The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (222 page)

‘
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.

S
ANDRINE
came sharply awake to the shrilling sound of her digital alarm and automatically reached out a hand to turn it off. Except she was on the wrong side of the bed, and her fingers came into contact with a hard, warm male shoulder.

Michel. She tore her hand away as he uttered a muffled Gallic curse and reared into a sitting position.

‘My alarm,’ she explained sweetly as she slipped out of bed and crossed round to still the strident sound. The illuminated numerals registered four-thirty. ‘Sorry if it woke you.’

She wasn’t sorry at all. It was payback time for last night, and victory was sweet.

Drapes covered the wall of glass, filtering the early dawn light. This was Queensland, and the height of summer when the sun rose soon after four in the morning.

Sandrine crossed to the walk-in robe, selected jeans and a sleeveless ribbed top, then she collected fresh underwear and stepped into the adjoining en suite.

Ten minutes later she emerged, dressed, her face completely devoid of any make-up and her hair twisted into a loose knot at her nape.

She didn’t give the bed or its occupant a single glance as she caught up her bag and exited the room.

In the kitchen she extracted fresh orange juice, drank it, then picked up a banana and made her way through to the garage.

Fifteen minutes later she was in make-up, mentally going over her lines while the wizard in cosmetic artistry began transforming her for the camera.

On reflection, it was not a happy day. Everyone was edgy, tempers flared as the temperature rose, and professionalism was strained to the limit.

It hadn’t helped when Michel put in an appearance on the set after the lunch break. He stood in the background, his presence unquestioned given his possible investment, an apparently interested observer of the film-making process as the actors went through their paces…again and again as Tony sought perfection in his quest to impress.

No matter how hard Sandrine tried to ignore her indomitable husband, he was
there,
a constant on the edge of her peripheral vision, ensuring that her total focus was shot to hell.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded sotto voce during a break from filming.

Michel leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘
Chérie,
is that any way to greet your husband?’

‘Please. Go away.’

She caught a glimpse of humour lurking at the edge of his mouth and bit back the need to scream.

‘If I’m going to invest a considerable amount of money in order to salvage this venture,’ he drawled, ‘I think I should check out the action.’

‘This is supposed to be a closed set.’

‘I’m here at Tony’s invitation.’

‘Very cleverly baited, I imagine, so that our esteemed director took the hook?’

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know me so well.’

No, she wanted to refute. I thought I did, but now I feel I hardly know you at all.

‘How long do you intend to stay?’

‘On the set? Until you finish for the day.’ He lifted a hand and brushed gentle fingers across one cheek. ‘Why? Does my presence bother you?’

She sharpened her verbal claws. ‘Isn’t that your purpose?’

‘Shouldn’t you read through your lines?’ Michel countered, watching as she turned without a word and crossed to pick up her copy of the script.

It didn’t help any that Cait Lynden chose that moment to exert her considerable feminine charm or that Michel appeared responsive, albeit politely so.

A ploy to make her jealous? It’s working, isn’t it? a wretched little imp taunted.

She watched them surreptitiously beneath veiled lashes and had to admit the blood simmered in her veins as Cait flirted outrageously with the deliberate touch of her hand on his sleeve, the wickedly sensual smile, the brazen
knowledge
evident in those glittering blue eyes.

Sandrine felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she sightlessly scanned the upcoming scene in her copy of the script.

Damn Michel. For every darn thing. And especially for invading her professional turf.

‘Okay, everyone. Places, please.’

Thank heavens for small mercies, Sandrine accorded as she mentally prepared herself to be in character and silently rehearsed her few lines.

It was late afternoon before Sandrine was dismissed from the set with the news she wouldn’t be required until Tuesday. The person responsible for continuity took the requisite Polaroid, and Sandrine went through the process of discarding the elegant costume and wig with help from the wardrobe assistant, then she removed her make-up and shook her hair free from the confining hairnet.

The comparison between screen actress in character and the modern jean-clad girl was remarkable. So remarkable, she decided ruefully, that it was unlikely anyone would recognise her as being one and the same person.

It was after five when she emerged into the parking lot, and she filched keys from her carry-bag as she walked towards her car.

‘Hoping to slip away undetected?’ Michel fell into step beside her, and she quickened her pace, choosing not to answer him.

A minute later she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door, then slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine.

A great exit line would have been
Eat my dust,
except the moment was dramatically reduced as her tyres
squealed faintly on smooth bitumen, and she was forced to adhere to the low speed limit.

However, once she hit the highway she put her foot down and let the speedometer needle soar as far as she dared without risk to life or limb or threat of a speeding ticket. It provided some release for the build-up of tension.

Sandrine reached Sanctuary Cove in record time, and inside the villa she ran lightly upstairs, changed into a maillot, grabbed a towel, retraced her steps and went out to the pool.

The water was refreshingly cool, and she stroked several lengths of the pool before turning onto her back and lazily allowing the buoyancy of the water to keep her afloat.

It was all too easy to allow her thoughts to wander and reflect on the day’s events.

And Michel.

She hadn’t slept well and had spent much of her waking hours wondering at her sanity in sharing the same bed. It was madness, an act that amounted to masochism. For to lie so close, yet be so far from him, attacked her emotional foundation and tore it to shreds.

What would he have done if she’d reached out and touched him? If he’d ignored her, she’d have died. Yet if he’d responded, how could she hope to handle the aftermath?

Such an act could only amount to sexual gratification and achieve nothing except provide mutual satisfaction. Akin to scratching an itch.

The attuning of heart, mind and soul would be missing, and somehow just
sex
wasn’t enough.

She was mad. Insane, she added mentally. Any other woman would catch hold of Michel’s coat-tails, exult in all that his wealth and social prestige could provide and hang in there for the ride.

And what a ride! Even the thought of it sent warmth flooding through her body. Each separate nerve end quivered in anticipation, and sensation wreaked havoc with her equilibrium.

It had been bad enough when they were oceans apart. Now that he was here, it was a thousand times worse.

Magic, she thought. Highly sensitised, sensual sorcery of a kind that defied valid description. Trans-muted in the touch, the look, the promise…and the anticipation.

To part after a long night of loving and count each hour until they could be together again. To counter and feed that need with a phone call, a softly spoken promise. The delivery of a single red rose. That special look lovers exchange in a room filled with people. And the waiting, the wanting.

Was it love? The to-die-for, till-death-us-do-part kind of loving? Or was it sexual satiation, a sensual nirvana?

She’d thought it was both until their first serious argument. Now she wasn’t so sure.

‘Pleasant thoughts, I trust?’

The faintly inflected drawl caused her to jackknife
and turn towards the tall male figure standing close to the pool’s edge.

Michel had discarded his jacket and tie and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. His hair looked slightly ruffled, as if he’d dragged impatient fingers through its groomed length.

‘How long have you been standing there?’ she demanded.

‘Does it matter?’

Watching her unobserved almost amounted to an invasion of privacy, and she didn’t like it one bit.

A few strokes brought her to the side of the pool, and she levered herself easily to sit on its edge. Her towel lay out of reach on a lounger, and she rose to her feet, then caught it up in one quick movement.

His faint amusement didn’t go unnoticed, and she determinedly blotted the excess moisture from her body before tending to her hair.

‘I’ve booked a table for dinner at the Hyatt.’

Sandrine heard the words but momentarily chose to ignore them.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the meal,’ she managed calmly. ‘I’ve heard the chef has an excellent reputation.’

‘For two,’ Michel informed her. ‘At seven.’

‘I shan’t wait up.’

‘You have an hour to shower and get ready.’

She looked at him steadily. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

‘Damn, you try my patience!’

‘And you try mine!’

‘Is it unacceptable to want to share a meal with my wife in pleasant surroundings?’

‘No,’ Sandrine said sweetly. ‘Providing your wife is willing. And in this instance, she’s not!’

‘Sandrine—’

‘Don’t threaten me, Michel.’ She tried for quiet dignity but didn’t quite make it. Her eyes speared his, dark and intense with emotion. ‘I refuse to fall in with every suggestion you make.’

‘You prefer to eat here?’

‘Don’t you get it? I don’t want to share a meal with you.
Anywhere.
’ A faint tremor shook her body, and she tightened her grip on the towel.

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re shivering.’

‘How perceptive,’ she mocked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go take a hot shower.’ As she moved past him, she endeavoured to ignore the sheer magnetism of the man. And her body’s traitorous reaction.

Two more weeks, she reasoned as she ran lightly upstairs. Maybe less. And filming would be over. At least, her participation would finish. Could she go the distance, living in the same villa, sharing the same bed as the man who was bent on using any advantage he could gain?

Sandrine reached her bedroom and crossed into the adjoining en suite. A swift turn of the dial and warm water cascaded onto the tiled floor of the shower.

It took only seconds to strip the wet Lycra from her body, and she stepped into the large cubicle, reached for the bottle of shampoo, then began the task of lathering it through her hair.

Ten minutes later she emerged into the bedroom and came to a sudden halt at the sight of Michel in the process of discarding his clothes.

‘Finished?’

Sandrine’s left hand flew to the towel carelessly caught in a knot between her breasts, and with her right she steadied the towel wound high on her head.

‘There are two other bathrooms on this level,’ she pointed out in a slightly strangled voice.

‘You object to sharing?’

Oh, my, he was good. Reasonable, faintly teasing beneath the edge of cynicism.

‘Yes,’ she returned, regaining her equilibrium as she crossed the room to collect fresh underwear. ‘Considering your main purpose is to unsettle me.’

‘An admission I’m succeeding, Sandrine?’

She’d fallen straight into that one, hadn’t she? ‘Not at all,’ she responded calmly, and knew she lied. Her entire nervous system jangled at the very thought of him.

Watching Michel as he crossed the room to the bathroom created a havoc all of its own as she took in his broad frame, the muscular set of his shoulders, superb pectorals, the hard-packed diaphragm and firm waist.

She controlled a faint shiver at the thought of what it felt like to be held close, to feel the strength in those arms as he enfolded her firmly within them.

It was almost possible to breathe in the musky aroma of his skin, the clean freshness of the soap he used, the male cologne. Sense the way he tasted when
her mouth joined with his, the faintly abrasive and moist slide as their tongues caressed and explored in an erotic mating dance.

The essence of his sex, the degree of power she experienced in taking him to the brink of his control, the way that large male body shook as he tumbled over the edge. Man at his most vulnerable.

Sandrine tried to restrain the way heat flared through her body, but she failed as the image of his lovemaking rose to taunt her.

He had the look, the touch, the power to drive a woman wild. And much to her chagrin, there was a part of her that wanted him badly. Without question or recrimination.

She heard the faint buzz of his electric razor, followed minutes later by the fall of water in the shower stall.

She immediately visualised Michel’s naked form, his potent masculinity, the impressive power sheathed at the apex of his thighs.

Focus, concentrate,
remember
the accusations they’d exchanged seven weeks ago, she silently raged as she discarded the towel and stepped into briefs, then fastened her bra before pulling on a pair of jeans and a cotton top.

That fateful night she had looked at Michel…someone she’d loved with all her heart, in whom she had implicit trust, and believed their lives, their love, were forever entwined…and now it was like looking at a stranger.

With an irritated gesture, Sandrine unwound the
towel from her head and shook out hair that fell in a cloud of sable silk onto her shoulders.

How did the axiom go?
Marry in haste, repent at leisure?

She reached for the hair dryer, plugged it in, then began combing the warm air through her hair.

What would have happened if she’d stayed? If she’d cancelled her flight and risked a breach of contract? Would they have resolved anything? Or had her abrupt departure merely precipitated their separation?