“We won’t. And I won’t.” She hoped he bought the resistance.
“Whatever you say, Chéri.” His mischievous smile gave way to roguish laughter. He turned her on. She didn’t mind that so much as not being able to control the desire itself.
Calling her by the wrong name bruised her ego and earned him a vengeful tone. “My name is Camille.”
“I know that,” he said, undaunted. “Chéri is, how do you Americans say...a term of endearment. I called you darling.”
“Sorry.” The bitter tang in her apology stung, but she didn’t give him time to exploit her blunder. “So, once we’re married, as long as I don’t leave you or tell anyone the marriage is merely a business contract, at the end of six months we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll get five million dollars for my troubles?”
“That is the deal,” he said through a half-smile with nothing behind it but teeth.
Damn. This guy must be really loaded.
“What do you want to pretend to be married for, anyway?” she asked. The reason he gave seemed a little extreme. “Why can’t you just tell your dad to get off your back?”
Julian stood. “Chéri, you will understand that better after you meet him.” He buried his hands in his trouser pockets and towered above her like a hungry vulture eyeing his cornered prey.
“I see.” The words tumbled from her mouth. But frankly, she didn’t see at all. It made no sense.
“So, do we have a deal?” he asked, carefree and smoothly. He slid his hand out of his pocket and volunteered it as a gesture of good faith.
“There’s just one more thing.” She evaded his handshake overture. “We have to get married before we leave the States.” Considering she was born to distrust people, she insisted on a formal guarantee before her feet left American soil.
“If that makes you feel better. Sure.” He shrugged, way too calm, or foolish. “But we have to keep the American marriage under wraps.”
“Why?”
“There will be another, more elaborate wedding when we arrive in France. The six months will start after that one—”
“Wa...wait.” Camille flew up like a bottle rocket and teetered at his side. “When will the French wedding take place?” she asked, intrigued by the lengths he’d go to in order to pull off his ruse.
“Two weeks. A month.” His eyebrow quirked as if amused. Apparently he’d seen disapproval in her reaction, rather than intrigue.
Displeasure clamped her mouth shut and bulleted her head back.
“Surely, Chéri, for five million dollars an extra couple of weeks won’t matter?” Julian said, reading her all wrong.
But since he had, maybe she should just go with it. Evidently, it was what he expected and Camille thought it better to please. “You said six months.” She made it up as she went along. “Not six months and two weeks, or seven months.” Agitation echoed in her voice, unnerved and alarming. It scared even her. She added for good measure, “Six. Months.”
The rant made her question the whole crazy notion more than it solidified her decision to hop on board. What kind of idiot agrees to become some stranger’s wife for six months, anyway? One who’s lost her job, thanks to him. One who has a ton of student loans coming due, and no way to pay them. One who was afraid of being penniless and forced to live on the streets. That’s who.
Margo’s promise to blackball her on the L.A. circuit hadn’t done a thing to temper that fear. In fact, it magnified it. Whether her ex-boss could do that kind of damage or not was overshadowed by the possibility. And when she added all that to Julian’s vulnerable expression when he talked about not wanting to get roped into a loveless marriage, Camille found saying ‘no’ impossible.
That settled it. She was a desperate idiot who was about to agree to marry a hopeless fool.
Julian wanted to distract his father, and Camille Chandler was the perfect facade as well as a most agreeable diversion.
“Chéri, I can promise you it won’t be as bad as you imagine.” He’d stop calling her Chéri, but he liked the way it angered her and brightened her eyes.
Feistiness was the one quality she’d need, the spunkier the better, to mount a satisfactory defense against his father and Madeleine, Papa’s choice for Julian. Camille would have to be warned, he couldn’t risk them blindsiding her. But not until they arrived in France.
Acutely aware of his selfishness, Julian decided to wait because he didn’t want to begin his search again for a suitable replacement. It wasn’t like he was doing Camille a disservice. She’d held her own against him and she’d hold her own when confronted by his nemeses.
He eased back down onto the couch and gestured to the empty space at the other end. She looked at the vacant gap between them, at him and then back at the sofa again. Her hands nervously smoothed her skirt before she grudgingly sat and folded her hands in her lap.
“I promise it won’t be that bad,” he said again, not quite sure if he was trying to reassure her or himself.
“Yeah, so you say.” Her tone told him all he needed to know. She didn’t trust him.
“All right. Care to make a little wager?” The suggestion was nothing more than a means to ease the tension. Besides, a side bet might be fun. And who knew, if she’d enter into wagers so easily, then perhaps she’d end up in his bed just as effortlessly.
She cut her eyes at him. “What kind of wager?”
“Of course it will require that you declare complete honesty.” He let the mystery linger a little longer, simply because it aggravated her.
“How will you know I’m being completely honest?”
“I trust you, Chéri.” He held back the snicker, only releasing bits and pieces.
She let out a snort and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be as honest as you are sincere.”
“Aren’t they the same?”
She skewed her face into a twisted knot. “Can we get back to the point?”
Ah, good. She wouldn’t let his father or Madeleine trick her into disclosing information. “The point is that Pacifique de Lumière is well-known throughout Europe. You won’t be able to resist its charm and beauty.”
“Pacifique de Lumière,” she repeated, not nearly as fluently or confidently.
“It’s my family’s home near Marseilles.”