In the Best Man's Bed Read online

  “Is that ever enough to keep a woman happy?”

  Annoyed, she threw the question back at him. “Is it enough for men?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Often to their lasting regret. Because most men are very straightforward about their objectives, whereas women too often have an ulterior motive.”

  An invisible cloud seemed to pass over the bright day. “Are we talking about your ex-wife again?”

  “She fits the type, certainly.”

  She longed to ask him what the woman had done to disillusion him so thoroughly, but sensed he’d rebuff her. Instead, she said, “Do you think Solange has an ulterior motive in marrying your brother?”

  “Solange is different.”

  “We’re all different, Ethan, that’s my whole point, and you’re too smart a person to make such dangerously sweeping statements and really believe them. We have minds of our own, we choose how to live our lives, and sometimes we make mistakes. But most of us learn from them and go on to make wiser choices in the future.”

  He brought the Corniche to a stop outside the small terminal. The sun scorched blinding white on the tarmac. The heat hung in the air, dense and breathless. He swung open his door and climbed out. “And some of us don’t,” he said flatly. “Some mistakes as you choose to call them, are unforgivable. Are you coming in, or do you want to wait here?”

  “I’ll come in,” she said, wilting under his unflagging bitterness. How he must have loved his wife, that she’d been able to wound him so deeply!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE played her part well, that much he had to give her. Hardly ever a false step and even when she stumbled, a man had to have his wits about him to notice. And therein lay the problem because, when he was around her, his wits took second place to other, more primitive instincts.

  “We’ll have lunch at the Plantation Club,” he said, when the business at the airport was done. “It overlooks the yacht basin and if there’s a breeze to be found anywhere, it’ll be there.”

  “Sounds lovely,” she said demurely, dipping her head so that her face was hidden under the brim of her hat, and if he hadn’t known better, he might have been fooled into thinking she was shy.

  The club was crowded, as usual, but he had a permanent reservation and they were led to his table immediately. Fully aware of the interest aroused by his appearing with a stranger who swept into the place with her pale green skirt swirling just above her ankles like the sudden onset of a cool Canadian spring, he nodded to the familiar faces already at lunch and, wanting to observe her reaction to the stir she’d created, sat her in the corner and took the chair next to her, so that they both looked out at the room.

  “Iced tea,” she replied, when he asked her what she’d like to drink.

  “Try the planter’s punch instead,” he suggested. “You’ll find it very refreshing.” And before she could voice a protest, ordered one for each of them.

  She took off her hat and dropped it carelessly next to her straw bag on the floor. “Are you going to choose my food, as well?” she wanted to know, the impudence he found so attractive sparkling in her eyes.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” She’d wound her hair up on top of her head, but a strand had fallen loose and spilled down the nape of her neck like a skein of pale silk ribbon on a honey-gold background. Suppressing the urge to tuck it back into place, he nodded at the waiter who’d served both his father and grandfather before him. “We’ll have the conch salad, Hamilton.”

  The man took off to the bar, and returned a short time later with the drinks. After he left a second time, she ran a finger lightly down her throat and turned her head to catch the drift of breeze created by the overhead fans. “You were right,” she said. “It is much cooler here.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “Aren’t you going to tell me you’re always right?”

  “I’m only right ninety-nine point nine percent of the time.”

  The smile gave way to a teasing laugh, a bewitching musical fall of amusement that captivated him. “You mean, you once thought you’d made a mistake, but you were wrong?” Then, touching her fingers to her mouth, said contritely, “Oh, I’m sorry! That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, and I really didn’t mean it!”

  “Why do I have trouble believing that?”

  “I think because you and I become very good at not saying what we really mean, Ethan. Very good at leaping to all the wrong conclusions about each other.” She clinked the rim of her glass against his. “How about a toast to not doing that anymore?”

  The memory of their last kiss surfaced in his mind, right down to the artificial moans of ecstasy she’d let out. Too bad she’d had her eyes wide open at the time, and looked more like a terrified mare about to be mated with a raging stallion, than a woman wildly overcome with passion! “Is that possible?”

  “We could always try, couldn’t we?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Well, you said yourself that we can’t avoid each other. Why make things any more awkward than they have to be?” She sipped her punch. “This is delicious, by the way. If the conch salad’s half as good, I’m going to have to swallow my pride and let you do all the ordering in future.”

  “For the remainder of your time here, at least,” he said, his attention caught by the silhouette of the man poised on the threshold leading from the outside deck. Although backlit by the early afternoon sun, there was no mistaking his identity.

  So, Roberto Santos was back on Bellefleur!

  Ethan fixed him in a stare, and silently dared him to acknowledge it. Santos stood a moment, scanning the tables, then, sensing he was being observed, his glance swiveled and collided with Ethan’s.

  His mouth twitched, the full, almost feminine lips tightening a fraction. He tilted his head, aiming for arrogance, but the attempt wilted under his enemy’s unblinking regard. Aware that just about everyone else present was interested in how he was going to handle the situation, he squared his shoulders and wove a jaunty path among the tables until he reached Ethan’s.

  “It has been a long time,” he said, the heavily-accented English some people found so irresistible more pronounced than ever. “How are you, amigo?”

  “Like most people on the island, better off not having to share it with you. What brings you back here, Santos?”

  “What always brings me back? The beautiful ladies, of course,” he drawled insolently, bending an oily smirk on Anne-Marie who lowered her too-long, too-dark lashes, and smiled back prettily. “Are you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”

  “No. That’s a privilege I reserve for friends and you hardly qualify. You’re not looking your usual buff self, Santos. Prison didn’t agree with you?”

  An ugly flush darkened the man’s face. “I see that trying to smooth over our differences was a mistake. You are clearly a man who prefers to hold on to a grudge.” He clicked his heels and gave a stiff little bow. “Good day, Señorita! Perhaps we’ll meet another time, under happier circumstances.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Ethan assured him.

  Looking thunderstruck, Anne-Marie fortified herself with another sip of punch before jumping into the silence left behind as Santos beat a retreat. “Did you have to be quite so cruel? The man was just trying to be sociable.”

  “Did you not hear me refer to his having been incarcerated?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, with heavy sarcasm. “I doubt anyone in the room missed it!”

  “Then what makes you think I owe him any sort of courtesy?”

  “Maybe the fact that he’s served his time and shouldn’t have his past held against him any longer?”

  “You know nothing about his past. If you did, you might not feel so charitably inclined toward him.”

  “Perhaps not. But all I know right now is that you were intolerably rude, and went out of your way to humiliate him in front of a roomful of people who obviously know him.”


  Ethan drew in a long breath, and debated the wisdom of telling her more, because she was right in one respect. The past was over. But if, by keeping his silence, he allowed Santos to come across as the victim rather than the perpetrator, could he live with that?

  “He was convicted of impaired driving on a neighboring island,” he said brusquely, settling for the short version of the story.

  “Oh.” She looked down, her expression somber. “Well, I agree, that’s hardly to his credit.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said. “Especially not when he had a child in the car at the time of his arrest.”

  Her gaze, wide with distress, flew back to his face. “Was the child hurt?”

  “No. Neither the child nor the mother was injured.”

  She drew in a shocked breath. “His wife was there, and did nothing to stop him from getting behind the wheel of a car and risking their child’s life?”

  “It wasn’t his wife, nor was it his child. They were mine.”

  “Oh, Ethan!” Impulsively, she covered his hand. “I’m sorry!”

  “Why? You had nothing to do with it.”

  “But I misjudged you. And so soon after we’d made a pact not to leap to conclusions about each other.”

  “Actually, we never did reach agreement on that, but it doesn’t matter. Santos doesn’t matter, either, not any more, and he’s not worth spoiling our lunch over. Here comes our salad. Would you care for another rum punch?”

  “Good grief, no! I’ve hardly touched this one, and already it’s going to my head. I’d like some water, though.”

  He ordered a bottle of Perrier, and turned the conversation in another direction. “The package you picked up were the beads you need to finish Solange’s wedding gown?”

  “Yes,” she said, her attention caught by something or someone beyond his view. Well, what had he expected? That she’d hang on his every word as if she really cared about anything he had to say? She was every bit as shallow as he’d first supposed, and any inclination he might have had to change his mind on that had died the other night. “They had to be ordered specially, which is what took so long for them to arrive, but now that they’re here, I’ll have the dress done in no time.”

  “Then perhaps once it’s finished, you’ll change your mind and take me up on my invitation to visit the stables.”

  “Perhaps I will,” she said vaguely, her glance again sliding past him.

  “What’s so intriguing, Anne-Marie? Don’t tell me Santos is still hanging around, ogling you from afar?”

  “No,” she said. “But a woman just came in the door and from the way she keeps looking over here, I think she must recognize you. In fact, I’m certain she does because she’s headed right this way.”

  He glanced up in time to see Desirée LaSalle approaching. Following so soon after Santos’s unwelcome visit, it was something he could have done without.

  “It is you, Ethan!” she warbled. “I was sure I must be mistaken.”

  “Have I changed that much since the last time you saw me?” he said lightly, standing up and kissing the proffered, perfumed cheek.

  She stepped back and pursed her lips in a pretty pout. “Well, it has been weeks, Chéri. And I hardly expected…”

  That he’d be with another woman? She might as well have come out and said what she was so clearly thinking. Her hazel-eyed glance, as it slid dismissively over Anne-Marie, spoke volumes of protest.

  Knowing he couldn’t very well refuse an introduction this time, he said, “I’d like you to meet Solange’s maid of honor, Anne-Marie Barclay. This is Desirée LaSalle, Anne-Marie.”

  “Oh, she’s the seamstress! I’ve already heard about her from Angelique. Well, aren’t you a sweetie, treating her to lunch at a place like this, Ethan.” Desirée slid a familiar arm through his, her pout melting in the sudden warmth of the smile she turned on Anne-Marie. “Is the sewing going well, dear?”

  “Oh, yes, ever so!” Anne-Marie cooed, too sweetly for his peace of mind. “Thank you so much for asking! And I’m ever so grateful to Monsieur Beaumont for letting me take a few hours off and showing me the sights. It’s a real honor.”

  “I’m glad you realize what a very lucky woman you are. Ethan doesn’t usually bother to squire the hired help around the island.”

  “Are you here alone, Desirée?” he asked, not liking the direction the conversation had taken, or the crackling tension that went with it.

  “Actually not.” She bathed him in another smile. “I’m with friends.”

  “Well, don’t let us keep you from them.”

  “They won’t mind. They won’t even miss me, if you’re thinking of asking me to join you.”

  “Some other time, perhaps. We’re about ready to leave,” he said, hurriedly detaching himself from her grasp. “If you’re finished toying with that salad, Anne-Marie…?”

  “Quite,” she said, the frost in her voice rivaling the ice cubes clinking in her water glass. “I find I don’t have as much of an appetite as I first thought. In fact, I believe I have a touch of indigestion.”

  “Too much sun, perhaps,” Desirée suggested.

  “Too much hot air, certainly,” she replied, plunking her hat on her head and disappearing behind the brim.

  “Feel up to a stroll to help settle your stomach?” he asked snidely, once they were outside.

  “Not if you’re in a hurry to get back.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered, if I was. We’ll go as far as the market, and give you a taste of local life.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged indifferently.

  “Do you like sailing?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I own the white yacht moored at the end of the second dock over there, and I’d offer to take you for an evening cruise, but if you’re not interested….”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten already how my parents died,” she said icily. “But if it’s company you’re looking for, I’m sure Ms. LaSalle would be more than happy to join you.”

  “I apologize,” he said, truly contrite. “That was insensitive, even for me.”

  “Fine,” she replied, and sank into stony silence.

  They walked in silence for another hundred yards or so, then turned down a narrow lane enclosed on both sides by high walls beyond which ornamental palms clacked and swayed in the breeze.

  Still cursing himself for being so thoughtless, he tried again to engage her in conversation. “Some of the oldest residences on the island lie along here,” he said. “Fine houses set in beautiful gardens. You’ll see one for yourself in a few days. The Tourneaus are throwing a pre-wedding party on the Thursday before the wedding. You’ve already met their daughter, Angelique. She’s the other bridesmaid.”

  Another silence ensued. Finally, she said, “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

  “Who, Angelique Tourneau? Good God, no! Why would you even ask such a question?”

  “Not her,” she snapped. “She’s much too charming and well-bred! I’m talking about the other one. That LaSalle creature.”

  “Desirée’s harmless, Anne-Marie.”

  “She’s a viper in panty hose!”

  “Well, not that it’s any of your business,” he said, hardly able to keep his face straight, “but no, I am not sleeping with her. Nor do I intend to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s not my type, and she wants more than I’m prepared to give. Now I have a question for you. Why do you care?”

  She didn’t lie very well. “I don’t,” she said, turning pink.

  “Is that why I had to get you out of the club before you ripped her throat out?”

  “I didn’t like her condescending attitude,” she said primly.

  “I didn’t like the unflattering innuendo in your remarks, a moment ago, either. What do you mean, Angelique’s too charming and well-bred to sleep with me?”

  Her blush deepened to the color of the fuchsia bougainvillea hanging
over the wall behind her. “I didn’t mean it quite how it came out.”

  “So we’re back to that again, are we? Saying one thing, and meaning another?”

  “It’s your fault!” she shot back, flustered. “You make me do and say things I don’t mean, all the time.”

  “I guess that explains your phony, melodramatic response to my kiss, the other night.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I liked being kissed by you!” she exclaimed, on an indignant puff of breath.

  “Oh, please, Anne-Marie! Save it for someone too inexperienced to know the difference between play-acting, and the real thing.”

  Her lashes swooped down to hide whatever expression her eyes might betray and, this time, the color stained her throat and neck as well as her face, leaving him wondering how far down it went before it stopped. “How did you know?”

  It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. Denials, yes; injured innocence, certainly. But outright admission of guilt? Never! In his experience, few women were capable of that kind of honest introspection.

  “That you weren’t exactly swept away by the moment?” He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. The unconvincing moans, perhaps. Or the way you latched onto me and tried to drag me farther inside all the time that your eyes were wide open and filled with something other than overwhelming desire. Shall I go on, or have I made my point?”

  She pressed her lips together, reminding him all too vividly of how soft and silky they’d felt under his, and ventured an uncertain glance at him from beneath those absurdly long lashes.

  “I’m sorry. I was distracted by…night noises.”

  Her embarrassment, rather than her words, were what clued him in to what she really meant. “Are you perhaps referring to the goings-on next door?”

  She paled a little and nibbled the corner of her mouth. “You mean, you know?”

  “I’m neither blind nor stupid, Anne-Marie,” he said, wearily, resuming their walk. “I’m fully aware my brother spends most nights with his bride-to-be.”

  “You are? And you’re not doing anything to put a stop to it?”