“What do you think happened to the dress?” Camille’s soft, sweet voice invaded his happy thoughts.
He’d give her three guesses and the first two didn’t count. In a word—Madeleine. But without proof, Julian wasn’t comfortable making accusations. “I could only guess, Chéri.”
“Yeah, and your first two don’t count.”
What the hell? A manic, crazed feeling slammed Julian’s heart to the floor. He swallowed the panic and lugged his heart up into his chest. “When we return to Marseilles,” he said, commanding himself to relax, “I will find out what happened to your dress.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter.” She shrugged, disappointed. “It’s not like there was really anything to spoil by stealing it.”
Her words left no guessing on the matter. She suspected, just as Julian did, that someone, probably Madeleine, had stolen the dress.
“But the dress is yours, Chéri,” he said, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa. “No matter the circumstances. The dress was made for you. It belongs to you.”
She smiled and seemed to soften, melting into a display of agreeability. “You’re an awfully nice guy, Julian.” A tremor touched her lips. “No wonder Madeleine’s blowing a gasket.”
Julian laughed. Partly because the last thing he ever wanted to be thought of was a nice guy, but mostly because he found her American point of view hilarious. Blowing a gasket. How amusing.
An attendant appeared in the doorway next to the wet bar. He waited until Julian acknowledged him with a slight nod.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Will you and Mrs. de Laurent be dining in here, or do you prefer one of the dining areas?”
Julian looked at Camille. She shrugged, a clueless look shaping on her face. He thought about a romantic candlelit dinner up on deck overlooking the sea, but it was still raining. Eating in here in the lounge was out of the question. He didn’t have many memories of his mother, but one of the few he had was about this place. She’d never allowed food in this room, beyond hors d’oeuvres.
“The dining room,” he said.
An hour later, Julian and Camille were finishing dessert dishes of chocolate mousse and fresh strawberries.
He reached for his glass of wine, needing to sate the fires ignited while he’d gazed upon Camille in the candlelight. Her crystal eyes sparkled in the flame’s glow. Her mouth was inviting and begged to be kissed—long, slow, and hard.
Moaning desire charged up Julian’s throat. He disguised it by clearing it out in a regimented cough.
Camille looked agitated. How was he going to get her to relax? What had her so wound up? Surely the dress wasn’t an issue still. Granted, he saw how the whole missing dress episode could be unsettling, but he and Camille weren’t actually committed to one another. It wasn’t like it was a real omen. She’d pointed that out. Maybe it was all for show. A real bride would be devastated. And Camille was, after all, an actress.
But he couldn’t help thinking there was something more to her anxiety. She’d been fiddling with her silverware. Cutting, poking and stirring the food on her plate all through dinner and dessert. Finally, she laid the fork down, the prongs resting on the edge of the dish, and raised her gaze to meet his.
“We need to talk.” She rested her wrists against the edge of the table and rubbed her thumb against her forefinger.
Ah, perhaps I’m about to find out what’s gotten her so upset. Julian sighed. If he knew what was bothering her, he could fix it. There was always a way to fix a woman’s disappointment. You just had to know how to go about it, and Julian was an expert in that department.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, opening the door to any possibility.
“Look, I know where you and I stand on our marriage,” she said provisionally. “But you yourself have said, more than once, that you want it to appear real.”
That notion aroused old anxieties. “To everyone, including my family, our marriage must appear authentic.” Obviously, she was worried about that and he needed to know why. “You think someone may not believe our authenticity?”
“Well...” She hesitated and shifted uneasily. “Some may doubt our sincerity, especially with your booty call hanging around.”
“Booty call?”
She raked her fingers nervously through her hair. “I mean, I know it’s none of my business and all, but, it’s kind of hard to expect people to believe our marriage is real if there are noticeable indicators suggesting otherwise.”
Somewhere in her rambling, she had a point. Madeleine was the whole reason for this ersatz marriage. That amplified Camille’s point. But Julian had already realized that—which is why he’d taken steps at the reception to neutralize the awkward and problematic concerns.
To Julian’s surprise, Camille was also coming across as a bit jealous of Madeleine, and he knew there was nothing quite so tempting as a man who was wanted by another woman. Especially when there was no love lost between the women. He was pretty sure Camille didn’t think much of Madeleine.
“I can see your point.” He leaned back in his chair and fed her his practiced, captivating grin. The one that charmed the ladies out of their good graces. “It’s probably not a good idea to let a seemingly harmless idiosyncrasy poke holes in our otherwise perfect plan.”
“Then you really need to get Madeleine in check.”
Smart girl. She was getting rid of the thorn in her side and doing it diplomatically. Who could argue with the case she’d made?
“I’ve already taken care of that.” It was best to let her know she’d triumphed over Madeleine. He was counting on it winning him points. “Either she’s gone by the time you and I return, or we will be moving into town.”
Just as he suspected, a victorious smile spread over her face. “Really?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.”
“Why?” He hadn’t shown Madeleine any sort of particular favor since he and Camille had returned from America. Perhaps it had something to do with Madeleine being a guest at the house.
“Well, you know...” Her words drifted into a hushed whisper and she looked away shyly.
Julian laid his hand on the table, regretting they were so far apart that he couldn’t touch her. “Chéri...?”
“Look, I know it’s really none of my business who or what you do.” Her tone was lit with a possessive desperation. “But since you’re the one who wants it to look real, you probably should use a bit more discretion in your dalliances with Madeleine.” She looked almost embarrassed.