Six? Didn’t he say something about four at breakfast?
Camille had a lot to learn about the interworkings of a multi-billion dollar family and its very enigmatic, but oh so sexy, second-in-command.
Clouds sprinkled the morning sky like wisps of cotton balls. She was getting married in a couple of days; was this a bad sign?
Hell no. There aren’t any signs, good or bad, for arranged marriages.
The car drove away and Andre appeared from inside the house, as if he’d been waiting for Julian to leave. He looked at her and smiled, slipping his hands inside his pockets.
“Camille. Is it all right if I call you Camille?” he asked, a little too friendly-like.
“Yes.” She hesitated, unsure of his motives, and erected a sober reserve. “Do you work with Julian? He’s left already.”
“I work for Julian. And we rarely ride in together. He’s always got me off running errands.” His tone was free of animosity. Not only did Andre appear to know his place, he seemed content with the position.
“And you like that just fine.” She realized out loud.
“Hell yes.” He grinned, openly amused. “He’s always stuck inside the office, making business deals and whatnot.” Andre’s tone illustrated his distaste for his brother’s post. “I, on the other hand, am always off globetrotting. Visiting new and exciting places. Wining and dining clients...and friends,” he said, with a wink. “He can keep his job. I like mine just fine.”
“Well, then...” A covetous feeling of contentment swept over Camille. “I envy you. To love what you do for a living is a godsend. A luxury not many people can afford.”
“Speaking of my job...” He chuckled. “It’s my job to retrieve your friend in America. You might want to contact her. I’ll send a car for her.”
“She can meet you at the airport.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it.”
What a gentlemanly thing to say. It reminded her of Julian. Always thinking of someone else’s comfort and ease. Maurice and Claudette had taught them well the art of courteous behavior.
“It’s no trouble at all.” Camille raised her tone with insistence. “There’s no need for you to go traipsing all over L.A., just to bring Tasha to the airport.”
Andre’s laughter cascaded across the wind whipping past. “Ah, yes, Americans...so independent.”
She glanced at him through narrowed eyes and then looked away. “Which airport?”
Andre studied her with raised eyebrows.
“Which airport do you want her to meet you?”
“Which is more convenient for her?”
“Let’s ask her.” Camille pulled out her cell phone and began texting Tasha. Within seconds, she had an answer. LAX. Where 2 meet?
Camille showed Andre the cell phone screen and waited for his response.
Andre snatched up her phone and began pressing buttons. When he was done, a satisfied look warmed his face and he returned the device to Camille.
She studied the phone a moment, half-curious to know what he’d texted to Tasha.
“Ooh...” Andre smacked her arm lightly with the back of his hand. “Tell her to send a photo,” he said, a flicker of amusement lighting his face.
Camille’s phone chimed. “Hang on.” She raised a finger at Andre and took the call. “Yeah.”
“Chéri,” Julian’s voice, anxious yet comforting, poured over the phone. “Has Andre talked to you about bringing your friend over?”
“As a matter of fact, we’re just discussing that right now.” She glanced at Andre. “He wants her to text him a photograph...so he can recognize her at the airport, I suppose.”
“Let me speak with my brother, please.” Julian’s tone, short and to the point, reached across the airwaves and wrapped Camille in an icy chill.
She shoved the phone at Julian’s brother. “He wants to talk to you.”
Andre drew a heavy breath and rolled his eyes before laying the phone against his ear. Even so, she still heard Julian’s higher-pitched voice loud and clear. “No, Andre. There will be no pictures of Camille’s friend. You’re not going to get her for your own amusement, so get that out of your head.” Hope fell from Andre’s face as he listened to Julian’s orders. “Just bring her here and be on your best behavior.”
Andre disconnected the call and handed the phone to Camille. “Spoil sport.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And your husband. I had no choice in the matter.” An easy smile played at the corners of Andre’s mouth. “You, on the other hand, could have and should have run far, far away.” He nodded and slipped into the backseat of the car.
Oh, I know I should run. But Camille didn’t have the desire.
She laced her fingers together behind her back and waited until Andre’s car disappeared down the long, winding driveway. Hands still clasped behind her, Camille was ready to return to the house when another limo rolled up in front of the house.
As if right on cue, Claudette, Lecie, and Madeleine exited the house. The three women looked like an expensive fashion ad for Europe’s finest designers. She glanced down at her own attire, a casual ensemble of white capri pants and a matching print blouse. Camille’s clothes cost more than two weeks her normal pay, and she felt ill-qualified to wear them. She didn’t do the outfit justice, especially up against her companions in their trendy styles.
“Are we ready?” Claudette asked, not giving the same attention Camille had to her attire.
Sure. Why not? Camille shrugged her misgivings aside and climbed into the limo.
The morning passed quickly as a high profile wedding planner led them around the city, stopping at places like the florist and the caterers. Claudette was more than willing to weigh in on every aspect, but ultimately and respectfully left the final decision to Camille. Lecie gave no arguments to anyone. Loving everything, she only looked for the romance. Madeleine remained quiet but observant.
At lunchtime, they stopped at a sidewalk café and dined on a buffet. Lecie had excused herself and gone to the restroom. Claudette had gone back for seconds, saying, “I try to watch my figure, but one or two meals a week, I just let loose.”
Camille watched her sashaying away, contemplating Claudette’s age. She had to be at least forty-five. Damn, she carried it well.
“Camille,” Madeleine drew her attention away from Claudette and back to the awkwardness of the situation. “May I call you Camille?”