In The Best Man's Bed

“Treason?” Anne-Marie supplied witheringly. “Good grief, girlfriend, who is this browbeaten little creature reciting the party line with every breath? What’s happened to the woman I used to know?”

“I’m still the same inside.” Solange squared her shoulders and made a determined effort to look more cheerful. “I’ve just had a little difficulty adjusting to my new situation. But now that you’re here, I’ll soon be my old self again.”

They’d reached the guest houses by then, and looking through the open entrance to the one she’d been assigned to, Anne-Marie saw that her luggage had been delivered and that a maid was busily unpacking her suitcases.

“I don’t want her messing around with the wedding outfits, so I’d better get in there and take charge before the hired help starts on the travel trunk,” she said. “But this conversation is far from over, Solange. You might fool everyone else with your polite, subdued little smile, and your docile acceptance of the all-important rules, but you aren’t fooling me. Something’s not quite right in paradise, and I intend to find out what it is.”

“It’s nothing—just pre-wedding nerves and difficulty settling into a new situation,” Solange insisted, edging nervously toward her own suite. “I’ve always been shy, you know that, and it’s all taking a bit of getting used to, especially with Philippe away so much. I suppose, if truth be told, I’m just plain lonely.”

Small wonder! Anne-Marie thought. And that’s something else we can thank the almighty Ethan Andrew Beaumont Lewis for!

She thought she’d sleep late the next morning, but even though she’d fallen into bed exhausted the night before, Anne-Marie awoke at sunrise. It would be hours before breakfast was served, but after last night’s dinner, she needed exercise more than food, especially if she wanted to fit into the dress she’d be wearing at the wedding.

“Always assuming,” she murmured, slipping between the folds of filmy mosquito netting draped around the bed, and hunting through the dresser drawers for a bikini, “that the wedding takes place which, from everything I’ve surmised, might not happen if the lord and master has his way.”

The pool glimmered invitingly when she looked outside, but there was no sign of life from Solange’s villa, which was probably a good thing. She’d looked very pale and hollow-eyed by the time dinner was over, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep, and could probably use a few more hours of rest.

Better not to disturb her, Anne-Marie decided, pulling a cover-up over her bikini and slinging her camera around her neck. Hiking down the hill to wade in the milk-warm Caribbean would serve just as well as a dip in the pool.

Finding a way down to the beach turned out to be a more frustrating experience than she’d expected, though. Even in the bright light of midday, many of the paths winding through the estate gardens lay in the protective shade of trees. At that hour of the morning, with the sun still not high enough to penetrate the dense green canopy overhead, she found it almost impossible to keep track of the direction she took.

Twice, she ended up back where she’d begun. Another time, she found herself on the edge of the cliff, with a sheer drop down to the shore. Finally, when she was so confused that she wasn’t certain she’d even find her way back to her villa, she came across a man tending one of the ponds.

He knelt with his back to her, and her first thought was that he must have spent most of his life toiling in the hot sun for Ethan Beaumont. How else would he have developed such a physique, or his skin acquired such a deep and glowing tan? And who else but a manual laborer would be allowed to wander about the estate wearing nothing but faded denim cutoffs?

“Bonjour,” she began, unsure of the protocol involved in approaching a gardener—because whatever else she might have missed at dinner the previous evening, she’d quickly learned that, with regard to the house staff, protocol was paramount. The wine steward did not refill the water goblets; the butler who served the food did not remove the empty plates.

That being the case, it was entirely possible that this lowly employee with his face practically submersed in the pond, might not be allowed to speak to guests. Certainly, the way he ignored her greeting suggested as much—unless he was deaf or didn’t understand her French.

“Excusez moi,” she said, stepping closer and speaking a little louder. “S’il vous plait, monsieur—”

Irritably, he flapped his hand at her and, in case she hadn’t understood the message that was supposed to convey, said curtly, “Lower your voice. I heard you the first time.”

His English might be flawless, albeit slightly accented, but his manner left a great deal to be desired. Offended, she snapped, “Really? And how do you suppose your employer would react, if he knew how rude you were to one of his guests?”

“Disturbed,” he replied, still bent double over the pond. “But not nearly as disturbed as he’d be with the guest for interfering with the delicate business of keeping his prize koi alive and well.”

“You’re the fish man?”

The way his broad shoulders sort of rippled and shook at the question made her wonder if he was having some sort of fit. “You could call me that, I suppose.”

“What does your employer call you?”

“Nothing,” he said carelessly. “He’s never conferred a title on me. In his eyes, I’m not important enough to warrant one.”

“Yet you continue to work here. You must love what you do, to put up with that sort of abuse.”

“Oh yes, lady,” he replied, his deep baritone suddenly adopting a musical Caribbean lilt. “Master lets me feed and tend his fish. Gives me hut to live in, and rum to drink. Fish man very lucky guy.”

“There’s no need to be so offensive. It’s not my fault if the work you do isn’t properly appreciated.” She tipped her head to one side, intrigued by his preoccupation with the task at hand. “Exactly what is it that you’re doing?”

“An egret’s had a go at the koi. I’m repairing the damage.”

“I didn’t know that was possible. How do you do it?”

“I get the fish to come to the surface so that I can treat their injuries.”

“Of course you do,” she said mockingly. “And because they’re obedience trained, they stay put while you bandage them.”

“Not quite. But they stick around long enough for me to disinfect the puncture wounds inflicted by the bird.”

She stepped closer and saw that he wasn’t exaggerating. One fish, over a foot long, was happily nibbling food pellets from one of his hands and, with the other, allowing him to dab some substance on the nasty-looking hole piercing its back.

“You really care about them, don’t you?” she said, impressed despite herself.

“I respect them,” he said. “Some are over fifty years old. They deserve to be well cared for. Is there a reason you’re wandering around the gardens at this hour?”

“I’m looking for a way to get down to the beach. I’d like to go for a swim.”

“What’s wrong with the guest pool?”

“My friend’s still sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her. She hasn’t had a very easy time of things lately.”

“How so? Isn’t she about to marry the man of her dreams?”

“It’s the other man that’s part of the package who’s causing her grief.”

He ran a caressing finger over the back of the fish he’d been tending. “There’s another man in the picture? That hardly bodes well for the marriage.”

“Not that kind of other man. But never mind. I shouldn’t even be discussing the matter with you. Monsieur Beaumont wouldn’t approve.”

“No, Monsieur Beaumont certainly wouldn’t,” he said. “There isn’t a path to the beach on this side of the property. If you want an early swim, I suggest you go up to the main house and use the pool there.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s probably against the rules for a guest to dip her toe in the family pool without invitation.”

“You don’t seem fond of the Beaumonts. Do you know them well?”

“Except for the bridegroom, hardly at all. I haven’t even met the big cheese yet, but what I’ve heard hasn’t exactly swept me off my feet.”

He wiped his hands on the seat of his cutoffs, and jumped lithely to his feet. He was very tall. Very. “The big cheese will be crushed to hear that.”

“Who’s going to tell him—you?”

He laughed, and turned toward her just as the sun lifted over the side of the hill and afforded her first good look at him, and she almost cringed.

This was no common laborer! He had the face of an aristocrat, with high, elegantly carved cheekbones, and a mouth set in the lines of one unaccustomed to suffering fools gladly. His jaw, faintly shadowed, was lean, and his eyes, vivid beneath dark sweeping brows, the bluest she’d ever seen. And she didn’t need an introduction to know his name.

“You don’t work here!” she said, weakly.