CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      ‘I’M NOT so sure about wearing old clothes to our wedding, chérie.’

      Shari scowled. Until this moment she’d been enjoying her breakfast. Until this moment croissants and toast had never tasted so good. She was doing her best to be gracious over the travesty of a wedding she was forced to settle for, but that didn’t mean she should have to discuss it when she had serious things on her mind.

      Things like wilfully endangering her baby just to pander to some totally unfounded suspicions. Sure, it had been her suggestion, based on an insane and quixotic impulse, but the fact that Luc was going along with it even after he’d thoroughly read that pamphlet, interrogated the doctor to within an inch of the poor woman’s life and researched the whole question on the Internet ad infinitum spoke for itself.

      He still didn’t one hundred per cent trust her.

      And if he didn’t, how could he ever love her? She knew from her own bitter experience the end of trust meant the end of love.

      In this case, love had never begun.

      Despite all his affectionate words and gestures, his concern for her well-being, his apparent pride when he introduced her to people, he’d never once been tempted to say he loved her, when she, on so many occasions, had only just managed not to embarrass him with heartfelt outpourings of eternal love by severely restraining herself.

      Oh, there’d been moments in the heat of passion when he’d come on pretty strong about how he adored her, she’d changed his life, et cetera, but she knew the difference, and so did a sophisticated guy like him.

      He couldn’t even claim it was a cultural idiosyncrasy at work. Everyone knew the French were renowned for their passionate declarations. For heaven’s sake, hadn’t they invented the language of love?

      Even in Australia, where men feared to string more than two words together at a time in case of being thought female, they managed to say deep and soulful things to their lovers in private. Behind closed doors. With the blinds down.

      This whole amniocentesis thing was another symbol of her failure to inspire love in a man. It was shaming to think some women were forced to go through the procedure for very urgent and genuine reasons, while she’d signed on for little more than as a test to prove herself.

      To prove she wasn’t a liar. How sad was that?

      Paradoxically, she suspected Luc wasn’t comfortable with the idea himself. But it had become another of those things they didn’t talk about. Like love.

      ‘It occurs to me …’ he said, casually spooning double cream onto the jam he’d spread inside his croissant. How could the man stay so lean and fit? His abdomen was as flat as a washboard. ‘… That our witnesses are likely to use the occasion of our wedding as an excuse to strut their finery.’

      ‘Well, then, it’s a pity we can’t choose witnesses who aren’t prone to finery. Like perfect strangers walking along the street.’

      Though his dark eyes shimmered, his face continued grave. ‘Yes, that is a shame. Strangers would have been perfect. Unfortunately, the law has spoken. Perhaps we can strike a compromise. Suppose tomorrow we take a stroll through the boutiques? There must be something in Paris you could enjoy wearing to your wedding. A suit. A dress.’

      ‘I doubt it.’

      The truth was, any control she’d had over the event was fast slipping away. Already she’d been forced to give in on the witness question.

      The law was stacked against her. During several visits to the mairie, her situation in regard to her Australian birth and the inadequacy of her visa had occasioned some terse comments from the conseiller municipal who was to perform the ceremony.

      Could she prove her relationship with Luc was genuine and not just an attempt to marry a French citizen by devious means? Could she prove she had genuine links with France and deserved special consideration?

      The doctor’s certification that she was pregnant, and had certainly been pregnant before she left Australia, possibly coinciding with Luc’s documented visit there, only went part of the way to assuage official doubts. Even the dozen or so Australian documents she’d sent home for, along with Luc’s documents, were held as doubtful.

      Her relationship by marriage to Luc’s cousin Emilie was counted as helpful. Even more helpful would be the endorsement of other members of Luc’s immediate family.

      Though Luc argued fiercely with the officials about the ridiculous red tape and bureaucracy that was strangling France and its citizens, he accepted the ruling.

      Shari wasn’t sure how regretful he truly was when he announced they were forced to invite two members of his family to be their witnesses.

      ‘What can I say?’ he’d raged when he broke the news, striding up and down and flinging out his hands. ‘We live in a paranoid society in which citizens are considered guilty before being proven innocent. I’m so sorry, my darling, but our hands are tied. This is why I’m leaving it to you to decide who we should honour with the role.’

      Shari frowned. ‘Two?’

      ‘Bien sûr, the law requires two.’

      Two of his family. It wasn’t that she disliked his family. They’d been very kind on every occasion. Since their announcement of the baby, both the Sophies had invited her to go shopping with them, Raoul and Lucette had invited her and Luc to dinner, and Laraine had called by to drink tea. During the visit the gracious woman had expressed her sincere condolences about all the yellow silk.

      ‘It doesn’t suit every complexion,’ she’d said sympathetically. ‘I’m not sure it even suited Manon. And it can be very wearing on the nerves. Probably on relationships, I wouldn’t be surprised. Make a couple a little irritable, hein? I know my son has always detested yellow. In your case, ma chérie, a warm white, pale cream, perhaps even a très, très watery shade of blue could be to your advantage.’

      Laraine was right about one thing. Yellow was irritating.

      In fact, ever since Luc had made the proposal, if anyone could call it that, things that hadn’t bothered Shari before bothered her now. That was one good reason why this so-called wedding didn’t deserve to be classed as a celebration.

      She tried not to look at him, all crisp and fresh in his city suit, his handsome jaw cleanly shaven while she was still a classic frump in one of his old tee shirts and straggly hair. It wasn’t fair that a man should always be beautiful.

      He was absorbed in reading his tablet, but every so often he remembered she was alive. ‘Have you thought any more about the witnesses, chérie?’ he said absently. ‘We will have to give them some warning.’

      ‘I’m not sure who in your family would have the time for such a banal formality. It’s hardly a social event. Merely the signing of a contract.

      Behind their dark lashes his eyes glinted. ‘It shouldn’t be impossible to find two who are willing. I dare say everyone in my family would like to witness my wedding.’

      She glanced at him, but his face was entirely innocent as he perused Le Figaro, making occasional stabbing gestures with his forefinger at articles that infuriated him.

      ‘Well …’ She studied her toast, which could have been improved by a very thin smear of Vegemite, if only the French knew it. ‘I suppose it would be nice