“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

The Marriage Deal
Helen Bianchin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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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?’

His gaze was direct, probing, and held a degree of cynical humour. ‘Why, chérie, I am the guest of honour at this soiree.’

‘The guest of honour touted to inject sufficient funds to rescue the film?’

Michel confirmed it with the faint inclination of his head. ‘For a price,’ he conceded with chilling softness.

Something inside her stomach curled into a painful knot. ‘And that is?’

‘A reconciliation.’ Succinct, blatant and chillingly inflexible.

Dear God. Pious salutation had nothing to do with the words that remained locked in her throat.

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

Michel took in her pale features, the dark eyes that seemed too large for her face, the loss of a few essential kilos, and barely restrained himself from wringing her slender neck.

Sandrine became aware of the circumspect glances, the ripple of curiosity Michel’s action had generated. Cait Lynden’s expression was composed, although her brilliant blue eyes were icy.

Their marriage hadn’t been written up in any of the international society pages. It was doubtful anyone in this room knew the guest of honour’s identity, much less his connection with a little-known supporting actress.

‘This is hardly the time or place.’

Michel’s smile was a mere facsimile and bore not the slightest degree of humour. ‘No discussion, no negotiation. Just a simple yes or no.’

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

‘Watch me.’

‘Blackmail, Michel?’

He gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘Label it what you will.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Sandrine queried bravely.

Something moved in those dark eyes, making them appear incredibly dangerous. ‘I walk out of here.’

And out of her life? As she’d walked out of his? Temporarily, she amended.

So why did she have the feeling she was poised on the edge of a precipice? One false move and she’d fall to unknown depths?

She could see the grim purpose etched in his features and she felt her stomach muscles clench in pain. ‘You don’t play fair.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘This isn’t a game.’

No, it wasn’t. Yet she hated him for employing manipulative tactics.

‘Yes or no,’ Michel reiterated with deadly quietness.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

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