In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer

it’s not too late to call the whole thing off.”

      “Oh, it’s not Philippe! I adore him, more than ever, and I’m always happy when he’s with me. But the rest of the time…” Her mouth drooped sadly. “…it seems so foreign here.”

      “How can it be foreign? It might be a long way from Paris, but it’s still French. Imagine how much worse it would be if everyone spoke Spanish or Portuguese, and you couldn’t understand a word they were saying.”

      “Perhaps what I should have said is that, even though the language is familiar, I feel like a foreigner.” She gestured at the lush spread of land stretching to either side, and the jungle-clad hill rising behind the estate. “There are two kinds of people on this island, Anne-Marie: those who belong because they were born here, and the rest of us, who weren’t.”

      “If that’s true, how are you going to cope with living here?”

      “Philippe tells me that once we’re married and start a family, I’ll feel differently. I’ll be accepted. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been alone too much lately.”

      “Why hasn’t Philippe been with you?”

      “He’s been taking care of business in Europe, and Asia. Right now, he’s in Vienna and has been for the last week. Ethan says that since he’ll soon be a married man, he has to take a more active role in the family business.”

      Ethan says, Ethan thinks, Ethan decrees…!

      “Tell me Solange, has anyone ever dared to say, to hell with what Ethan wants?”

      Solange rolled her eyes like a frightened foal caught in quicksand. “Mon Dieu, don’t ever say something like that in front of anyone else! It would be considered….” She fluttered her hands, groping for the right word.

      “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.”