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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.
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