The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (229 page)

‘A call came through this afternoon. Tony wants you back on the set to reshoot a scene.’

Damn. Having to reshoot was something she’d been hoping to avoid. ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ve booked an early flight and accommodation at the Sanctuary Cove Hyatt.’

For the next few days the pace would be frenetic, she perceived. After the film wrapped, the publicity promotion would follow.

‘Go change,’ Michel bade her. ‘We’ll eat out, then get an early night.’

They chose an intimate French restaurant that served exquisite nouvelle cuisine, then afterwards they strolled along the street, pausing now and then to admire a shop window display. Michel threaded his fingers through her own, and with daylight-saving providing a late-evening dusk, the magic of pavement cafés and ornamental street lighting provided an illusory ambience.

Darkness fell, breaking the spell, and Michel hailed a cruising taxi to take them home.

I
T HAD
been a fraught day, Sandrine reflected as she garaged the car. Her final scene had to be shot again and again, and instead of being able to leave the set around midday, it was now almost seven.

She was tired, she had a headache, she was past hungry, and all she wanted to do was sink into a hot spa bath, slip on headphones and let the pulsing jets and music soothe her soul. For an hour.

Heaven, she breathed, entering the villa.

‘I was just about to embark on a rescue mission,’ Michel drawled as he strolled towards her. He took in her pale features, darkened eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders, and withheld an imprecation. ‘Bad day?’ he queried lightly. His hands curved over her shoulders as he drew her close. His mouth touched hers, lightly, briefly, and emotion stirred as she turned her face into the curve of his neck.

‘Tony insisted the scene be shot so many times. I lost count after fifteen.’ He smelt so good,
felt
so good, she could have stayed resting against him for ages. After a few timeless minutes she lifted her head and moved out of his arms. ‘I’m going to soak in the tub.’

Warm water, scented oil, an Andrea Bocelli CD on the Walkman. Sandrine closed her eyes and let the tension gradually seep out of her bones.

She didn’t hear Michel enter the bathroom, nor did she see him step into the tub, and the first indication she had was the light brush of fingers down her cheek.

Her eyelids flew wide and her mouth parted in unvoiced surprise as Michel positioned her in front of him.

She lifted a hand to remove the headphones only to have his hand close over hers holding them in place, then both hands settled on her shoulders and his fingers bit deep in a skilful massage that went a long way to easing the knots and kinks out of tense muscles.

She sighed blissfully as Michel handed her a flute of champagne, and she took a generous sip of the light golden liquid.

A slow warmth crept through her body, and with each subsequent sip she began to relax. Even her head felt light. Probably, she decided hazily, because she hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch.

Sandrine had no idea how long she stayed in the gently pulsating water. It seemed ages, and she uttered a mild protest when the jets were turned off.

Michel lifted her from the tub, then caught up a large fluffy towel and dried the excess moisture from her body.

‘You didn’t have any champagne,’ she murmured as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Relaxed.’

He switched on the bedside lamp, hauled back the
bed covers and deposited her onto the sheeted mattress, then joined her.

All she wanted to do was curl into his arms, rest her head against his chest and absorb the strength and comfort he could offer her.

She felt his lips brush her own and she whispered his name in a semiprotest.

‘Just close your eyes,’ he bade huskily, ‘and I’ll do all the work.’ His mouth grazed the edge of her jaw, then slipped down the slope of her throat.

What followed was a supplication of the senses as he embraced her scented skin with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. With his lips, the pads of his fingers, he trailed a path from one sensory pleasure spot to another, lingering, savouring, until the warmth invading her body changed to slow-burning heat.

He lifted her hand and kissed each finger in turn, stroking the tip with his tongue, then when he was done he buried his mouth in her palm.

It was an evocative gesture that brought her response, only to have her touch denied as he completed a sensual feast that drove her wild.

He entered her slowly, and she groaned out loud as he initiated a long, sweet loving that was exquisite, magical. It left her weak-limbed and filled with languorous warmth.

Afterwards he folded her close into the curve of his body and held her as she slept. Her hair, loosened from its confining pins, spilled a river of silk over his pillow.

Michel waited a while, then carefully eased out of
bed, showered, dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt, then went downstairs to the kitchen and began organising the evening meal. He’d give her an hour, then wake her.

When he returned to the bedroom, she lay precisely as he’d left her, and he stood quietly at the foot of the bed for several minutes watching as she slept.

She possessed a fierce spirit, an independence that was laudable. It had been those very qualities that had drawn him to her, as well as her inherent honesty. His wealth didn’t awe her, any more than
he
did. It was a rare quality to be liked for the man he was and not the Lanier family fortune.

Was she aware just how much she meant to him? She was the very air that he breathed, the daytime sun, the midnight moon.

Yet love alone wasn’t enough, and he wasn’t sufficiently foolish to imagine a ring and a marriage certificate were a guarantee of lifelong happiness.

Sandrine stirred, opened her eyes, focused on the man standing at the foot of the bed and offered him a slow, sweet smile.

‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep,’ she protested huskily. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost ten. Hungry?’

She didn’t have to think about it. ‘Ravenous.’

‘I’ve made dinner.’

Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You have?’ She pushed herself into a sitting position and drew the sheet over her chest, then grinned at his teasing smile. ‘Give me five minutes.’

She made it in seven, after the quickest shower on record, and slipped on a silky robe rather than dress.

‘Oh, my,’ Sandrine mused with pleasure as she sat down at the table. ‘You do have hidden talent.’

‘Singular?’ Michel queried mockingly.

‘Plural. Definitely plural,’ she applauded as she sampled a sip of wine with a sigh of appreciation.

Filet mignon, delectable salad greens, a crusty baguette, and an excellent red wine, with a selection of fresh fruit.

Sandrine ate with pleasurable enjoyment, finishing every morsel on her plate, and she watched Michel cross to the stereo and insert a CD. Then he moved towards her and drew her up from the chair.

‘What are you doing?’ she queried with a faint laugh as he led her to the centre of the room and pulled her close.

The music was slow, the lyrics poignant, vocalized in the husky tones of a popular male singer.

Mmm, this was good, so good, she silently breathed as he cradled her body against his own. His hands stroked a sensuous pattern down her spine, then he cupped her bottom as she lifted her arms and linked her hands together at his nape.

The warmth of his body seemed to penetrate her own, and she melted into him as they drifted as one to the seductive tempo.

His lips settled at her temple, then slid down to the edge of her mouth, and she angled her head, inviting his possession in a kiss that was slow and so incredibly sweet she never wanted it to cease.

Sandrine gave a soundless gasp as he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms, then held on tight as he carried her through to the bedroom.

‘Move, darling. Just a little closer now. Smile.’

If the photographer said
smile
one more time, she’d scream!

It was the end of what had been a very long day. Newspaper interviews and photographs from nine until eleven this morning, followed by a fashion shoot for the Australian edition of a top fashion magazine. Then an appearance at a high-profile charity luncheon held at the Sheraton Mirage, with a brief turn on the catwalk.

There had been photographs at
Movieworld.
One of the prime television channels was videotaping coverage for a spot on the evening news.

Tonight was the gala black-tie event to publicise the movie. Dignitaries would be present, and the city’s wealthy socialites would have paid handsomely to mix and mingle with the producer, director and actors.

It was all a planned marketing strategy to provide maximum impact in the publicity stakes. Gregor and Cait had given interviews in their hotel, and advertising trailers would run on television and in the cinemas.

Sandrine didn’t have star status in the film, but as a home-grown talent in acting and modelling, she gained attention. As Michel Lanier’s wife, she was guaranteed media coverage.

‘Pretend, darling,’ Cait murmured with a mocking edge. ‘You’re supposed to be an actress, so act.’

‘As you do,
darling?
’ she responded sweetly.

‘She really is a barrel of laughs,’ Gregor muttered to Sandrine sotto voce. ‘Desperate, dateless and deadly.’

‘I can have any man I want,’ Cait ventured disdainfully.

‘No,’ he denied smoothly. ‘Most, darling. But not all.’

‘Go get stuffed.’

‘I don’t participate in anatomically impossible feats.’

‘You could always try.’

‘We’ll move it over there,’ the photographer called, indicating the marina and one luxury cruiser in particular, whose owner had generously lent it for publicity purposes.

How much longer before she could escape? Surely they didn’t require her much longer?

‘Okay, Sandrine, you can go. Cait, Gregor, I want a few inside shots.’

Thank heavens. She’d almost kill for a long, icy cold drink with just a dash of alcohol to soothe the day’s rough edges.

‘Lucky you,’ Cait voiced cynically. ‘You’re off the hook.’

For now. She stepped off the cruiser and quickly cleared the marina. The adjoining luxury condominiums of the Palazzo Versace were spectacular in design, resembling a precious jewel set in a sparkling sapphire-blue sea.

Their hotel was reached via an overhead footbridge
from the shopping complex, and Sandrine went directly to their suite.

Michel was seated at the small desk, his shirt sleeves turned back, studying the screen on his laptop as she entered. He glanced at her, then raised an eyebrow as she moved straight to the bar fridge, extracted a bottle of sparkling fruit spritzer and rummaged through the assortment of miniature bottles in the minibar.

‘That bad?’ he queried as he rose to his feet and crossed to her side.

‘Oh, yes.’ She broke the seal on the gin, added a splash, then filled the glass with spritzer and took a long sip. ‘And tonight will be worse.’ She felt his hands on her shoulders and sighed as he skilfully worked the tense muscles there. ‘Remind me we’re flying out of here tomorrow.’

She heard his husky chuckle and leaned back against him. He felt so good she just wanted to close her eyes, absorb his strength and have the immediate world go away.

‘Two days in Sydney,’ he drawled, and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘Then we fly home.’

Home
had a nice ring to it. She pictured their New York apartment overlooking Central Park and sighed again, feeling some of the tension subside.

‘I have a few things to tie up there, which will take a week, maybe longer, then we’ll spend some time in Paris.’

‘I think I love you,’ Sandrine said fervently.

‘Only
think, chérie?
’

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. ‘I was being facetious.’

‘So one would hope.’

She turned slowly to face him, saw the gleam of humour evident in those dark eyes and aimed a loosely clenched fist at his chest. The next instant she cried out as he removed the glass from her fingers and hoisted her over one shoulder.

‘What are you
doing?
’

He walked towards the adjoining en suite, released her down onto the tiled floor, then began removing her clothes, followed by his own.

‘Michel?’

‘Taking a shower.’

She glimpsed the slumberous passion evident and shook her head. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

He reached into the glassed shower cubicle and turned on the water, adjusted the temperature dial, then stepped inside and drew her with him. ‘Yes, we do.’

The water beat down on her head, and she heard his husky chuckle as she cursed him. Then she stilled as he caught up the soap and ran it over her slim curves.

He was very thorough. Too thorough, Sandrine decided as heat flared through her body at his intimate touch, and she moaned out loud as his mouth closed over hers in an erotic tasting that almost sent her over the edge.

When he raised his head, she looked at him in dazed disbelief as he handed her the soap and encouraged her to return the favour.

She did, with such sensuous, lingering skill he lifted her high against him and plunged deep inside, again and again while she clung to him.

Afterwards he caught up the plastic bottle of shampoo and washed her hair, then rinsed it before shutting the water and reaching for both towels.

Dry, he pulled her close and kissed her with unabated passion, then put her firmly at arm’s length.

Sandrine looked at him with musing suspicion. ‘You planned that.’ It was a statement, not a query.

‘Guilty.’

She pulled the hair dryer from its wall attachment and switched it on. ‘We’ll be late.’

‘No, we won’t.’

Five minutes didn’t count, Sandrine acknowledged less than an hour later as they entered the large downstairs foyer.

Michel looked striking in full evening dress, and she felt confident in encrusted ivory silk organza with a scooped neckline. Elegant evening pumps in matching ivory completed the outfit, and she’d swept her hair high in a smooth French pleat.

The function-room doors were open and guests were beginning to enter. The Gold Coast’s social glitterati were evident in force, Sandrine perceived, noting the elegant gowns, expensive jewellery, exquisitely made-up and coiffed women present. Without exception, the men were in full evening dress and bow tie.

Sandrine sighted Stephanie, who returned her smile and joined them within seconds.

‘I’ve seated you with Cait Lynden, Gregor Anders,
the charity’s chairwoman and her husband, and myself. The mayor and his wife are at Tony’s table immediately adjoining yours. There’ll be two tables seating the studio heads and various representatives from the marketing team.’

Sandrine saw Stephanie stiffen slightly and soon determined the reason as Raoul joined them.