If she kept telling herself that, sooner or later she might buy into the notion.
The document read pretty standard. She was selling her story exclusively to de Laurent Enterprises. Pretty amusing, since she hadn’t planned on writing one in the first place.
Camille signed all copies of the agreement and laid the gold-plated pen on the counter along with the papers.
“Is that all?” she said to Julian.
“For now.” He winked at her and turned away.
Jerk.
Camille pushed off from the bar and headed for the door. There wasn’t a reason in the world that she should put up with his asinine ways.
She let the door slam behind her as she left.
Julian jumped and laughed comically. She was mad. Good. So was he. “How long before the money is wired into the account?”
“Tomorrow,” Jasper said, gathering the documents. “I’ll get these filed and bring your copies around tomorrow.”
“Can you bring some documentation from the bank confirming the transfer?”
“Of course,” he said, stuffing the paperwork inside his attaché. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” he added, closing the case.
“No, I think that’ll do it.” Julian moved behind the bar and headed for the liquor. It was time for a drink.
He grabbed a glass and filled it with a generous serving of the closest bottle. Julian studied it for a moment before pouring it into his mouth. He swished it and swirled it around, letting the sting diminish before swallowing the tart liquid.
He slammed the glass down on the bar. It wasn’t often that he got married and taken for a ride, all at the same time. There was almost something enticing about her outwitting him.
Almost.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Within two days Papa had moved Madeleine to town. For the first time, Julian felt he’d won in a battle of wills with his father. It wasn’t often that Papa gave up, in effect admitting defeat.
Too bad Julian’s victory was overshadowed by Camille’s deception. But still, he had to honor his end of the bargain no matter what her motives were for accepting the deal. He didn’t have to like it, but he had to accept the inevitable.
Camille had handled the constant shuffling between the house and the yacht like a champion. When he said it was time to go back to Pacifique de Lumière, she’d agreed without a second thought. She looked bored over the whole mess, more than anything else.
He’d been holding onto the filed papers and the bank transfer receipt for the last couple of days just because he could. Since they’d signed the documents, he wanted to see how long it’d take her to ask for the money. She hadn’t, and he found that irksome.
She spent her time inside their suite or in the garden. Usually alone. He felt sorry for her and envied her at the same time over her aloneness and her ability to find solitude in it. Having no one to beleaguer or infuriate you must be great, yet lonely. If there’s no one to bother you, there’s also no one to love you.
But since when had that mattered to him?
He opened the door to the main parlor in their suite. She was sitting facing the window. Her still frame didn’t move. She didn’t acknowledge his presence.
He tapped the manila envelope against his palm and cleared his throat. She glanced over her shoulder, stared right through him and turned back to the window. After a moment of immobility, she pushed herself up and turned to face him. Her stoic expression gave nothing away about what she was feeling.
Camille clasped her hands together and raised her gaze to meet his. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him with cold, hard eyes.
Julian vowed to show her just how little she affected him. He drew a breath and acknowledged the envelope in his hand. “I thought you might like these.” He kept his voice calm, and on a low, even keel.
She shrugged and folded her arms in front of her. As if the distance across the room wasn’t enough, she’d erected another barrier.
Part of him wanted to reach out to her, but it was smothered by the part that loathed her actions. Loathed that she’d come to him under false pretences. Loathed that she’d made him look like a fool.
Nobody got away with that.
“This is your copy of our agreement.” He waved the envelope in the air. “The bank receipt is in here, too. Your acceptance of this money seals our deal.” He paused, ruthlessness invading his tone. “Make no mistake, if you discuss this family with any outlets of the media, I will sue you.”
She came toward him, her eyes darkening dangerously. Ignoring the envelope, she reacted with nothing more than a couple of pronounced blinks. Other than that, she was like a statuette poised in permanent indifference.
“Have you nothing to say?” His anger escaped in a harsh growl.
“What do you want me to say, Julian?”
He moved a couple of steps toward her and she backed up.
Julian’s heart ached with defeat. He wanted her to say it was all a lie. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t do that. So what was the point?
“Can you say it’s not true?” he asked. “Can you tell me you’re not a writer and you weren’t employed at some tabloid when you met me?”
The look on her face—guilt—said it all. “I thought so.”
“You’ve already passed judgment on me.” The vibrancy left her face. “Anything I say from here on out is just wasting my breath.”
True. She had a point. He was beyond listening to or wanting to hear excuses.
Julian had to give her credit for having her own sense of self-respect, even if it was distorted.
It was going to be an awkward six months.
There wasn’t much left to do or say. He looked at the envelope in his hand, then to the sofa before moving on to the coffee table to the left. One more glimpse of her cold, stoic face convinced him to toss the envelope at the table. It sailed through the air and slid across the tabletop, stopping in the center.
Julian gave her one last consideration. She hadn’t moved or changed her expression. He was wasting his time. Irritation shoved his regret aside and pivoted him around, forcing him toward the door. He left, letting it swing shut with a bit of a slam. He winced and headed on down the hallway.
The next six months were not going to be pleasant ones. He’d find a way to conquer his affliction because, as bad as this was, being married to Madeleine would still be worse.
Camille grabbed a pillow from the nearby chair and threw it at the door. She’d been wrong when she called him a jerk. He wasn’t just a jerk. Julian de Laurent was a complete jerk.