In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer

His shoulders were broad enough to carry the child all day, if need be; his arms strong.

      But when the gremlins came and filled the night with terror, he lacked a woman’s tender touch, her soft, reassuring voice and sweet, welcoming curves. And seeing how Adrian leaned against the North American visitor and instinctively hid his face against her breasts as the kitten lunged at him, Ethan realized with fresh awareness just how much was missing from his son’s life.

      “You ought to stay out of the sun, Mademoiselle,” he said, driven forward less by concern for her welfare than the surge of jealousy which struck out of nowhere and whispered that she had no right trying to supplant him. She was a stranger, a temporary fixture in their lives. She didn’t belong and never would. He didn’t want her insinuating herself into his boy’s affections, just to leave him high and dry when she grew bored with playing nursemaid. “Fair-skinned people like you burn very quickly in this part of the world.”

      “I used sunscreen,” she said offhandedly, nuzzling Adrian’s neck.

      She’d exchanged the bikini for a yellow sundress held up by shoestring straps. Her arms and feet were bare. As for the parts in between…unwillingly, Ethan noted how the fabric clung to her tiny waist, flared over her narrow hips, and ended halfway down her thighs.

      The kitten swatted again at the balloon, missed, and attacked her toes instead. Giggling helplessly, Adrian curled up in her lap and wiggled his toes, too.

      “That’s enough, Adrian!” Ethan called out, more sharply than he intended. “You’re making a nuisance of yourself.”

      Fending off the kitten, she hugged the boy and stroked the hair from his forehead. “No, he’s not. We’re having a wonderful time playing, aren’t we, Adrian?”

      “Yes.” He squirmed against her, and wound his arms around her neck.

      Almost choking on outrage, Ethan said, “I thought you were here to work, Mademoiselle.”

      “I am,” she said, the sweetness in her voice belied by the evil glance she cast him from beneath her lowered lashes. “But since I’m my own boss, I don’t need anyone else’s permission to take time off for a little fun.”

      And if he didn’t soon put a leash on her tongue, she’d create even more trouble than was already brewing! “That doesn’t give you the right to countermand my instructions to my son.”

      “Good grief!” Rolling her eyes, she released Adrian, gave him a little pat on his behind, and said, “The master calls, sweet pea. Better not keep him waiting. But come back soon, okay?”

      “I know how busy you are, Ethan,” Solange cut in, eyeing him apprehensively, “and if you’d phoned, I could have brought Adrian home and saved you having to come and get him.”

      “I was headed down here anyway,” he said, wishing she wouldn’t tiptoe around him as if she were walking on eggshells all the time. “I wanted to be sure Mademoiselle Barclay has everything she needs for her work.”

      “I do,” the other one said, rising languidly to her feet and tugging the skirt of her sundress snugly around her thighs.

      He averted his gaze and pretended an interest in the diving board. “The table’s satisfactory?”

      “Perfectly. Thank you.”

      “Would you like to see my wedding gown?” Solange asked. “It’s truly gorgeous, Ethan.”

      “He’s not interested,” her bossy friend informed her. “He’s got more important things to do,”

      Not sure what demon of curiosity provoked him—she herself or merely her work—he said, “Certainly I’m interested! Nothing’s more important than pleasing my family, Mademoiselle. By all means, show me the dress.”

      Anne-Marie Barclay stared at him, her mouth set in a delectably stubborn pout, and for a moment, he thought she’d refuse him. After a moment’s reflection though, she grudgingly led the way to her villa and waved him inside.

      Brushing past her—an unsettling experience, fraught with awareness of her scent and the proximity, again, of her cool, creamy skin—he paused under the covered entrance and stared in disbelief at the sight before him.

      Except for the foyer which looked more or less as usual, he barely recognized the place. Gone were the elegant arrangement of furniture, the silk-shaded reading lamps, the bowls of fresh fruit and vases of cut flowers.

      The silver candelabra normally gracing the middle of the table in the dining alcove had been banished in favor of her sewing machine, with the iron and ironing board stationed close by.

      The main salon was barely recognizable. All the furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room for the worktable, leaving so little floor space that two people couldn’t pass one another without body contact—something he’d be wise to avoid where she was concerned, he reminded himself.

      “Well, there it is.” She indicated some sort of dummy figure in the corner, with the wedding gown draped over it. “Perfectly respectable, as you can see.”

      “I never doubted that for a moment.”

      “Oh, please!” she exclaimed, putting the length of the table between them in order to make some small adjustment to the dress. “You anticipated nothing of the sort. The only reason you professed an interest in seeing my work was to prove conclusively how totally ill-equipped I am to handle the task I’ve undertaken.”

      “Possibly.” He inched his way down the other side of the table and circled the garment, taking note of the myriad pearl-headed pins holding the cobweb-fine fabric in place. Even he, ignorant though he was when it came to the finer points of women’s fashions, could appreciate the clean, clever lines of the bodice and the artful drape of the skirt. “But if so, my reservations were clearly misplaced, although I confess I expected the dress would be more or less finished by now. As it is, you appear to have quite a bit of work still to do.”

      “It just needs to be put together,” she said, as if such a major feat of engineering was a mere trifle to a person of her expertise. “I wanted to be sure of a perfect fit before any permanent stitching went into place. This fabric’s too delicate to tolerate much in the way of alterations.”

      “So you did the preliminary work ahead of time on the dummy? How’d you manage to fit it into a suitcase?”

      “I didn’t,” she answered saucily. “I pack my equipment in a small cabin trunk and although it’s roomy enough for most things, try as I might, I couldn’t squeeze myself inside. But if you’re referring to the dress form, it comes apart and actually takes up very little space.”

      Unable to repress a smile, he said dryly, “We appear to have difficulty communicating, Mademoiselle.”

      “Oh, I don’t think so,” she replied, around a mouthful of pins. “I think we understand one another perfectly. Neither of us is the least bit impressed with the other. If it were up to you, I’d be on my way home by now.”

      The glance she flung at him dared him to deny it, nor was he inclined to do so. “Yes, you would,” he admitted. “But since that’s clearly not about to happen, the question now becomes, what can we do to reverse such an unfortunate state of affairs?”

      She removed the pins from her mouth and poked them into a fat pink cushion designed for the purpose. “You mean to say, you’re not even going to pretend to deny one exists?”

      “Certainly not. I have good reason to mistrust you, although I fail to see why you should be so antagonistic toward me.”

      Her mouth fell open, whether in mock surprise or because she truly was amazed by what she obviously interpreted as unabashed arrogance on his part. But much though he’d have preferred to take advantage of her discomposure and emerge the winner in their little contest of wills, he found to his chagrin that his attention was drawn to how deliciously pink and ripe her lips were. Would they taste as sweet, he wondered.