The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (224 page)

She could, she reasoned, literally throw up her hands and tell him to complete the task himself. Except she was darned if she’d allow him the satisfaction of winning a challenge. She could almost hear his musing drawl, see the faint mockery in those dark eyes as he finished discarding his clothes.

As he would, if only to witness her discomfort, she determined as she dealt with another button.

How things had changed, she reflected wryly. In the not-too-distant past she’d have laughed and delighted
in the task, taking pleasure in teasing him outrageously and exulting in his reaction.

Now, he had control while she slipped into such a state of nerves she couldn’t even manage something as simple as undoing a series of buttons!

Just do it,
the tiny voice urged. Slip into pretend mode and imagine he’s someone who means nothing to you.

There, it was done. Stretch fashion jeans possessed one inescapable flaw. They were the very devil for someone else to remove! Tailored trousers wouldn’t have presented any problem, but jeans were a different story, she decided, gritting her teeth as she tugged the fabric down over powerful thighs.

The action brought her face close to a vulnerable part of his anatomy, and she entertained the brief vindictive thought that with one quick movement she could cause him considerable pain. The consequences, however, wouldn’t be worth it.

In a few swift movements he slid off his joggers, then stepped out of his jeans and kicked them to one side. Fine black silk skimmed his hips and couched his manhood, emphasising olive skin roughened by hair and a male frame in superb physical shape.

Sandrine momentarily closed her eyes, then opened them again. Michel wasn’t an unknown lover. Why hesitate?

There was a part of her that longed for the feel of his mouth, the tactile skill of those clever hands as they created havoc with each separate pleasure zone. She wanted to lose herself in the wealth of emotional
and spiritual sensations, to go to that special place where there was only
him
…and the unique alchemy they shared.

It had been good. Better than good, she amended.

A hand caught hold of her chin, lifted it so she had to look at him. His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, lingered there, then slid slowly down the column of her throat.

Sandrine swallowed compulsively, wanting to move away but held mesmerised by the darkness of those deep grey eyes as he forced her to hold his gaze.

Then he lowered his head and angled his mouth over hers in a kiss that was hard and mercilessly plundering as he took what she wouldn’t willingly give.

Just as she thought her jaw would break, the pressure eased, and his tongue caressed and cajoled in a teasing dance that almost made her weep.

Not content, he savoured the taste of her lips, their soft, swollen contours throbbing beneath his touch. He nipped the full centre with the edge of his teeth, caught her indrawn breath, then angled his mouth to hers in a kiss that tore at the very threads of her soul.

With considerable ease his lips trailed a path down her neck, lingered as he explored the hollows at the edge of her throat, then travelled to the soft fullness of her breast.

In one easy movement he freed the twin hooks of her bra and dispensed with it before returning his attention to the rounded curve.

A soft flick from the tip of his tongue brought a
surge of sensation, and she arched her neck, allowing him access.

Her whole body began to melt as heat flowed through her veins, warming her body until she was on fire with a passion so strong, so tumultuous, there was only the man and the aching, wanting
need.

His hand slid down to her waist, then splayed low over her stomach, his fingers slipping beneath the satin and lace of her briefs, seeking, probing,
teasing,
until she scaled the heights, clung, then descended in a free-falling spiral.

He caught her as she fell, held her, then took her on a return journey that was even more devastating than the first.

This time she was unable to still the soft, throaty cries or stop the flow of tears as they trickled slowly down her cheeks.

Michel brushed a thumb against each rivulet in turn, dispensing the dampness with a tenderness that brought a lump to her throat. His lips settled at the corner of her mouth, caressing the soft fullness of her lower lip with the edge of his tongue.

He paused to nibble the moist inner tissue, then conducted a seductive foray, tracing her tongue with his own, before taking possession with claim-staking action.

Sandrine was barely conscious of her hands creeping up to link together at his nape as he folded her close, and she kissed him back, giving, taking, in what became a storm of sensual exploration.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough, and she
moved against him, instinctively seeking more. Her hands shifted to his shoulders, then slid down over his back, urging him closer as she unconsciously raked her nails over muscled flesh to emphasise her need.

Without missing a beat, Michel swung an arm beneath her thighs and swept her into his arms, then tumbled with her down onto the bed. In one easy movement he rolled her beneath him, caging her body as he tore his briefs free.

It was as if every pore of her skin became highly sensitised to his touch, and an exigent sexual chemistry was apparent—vital, electric, lethal—for it melted her mental resistance, leaving only the craving for physical release.

Now,
she urged, unaware whether the word left her lips or not. She was burning up inside, on fire with a primal heat so intense she lost sight of who and where she was in the need to have him deep inside her, matching each primeval movement until that deep, rhythmic possession transported them both simultaneously to exquisite sensual sensation.

Sandrine almost cried out loud when his mouth left hers and began a slow, tortuous descent, pausing to savour delicate hollows at the base of her throat before trailing a path to her breast, suckling first one acutely sensitised peak before delivering a similar assault on its twin.

Her stomach tensed as he explored the delicate indentation of her navel, and she gasped as he moved low to caress the most sensitive pleasure spot of all.

Her body arched as she became consumed by a
wicked ecstasy so acute she began to plead, muted guttural sounds she didn’t recognise as being her own voice.

She reached for his head, seeking purchase on his hair, and she pulled it mercilessly in a bid to have him desist. Only to have him catch hold of her wrists and effortlessly clamp them to her sides.

‘Michel.’ His name emerged endless minutes later, accompanied by a mindless, tortured sob. ‘Please.’

Seconds later he slowly raised his head and gave her a long, impassioned look. His eyes were so incredibly dark they were almost black.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her pulse seemed to beat so fast it was almost out of control. Her eyes felt too big for her face, their expression wild, dilated with an emotion she didn’t care to define.

When his head lowered, she gave an anguished cry and felt her flesh quiver uncontrollably as he began bestowing an agonisingly slow trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses to her navel, the soft slope of her breasts, their tender aureoles, the slender column of her neck, before taking possession of her mouth.

Timeless minutes later he freed her hands, and the breath stilled in her throat as he entered her with one powerful thrust.

She could feel herself stretching to accommodate his length, the tightness as she enclosed and held him, followed by the primitive rhythm that he kept erotically slow at first, so measured and deep she was aware of every muscle contraction.

She was almost falling apart when he quickened the
pace to a heavy, pulsating action that took her so high she became wild with the force and strength of it.

Her body felt as if it were a finely tuned instrument played by a virtuoso until it was wooed to such a fine crescendo that the only possible climax was to fracture and splinter into a thousand pieces in the accompanying electric silence.

He remained buried deep inside her as he cradled her face and kissed the teardrops trickling slowly down each cheek, trailing their path to the edge of her lips.

How was it possible to weep with such a combination of acute pleasure and sadness? Sadness, she rationalised, for an awareness that the pleasure had been all hers.

Michel supported his weight, then bestowed a series of butterfly kisses to the contours of her mouth before lifting his head to gaze down at her.

‘Okay?’ he queried gently.

What could she say? There wasn’t one adequate word that came readily to mind. ‘Speechless,’ she managed at last.

‘I meant
you,
’ he qualified slowly.

‘Fine.’ You lie, the tiny voice chastised. Your body still vibrates from the feel of him, and you ache with a hurt that has little to do with physical pain.

Michel saw the faint clouding evident in those beautifully luminous brown eyes and glimpsed the rapid pulse beat at the base of her throat.

He leant forward and placed his lips to that frenetically
beating hollow, felt her tremor and gently tucked a stray swath of hair from her cheek.

Sandrine wanted to close her eyes and block out the sight of him, but that wasn’t an option. Instead, she wrinkled her nose at him in silent, mocking remonstrance.

‘Lunch,’ she declared. ‘I’m hungry.’ In one easy movement she slid off the bed and crossed the room to the en suite.

Michel followed and merely arched an eyebrow when she lifted a hand in mute denial that he share her shower.

‘Modesty is inappropriate,’ he drawled as he stepped in beside her, caught up the soap and began lathering it over her body.

‘Give it to me,’ she said in a strangled voice as she attempted to take the soap from his hand.

‘No.’

She didn’t want to fight. Dammit, she didn’t possess the energy or the inclination right at this moment to do more than submit to his ministrations.

When he finished, she let the fine needle spray rinse the soap from her body, then she slid open the glass door and reached for a towel. By the time Michel emerged she was dressed, her hair was swept into a knot on top of her head, and she was applying colour to her lips.

He pulled on his clothes, ran his fingers through his dampened hair, then he inclined his head in bemused mockery and swept an arm towards the door. ‘After you.’

T
HEY
selected a small intimate restaurant with an appealing blackboard menu, chose an outdoor table shaded by a large umbrella, ordered seafood pasta,
focaccia
and white wine, and were impressed by the quality of the food and the service.

Sandrine declined anything to follow and settled for strong black coffee.

‘You enjoyed the food?’

She looked at the man seated opposite and fought against an enveloping wave of sensation.

How was it that he had this cataclysmic effect on her? He exuded an unfair share of sensuality, an inherent quality that was both mesmeric and magical.

‘Yes, thank you.’

His mouth curved into a faint smile. ‘So polite. More coffee?’

She shook her head, then watched as he gestured to the waiter to bring the bill.

‘Shall we leave?’ Michel queried minutes later, and Sandrine rose to her feet in acquiescence.

Together they strolled along the main street, pausing every now and then to examine a shop window display. Sandrine purchased a few postcards, added moisturiser and sun-screen cream, insisting on paying for
them herself. Use of her credit card took care of a bikini and sarong wrap in glorious turquoise.

‘The resort pool or the ocean?’ Michel asked as they deposited an assortment of carry bags in their hotel suite.

She didn’t hesitate for a second. ‘Ocean.’

It took only minutes to change, collect a towel and cross the street to the beach.

A number of people inhabited the clean white sand; children laughed and squealed as they played while adults were bent on improving their tans or relaxing beneath large beach umbrellas.

The sea looked peaceful, with the gentle waves of an incoming tide encroaching on the foreshore. The curved bay was picturesque with its outcrop of rocks, a steep, bush-clad hill that led to a Natural Reserve.

There were many such beaches, coves and bays along the eastern coast, but Noosa held a reputation all its own.

Bliss, Sandrine silently reflected as she spread her towel beneath the beach umbrella Michel had erected. First, she’d sunbathe, then she’d swim.

Applying sun-screen cream was a sensible precaution, given the strength of the summer sun, and it took only minutes to cover her legs, arms and midriff.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded as Michel extracted the plastic bottle and squeezed a generous portion onto his cupped fingers.

‘Applying cream to your back.’ Her mouth pursed at the amusement apparent as he
began smoothing the protective cream onto her shoulders.

He was thorough. A little too thorough, she decided as he ensured every centimetre of exposed skin was covered. He even went to the extent of loosening the clip of her bikini top, then refastening it. And his fingers caused havoc with her nervous system as they conducted a firm, circling massage across her back, over her waist and down to the line of her bikini briefs. Controlling her breathing became an effort, and she was grateful her expression was hidden behind dark glasses.

‘Thanks.’ Her voice was husky, almost indistinct.

‘You can return the favour,’ Michel instructed her indolently, handing her the bottle.

His request was deliberate, she was sure of it. Part of a strategy to test the effect such an action would have on her. Well, she’d show him just how easy it was to touch him. It wouldn’t trouble her at all.

Ten seconds in and she knew she lied. He could have done the macho thing and flexed every muscle. Instead, he simply sat with his knees raised, his back to her, and his breathing didn’t alter a fraction as she completed the application in record time.

Sandrine didn’t want to think about the way her pulse raced into overdrive or how every nerve end uncurled in sensitive anticipation. An ache began deep inside, radiating from her central core until it encompassed her whole body.

‘All done,’ she managed evenly as she recapped the
bottle, mirroring his movements as he stretched out, face down, on the towel.

Twenty minutes later she strode across the sand to the water’s edge, took a few steps, then dived into the cool blue-green sea, emerging to the surface to cleave the waves with leisurely strokes parallel to the shore.

There was something infinitely tranquil about the unlimited expanse of an ocean and the sensation of being at one with nature. Quite different from using a swimming pool, she mused as she trod water and admired the exotic landscape with its many brightly painted, low-rise apartment buildings and houses dotting the foreshore.

It was—how long since she’d last holidayed in Noosa? Years, she perceived wryly. A midyear school break with her parents in the days before divorce had torn the family in two, introduced bitterness and a division of loyalties with the advent of step-parents and step-siblings.

Exclusive boarding schools had effectively ensured a safe haven when she no longer fitted easily into one family or the other. There had always been love and welcome whenever she visited. But there had also been an awareness she was a reminder of another life, another time. An awkwardness, she reflected, that had resulted from her own sensitivity. Something that could have had a detrimental effect.

Instead, she had learnt to be self-sufficient, to strive and succeed on her own merits. And she had, utilising her talent with speech and drama by channelling it into acting, initially in school plays. Part-time modelling
with an agency resulted in her appearance in a television commercial, and the rest, as they say, became the substance of dreams when she was offered a character role in a long-running Australian television series.

A modelling assignment in New York during a seasonal filming hiatus had garnered an invitation to a party where Michel numbered one of several guests. Two linked events that had changed her life.

‘Intent on solitude?’

Sandrine’s eyes widened at the sound of that familiar drawl, and she turned to see Michel within touching distance. Wet hair and water streaking his face did nothing to detract from the chiselled perfection of his features or lessen the degree of power he managed to exude without any effort at all.

‘No.’

‘Care to try your hand at something more adventurous?’

She was unable to read anything from his expression, and his eyes were too intently watchful for her peace of mind. ‘Such as?’

‘Hang-gliding, parasailing, jet-skiing?’

‘Surely you jest?’

‘Hiring a boat and exploring the waterways?’ Michel continued as if she hadn’t spoken, and she scooped up a handful of water and splashed him with it. ‘I could retaliate,’ he warned.

‘I’m trembling.’

His lips formed a musing smile. ‘It can wait.’

It wasn’t the words but the implication that sent a
shivery sensation feathering the surface of her skin. His eyes held a warm, purposeful gleam that did much to melt through a layer of her resolve.

Her eyes remaining locked with his, she was aware of him to a degree that was vaguely frightening. Magnetic sensuality. She didn’t want to be held in its thrall, for it clouded logic and decimated any rationale.

Michel divined her ambivalence, successfully attributed its cause and chose to cut her a little slack. ‘Race you in to shore.’

He even held back, matching his strokes to meet hers, and they emerged from the water together. On reaching their shaded location, he caught up his towel, blotted off the excess moisture, then wound and secured the towel low on his hips.

‘Feel like a drink?’

‘After a shower and I’ve changed into something a little more respectable,’ Sandrine parried as she copied his actions.

Michel pulled the beach umbrella from the sand and returned it to the hire stand en route to their hotel. ‘Go on up,’ he directed when they reached the entrance. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

She inclined her head, then crossed to Reception to collect their room card. Inside their suite, she made straight for the shower and emerged into the bedroom to discover Michel in the process of discarding several glossy signature carry bags onto the bed.

‘You’ve been shopping.’

‘Something to wear to dinner,’ he declared as he divided and emptied the bags. ‘Here.’ He picked up a
tissue-wrapped package and tossed it onto the pillow. ‘This is for you.’

This,
she discovered, was a pair of black silk evening trousers, together with a silk camisole in soft antique gold. There was also a pair of exquisite, lacy black briefs.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured appreciatively, watching as he shook free a pair of black slacks and a deep blue, short-sleeved silk shirt.

If only he’d relayed his intention to stay overnight, she could have packed a few clothes and he’d have saved some money. Although money was hardly an issue, she decided as she discarded the towel and quickly donned underwear.

The evening trousers and camisole were a perfect fit, and she was in the process of applying make-up when Michel re-entered the room.

Sandrine glanced away from the mirror and met his gleaming gaze. ‘They’re lovely,’ she complimented.

‘
Merci,
’ he acknowledged with mocking amusement as he discarded the towel.

She returned her attention to applying eye shadow, willing her fingers to be steady as she brushed a soft gold to one upper lid.

The mirror proved her worst enemy, for it reflected heavily muscled thighs, smooth hips and buttocks and a fleeting glimpse of male genitalia as he stepped into briefs. The action involved in pulling on the pair of dark trousers emphasised an impressive display of honed muscle and sinew, and she was unable to glance
away as he shrugged into his shirt and tended to the buttons.

Get over it,
she derided in silent chastisement, and determinedly focused her attention on completing her make-up. It was something of a relief to enter the en suite minutes later, and she activated the hair dryer, opting to leave her hair to fall loose onto her shoulders.

‘Beautiful,’ Michel complimented when she reentered the bedroom. ‘But there’s something missing.’

She felt on edge, jittery in a way that could only be attributed to acute sensitivity to this particular man. All her fine body hairs seemed to stand on end, quivering like miniature antennae, and her stomach didn’t belong to her at all.

This was madness. Why did she feel as if she were being stalked by a prowling predator waiting for the right moment to pounce?

‘What is that?’ she managed lightly, and felt her body tremble slightly as he moved towards her.

‘These.’ He took hold of her left hand and slid first her wedding ring, then the magnificent pear-shaped diamond onto the appropriate finger.

Sandrine looked down at her hand, saw the symbols of his possession and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Michel—’

Anything further she might have uttered was stilled as he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Let’s go have that drink, shall we?’

The hotel lounge held a mix of patrons, and Michel quirked an eyebrow when she insisted on orange juice.

‘The need for a clear head?’

‘Definitely!’

‘Afraid, Sandrine?’

Of you? ‘No,’ she responded evenly. Her reaction to him was something different entirely.

His husky chuckle was almost her undoing, and she could have hit him when he raised his glass in a silent, mocking gesture.

‘How is your grandmother?’ A safe subject, surely, she considered as she took a sip of the refreshing juice.

Michel’s eyes held hers as he settled back in his chair. ‘She expressed regret that you were unable to join me.’

Not so safe, she mentally corrected. ‘She’s an incredible lady.’

‘Who regards you with affection.’

What could she say to that? After a few seconds she settled with ‘How kind.’

‘I promised we’d visit her after our return to New York.’

She didn’t want to think that far ahead. It was enough just to get through each day.

‘Would you like another drink?’

Sandrine shook her head, then watched as he set his empty glass down on the table. ‘Shall we go have dinner?’

They chose Italian, the best restaurant, they were assured, in town. Michel ordered a smooth vintage Lambrusco to accompany a gnocchi starter, and they both settled for veal scallopini as a main, with an exquisite lemon tart for dessert.

The ambience was definitely European, the waiters
were Italian, and the food…
perfetto.
Sandrine expressed her pleasure as the waiter served them with a liqueur coffee.

‘I don’t think I’ll eat a thing until at least midday tomorrow,’ she declared as they walked out onto the street.

One shoestring strap slipped down over her shoulder and she absently slid it back in place. It had been a great few hours, reminding her far too vividly of previous evenings they’d shared over good food and fine wine.

‘That was nice,’ she said, offering him a warm smile. ‘Thank you.’

His expression was equally warm, and those brilliant grey eyes bore a gleam she didn’t care to define. ‘My pleasure.’

‘Let’s walk,’ she suggested on impulse. Hastings Street ran parallel to the foreshore, and it wasn’t late. A number of tourists were enjoying the evening air, walking, drinking coffee at pavement tables adjoining numerous cafés and restaurants.

Michel caught her hand loosely in his, and she didn’t pull free.

Did they look like lovers? Somehow she didn’t think so. Their body language wasn’t right.

He traced an idle pattern across the delicate veins at her wrist and felt the sudden surge in her pulse as it leapt to a faster beat.

When she attempted to tug her hand free, he forestalled the action by lifting her hand to his lips and
kissing each finger in turn, aware of the slight tremor that shook her slender frame.

Sandrine lifted her head and met his steady gaze. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’

‘Am I succeeding?’

Only too well.

‘Resorting to the neutrality of silence,
mignonne?
’ She offered him a stunning smile. ‘Of course.’

‘On the grounds that anything verbal might give me a swelled head?’