Catherine Spencer - 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.

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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

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.”