The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (233 page)

He withdrew a slim billfold. ‘My card, with my cell phone number.'

She wanted to ignore the courtesy, and add with cutting sarcasm that Hell could freeze over before she'd willingly choose to contact him.

Stephanie caught the quick gleam of amusement apparent, and deliberately arched an eyebrow in silent query, held it, then she accepted the card from his outstretched hand, careful to ensure their fingers didn't touch.

Was that an imperceptible quirk of mockery at the edge of his lips? She told herself she didn't give a damn.

Without a further word she turned and retraced her steps.

It was almost five, which allowed her one hour and ten minutes to collect Emma from the day care center, drive to Mermaid Beach, feed and bathe her daughter, then shower, dress, brief the baby-sitter and leave.

Do-able, provided there were no hiccups or delays.
An added bonus was that Sarah, her baby-sitter had offered to arrive early and take up any slack.

Something for which Stephanie was immensely grateful as she stepped into a slim-fitting black dress and slid the zip home. A few strokes of the brush to her strawberry-blond hair restored order to the stylish bob, and she examined her makeup, added a touch of blusher to her cheeks, spritzed her favorite Hermés perfume to several pulse points, then she slid her feet into stiletto-heeled black pumps, caught up a black shoulder bag and stepped quickly into the lounge.

‘Bye, darling.' She leaned down and gave Emma a hug. ‘Be a good girl for Sarah.' She turned toward the baby-sitter. ‘Any problems, ring me on my cell phone. I won't be late.
Thanks,
' she added with heartfelt sincerity.

‘Anytime. Enjoy yourself.'

That was debatable, Stephanie perceived as she crossed the path and slid in behind the wheel of her car.

Business,
she reminded herself as she reversed out from the driveway, and eased the sedan down the quiet suburban street. Tonight is strictly business.

Why, then, did she have the feeling that she'd been very cleverly manipulated?

The distance between Mermaid Beach and the Sheraton Mirage hotel at Main Beach represented a fifteen-minute drive…slightly less, if she was fortunate enough to strike a green light at every traffic controlled intersection.

It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun re
flected the day's heat, and Stephanie reached forward to adjust the air conditioning.

High-rise buildings stood like tall sentinels, vying with luxury hotels lining the long gently curved stretch of oceanfront.

The Gold Coast had been her home for almost four years. Years in which she'd mentally fought to put a broken relationship behind her and deal with the bitterness of knowing the man in her life had expected…no, begged, her to terminate an accidental pregnancy on the grounds a baby would represent too much responsibility and wreck his plans. With icy calm she'd handed back his engagement ring and walked out of his life.

It hadn't been easy. Yet Emma made it all worthwhile. She was a dear child, Stephanie's image with soft blond curls with the merest tinge of reddish gold.

A horn-blast shattered Stephanie's introspection, and a slight frown creased her forehead as the car developed a faint bump. Seconds later she didn't know whether to curse or cry as she pulled into the side of the road and brought the vehicle to a halt.

Just what she needed. A puncture, when she hadn't allowed herself a minute to spare. Dammit. She reached forward and popped the boot, then she slid out of her seat and prepared to change the tire. Left front, she determined as she removed the jack and set it in position.

Stiletto heels and a figure-hugging dress didn't make for ideal maneuvering. Nor did she relish wres
tling with unfamiliar tools as she attempted to loosen stubborn wheel nuts.

This was one occasion when she was more than willing to put feminine self-sufficiency to one side and welcome male assistance.

Except no car stopped, and she battled with the task, completed the wheel change, replaced tools and then cleaned up as best she could with a packet of moist wipes and a box of tissues.

A quick glance at her watch confirmed she was already ten minutes late, and she reached for her cell phone, extracted Raoul Lanier's business card and keyed in the appropriate digits.

He answered on the second ring, and she identified herself, offered an explanation, an apology, and ended the call before he had the opportunity to say a further word.

Five minutes later Stephanie slid the car to a halt in the Sheraton Mirage hotel underground car park and took the lift to the main lobby.

She saw Raoul at once, his height and breadth of shoulder emphasized by superb tailoring, his dark hair well-groomed.

As she drew close he turned toward her, and he stood watching her approach with an unwavering scrutiny that made her want to check if there was a smudge on her nose or cheek, and wonder whether her hasty cleaning-up had removed every speck of grease and dust.

Stephanie mentally squared her shoulders as she summoned forth a warm smile. She was practiced in
the social graces, and adept at handling any situation. It was very rare for her to allow anything or anyone to ruffle her composure.

All she had to do, she assured herself silently, was get through the next hour or two with her dignity intact.

‘Sandrine. Michel,' she greeted with ease as she joined them. ‘Raoul,' she acknowledged civilly. ‘I'm sorry about the delay.'

Take control,
a tiny voice prompted. ‘Shall we go in?'

She didn't miss the faint narrowing of his dark eyes, nor did she mistake the deceptive indolence apparent, and she ignored the slight shiver that feathered its way down her spine.

Raoul Lanier was just a man whose wealth and power were enviable assets in the business arena. She had no interest in him on a personal level, she assured herself.

Why, then, did she feel on edge and about as confident as a seven-year-old child, instead of the twenty-seven-year-old woman she was?

T
HE
maître 'd led them to a table with a splendid view out over the pool and ocean. He seated them with reserved politeness, then summoned the drinks waiter.

Stephanie perused the wine list with practiced ease. Her knowledge of Australian wines was comprehensive, and she conferred over a choice of red or white, sparkling or still.

‘What would you suggest?' Raoul drawled, mildly amused by her determination to play hostess.

‘The hotel carries a selection by a multigold medal vintner. I can recommend their Chardonnay or the Pinot Noir.'

Raoul ordered a bottle of each, and when the wine steward uncorked and presented the wine, Stephanie declined, opting for mineral water.

‘The need for a clear head?'

‘Of course,' she returned coolly. ‘The evening's purpose is focused on discussions about marketing strategies for the movie.' She turned her attention to Michel. ‘I trust you've had an opportunity to examine the paperwork?'

‘Perhaps we could leave any business discussion until after we've ordered our starter and main?' Raoul suggested imperturbably.

Stephanie directed him a studied glance, and met his level gaze. ‘If you'd prefer, Mr. Lanier.'

‘Raoul,' he insisted silkily.

‘Raoul,' she conceded, imitating his slightly accented intonation. If he wanted to play a game of verbal thrust and parry, she'd prove she could be his equal.

Her resolve deepened the color of her eyes and lent a slight tilt to her chin.

It amused and intrigued him. Most…no,
all,
he mentally amended, women of his acquaintance tended to assume a mantle of coquetry, some subtle, others distinctly blatant, in his presence. Cynicism acquired at a young age had taught him that wealth and social status provided the attraction. Experience hadn't changed his opinion.

A waiter approached their table, conferred over the choice of starters, and at a request from Michel, provided a knowledgeable dissertation regarding the merits of each main dish on the menu before taking their order.

Stephanie lifted her glass and sipped the contents. Despite the apparent social implications, this evening was
business,
and she intended to relay the pertinent aspects of marketing strategy, outline the precise course it would take for this particular film, then she would leave.

If Raoul, Michel and Sandrine chose to linger or move on to the bar, that was their choice.

She replaced her glass onto the table and directed her attention toward Michel. ‘I've already outlined
the major facets of film marketing strategy in an appendix among the paperwork handed to you this afternoon,' she began formally. She was aware of Raoul's studied gaze, and chose to ignore it.

‘Briefly to recap, when the completed film is delivered to us from the studio, it receives a private viewing by several people, about thirty in all. Various meetings are held to discuss the target market, what age group the film will most appeal to, which segments should be selected for the trailer.' It was an involved process, and one in which she excelled. ‘We need to determine which shots will appear in press releases to television and the media, overseas and locally.'

Raoul noted the way her skin took on a glow beneath the muted lighting, the small gestures she used to emphasis a point. The liking for her job seemed genuine, and her enthusiasm didn't appear to be contrived. Unless he was mistaken, this was no hard sell by a corporate executive intent on personal success at any price.

‘In order to heighten public awareness of the film, we'll organize a fashion shoot with one or more of the prestige fashion magazines, and arrange coverage in at least two of the major national weekly magazines. As well as local and interstate newspapers.'

The waiter approached the table and set down their selected starters, and almost on cue the wine steward appeared to top up their drinks.

‘It would be advantageous to utilize Sandrine's modeling connections to the fullest extent,'
Stephanie continued as she reached for her cutlery. ‘We'll also arrange for you to be present at a few social events and organize media coverage. Press interviews will be set up with the main actors and a few of the cast, the release of which appear simultaneously to draw public attention to the film.'

‘Impressive,' Michel drawled, incurring a sharp glance from his wife.

‘Laudable,' Raoul inclined in agreement. ‘Perhaps you'd care to elaborate—your degree of dedication to this particular project?'

‘Total,' she responded, then qualified evenly, ‘With one exception. In terms of personal family crisis, my daughter Emma takes precedence.'

‘Not optimum,' Raoul discounted, employing an edge of ruthlessness.

A deliberate strategy to place her behind the eight ball? ‘You have no obligations whatsoever, Mr. Lanier?' she posed smoothly. ‘No wife or mistress who has license to your time?' Her gaze lanced his, level, unwavering, undeterred by the warning glint apparent. ‘Or does
business
consume your life to the exclusion of all else?'

It was possible to hear a pin drop within the immediate vicinity of their table. No one, she imagined, had dared to confront Raoul Lanier in such a manner.

‘A subtle query on your part?' Raoul posed with hateful amusement. ‘As to whether I have a wife?'

‘Your marital status is of no interest to me whatsoever,' she responded evenly. It was the truth. ‘And you didn't answer the question.'

Would she be so brave if they were alone? Perhaps, he accorded silently, sufficiently intrigued to discover if the bravado was merely a facade.

‘I allow myself leisure time.'

His drawled response set her teeth on edge, and she summoned a sweet smile. ‘Sensible of you.'

She had no answer for the sensual tension electrifying the air between them. Or for the insane desire to challenge him to a verbal fencing match. It was almost as if some invisible imp was prompting her into battle, and putting words in her mouth she would normally never utter.

‘I hope you weren't too inconvenienced in locating a baby-sitter at such short notice?' Sandrine queried in what Stephanie perceived as a skilled attempt to switch the subject of conversation.

‘Fortunately not.'

Sandrine offered a wry smile. ‘The Lanier brothers tend to snap their fingers and expect immediate action.'

‘So I gather,' Stephanie responded dryly.

‘Can I persuade you to try some wine, Stephanie?' Michel intervened smoothly. ‘Half a glass won't affect your ability to drive.'

‘Thank you, no.'

The waiter unobtrusively removed their plates, inquired if the starter was to their satisfaction, then retreated.

Raoul leaned back in his chair and subjected Stephanie to an analytical appraisal. The subdued lighting emphasized delicate bone structure, lent a
soft glow to her skin and accentuated the blue depth of her eyes.

She possessed a lush mouth, full and softly curved, and he watched it draw in slightly, caught the faint tightening of muscles at the edge of her jaw as she became aware of his deliberate assessment.

For one infinitesimal second her eyes blazed fire, and he noted the imperceptible movement as she attempted to minimize a convulsive swallow.

Not so controlled, he decided with satisfaction, aware that it would provide an interesting challenge to explore the exigent chemistry between them.

How would that mouth feel beneath the pressure of his own? There was a part of him that wanted to ruffle her composure, test the level of her restraint, and handle the aftermath.

Stephanie barely restrained the impulse to
hit
him. He was deliberately needling her, like a supine panther who'd sighted a prey within reach and was toying with the decision to pounce, or play. Either way, the result would be the same.

Raoul Lanier was in for a surprise if he thought he could try those tactics with her, she decided in silent anger.

She held his gaze deliberately, and saw one eyebrow lift in a slow arch, almost as if he had read her mind. Mental telepathy? Somehow she doubted he possessed that ability. More likely it stemmed from an innate and accurate knowledge of women.

The appearance of the waiter with their main course temporarily diverted her attention. She looked
at the plate placed before her, and felt her appetite diminish to zero.

‘The meal isn't to your liking?'

Stephanie heard Raoul's deep drawl, sensed the double entendre, and for a brief moment she entertained tossing the contents of her glass in his face.

Smile,
a tiny voice urged. This isn't the first occasion you've had to deal with male arrogance, and it sure won't be the last. Business was the purpose for this meeting, albeit that it was being conducted in luxurious surroundings with the accompaniment of fine food and wine.

‘Do you have any queries?' she asked of Michel, and incurred his thoughtful gaze.

‘You appear to have covered everything for the moment.'

‘Perhaps Stephanie would care to give us her personal opinion on this film,' Raoul drawled as he toyed with his wineglass.

‘My expertise is with marketing strategy, Mr. Lanier,' she said with grave politeness, whereas underneath that superficial veneer she was seething.

His gaze seemed to lance through every protective barrier she erected, and she hated him for it.

‘Surely you have an opinion?' he queried mildly.

‘Nothing is a guaranteed success,' she voiced steadily. ‘And there are varied degrees of success. I understand both director and producer have a certain reputation in their field, the cast comprises relatively high profile actors, the theme will attract public interest.' Her gaze was unwavering as she held his. ‘I
can only assure you marketing will do a commendable job with promotion.'

She glimpsed his cynical smile, saw the hardness in those powerful features and refused to allow either to unsettle her equilibrium.

‘A standard response,' Raoul acknowledged silkily. ‘That conveys precisely nothing.'

She'd had enough. ‘You're talking to the wrong person, Mr. Lanier. But then, you know that, don't you? This so-called business dinner is merely a social occasion initiated by you for your own amusement.' She removed her napkin and placed it beside her plate, then she stood to her feet and collected her evening purse. Ignoring Raoul, she focused her attention on Michel. ‘Enjoy your meal.'

Without a further word she turned from the table and made her way to the main desk. Requesting the bill, she produced her corporate card, instructed the maximum estimated amount for the total be written in, then she signed the credit slip and pocketed her copy.

Stephanie moved into the foyer and crossed to the lift, jabbing the Call button with more force than necessary.

Damn Raoul Lanier. He'd succeeded in getting beneath her skin, and she hated him for it. Hated herself for allowing him to affect her in a way that tore at the foundations of unbiased
professional
good manners.

For heaven's sake, where was the lift? Another five seconds, and she'd take the stairs. Almost on
command, the doors slid open, four people emerged and Stephanie stepped into the cubicle, then turned toward the control panel.

Only to freeze at the sight of Raoul Lanier on the verge of entering the lift.

‘What do you think you're doing?' she managed to ask in a furious undertone.

‘Accompanying you down to your car.' He reached forward and depressed the button designating the car park.

An action which galvanized Stephanie into jabbing the button that held the doors open. ‘Something that's totally unnecessary. Get out.'

He didn't answer. Instead he leaned forward, captured both her hands and held them firmly while he depressed the appropriate button.

Stephanie wrenched against his grasp in an attempt to get free, without success, and she watched with mounting anger as the doors slid closed and the lift began to descend.

‘Let go of me.' Her voice was as cool as an arctic floe.

‘When the lift reaches the car park,' Raoul drawled imperturbably.

‘You are the most arrogant, insolent, insufferable man I've ever had the misfortune to meet.'

‘Really? I'm flattered. I expected at least ten damning descriptions.'

‘Give me a few seconds,' she threatened darkly.

She was supremely conscious of him, his physical height and breadth, the aura of power he exuded, and
this close his choice of cologne teased her senses, notwithstanding the essence of the man and the electric tension evident between them.

The heightened sensuality was almost a tangible entity, powerful, primeval, riveting. It made her afraid. Not only of him, but herself and the long dormant emotions she'd deliberately tamped down for four years.

The lift came to a smooth halt, and she wrenched her hands free, then exited the cubicle the instant the doors slid open.

‘Where is your car?'

She began walking toward the glass doors that led to the car park. ‘There's no need to play the gentleman. The area is well-lit.'

She may as well have not spoken, and she drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as she deliberately ignored him and increased her pace.

It took only minutes to reach her car, and she extracted her keys, unlocked the door, then stilled as a hand prevented her from sliding in behind the wheel.

‘Whatever you're thinking of doing,' she said tightly, searing him with a look that would have felled a lesser man. ‘Don't.'

‘I was going to offer an apology.'

‘For initiating an unnecessary social occasion in the guise of
business,
then conducting a deliberate game of cat and mouse with me?' Her tone was deceptively soft, but her eyes resembled crystalline sapphire. ‘An apology is merely words, Mr. Lanier, and I find your manner unacceptable.' She looked point
edly at his hand. ‘You have three seconds to walk away. Otherwise I'll alert security.'