Were Julian and his staff going to cater to her every need and desire for the next six months?
This was the life. But a life that she couldn’t let herself get used to because it wasn’t hers. She was not a permanent fixture in this lap of luxury. Still, there was no rule that said she couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted. And that’s exactly what Camille planned on doing.
She scrubbed the half-worn makeup off her face and applied a light layer of loose powder to get rid of the shine. Instead of going for lipstick she opted for a splash of flavored lip balm, more for its moisture content than anything else. She hated dry, chapped lips.
The damp dress’s spaghetti straps slipped easily off her shoulders and she wiggled out of the gown and let it fall to the floor. She scooped it up and hung it on an empty hook next to a pair of plush bathrobes and a couple that looked like they were made of silk.
There was a small bottle of perfume on the counter and intrigue pushed her to examine it. The name was in French and she had trouble reading it, but she thought it had something to do with flowers or maybe the sun. She couldn’t tell. She pressed the gold-tipped sprayer into the air and sniffed. The scent reminded her of orange blossoms.
Camille shrugged and sprayed it over her naked body. She thought about dressing in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt but grabbed the robe instead.
It is silk, she thought, wrapping herself in the soft luxury, enjoying the feel against her bare skin.
She went back to the bedroom and paused a moment. Did the robe make her look promiscuous? Who cares? She pushed the uneasiness aside and opened the door. Julian was her husband and they needed to at least look like they were intimate, especially to the staff—whom she had no doubt were reporting back to Maurice.
The red silk clung to her skin as she strolled through the hallway and out into the ship’s main lounge.
A taupe couch hugged the far wall and rounded both corners, covering half the room’s parameter. Dozens of pillows, the colors of creamy butter, crimson, and a pale green had been placed on the couch to provide guests with added comfort. Artwork hung on the walls above the couch, and artifacts, probably priceless ones, were displayed strategically around the room. Everything had a feminine touch to it. Claudette was better than most interior decorators.
Julian was sitting on a stool at the bar nestled in the corner, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats. The black fleece hugged his waist, the color didn’t distract from the chiseled muscles rippling underneath his bronzed skin. His ebony curls, still damp from the rain, glistened against the soft lights illuminating the wet bar.
Camille surveyed the room one more time. The couch’s center had a direct line to his stool and seemed like the best vantage point. She dropped to the sofa and covered a large portion with her long legs, crossing one over the other.
Glancing up, she saw Julian staring at her. Anxiety pounded her heart against her chest. Nobody had ever looked at her like that.
Thunder roared and vibrated through the boat and shook Camille’s composure. She jumped up and charged toward the window, analyzing the rough seas. Hopefully, they weren’t going to set sail in this mess.
She sucked in a deep breath and turned to Julian, pointing out the window. “We aren’t going out in this weather, are we?”
“No.” He shook his head. “We’ll wait until the storm clears. Probably tomorrow.” He drained his glass and poured another. “Can I get you a drink? Dinner is about half an hour away.”
“Sure.” She folded her arms in front of her and turned back to the window, mesmerized by the storm’s ferocity.
Camille had a feeling she was going to need a drink. Lots of them. Between the boat thing—she’d never learned to swim—and a creeping desire for Julian—her husband in name only—she was going to need all the help she could collect.
Julian rose and strolled behind the bar. He’d anticipated her need for a drink and put some champagne on ice as soon as he’d changed out of his wet clothing. His competitive nature enjoyed it when his hunches proved right.
Camille clutched her hands behind her back, fidgeting. Julian suspected the missing dress was to blame. It wouldn’t surprise him. He couldn’t censure her for thinking twice after what happened with her wedding gown and then the weather. She’d graciously and valiantly gone through with the ceremony, wet hair and all, in one of the outfits he’d bought her earlier in the week.
Julian still believed Madeleine had something to do with the missing garment.
It made Madeleine look like a fool, and a hopeless one at that. Imagine thinking a missing dress would stop the wedding. Thankfully, it was just a business arrangement and while Camille had expressed disappointment over not getting the chance to wear the dress, she had gladly and graciously agreed that any outfit would suffice.
He grabbed a couple of glasses from the rack, sat them on the counter and reached for the bottle of chilled champagne.
As soon as he figured out what Madeleine had done with the dress, he was going to retrieve it and give it to Camille as a gift so she could wear it when she was ready for a bonafide marriage.
And Andre thought Julian was selfish. Shows how much he knows.
Lightning flashed, casting a brief but welcomed glimpse of her beauty. Curves outlined her shapely figure beneath her silk robe as she approached the bar and hopped onto a stool. Loose tendrils of still damp blonde hair softened and framed her flawlessly stunning face.
Julian poured champagne and handed her a glass. “You were a great sport today, wearing a replacement gown at the ceremony.”
She wrapped her fingers around the flute’s stem. “Well, it’s not like it was that important.” She sipped the champagne. “Omens don’t count for arranged marriages.” She smiled girlishly, and the sight of it swept through Julian leaving him wanting to kiss her.
“Omens?” He moved around the bar and sat on the stool beside her.
“Well, if we were getting married for real...I would’ve called it a sign.”
“Maybe it’s still a sign.”
“Nah, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Then how does it work?”
“It’s only a bad sign if we were actually in love.”
“Who says signs have to be bad?”
“A missing dress is bad.” She slipped off the bar stool and moved to her original position on the couch.
“I can see why you’d think that.” He followed her, draining his glass.
His empty champagne flute clinked as it made contact with the marble-top coffee table. Julian sat, leaving little space between himself and Camille, leaned back and looked at her. It’s a shame a woman such as her—with all her beauty, wit and charm—couldn’t have a real wedding night to go with the very legal ceremony.