“Oh, honey, it’s not a French thing,” he said, waving his comb in the air. “It’s a bitch thing.”
“That’s true.” Camille agreed, recalling their lunch date. “She leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to tact.”
“So, how many of Julian’s ex-girlfriends are coming to the wedding?” Tasha’s dramatic flair centered in her contemptuous laughter.
Only Camille. This could only happen to her. Who else would end up in a beautiful chateau in France, about to marry a billionaire—one that wasn’t too hard on the eyes—but only as a business arrangement, and with his concubine staying in the same house with them. Any minute now, she’d awaken.
Jean-Jean giggled. “I like you,” he said to Tasha. “You can stay.”
“Cool.” She turned to him. “So where do you hide all the hot French guys?”
“Oh, we keep them in during the day.” His friendly bantering came across in a relaxed manner.
“Ooh, they come out at night?” Tasha pressed her fingertips to her lips.
Whatever. So long as Tasha left Andre alone, that’s all Camille cared about. She didn’t want to spend the next six months listening to Julian bitching about how Tasha broke Andre’s heart.
Camille stared out the window at the unfolding scene on the lawn. The guests were starting to arrive. And she still didn’t have a dress. It should’ve been delivered an hour ago. She glanced at the sky, thick and heavy with some of the blackest clouds she’d ever seen. Great. If she was the suspicious kind, and she was getting married for real, she’d say the day’s uneasy events were starting to look like a sign.
She went to Julian’s door and knocked.
“Come in.” Madeleine’s voice, velvet-edged and sickeningly sweet, filtered through the walls.
Could this day get any worse?
Camille plastered on the face of indifference as she opened the door. Seeing Madeleine sprawled out on Julian’s bed was enough to push even the sanest of women over the edge.
She drew in a breath and forbade the claws to emerge. “Where is Julian?” Camille asked, staying in the entryway and hanging onto the doorknob.
“Shower.” Madeleine’s snarky tone and her expression irked Camille.
Camille tilted her brow and looked at Madeleine with ambiguity.
“Well,” Madeleine laughed at her, “You don’t want him standing beside you, declaring to keep himself only unto you, while he reeks of me, do you?”
She thought about backing out of the room. She thought about asking Madeleine to pass on a message—like that would happen. She thought about barging into Julian’s bathroom. Camille opted for the latter.
“Hey?” Madeleine objected as Camille headed across the room. “You can’t go in there.”
Camille stopped at the door, her hand resting on the knob, and glanced over her shoulder. She tried to stop it, tried not to stoop to Madeleine’s level, but her pride interjected. “There’s nothing in there that I haven’t seen before.”
She didn’t wait for Madeleine’s response, just opened the door and hot steam rolled out. “Julian?” she called out, entering and closing the door behind her.
“Chéri?” Laughter chased his enduring term for her. “Have you come to join me?”
God, what nerve. She wasn’t about to take Madeleine’s sloppy seconds. Not today. But it was nice to know Julian was so virile. At least, he thought he was. And Julian wasn’t the kind of guy to start something he wasn’t certain he could finish.
Camille thought about what he’d told her about Madeleine making sure Camille caught them in bed. She wasn’t sure if he meant that literally or figuratively. And she didn’t have the courage to ask him. Whether or not Julian was sleeping with another woman wasn’t any of her business.
“Julian!” Camille stomped her foot on the tile. “My dress was not in the delivery from the designer in Paris.”
The water stopped. “What?” His hardened tone shredded the single word inquiry.
“My dress—” All her hopes for a trouble-free wedding were crushed in her diminishing, barely audible voice. “—It’s not here.”
By the time Julian opened the shower door, he’d wrapped a towel around his waist. Her disappointment was overshadowed by the view of his torso. Rippling muscles engraved on his bronzed skin, defined his manliness and nearly floored Camille.
Julian grabbed his cell phone off the nearby counter and hit the speed dial. He waited for an answer on the other end, and Camille got caught up in the water droplets dangling off his wet hair. Finally, they dripped onto his shoulders and followed well-carved paths down his chest. She tried to fend off the overwhelming desire to grab a towel and ‘dry him off’ with long, slow sensuous strokes.
He spouted words in French, pulling Camille out of her wishful thinking. She had no idea what he was saying, but by the tone of his voice, she’d say it wasn’t good. He paused every so often and with each gap his ensuing tone softened. Finally, she thought he’d apologized just before he disconnected the call.
That surprised Camille. It wasn’t in Julian’s makeup to administer apologies.
He laid the phone on the counter and looked at Camille with sorrow shading his eyes. “Marie insists the dress was in the delivery.” He spoke as if the words weighed heavy on his family’s good name. “It’s disappeared since arriving here.” His face winced and the frown set into his features.
“Who would do such a thing?” Camille asked, even though she had a pretty good guess.
“I’ll find your dress,” he said and stormed out.
Camille followed him into his room.
Surprise, surprise. Madeleine was gone, right along with Camille’s dress.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAMILLE CHANDLER DE LAURENT had been the picture of grace and poise during a wedding disaster like no other. First, her dress had disappeared, but she’d graciously gone to her closet and picked out a simple peach evening gown that Julian had bought her in London.
Claudette’s hairdresser had done an excellent job of fashioning Camille’s hair on top her head and leaving loose tresses framing her face and resting on her neckline. Between the dress and her hair, she reminded Julian of a goddess holding court on Mount Olympus rather than a woman he should be fortunate enough to wed.
Then the rain came. It destroyed her perfectly coiffured hair and drenched her designer gown, which would’ve shrunk several sizes had it not been forced to retain some of its shape by her womanly figure. At the reception, though, the dress had begun to dry and now brimmed several inches above her ankles.