Читать книгу The Marriage Deal - Helen Bianchin - Страница 8

SANDRINE looked at Michel carefully, her eyes steady, her composure seemingly intact. Only she knew what effort it cost to present such a calm facade.

‘I’m sure Tony has other sources available from which to raise the necessary money.’

‘He has exhausted all of them.’

‘How can you know that?’ It didn’t warrant an answer, she acknowledged wryly. The Lanier family consortium held immense holdings, and Michel was extremely wealthy in his own right. As such, he had contacts and access to otherwise privileged information.

Without the injection of funds, the film wouldn’t be completed or make it into the cinemas, and the resulting financial loss would be disastrous.

The knowledge she held the film’s fate in her hands didn’t sit well. Nor did the fact that Michel had very skilfully planned it this way.

‘With the possible exception of Gregor Anders, the film doesn’t have the big-name leads to attract a runaway box office success,’ Michel relayed with damning accuracy. ‘The director and producer are both scrambling to resurrect their ailing careers with a period piece currently out of vogue.’

Add to that, she knew the film’s financial backers had set a limited budget that made little allowance for countless takes in a quest for perfection, delays, escalating expenses, and the result was a high-risk venture no sensible investor would touch.

Sandrine cast him a level look. ‘That’s your opinion.’

Michel’s gaze remained steady, obdurate. ‘Not only mine.’

‘If that’s true, why are you prepared to invest?’

His expression didn’t change, and for several seconds she didn’t think he was going to answer. ‘Honesty, Sandrine?’ he mocked lightly. ‘You.’

Her eyes widened, then narrowed slightly.

‘What did you think I would do, ultimately?’ Michel demanded silkily. ‘Just let you walk?’

She gritted her teeth, counted to five. ‘I didn’t walk,’ she denied vehemently. ‘I was committed to a signed contract. If I hadn’t checked into the studio on the designated date, I could have been sued.’

‘A contract you chose not to tell me you’d signed.’

‘You were locked into meetings in Europe.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?’

Damn. Sandrine barely swallowed the vengeful curse as Cait placed an arm along the back of her waist in a gesture that indicated they were the closest of friends.

‘Michel Lanier,’ Michel interposed smoothly.

‘Cait Lynden.’ The smile, the voice, the actions, combined to provide maximum impact. ‘So, you’re our knight in shining armour.’

Sandrine watched an exquisitely lacquered nail trace a provocative pattern down his suit sleeve and was overwhelmed by the desire to sweep it aside.

‘And Sandrine’s husband.’

Ouch. She felt Cait’s slight intake of breath, glimpsed the coy smile and felt the faint increase of pressure as fingers bit into the back of her waist.

‘Well,’ Cait acknowledged as she turned to shoot Sandrine an icy glare, ‘aren’t you the secretive one.’

Michel took hold of Sandrine’s hand and lifted it to his lips, then he spared Cait a level glance.

‘If you’ll excuse us? We were in the middle of a private discussion.’

Oh, my. He didn’t pull any punches. She watched as the lead actress proffered a sizzling smile, then turned and walked away with a blatant sway of her hips.

‘Another conquest,’ Sandrine commented lightly.

‘Let’s focus on the immediate issue, shall we?’

The master manipulator. Dammit, why did she want to crack his cool facade when she knew what lay beneath the surface of his control?

His skill with words in the midst of her volatile diatribe had been chilling. Hell, he hadn’t even raised his voice. She had been the one who’d lost it.

Now he was using that skill to employ invidious blackmail, cleverly positioning her between a rock and a hard place. She was the price, the film her prize.

‘You leave me little choice,’ she said with deliberate coolness, then waited a beat and added, ‘For now.’

He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. ‘No conditions.’

She felt her body’s betraying response to his touch, the heated sensation that invaded her bones and melted them to molten wax.

Sandrine’s eyes deepened, and her mouth shook a little. With anger, resentment and a need to swing into verbal attack mode. Except this wasn’t the time or place if she wanted to retain any sense of dignity.

As it was, speculation undoubtedly ran rife among the cast members and fellow guests. Did Tony know that Sandrine Arnette was Michel Lanier’s wife?

Michel watched as she fought to keep her conflicting emotions under wraps, and defined each and every one of them. With a degree of dispassionate anticipation, he was aware the fight between them had scarcely begun. He intended to win.

‘I need a drink,’ she admitted, watching as Michel’s lips curved to form a musing smile.

He lifted a hand, and in an instant a waitress appeared at his side. Michel had that effect on women. All women, of any age. It was an inherent charm, one he used quite ruthlessly on occasion.

He lifted two flutes of champagne from the tray and handed one to Sandrine.

‘Salut.’ He touched the rim of her flute with his own.

She ignored the temptation to drain the contents in one long swallow and deliberately sipped the chilled aerated wine, savoured the taste, then let the liquid slide down her throat.

‘Shall we join our host?’

Sandrine’s eyes clashed momentarily with his, then she veiled their expression. There would be an opportunity later to unleash the verbal diatribe seething beneath the surface. Round one might be his, but she had every intention the next would be hers.

She summoned a slow smile, her acting ability prominent as she tucked a hand into the curve of his elbow.

‘Having provided the guests with an unexpected floor show, don’t you think introductions are somewhat overdue?’

Minutes later Michel moved easily at Tony’s side, displaying an interest in each guest’s professional background as he posed questions with practised charm.

Working the room, Sandrine recognized with cynicism. A retentive and photographic memory ensured he was never at a loss in the business arena or among the social set.

‘As secrets go, yours is a doozey.’

She turned slightly and encountered a slender young woman whose name temporarily escaped her.

‘Stephanie Sommers, marketing.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Sandrine responded, warming to Stephanie’s faintly wicked smile.

‘I can understand you keeping him under wraps. Where did you find him?’

‘New York. We married in Paris.’

‘Ah, the universal city for lovers.’

Sandrine felt a shiver slither its way over the surface of her skin as she experienced instant recall of the city, the ambience. The magic. Paris in the spring, when the grey skies cleared and everything came alive. As her heart had when she first met Michel.

An ache centred in the region of her diaphragm, intensifying as memories surfaced. Memories that had held such promise, so much love, she’d imagined their lives together were inviolate and forever entwined.

The stuff of which fantasies are made, she reflected wryly. With little basis in reality.

‘Tony is on his best behaviour.’

Sandrine summoned a quick smile. Something that was becoming a habit as the evening progressed. ‘The future of the film is at stake.’

‘Is it?’

The query bore a certain quizzical humour as if Stephanie had already concluded the injection of essential finance was a done deal.

It was, although Sandrine wondered what the marketing manager’s reaction would be if she discovered the reason for Michel’s investment.

‘Okay. So the rest of us get to sweat it out a little longer.’

Sandrine looked suitably enigmatic until Stephanie gave a low, throaty chuckle.

‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’ The attractive blonde spared a glance at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave soon.’

‘A date?’

‘With a baby-sitter who can only stay until ten,’ the marketing manager replied with a touch of cynicism.

‘Divided loyalties?’

‘No contest. My daughter wins out every time.’ She quickly scanned the room, then lowered her voice to a confidential tone. ‘Your husband has escaped from Tony and is heading this way. Impressive beast, isn’t he?’

Beast was an apt description. Although not in the context Stephanie implied. ‘Tony, or Michel?’

She met Stephanie’s direct look with equanimity, glimpsed the momentary speculation before it was quickly masked and cast her a wicked smile.

‘Surely you jest?’

Sandrine refrained from responding as Michel loomed close.

She felt her body stiffen in anticipation of his touch and she unconsciously held her breath, only releasing it when he made no attempt at physical contact.

‘Michel, you’ve met Stephanie?’ she managed smoothly.

‘Yes. We shared an interesting discussion on marketing techniques.’

‘Albeit that it was brief.’

‘Something we will correct, n’est-ce pas?’

Oh, my, he was good. The right amount of interest, the desired element of charm, with hard business acumen just visible beneath the surface.

‘It will be a pleasure,’ Stephanie accorded, then she excused herself, and Sandrine watched as she talked briefly to Tony before exiting the room.

‘She is a friend?’

The mildness of Michel’s voice didn’t deceive her. ‘Actors have little to do with the business heads.’

‘Am I to assume, then, that tonight is the first time you’ve met?’

She cast him a mocking glance. ‘Would you like me to give you a run-down on everyone at this soiree? Whom I speak to, touch?’ She paused a beat. ‘Kiss?’

‘Careful,’ Michel warned silkily. ‘You’re treading dangerous ground.’

‘In the name of one’s craft, of course,’ she added, and derived a degree of personal satisfaction at the way his eyes narrowed.

‘If I thought otherwise,’ he drawled, ‘I’d carry you kicking and screaming onto the first plane out of here.’

‘Neanderthal tactics belong to a distant civilisation.’

‘Neanderthal and civilised do not mesh, chérie. Persist in baiting me, and I’ll show you just how uncivilised I can be.’

Her chin lifted, and her eyes remained remarkably steady as they clashed with his. ‘Too late, mon amant. I’ve already been there, remember?’

‘I retain a vivid memory of a little wildcat who threw a few objects at me in temper.’

Expensive Waterford crystal. An inkwell, a paperweight and a small clock decorating the antique desk in his study.

At the time she’d been too angry to care, but afterwards she’d experienced a pang of regret for the exquisite crystal items that formed part of a desk set. And the panelled wall they’d collided with before falling to the marble floor to shatter in glittering shards when Michel deftly moved out of the line of fire.

Now, as she reviewed her explosive reaction, she felt ashamed for having displayed such a lack of control.

‘You provoked me.’

‘It was reciprocal.’

Words. His, cool and controlled, whereas hers had been the antithesis of calm. Yet equally hurtful, uttered in frustrated anger.

‘Space and time, Michel?’ Sandrine queried with a trace of bitterness. ‘In which to cool down and pretend it never happened?’

‘I imagined we’d already resolved the situation.’

The gold flecks in her eyes became more pronounced as she held on to her anger. Twin flags of colour highlighted her cheekbones as the memory of the very physical sex they’d shared immediately afterwards came vividly to mind. On top of his magnificent antique desk. Hard, no-holds-barred sex, libidinous, barbaric and totally wild. Afterwards he’d cradled her close and carried her upstairs, bathed and gently towelled her dry, then he’d taken her to bed where he made exquisite love long into the night.

She’d waited until he’d fallen asleep, then she’d dressed, thrown clothes into a suitcase, penned a hastily scrawled note and left as the new day’s dawn was lightening a shadowed grey sky.

‘No.’ The single negation emerged with quiet dignity. Sex…even very good sex, she amended, didn’t resolve anything.

He had never felt so frustrated in his life when he discovered she’d left. If he could have, he’d have boarded the next Australia-bound flight and followed her. Except Raoul was in America, and Sebastian, youngest of the three Lanier brothers, was honeymooning overseas. He’d had no option but to attend scheduled meetings in various European cities, then conclude them with a brief family visit with his grand-mère in Paris.

‘An empty space in bed, a brief note, and a wife on the other side of the world who refused to take any of my calls.’ For that, he could have shaken her senseless.

‘If you’re through with the interrogation,’ Sandrine said stiffly, ‘I’d like to leave. I have an early call in the morning.’

His features hardened and his eyelids lowered slightly, successfully masking his expression. ‘Then let’s find our host and thank him for his hospitality.’ He took hold of her arm, only to have her wrench it out of his grasp.

‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

One eyebrow arched in a deliberately cynical gesture. ‘Are you forgetting our bargain so soon?’

‘Not at all,’ Sandrine declared bravely. ‘But I’m damned if I’ll allow you to share a house with me!’

His smile bore no humour at all. ‘Separate residences aren’t part of the deal.’

‘Go to hell,’ she vented, sorely tried.

‘I’ve been there,’ Michel said with dangerous softness. ‘I don’t intend a return trip.’

‘I think,’ she declared with controlled civility, ‘we should save any further discussion until later.’

‘I haven’t even begun,’ he stated with deliberate emphasis. ‘And the guests are free to speculate as they like.’ He curved an arm around her waist and anchored her firmly to his side. ‘Place one foot in front of the other and smile as we bid Tony goodnight.’

‘Or else?’ Sandrine countered with controlled anger.

‘It’s a matter of dignity. Yours,’ Michel declared in a silky smooth tone. ‘You can walk out of here or you can exit this apartment hoisted over my shoulder. Choose.’

Her stomach turned a slow somersault. One glance at his set features was sufficient to determine it wouldn’t be wise to oppose him.

Her eyes held a chill that rivalled an arctic floe. ‘I prefer the first option,’ she said with icy politeness.

It took ten minutes to exchange pleasantries and have Michel confirm a business meeting with Tony the following morning. Sandrine didn’t miss the slight tightness of Tony’s smile or the fleeting hardness evident in his eyes.

‘He’s sweating on your decision,’ she inferred as they rode the lift down to the ground floor. ‘A calculated strategy, Michel?’

He sent a dark, assessing look in her direction, and she glimpsed a faint edge of mockery beneath the seemingly inscrutable veneer.

The query didn’t require a verbal affirmation. The three Lanier brothers, Raoul, Michel and Sebastian, controlled a billion-dollar corporation spearheaded by their father, Henri, who had ensured each of his three sons’ education encompassed every financial aspect of business.

The lift slid to a smooth halt, and they crossed the foyer to the main external entrance.

Sandrine extracted her cell phone and flipped it open. ‘I’ll call you a taxi.’

The streetlight nearby provided a luminous glow, the shadows highlighting the strong planes of his face.

‘I have a hire-car,’ Michel informed her silkily. ‘I’ll follow you.’

‘You can move in tomorrow—’ She broke off as the connection engaged. ‘Could you send a cab to—’

Michel ended the call by the simple expediency of removing the small unit from her hand.

‘How dare you?’ The words spilled out in spluttered rage, and she made a valiant attempt to snatch the cell phone from him, failing miserably as he held it beyond her reach. ‘Give it to me!’

One eyebrow arched in silent cynicism as she stamped her foot in wordless rage.

‘Where are you parked?’

She glared at him balefully, incensed that much of her visual anger was diminished by the dark evening shadows. ‘Aren’t you booked in somewhere?’

She had tenacity, temper and tendresse. The latter had never been so noticeably absent. A faint twinge of humour tugged at the edge of his mouth. ‘I checked out this morning.’

Damn, damn him, she silently vented. ‘My car is the white Honda hatchback,’ she told him in stilted tones. She turned away, only to have his hand snag her arm, and she whirled back to face him in vengeful fury. ‘What now?’

‘Your cell phone,’ Michel said mildly as he held it out to her. She snatched it from him as if his fingers represented white-hot flame.

She would, she determined angrily as she slid in behind the wheel and engaged the engine, drive as fast as she dared and hope to lose him. Fat chance, Sandrine silently mocked minutes later as she ran an amber light and saw, via the rear-vision mirror, his car follow.

Knowing Michel’s attention to detail, it wouldn’t surprise her if he had already discovered her address and was therefore quite capable of reaching it with the aid of a street map. It was a sobering thought and one that relegated her actions to a foolish level.

No more taking risks with the traffic lights, she determined as she settled down to the twenty-minute drive and tried to ignore the twin set of headlights following several metres to the rear of her car.

Sandrine switched on the radio, selected a station at random and turned up the sound. Heavy rock music filled the interior, and she tried to lose herself in the beat, hoping it would distract her attention from Michel.

It didn’t work, and after several minutes she turned down the sound and concentrated on negotiating a series of traffic roundabouts preceding the Sanctuary Cove turn-off.

A security gate guarded the entrance to the road leading to her waterfront villa, and she activated it, passed through, then followed the curving ribbon of bricked road past a clutch of low-rise apartment buildings until she reached her own.

After raising the garage door by remote control, she eased the car to a halt as Michel slid a sleek late-model sedan alongside her own.

The garage door closed, and Sandrine emerged from behind the wheel to see Michel pop the boot of his car and remove a set of luggage. She wanted to ignore him, but Michel Lanier wasn’t a man you could successfully ignore.

Something twisted painfully in the pit of her stomach as she unlocked the door leading from the garage into the villa.

Pausing, she turned back towards him. ‘There are three bedrooms upstairs,’ she informed in a tone resembling that of a hostess instructing a guest. ‘Choose one. There’s spare linen in the cupboard.’

He didn’t answer, and the silence was enervating. Without a further word, she stepped through to the hallway and made her way towards the kitchen.

The villa’s interior was light and modern, with high ceilings and huge glass floor-to-ceiling windows. Large urns painted to blend with the muted peach-and-green colour scheme held a variety of artificial flowers and greenery, adding a tropical ambience to the expanse of marble-tiled floors.

The only sound was the staccato click of her stiletto heels as she crossed into the kitchen, and within minutes the coffee machine exuded an exotic aroma of freshly dripped brew.

Sandrine extracted two cups and saucers, sugar, milk, placed them on the counter, then she filled one cup and took an appreciative sip.

It was quiet, far too quiet, and she crossed into the lounge and activated the television, switching channels until she found something of interest. The images danced, her vision unfocused as her mind wandered to the man who had invaded her home.

Temporary home, she corrected, aware that filming would wrap up within a week or two. Less for her, as she was only required in a few more scenes. Then what? Where would she go? There were a few options, and she mentally ticked them off. One, return to Sydney. Two, find modelling work. Three… No, she didn’t want to think about the third option. A marriage should be about equality, sharing and understanding each other’s needs. Domination of one partner by another was something she found unacceptable.

Sandrine finished her coffee, rinsed her cup, checked her watch, then released a heavy sigh. It was late, she was tired, and, she decided, she was damned if she’d wait any longer for Michel to put in an appearance. She was going to bed.

The silence seemed uncanny, and she found herself consciously listening for the slightest sound as she ascended the stairs. But there was none.

If Michel had showered, unpacked and made up a bed, he’d achieved it in a very short time.

The curved staircase led onto a semicircular, balustraded gallery. Three bedrooms, each with an en suite, were positioned along it, while the double doors at the head of the stairs opened to a spacious sitting room.

Sandrine turned right when she reached the top and entered the bedroom she’d chosen to use as her own. Soft lighting provided illumination, and her nostrils flared at the scent of freshly used soap and the lingering sharpness of male toiletries even as her eyes swivelled towards the large bed.

The elegant silk spread had been thrown back, and a long male frame lay clearly outlined beneath the light covering.

Michel. His dark head was nestled comfortably on the pillow, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even.

Dammit, he was in her bed! Asleep!

Well, that would soon change, she decided furiously as she marched across the room. Without hesitation she picked up a spare pillow and thumped it down onto the mattress mere inches from his chest.

‘Wake up,’ she vented between clenched teeth. ‘Damn you, wake up!’ She lifted the pillow and brought it down for the second time. ‘You’re not staying in my room!’

He didn’t move, and in a gesture of sheer frustration she pounded the pillow onto his chest.

A hand snaked out as she made to lift the pillow for another body blow, and she gasped as his fingers mercilessly closed over her forearm. Dark eyes seared hers.

‘This is my room, my bed. And you’re not occupying either.’

‘You want a separate room, a separate bed?’ His eyes seemed to shrivel her very soul. ‘Go choose one.’

‘You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?’ she demanded, sorely tried. Pain focused behind each temple, and she lifted her hands to soothe the ache with her fingers. ‘I’m not sleeping with you.’

‘Sleep is the operative word,’ Michel drawled.

She controlled the urge to hit him…by the skin of her teeth. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

He looked…magnificent, and dangerous as hell. The brooding sexuality he exuded sent warning flares of heat racing through her veins.

Sandrine shifted her attention to his face and settled fleetingly on his mouth. Her lips quivered in vivid memory of how they’d moved beneath his own only a few hours ago. A traitorous warmth invaded her body, and she almost waived controlling it. Almost.

‘Afraid to share the bed with me, Sandrine?’

Yes, she longed to cry. Because all it will take is the accidental brush of skin against skin in the night when I’m wrapped in sleep to forget for a few essential seconds, and then it’ll be too late.

‘Sex isn’t going to make what’s wrong between us right.’

‘I don’t recall suggesting that it would.’

‘Then perhaps you’d care to explain why you’ve chosen my room, my bed?’ she sputtered, indicating the bed, him. She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘If you had any gentlemanly instincts, you would have found another room!’

‘I have never pretended to be a gentleman.’

Sandrine glared at him. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Barbarian is more appropriate!’

‘Careful, chérie,’ Michel warned silkily.

A small decorative cushion lay within easy reach, and she swept it up in one hand and hurled it at him. ‘I hate you.’

Two seconds later she lay pinned to the mattress as Michel loomed close above her. ‘Let us put this hate to the test, hmm?’

She fought him, vainly twisting her body beneath his own as she attempted to wrench her hands free. ‘Don’t do this.’

It was a statement, not a plea, and he noted all her fine anger, her fearless tenacity and her passion. All it would take was subtle persuasion and sensual skill to have her become pliant in his arms.

‘Then you should have thought before you pounded me with a pillow.’

‘If you bait me, expect a reaction,’ she launched in pithy response.

His expression didn’t change although she could have sworn she glimpsed a glimmer of amusement.

‘So…do you want to continue with this game of one-upmanship, or shall we bring it to a halt? Your call, Sandrine.’

She wanted to yell Fight to the death, and be damned. Except it would be her death. Emotionally, mentally, physically. And she didn’t want to offer him that power.

‘If you’ll move yourself,’ she suggested with expressive intonation, ‘I’ll go change and shower.’

‘Oui, but first…’ He took her mouth in a fleeting soft kiss, lingered at the edge, then swept his tongue into the silky interior to wreak brief and devastating havoc before easing his lengthy frame back onto the mattress. ‘Bonne nuit, mignonne.’

He rolled onto his side, pulled the covering to his waist and closed his eyes.

Sandrine lay frozen for a few seconds as she savoured the taste of him. Warm, musky and wickedly erotic. Damn him, she swore silently. He might have allowed her to call the tune, but he’d managed to have the last word.

With extreme care, she slid off the bed and crossed to the en suite, undressed, then took a leisurely shower, allowing the hot spray to ease the tension tightening her neck and shoulder muscles. Then she closed the dial, reefed a towel and, minutes later, donned a cotton nightshirt.

It seemed ironic and, she perceived wryly, probably owed something to her rebellious streak that she possessed complete sets of exquisite satin-and-lace French lingerie, yet alone she chose to wear something plain and functional to bed.

Michel lay still, his breathing deep and even as she crossed the room to snap off the light.

Afraid to share the bed with me? His words whispered in an unspoken challenge, taunting her.

Maybe she should turn the tables on him and do the unexpected. He’d sleep for hours, and although she wouldn’t be there to witness it, she’d give almost anything to glimpse the look on his face when he woke and saw she’d occupied the other half of the bed.

A secret smile curved her lips as she slipped under the covers. He wanted to play games, huh? Well, let the games begin!

It gave her satisfaction to devise one scheme after another until sleep claimed her and tipped her into a world of dreams where Michel was alternately lover and devil, the location changed from one side of the world to another and became a film set where she was centre stage without any recollection of her lines.