinging her camera around her neck. Hiking down the hill to wade in the milk-warm Caribbean would serve just as well as a dip in the pool.

Finding a way down to the beach turned out to be a more frustrating experience than she’d expected, though. Even in the bright light of midday, many of the paths winding through the estate gardens lay in the protective shade of trees. At that hour of the morning, with the sun still not high enough to penetrate the dense green canopy overhead, she found it almost impossible to keep track of the direction she took.

Twice, she ended up back where she’d begun. Another time, she found herself on the edge of the cliff, with a sheer drop down to the shore. Finally, when she was so confused that she wasn’t certain she’d even find her way back to her villa, she came across a man tending one of the ponds.

He knelt with his back to her, and her first thought was that he must have spent most of his life toiling in the hot sun for Ethan Beaumont. How else would he have developed such a physique, or his skin acquired such a deep and glowing tan? And who else but a manual laborer would be allowed to wander about the estate wearing nothing but faded denim cutoffs?

“Bonjour,” she began, unsure of the protocol involved in approaching a gardener—because whatever else she might have missed at dinner the previous evening, she’d quickly learned that, with regard to the house staff, protocol was paramount. The wine steward did not refill the water goblets; the butler who served the food did not remove the empty plates.

That being the case, it was entirely possible that this lowly employee with his face practically submersed in the pond, might not be allowed to speak to guests. Certainly, the way he ignored her greeting suggested as much—unless he was deaf or didn’t understand her French.

“Excusez moi,” she said, stepping closer and speaking a little louder. “S’il vous plait, monsieur—”

Irritably, he flapped his hand at her and, in case she hadn’t understood the message that was supposed to convey, said curtly, “Lower your voice. I heard you the first time.”

His English might be flawless, albeit slightly accented, but his manner left a great deal to be desired. Offended, she snapped, “Really? And how do you suppose your employer would react, if he knew how rude you were to one of his guests?”

“Disturbed,” he replied, still bent double over the pond. “But not nearly as disturbed as he’d be with the guest for interfering with the delicate business of keeping his prize koi alive and well.”

“You’re the fish man?”

The way his broad shoulders sort of rippled and shook at the question made her wonder if he was having some sort of fit. “You could call me that, I suppose.”

“What does your employer call you?”

“Nothing,” he said carelessly. “He’s never conferred a title on me. In his eyes, I’m not important enough to warrant one.”

“Yet you continue to work here. You must love what you do, to put up with that sort of abuse.”

“Oh yes, lady,” he replied, his deep baritone suddenly adopting a musical Caribbean lilt. “Master lets me feed and tend his fish. Gives me hut to live in, and rum to drink. Fish man very lucky guy.”

“There’s no need to be so offensive. It’s not my fault if the work you do isn’t properly appreciated.” She tipped her head to one side, intrigued by his preoccupation with the task at hand. “Exactly what is it that you’re doing?”