“Like you’re going to be in there.” Tasha laughed as Camille pulled her up the stairs. “Thanks for the ride, Andre,” she said, without looking over her shoulder.
“My pleasure, Chéri.” He called out. “Remember, if you need anything. Anything at all. I’m your man.”
Camille stopped Tasha at the top of the landing. “Look—” She pointed an accusatory finger at Tasha. “—Andre is not your play-toy, okay.” It was no question.
“How about my boy toy?” She snickered. “Can he be my boy toy?”
“Tasha.” Camille issued her best warning tone in hopes of stifling Tasha’s amusement. “This is not funny.”
“Lighten up.” She eyed Camille with one suspiciously perched eyebrow. “God, you’re so uptight. Geez, isn’t that scrumptious man of yours taking care of you?” She breathed in a shallow, quick gasp. “Don’t tell me this family is that old fashioned.” She sighed, disappointed. Clearly, she’d set her sights on bagging Andre while she was here and she thought family principles might spoil her chances.
Maybe it was best to let her think that. Then maybe she’d leave Andre alone. “You can’t argue with tradition.”
Monique’s silent footsteps went unheard until she was standing at Camille’s side. She paused silently until she wasn’t acknowledged.
“Miss Camille, you’re needed in the downstairs library,” she said softly. “Mrs. de Laurent needs your approval on some last minute arrangements.”
Camille sighed and bit her tongue, the urge to swear growing. “All right,” she said to the maid and turned to Tasha. “Just go ahead and get settled in. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Well don’t leave me stranded here too long,” Tasha’s words chased her down the hallway. “I’ll never find my way out of this place.”
Leave it to Tasha to infuse a little humor into this zany situation. Camille snickered and hurried down the stairs. Knowing Claudette, her dilemma was probably nothing more than where to place the orchids in relation to the roses. Not that Claudette was superficial. She and Camille just lived in very different worlds.
Sometime later, when Camille had finally garnered a spare moment away from the hustle and bustle of planning an impromptu wedding, she headed for Tasha’s room only to find it empty.
Where was that girl? Hopefully, she hadn’t found Andre’s room.
Camille glanced up and down the hallway. Searching for Tasha meant she’d run the risk of running into Maurice, or worse yet, Madeleine. The last thing she needed right now was hearing Madeleine bragging about satisfying Julian on his wedding day to Camille.
She opted for her room across the hall instead, with thoughts on taking a nice, hot shower.
The shower was refreshing, but Camille was still left with a sense of unease. After the terrycloth robe had drained the excess moisture from her body, she slipped out of it and into the silk robe Julian had given her. She liked the feel of the smooth fabric against her bare skin.
She was getting married this evening, but she couldn’t help feeling something was going to go wrong.
The owner of the finest salon in Paris had been flown in to doll up the wedding party. Jean-Jean was attractive and hip and definitely not gay. He’d flirted relentlessly with Tasha the whole time he worked on her hair. He’d agreed to style Claudette, Lecie, Tasha and Camille’s hair, saving the bride for last. He’d brought along an assistant to tend to everyone else.
Camille wanted to ignore the dark clouds rolling across the sky, but Jean-Jean had turned her toward the window to keep her from watching him in the mirror as he styled her hair.
She was faced with letting that nagging feeling that her wedding—as fake as it was—was going to get rained out consume her.
“Are you sure?” she asked Jean-Jean of his suggestion, more like insistence that he style her hair up off her shoulders.
“Leave it to me,” he said. “I am the beauty expert.”
Yeah, well, that’s debatable. But that was just her own insecurities talking. Actually, Jean-Jean was the epitome of style. His high-end designer jeans and tee-shirt underneath a leather vest, off-set by those snakeskin boots, was the embodiment of cool. But still, a look Camille would never shoot for. She was much too conservative. Or as Tasha would say—drab.
Tasha meant well. There was no maliciousness in her at all. Not where Camille was concerned. Tasha had often tried to ‘color’ Camille up, but she just wasn’t interested.
“If I don’t like it,” Camille told Jean-Jean of her hair, “I’m going to take it down.”
“Oh, no.” He paused, perched a hand on his hip. “You must not deface a creation by Jean-Jean.” He used his comb as a pointer, admonishing Camille.
She didn’t take her overbearing hairdresser seriously. He was overshadowed by the clouds outside as they thickened and darkened.
The door opened. No knock. No request to enter. From a diffused reflection in the window, Camille saw Tasha stormed in, wearing a mid-thigh length robe.
“What is up with that Madeleine chick?” She dropped onto the bed, and eyed the red silk robe Camille was wearing.
Jean-Jean snorted, but continued to work on Camille’s hair.
Camille groaned, wanting to look at her hair but Jean-Jean refused.
“What’s her deal?” Tasha said again. “She’s awfully pissed about something.” She toed out of her slippers and lay down on her side, propping her bare feet on the bed.
“She’s not the bride.” A smart-alecky tone escaped Camille.
Jean-Jean laughed.
“Seriously?” Tasha sat up and dangled her feet off the side of the bed. “She’s Julian’s ex?”
“Well, according to her, she’s not an ex.”
“In her dreams,” Jean-Jean said. “She’s never been anything more than a booty call.”
“According to her and Maurice,” Camille said, “she’s just what Julian needs.”
“Yeah, maybe if he’s hard up.” Jean-Jean snickered.
All three laughed.
“Man, I need to steer clear of her.” Tasha stated.
“Well, good luck with that one,” Jean-Jean said. “She’s finagled her way into indefinite guest status here.”
“Boy, I tell you...” Tasha shook her head. “I just don’t understand French customs.”