Rats. This was not the picture of sophistication she’d planned on exuding the next time she and Sebastian met. Static electricity had her hair standing on end as Marie-Claire peeked out from under the comforter. His shoes came into view first and she noted with chagrin that he was standing on a book whose title blared, Combat Love.
Her gaze traveled up his powerful legs, over his barrel chest and to his face. She saw thankfully that he was looking at her and not the book. Blood rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. Her heart pounded and she began to sweat.
She couldn’t let him see that idiotic book.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Her mind raced back to the vast sea of information and advice she’d collected over the last hours and came to a screeching halt at Ariane’s pearl of wisdom. Treat him like a brother. Isn’t that what he wants? Do all the things a kid sister would do with a big brother.
With a defiant toss of her head, she stared up at him, nostrils flaring. “Me? Well, since you’re here, I was hoping we might, uh,” she cast a panicky glance at the book beneath his feet, “wrestle.”
She bit back a mortified groan.
Could she be any more idiotic? Her eyes slid closed at the image of her and Sebastian going for it, right there in the middle of her room, thumping and hollering and whatever it was kid brothers and sisters did when they were horsing around.
He gave his temple a quizzical scratch. “Wrestle?”
“Sure.” She could tell he thought she was nuts. Oh well, better nuts than a sobbing jilted lily, she guessed. “Like this.” Charging at him, headfirst, she collided with his shins, knocking him off balance and giving herself a dilly of a headache in the process.
“Owww.” Their protests harmonized. She was going to kill Ariane.
As he fell to his knees, Marie-Claire launched the incriminating Combat Love book into her closet with a move she’d learned in soccer camp, back when she really was eight.
He stared at her, the disbelief in his voice warring with irritation. “Are you crazy?”
Yes. Crazy in love. With a grunt, Marie-Claire clutched him around the thighs and tugged him completely off balance. They rolled around on the floor, Sebastian with bewilderment and Marie-Claire with purpose. Feet frantically scrambling, she winged the lingerie catalogs, along with a copy of a wedding magazine under her bed with the rest. Sebastian caught an errant fist in the process.
“What the hell? Owww! Marie-Claire, dammit, what are you doing? I don’t want to wrestle with you.”
“What’s wrong, pretty boy? Afraid I’ll win?” Elbowing her way over the top of his chest, she flailed about until she could flip her extremely private journal and a well-padded WonderBra beneath her armoire. In this rather enjoyable process of tidying up, she accidentally managed to knee him in the jaw. The sound of his teeth crashing together gave her a twinge of sympathy, but really, she hadn’t invited him to come snooping.
“Ouch! Damn! Auughh!” One hand flew to his jaw, the other to her ankle. “I think I just broke a tooth!”
“If you are very good, maybe the tooth fairy will leave some money under your pillow tonight.”
An ominous growl suddenly had Marie-Claire questioning Ariane’s logic. Perhaps this kid-sister thing was the wrong tack. Before she could ponder the issue further, Sebastian yanked her by the leg and she found herself flipped onto her back and lying beneath his body. After some heavy breathing and a lot of struggle, he managed to pinion her wrists together over her head. Her flouncy pink baby doll had tangled around her waist in a most provocative manner.
“I don’t think this is a legal wrestling move.” Marie-Claire grunted, wriggling about, trying to escape just far enough to pull her pajamas back down where they belonged.
“Tough,” he growled and locked his feet around hers. Noses just a thumb’s-width apart, he stared at her, and Marie-Claire could feel his lungs laboring and his heart pounding in tandem with hers. Their breath mingled, and Marie-Claire felt a yearning envelop her, nearly rendering her unconscious.
“Marie-Claire, why are you doing this?”
Hoping and praying she appeared casual, she breezed, “Isn’t this what brothers and sisters do? I’m just trying to feel my way into our new relationship.” Eyes wide with innocence, she blinked up at him.
He dropped his head. “Marie-Claire, you are making this very hard for me.”
“Oh, and it’s a walk in the park for me.”
“No, but you expect me to shift gears from lover to sister in less than a day. I’m trying to work with you here,” she lied.
Misery flashed behind his eyes, and, though she felt for him, she took this as a good sign. He was no more ready to accept her as a sister than she was to receive him as a brother. Steeling herself against the powerful urge to give the poor guy a break, she gritted her teeth and continued her course.
“We have years of wrestling and jumping on the bed and tickling to make up for. Personally, I think we should do it all. It might bond us as siblings.”
Aggravation pulled his mouth into a more severe curve and his eyes narrowed to slits of fury. “I don’t think getting anywhere near the bed would be such a good idea.” The frustration and impatience with her goading was palpable.
Her breathing became thready. Shallow.
He shifted, bringing his body into contact with hers from ankle to fingertip and Marie-Claire suddenly stilled as she realized that she now had him exactly where she wanted him. Even so, it was a hollow victory.
Come on, she silently urged him. You know the truth. We are not related.
“Okay.” She gave a little shrug and angling her head so that her lips nearly touched his, she whispered, “Forget wrestling. How about a pillow fight instead?”
“How about a spanking?”
“Fine. I’ll get the spoon. You drop your drawers.” All right, she had to admit the bratty sister routine had gone too far. She needed to extend an olive branch, but it was hard to come up with the words with him looking at her as though he’d like to throttle her and then kiss her senseless.
Their eyes locked and attraction grew until the air between them seemed to crackle and burn. Marie-Claire could see that he was battling a fascination he found taboo. Forbidden.
Abruptly, he rolled onto his side and sat up. “I have to get back to the meeting.” Tossing the comforter aside, he gripped her bedpost, hauled himself to his feet and stalked across the room.
She knee-walked after him. “Sebastian, wait!”
Head falling back on his shoulders, he paused in her doorway.
“Can you do this?” She rolled her tongue into the shape of a taco shell.
He turned and stared. “Marie-Claire, I don’t know what you are—”
“Just do it!” she shouted.
Sebastian heaved a sigh of disgust and stuck his tongue out. However, try as he might, it lay there like a pink potato.
Marie-Claire grinned excitedly. “You’re not my brother!”
“What?”
“You can’t roll your tongue.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“It proves you are not related to me.” Marie-Claire leveled an accusatory finger at him and fairly vibrated with victory. “The ability to roll your tongue is inherited!”
Sebastian’s gaze darted at the ceiling for an instant, and then settled back on her face. “From whom? Your mother or your father?”
Marie-Claire frowned. “What?”
“When you are ready to grow up, we’ll talk.” The heavy slam of the door reverberated for a full minute after he left.
So. Marie-Claire flagged. Ariane’s plan hadn’t worked as quickly as she’d hoped. But she had sensed a chink in his armor. It was simply a matter of finding it.
With a resounding crack, Sebastian’s club made contact with the ball. He watched, head back, eyes slit, as the golf ball took flight against the deep azure sky. If nothing else, this new twist in his relationship with Marie-Claire was improving his game. Straight as a builder’s plumb line, the tiny white missile arced down the fairway. He picked up his tee, loaded his club, shouldered his bag and headed after his ball.
Golfing alone had never been Sebastian’s style, but the last thing he wanted this afternoon was company.
He needed to think.
Marie-Claire had launched a deliberate offensive strike against his moratorium on their romance. She was doing everything in her power to thwart his stalwart efforts to protect her. To protect herself. From him. From the press. And, if she thought he couldn’t see through these half-baked efforts, she had another think coming.
He felt a slow grin begin in his gut and spread up into his face as he remembered her antics earlier that day. Man, she was nuts. And that was precisely why he loved her. He shook his head, thinking a lesser woman would be content to give up the fight. To wallow in self-pity.
But not Marie-Claire de Bergeron.
No, Marie-Claire would lasso her man and flip him to the ground in record rodeo time. He laughed out loud, loving her more for loving him so fiercely. As his feet carried him across the grass, he remembered the teenaged banshee he’d first seen diving headlong into the pond. Then and there he’d known that he needed a woman with her pluck as his life partner. He’d never be content with a milquetoast type who had no fire in her belly.
On the other hand, she was causing a bit of a fire in his own guts, for heartburn was becoming a way of life these days. The very reasons he loved her beyond rational thought were the reasons she was driving him mad. Marie-Claire was trying to make him see why they should weather this conflagration together. Yet, he knew from years of experience that to do so would only put them further under the scrutiny of the public eye.
For now, he had to make her see that they couldn’t be together.
Yet Sebastian knew that Marie-Claire was not out of wacky schemes. He rubbed the grin on his lips with his fingertips. The idea challenged him. Excited him. Made him feel like a player in the great game of life.
He slowed, then stopped. Clanking, his bag fell from his shoulder to the grass. Five iron in hand, he rocketed off another beauty. Yes, if he was going to win at the game of life with Marie-Claire, he was going to have to stay alert.
That evening, still sequestered in her room, Marie-Claire continued to study, though she was a bleary-eyed, emotional wreck from her skirmish with Sebastian. Gathering her hair and pushing it over her shoulder, she cast a tired glance around at the mess on her bedspread. There was so much advice. And so much of it was conflicting. Beside her lay a stack of yellow pads, filled with notes she’d compiled. Last on her list of self-imposed homework assignments for today was searching the Internet for newspaper advice columns that dealt with situations like hers.
Her head ached as she shifted her gaze onto the screen of her laptop. When she’d finished she would call Sebastian, apologize profusely, and then set the second part of her plan into motion.
Mouse in hand, she clicked and scanned and finally came upon a letter to Dr. Martha. Marie-Claire knew she’d find solid answers to difficult questions in her famous column.
My boyfriend of six years has suddenly decided that we need a break. Martha, I don’t want a break. I’m desperately in love with him and hoping that someday soon, we’ll marry. I know he loves me too, but something has him spooked. Any advice? I’ll do whatever you say as I’m at my wit’s end.
Signed,
Heartbroken in Hoboken
Empathy welled in Marie-Claire’s throat as she plucked the last tissues from her second box of the day.
“Oh, Hoboken,” she murmured into the screen of her laptop. “I know exactly how you feel.” She scanned Dr. Martha’s answer and realized that the general consensus from most experts seemed to come from the old adage: If you love someone, let him go. If it was meant to be, he will come back to you. If not, you’re better off without him.
Better off without Sebastian?
No, she wouldn’t be better off without him, but she’d never know if he was truly hers until she let go.
Or, at least until she gave the appearance of letting go.
She reached for the phone and punched in Sebastian’s cell number. If she was going to apologize and then set him free, she had to do it now, before she lost her nerve. Waiting just one more minute would thwart all of her hard work and have her groveling at his stoop before sundown, begging him to come back the Lula Parnell way. And that was hardly attractive. Why did life have to be so bloody hard? She was a princess, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t she be living happily ever after just about now?
He picked up on the first ring.
“Sebastian?”
“Marie-Claire?” He sounded tentative. And thrilled. Tentatively thrilled, she guessed. Like her.
“Yes.” The word sounded gushy. She cleared her throat. She closed her eyes. She needed to sound emotionally in control. A powerful woman, in charge of her destiny.
With her free hand, she clutched her teddy bear.
“The, uh, reason I’m calling is…” Why exactly was she calling? Oh, yes. To set him free. But then, hadn’t he already taken care of that by setting himself free? Oh, this was so confusing. If one set oneself free, would one eventually come back?
“Marie-Claire?”
“I’m here. Sorry, I uh…Okay. I…I’ve had some time to think it over and I just wanted to tell you, that I think you’re right.”
“Right?”
“Yes. Absolutely right.”
There was a silence on his end.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes, I’m…here.”
“Oh. Good. Now then. I also wanted to apologize for my idiotic behavior this afternoon, and to beg your forgiveness. After all, if you are going to be my,” the bile rose at the very word, “brother, we will be seeing a lot of each other, around the house, at parties, at our…” she choked, then continued with strangled gaiety, “respective weddings and such.”
“Marie-Claire, if you would just—”
“No, no, no. Please. Just let me finish. I wanted to let you know, that it’s taken some time, but I’ve come around to the idea that we are…uh…siblings…and I embrace it. Really. In the most mature sense of our…relationship. For Papa’s sake. For your sake.”
For heaven’s sake, she thought, feeling the panic rise. This had sure as hell better work.
“So,” she continued brightly, “I promise to make you proud. You don’t have to worry about me…er…fawning after you anymore—”
“I don’t?”
“No, no,” Marie-Claire hastened to assure. “I realize that none of this is our fault. We couldn’t have known. And, so, the best thing would be to…to…to…to…carry on as if nothing had ever happened.”
“Nothing? Marie-Claire, for pity sa—”
“Right. To become just one big, happy family. It’s for the best. And…and…and…I think that we should—” again, a surge of stomach bile threatened to choke her. She took a cleansing breath and was glad she was lying down. “—I think that we should begin dating other people as soon as possible. For appearances’ sake, wouldn’t you agree?”
“For…appearances’ sake?”
“I’m sure it’s the only way. For me, anyway. I need to get you out of my system. Now. And the best way I can think of would be to move on.”
Silence.
“Sebastian?”
“You want to move on?”
“Yes.”
“So soon?”
“I must. I can’t take this stress anymore. It’s not like I can sit around and wait for the opportunity to marry my own brother, now, can I?”
“You know damn good and well that’s not what I want—”
“That’s…that’s wonderful. In that case, you won’t mind if I bring a date upon occasion to the dinner table. For the sake of appearances, of course.”
“And, to further my emotional healing, I thought I might start by inviting a date to accompany me to the press conference party tomorrow night.”
“Marie-Claire, you do what you have to do.”
Was that the tiniest trace of a smirk in his voice? Did he think she was bluffing? Well, she most certainly wasn’t. Irked at his arrogance, she said, “Okay. I will.”
“You do that.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” Marie-Claire hung up then slapped her forehead so hard she saw stars. Oh, great. Now she had to come up with a date. A quick glance at the clock told her that she had less than twenty-four hours to achieve that particular lunacy.
“I don’t know why they didn’t announce you as crown prince during that ridiculous excuse for a press conference today.” Expression sour, Claudette fussed at her reflection in a giant gilt-framed mirror that hung just outside the Sapphire Salon in the de Bergeron Palace. It took a number of amazing facial gyrations to get her lipstick and mascara just so, while Sebastian stood impatiently by. “All this inane chatter about Rhineland plotting against us,” she muttered, “when we know the only story worth telling is the fact that my son will soon be king!”
Myriad cosmetics were snapped shut and tossed into her bag and with a flutter of her lashes, Claudette declared herself ready. Not wanting to give her time to linger before the mirror, Sebastian took her arm and led her into the crowd that streamed toward the Celebration of Independence Gala that was to begin momentarily in the Crystal Ballroom.
For the last hour, Claudette and Sebastian had been honored guests at the Saturday afternoon press conference, sharing box seats with the royal family in the spacious auditorium designed for just such events. Prime Minister Rene Davoine spoke at length about plans to negotiate with Rhineland to circumvent a crisis situation between the two countries over water rights.
Embarrassingly, Claudette had nodded off during part of the speech and even managed to time her snores during the dramatic pauses. The titters of the audience had jolted her awake and she’d laughed with the crowd about a joke that was upon herself.
And that was only the beginning of this miserable night, Sebastian feared. This was a “game face” party, designed to prove to Rhineland that they were not quaking in their boots about the threats being handed down. Though Sebastian was not attending in an official capacity, he knew he was being “test-driven” by Simone. She wanted to see if he had what it took to be king someday.
Although, according to the laws that made this a male monarchy, if he was indeed Philippe’s son, he already had the stuff it took.
Stomach churning, Sebastian continued his grip on Claudette’s arm and marched stoically toward what would no doubt be one of the most trying nights of his life. That Claudette had been invited to attend had his head throbbing and his eye twitching. But the knowledge that Marie-Claire would be there, with a date no less, made him want to beat up one of the statues standing poised for battle in the gargantuan hall.
Puffing to keep pace with Sebastian’s lengthy stride, Claudette was still clucking like the snubbed hen. “A word from Simone, introducing you to the world, wouldn’t have killed her. In fact, it would have put Rhineland and its king, that disgusting, impotent Giraud Kroninberg in his proper place, if that’s what they really wanted to do. I don’t know what they’re waiting for.”
Sebastian turned down a deserted side hall and swung on Claudette. Hand-to-wall, nose-to-nose, he hovered over her. “They are waiting to find out if your version of history is true.”
Claudette gaped at him, expression wounded. “Why would they even question my word?”
“You tell me.”
“I will not! Don’t be ridiculous. St. Michel is in desperate need of a king and you are the man for the job. Who better suited than you?”
“No one,” Sebastian hissed and raked his hands through his hair as he checked around for the ever-curious paparazzi, “—if I was born to the job. But you’ll have to forgive me, Mère, if I’m a little reticent about taking the position. I have never aspired to be the crown prince of this country, let alone king. I still have no desire whatsoever to fill Philippe’s shoes. Especially since you waited until the eleventh hour to tell anyone the supposed truth.”
“What are you saying?” Claudette asked, horror-stricken. “You would pass up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because you don’t feel like taking the job? I have moved heaven and earth to get you to the point you are today and you are going to throw it all away? I’ll not have it!”
“You’ll not have it?”
“You will take your rightful spot! With a simple nod of acceptance we could be set for life. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you?” Her shrill voice caused several heads from the crowd in the main hallway to dip in and look.
Skin crawling, Sebastian stared at his mother. Elevated blood pressure encouraged beads of sweat on Claudette’s brow and, as he stood motionless watching her rant, the suspicion that had begun as a tiny seed of doubt began to take root. Something about the urgency on her part was eerie. A peculiar light would gleam in her eye whenever she talked about him being Philippe’s son, and it was almost as if she’d managed to convince herself it was true.
Whether or not it was.
“Mère,” he gritted out through a tight jaw, “this is neither the time nor the place for such a conversation. I’ll take you home and we can finish this discussion there.”
“Are you out of your mind? And miss the Gala Ball?” Her eyes bulged at the very thought. “Never!” With that, chin high, fancy heels a-tapping, Claudette whirled around and stormed off to join the party in progress.
Just one flight up, Marie-Claire stared at the booty spread out across her bed in hapless fascination. She picked up what looked like a punch bowl festooned with faux fruit and wads of sparkly netting and settled it at a rakish angle on her head. What on earth had she been thinking, bidding on this uncertain fashion statement? Must have been swept up in the moment. Her purse, with its tropical birds and authentic “rain forest palm frond weave” was no tamer.
That morning, with her sisters at her side, Marie-Claire had enjoyed front-row seats at a catwalk fashion show for charity in Paris. The spring collection featured haute couture from Milan, London and New York and—she fingered her gaudy new hat—Uranus.
In the full-length mirror across the room she studied the strange apparition that was her reflection. Was she trying to attract Sebastian or scare him to death? The gold lamé dress she wore could surely be detected by radar and, like the ones on Ona Parnell’s feet, the pointy, super high-heeled boots could put an eye out. Her new hair, makeup and nail styles also had a space-age quality, all spiky and metallic and—she was assured by her sisters—sexy.
Marie-Claire worried her glittery lower lip with her teeth. She’d made the mistake of telling her sisters she wanted to look a little naughty. Decadent.
Wicked.
In the nicest possible sense of the word, of course. Well, they’d taken the ball and run, and now, Marie-Claire turned and glanced over her shoulder to inspect her backside, she feared Cruella De Vil would look like a nun in comparison. Never mind. Her gaze traveled back to her bed. Surely something from this pile of spare auto parts that passed for the world of fashion’s finest would make Sebastian sit up and realize that she was no sister of his.
Anxiously, she fingered the sleeve of a faux zebra coat.
But what if he didn’t?
Suddenly depressed, Marie-Claire sagged to the edge of her mattress. She absolutely hated everything she’d bought, and couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind going out in public in any of this stuff. She wanted her old life back. A tear slowly rolled down her cheek. She wanted her Papa back. Her legitimacy back. Her boyfriend back.
With a bang, her bedroom door burst open. Wearing their own purchases from today’s Parisian fashion extravaganza, Lise and Ariane swept into her room, full of life and ready to party. She swiped at her tears with her pinky fingers and forced herself to smile. Ariane looked fetching in her micro-mini and peacock feather vest and Lise was all the modern mommy in a tummy-hugging tube gown that had her taking tiny, shuffling steps.
Yes. It took guts to pull off a bold fashion statement, Marie-Claire decided. More guts than she had. Though, she had to admit that her sisters did look chic in a garish, avantgarde sort of way.
“Marie-Claire! You look fabulous!” they gushed when they saw her hunched at the edge of her bed.
“Doesn’t she look fabulous?”
“Fabulous.”
Marie-Claire harrumphed. “I look like a satellite dish with cleavage.”
“No! You’re perfect! Isn’t she perfect, Lise?”
“Perfect.”
“You don’t think the hat is too much?”
Lise gave her head an emphatic shake. “No! All that’s coming back into vogue, you know.”
“No.” Heaven forbid. Marie-Claire fingered her crazy headdress. Her neck was killing her and the night had only just begun.
“I have a date all sewn up for you,” Ariane announced as she made herself at home at Marie-Claire’s vanity and began applying a coat of silver lipstick. “He’s not perfect, but on such short notice, it was the best I could do.”
“What’s wrong with him?
“Well, he’s a little young.”
“How young?”
“He’s not jailbait, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Marie-Claire dropped her face into her hands and moaned. “What have you done? Who is this…date?”
“Why worry yourself unnecessarily about who he is? Let it be a surprise. In the meantime, spritz your hair with that glitter spray you paid a fortune for today. We’ve got a party to attend.”