The Marriage Deal

“My financial support for this film has a price.”

Something inside her stomach curled into a painful knot. “And that is?”

“A reconciliation.” Succinct, blatant and chillingly inflexible.

From somewhere Sandrine dredged up the courage to confront him. “A marriage certificate doesn’t transform me into a chattel you own.”

Michel’s smile bore not the slightest degree of humor. “No discussion, no negotiation. Just a simple yes or no.”

How could he deem something so complicated as simple? “You can’t demand conditions.”

“Watch me.”

“Blackmail, Michel?”

HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and new Persian kitten regard her study as as much theirs as hers.

USA Today bestselling author Helen Bianchin

loves to write about the emotional tension

between married couples: the passion, the

conflict…and the romance! Marriage is

the theme of this story—and look out for

The Husband Assignment, the thrilling sequel to

The Marriage Deal

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘CUT,’ the director called. ‘That’s a wrap.’

They were the sweetest words she’d heard all day, Sandrine decided as she lifted a hand to ease the weight of her elaborate wig.

Period costume was not the most comfortable wearing apparel, nor was the boned, tightly laced corselet worn to achieve an eighteen-inch waist and push her breasts impossibly high and bare them almost to the point of indecent exposure.

Add the heat of the studio lights, a lead actor who had an inflated ego and delusions of grandeur, the director from hell, and the axiom, ‘One should suffer in the name of one’s art’, had never been more pertinent.

‘A word, sweetheart.’

From Tony’s lips, sweetheart was not a term of endearment, and she froze, then she turned slowly to face the aging director whose talent was legend, but whose manner on occasion belonged in a backstreet of Naples.

‘Dinner tonight, my place. Seven.’ Hard dark eyes speared hers. ‘Be there.’ He turned his head and swept an arm to encompass five of her fellow actors. ‘Everyone.’

Sandrine stifled a faint groan. All she wanted to do was to change, shower, put on her own clothes and drive to the waterfront villa she called home for the duration of filming, catch a snack and read through her lines for tomorrow.

‘Do we get to ask why?’ the lead actor queried petulantly.

‘Money. The film needs it. My guest has it,’ the director declared succinctly. ‘If his request to meet the cast will clinch an essential injection of funds, so be it.’

‘Tonight?’ Sandrine reiterated, and suffered the dark lance of his gaze.

‘Do you have a problem with that?’

If she did, voicing it would do no good at all, and she affected an eloquent shrug in resignation. ‘I guess not.’

He swung an eagle eye over the rest of the cast. ‘Anyone else?’

‘You could have given us more notice,’ the lead actor complained, and earned an earthy oath for his temerity.

‘Difficult, when the man only arrived in the country yesterday.’

‘Okay, okay, I get the picture.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ was the cryptic response. ‘Continuity,’ he commanded, and Sandrine gave a heartfelt sigh.

Fifteen minutes later she was done with wardrobe, and she crossed the car park and slid in behind the wheel of her hire-car. Dressed in casual shorts and top, her long sable hair wound into a careless knot atop her head made for comfort in the intense afternoon heat.

Sandrine activated the air-conditioning the instant the engine purred into life, and minutes later she gained the main southern highway.

Her leased accommodation was a two-level villa overlooking water at Sanctuary Cove, a prestigious suburb on Queensland’s Gold Coast, only a ten-minute drive from the Coomera film studios.

She activated the CD player as she took the Hope Island–Sanctuary Cove exit ramp and let the funky beat ease the kinks of a rough day.

A tree-lined river wound its way towards a man-made canal system, a nest of beautiful homes and the lush grounds of a popular golf course.

A view that exuded peace and tranquillity, she conceded as she veered towards Sanctuary Cove, then, clear of the security gate guarding the entrance to one of several residential areas, she took the gently curved road leading to the clutch of two-level villas hugging the waterfront.

Cement-rendered brick, painted pale blue with white trim, pebbled gardens adorned with decorative urns provided a pleasant, refreshing facade, Sandrine acknowledged as she used a remote control to open the garage door.

Inside, there was an abundance of cool marble floors, sleek lacquered furniture, soft leather sofas and chairs, and the kitchen was a gourmand’s delight with a wealth of modern appliances. The open-plan design was pleasing, encompassing a wide curved staircase at the far end of the foyer leading to a gallery circling the upper floor, where three large bedrooms, each with an en suite, reposed.

Wide, sliding glass doors opened from the lounge and dining room onto a paved terrace that led to a private swimming pool. There was also a boat ramp.

Sandrine discarded her bag, changed into a bikini and spent precious minutes exercising by swimming a few laps of the pool. She needed the physical release, the coolness of the water, in a bid to rid herself of the persistent edge of tension.

A shower did much to restore her energy level, and she towelled her hair, then used a hand-held dryer to complete the process before crossing to the large walk-in robe.

Basic black, she decided as she riffled through her limited wardrobe. A social existence hadn’t been uppermost in her mind when she’d hurriedly packed for this particular sojourn, and most of her clothes were divided between three luxurious homes far distant from this temporary residence.

Don’t even think about those homes or the man she’d shared them with, she determined as she cast a designer gown onto the bed, then extracted stiletto-heeled pumps and an evening bag in matching black.

Yet the image invaded her mind, his broad, sculpted features with their angles and planes hauntingly vivid. Slate-grey eyes seemed to pierce right through to her soul, and she shivered at the memory of his mouth, its sensual curves and the devastating skill of its touch.

Michel Lanier. Mid-thirties, and ten years her senior. Successful entrepreneur, patron of the arts, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the features of a Renaissance prince and the skilled mentality of a street warrior. Born of French parents in Paris, he’d begun his education in France and completed it in America.

Husband, lover. A man who’d swept her into his arms, his heart, and made her his wife.

They’d met at the party of a mutual friend in New York. Sandrine had just completed a modelling assignment during a seasonal break and was due to return to Sydney the following week to resume the filming of a long-running Australian-based television series.

Sandrine flew in with Michel at her side, and within a week she’d introduced him to her family, announced her engagement and had the script writers rewrite her part in the series. As soon as the chilling episodes filming her character’s accident and demise were completed, she accompanied Michel back to New York.

Two months later they were married quietly in a very private ceremony among immediate family, and divided their time between New York and Paris. Michel bought a luxury apartment in Sydney’s prestigious Double Bay with magnificent views out over the harbour. Their Australian base, he explained.

For six months everything was perfect. Too perfect, Sandrine reflected as she selected black underwear and donned it, then pulled on filmy black hose before crossing to the mirror to begin applying make-up.

The problem had begun three months ago when they spent two weeks in Sydney and a friend gave her a script to read. The story was good, better than good, and she felt an immediate affinity with the supporting character. A vision of how the part should be played filled her head and refused to leave.

Sandrine had known the production time frame wouldn’t fit in with Michel’s European schedule. She told herself there was no way he’d agree to her spending four weeks in Australia without him.

On a whim she decided to audition, aware her chance of success was next to nil, and she’d almost dismissed it from her mind when, days later, they returned to New York.

Her agent’s call confirming she had the part brought a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Production was due to begin in a month at the Coomera studios in Queensland.

She signed the contract when it arrived but delayed telling Michel, all too aware what his reaction would be. Each day that passed had made the telling more difficult, until there were too few days left.

A hundred times she’d rehearsed the words in her mind, yet none of them came out sounding right, and what began as a discussion rapidly digressed into an argument of such magnitude she’d simply thrown some clothes into a bag in the early hours of the morning and booked into a hotel until it was time to take her scheduled flight to Brisbane.

Sandrine had qualified that four weeks wasn’t a lifetime, yet with every passing day the physical and spiritual distance between then widened to a point where she feared it might never be repaired.

Worse, Murphy’s Law descended, and production had suffered one delay after another. An estimated four weeks extended to five, then six. Budget was shot to pieces as they went into their seventh week. The subtropical midsummer heat was a killer, and tempers frequently ran short as professionalism was pushed to the limit.

Sandrine stood back from the mirror, secured the last pin in the simple knot of hair atop her head, then slid her feet into the elegant black pumps, collected her evening bag and made her way downstairs.

The day’s high temperatures had gone down a notch or two, and there was a slight sea breeze teasing the early evening air as Sandrine crossed the paved apron to the entrance of Tony’s Main Beach apartment building.

Minutes later she rode the lift to a designated floor and joined the group of fellow thespians enjoying a cool drink on the wide, curved balcony overlooking the ocean.

A portable barbecue had been set up, and a hired chef was organising a selection of seafood, prawns and kebabs ready for grilling.

Sandrine accepted a wine spritzer and sipped it slowly as she cast the guests an idle glance. All present and accounted for, with the exception of the guest of honour, she perceived, and pondered his identity.

‘Smile, darling. It’s almost “show time” and we’re expected to shine,’ a husky male voice intoned close to her ear.

She turned slowly to face the lead actor, whose birth name had been changed by deed poll to Gregor Anders. He was handsome in a rugged, rakish way and took his studio-generated image far too seriously, acquiring so many layers during his professional career it was almost impossible to detect the real man beneath the projected persona.

‘Gregor,’ Sandrine greeted coolly, and summoned a smile to lessen the sting of her words. ‘I’m sure you’ll shine sufficiently for both of us.’

It was easy to admire his ability as an actor. Not so easy to condone were the subtle games he played for his own amusement. Yet his name was a drawcard. Women adored his looks, his physique, his sex appeal.

‘Now, now, darling,’ he chided with a wolfish smile. ‘We’re supposed to share a rapport, n’est-ce pas?’ One eyebrow slanted in mocking query.

‘On screen, darling,’ she reminded sweetly, and remained perfectly still as he lifted a hand and traced his forefinger down the length of her arm.

‘But it is so much easier to extend the emotions beyond the screen for the duration of filming, don’t you agree?’

Her eyes locked with his. ‘No.’

‘You should loosen up a little,’ he cajoled, exerting innate charm.

‘I play before the camera. Off the set, I suffer no illusions.’

‘Strong words,’ Gregor murmured. ‘I could ensure you regret them.’

‘Oh, please,’ Sandrine protested. ‘Go play Mr Macho with one of the sweet young things who’ll simply swoon at the thought of receiving your attention.’

‘While you’ve never swooned over a man in your life?’

You’re wrong, she almost contradicted, but held her tongue. Gossip ran rife and, in these circles, quickly became embellished until only a grain of recognisable truth remained.

‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She lifted her empty glass a few inches aloft, then turned and crossed to the bar.

Within minutes she was taking a refreshing sip of orange juice. A waiter paused beside her and proffered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She smiled automatically, selected one, then took a delicate bite. It was delicious and brought an onset of hunger. A sandwich at lunch, followed by an apple and mineral water wasn’t much in the way of sustenance.

Sandrine took a mini vol-au-vent and popped it into her mouth.

‘Where is the guest of honour?’ a feminine voice asked in bored tones, and she turned towards the attractive young lead actress.

‘Bent on making a grand entrance, perhaps?’

‘That’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart.’

The smile was a little too artificial, the voice a fraction too contrived. Cait Lynden had acquired star status and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Especially a fellow actress playing a minor part, Sandrine decided silently.

‘No one seems to know who he is,’ Cait mused. ‘A successful entrepreneur is all Tony will reveal.’ An acquisitive gleam darkened her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Obviously rich. As long as he’s presentable and under sixty, it could prove to be an interesting encounter.’

‘And single?’ Sandrine posed, only to hear the other’s musical laugh.

‘Darling, who cares?’

Not Cait, obviously.

Minutes later Sandrine detected a change in the buzz of conversation, a shift in tone definition that caused her to lift her head.

So he had finally arrived. Almost a half-hour late.

Some sixth sense alerted her attention, followed by a quick stab of apprehension.

‘Mine,’ Cait uttered, sotto voce.

Even as Sandrine turned slowly to conduct a sweeping appraisal of the room, a telltale prickle of awareness slithered down the length of her spine.

There was only one man who could generate this effect. One man whose soul was so closely attuned to her own they were almost twin halves of a whole.

Sandrine caught sight of a tall male frame, felt the familiar tug on her senses as she recognised the broad-boned, chiselled profile, the dark, conventionally groomed hair, which seven weeks ago had lain longer at his nape, adding a refined, untamed quality that was equally as dangerous as the man himself.

She’d adored threading her fingers through the silky thickness, the purchase it lent when she held fast his head and simply clung during the slow, exquisite torture of his lovemaking, the dazzling heat of their passion.

Those had been the wild, sweet days when there had been only love to guide them, she reflected. A time when she’d given him everything without thought of denial.

Now she watched Michel while he paused in conversation to lift his head as if he, too, sensed her presence. Dark grey eyes locked with hers, probing, intense, and totally lacking in any humour or warmth.

Time stood still as everything and everyone in the room faded to the periphery of her vision.

There was only Michel. The man, the moment, the exigent chemistry evident. She could sense it, feel its powerful pull as she became caught up in the magical spell of something so intensely primitive she felt raw, exposed and acutely vulnerable.

Then he smiled, and for an instant she was transported back to the time they first met. Almost a duplicate situation to this, where they’d caught sight of each other at the same time across a crowded room.

Except the past had little place in the present. She could see it in the sudden flare in those beautiful slate-grey eyes and sense it in his stance.

Body language. She’d studied it as part of her craft and she could successfully determine each movement, every gesture.

Did anyone else recognise the cool ruthlessness or define the latent anger that lurked beneath the surface of his control? They lent his features a dark, brooding quality and gave hint to a refined savagery, which unleashed could prove lethal.

He was a man who held no illusions and whose youthful passage had moulded him, shaping a destiny many of his peers could only envy.

Sandrine watched in mesmerised fascination as he murmured an excuse to their host, then crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace.

Fine Armani tailoring sheathed an awesome muscle definition in that powerful frame, and every movement held the lithe, flowing grace of a superb jungle animal.

Her heart thudded and quickened to a faster beat. Each separate nerve end became highly sensitised as he moved towards her, and she couldn’t think of one sensible word to say in greeting. Considering the carelessly flung words they’d hurled at each other all those weeks ago, a simple hello seemed incredibly banal.

She didn’t get the chance, for he captured her shoulders, slid one hand to hold fast her head, then his mouth took possession of hers in a kiss that sent her emotions spinning out of control.

It was claim-staking, she acknowledged dimly when she was able to breathe. Flagrant, seductive and hungry.

Worse was her own reaction as, after the initial shock, she relinquished a hold on sanity and opened her mouth to him.

She savoured the taste and feel of his tongue as it created a swirling, possessive dance with hers and lured her into an emotional vortex where time and place had no meaning.

When he lifted his head, she couldn’t move. Gradually she became aware of the sound of background music, the indistinct buzz of conversation, as the room and its occupants filtered into her vision.

Dear heaven. How long had they remained locked in that passionate embrace? Thirty seconds, sixty? More?

All he had to do was touch her and she went up in flames. In seven weeks the passionate intensity hadn’t lessened.

What did you expect? a tiny voice taunted. He’s haunted your dreams every night since you left him and invaded your thought processes almost to the detriment of your work.

The emotional intensity shimmered between them, exigent, electric and mesmeric. Yet there was also anger, not forgotten nor forgiven.

‘What are you doing here?’

Was that her voice? It sounded so cool, so calm, when inside she was a seething mass of conflicting tensions.

‘I concluded my business in Europe.’

Important meetings where his presence was paramount. No opportunity for delegation there, she reasoned. What excuse had he given explaining her absence to family in Paris? To his elder brother Raoul, his grand-mère?

She experienced a moment’s regret and banked down the edge of remorse she felt for the elderly matriarch who ruled with a fist of iron, yet had the heart of a pussycat and of whom she’d become very fond.

‘And discovered I wasn’t waiting in the New York apartment,’ Sandrine voiced evenly. Her chin lifted fractionally and the topaz flecks in her eyes shone deep gold. ‘Subdued and contrite at having thwarted you?’

‘Difficult,’ he acknowledged with wry cynicism. ‘When a delayed filming schedule kept you here.’

Sandrine opened her mouth to refute that was something he couldn’t have known, then she closed it again. All he had to do was lift the phone and instruct someone to report her every move. It angered her unbearably that he had.

‘What’s your purpose, Michel?’ she launched with polite heat. If they were alone, she would have hit him. Or made every effort to try.

‘You didn’t answer any of the several messages I left on your message bank.’

She’d let every call go to voice mail and become selective in whose messages she returned. ‘What was the point when we’d said it all?’

‘Nothing is resolved in anger.’

So he’d let her go, sure in the knowledge that, given time, she’d come to her senses and run back to him? How many nights had she lain awake fighting against the need to do just that? Except pride and determined resolve had kept her firmly where she was. As well as loyalty to a project and a legally binding contract.

She looked at him carefully, noting the fine lines that fanned from the outer corners of his eyes, the faint shadows beneath. Unless it was her imagination, the faint vertical crease slashing each cheek seemed deeper.

Once, those dark grey eyes had gleamed with naked passion…for her. Only her. She’d looked into their depths and melted.

Now there was only darkness and a hard quality that chilled her bones.

‘You haven’t explained why you’re an invited guest in Tony’s apartment,’ Sandrine managed evenly, and saw one eyebrow arch.

‘You mean you haven’t guessed?’

There was soft mockery evident in his tone, an underlying hint of steel that tore the breath from her throat.

‘Your sojourn in Europe is over and you’ve come to haul me home?’

Her facetiousness didn’t escape him, and his mouth assumed a cynical slant. ‘Try again.’

Anger overlaid fear. ‘You want a divorce.’

His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted, hardened. ‘There hasn’t been a divorce in the Lanier family for three hundred years.’

‘You mean women have suffered the overbearing, arrogant, autocratic will of Lanier men for centuries without offering a word in complaint?’

‘I imagine any complaints were soon—’ he paused, the emphasis significant ‘—satisfactorily dealt with.’

She took his meaning and rode with it. ‘Sex isn’t the answer to everything.’

‘Lovemaking.’

There was a difference. Dear heaven, such a difference. Even thinking about Michel’s powerful body joining with hers brought a surge of warmth that raced through her veins, heating her body to fever pitch.

He saw the reaction in the subtle shading of her skin, the faint convulsive movement of her throat, the sudden, too rapid sweep of eyelashes as she sought to veil her response. And he experienced satisfaction.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Which particular question is that?’

Her lashes flew wide, and the intensity of those deep brown, gold-flecked eyes held a brilliance that danced close to anger.

‘What you’re doing here, tonight?’