Her lips tightened, and she refrained from uttering a further word except for curt, explicit instructions.
Michel chose the most up-market hotel resort on the main Hastings Street strip, relinquished the vehicle for valet parking, then led her into the main foyer to register.
It would serve him right if the hotel was fully booked, she reflected vengefully. Luck wasn't on her side as Michel completed the necessary paperwork and accepted a card folder with their room security tags.
Their suite overlooked the river towards a bank of riverfront mansions, Sandrine discovered on crossing to the window. The tranquil vista exuded a different ambience from that of the Gold Coast.
'Lunch,' Michel declared. 'Let's go find a place to eat.'
Sandrine turned towards him. 'I don't want to be part of a game you've chosen to play.'
'Specifically?'
'You're a superb tactician, Michel,' she acknowledged dryly.
'Is that a compliment, or a condemnation?'
'Both.'
'Merci,' he returned with wry humour. 'What game is it you imagine I'm playing?'
'One of revenge.'
He didn't pretend to misunderstand. 'Choosing to keep you in suspense as to when I begin collecting on our deal?'
'Yes.'
He wanted to cross the room and shake her until she pleaded for mercy. Instead, he thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and controlled the timbre of his voice. 'What if I said tonight?'
Something inside her stomach curled into a hard, painful ball. 'Why wait? Why not now?'
She reached for the buttons on her blouse and slowly undid one, then the other, forcing her fingers to remain steady until all the buttons were freed.
'Do you have any specific requirements?' Dear heaven, how could she sound so calm when inside she was shaking like a leaf?
'Enlighten me.'
'You're the one calling the shots.' She slid the blouse off one shoulder, then the other, and draped it carelessly over a nearby chair. As her fingers went to the snap fastening on her jeans, she looked over at him. 'Aren't you going to get out of your clothes?'
How far would she go? 'When you're done,' Michel drawled, calling her bluff, 'you can undress me.'
Pain arrowed through her body, so acute it almost made her wince. Act, a tiny voice prompted. You're good at it.
Sandrine managed a faint shrug. 'If that's what turns you on.' She slid the zip down on her jeans and slowly eased the denim over her hips. She slipped off her joggers, lifted one leg free, then the other, and tossed the jeans on top of the blouse.
He wasn't going to let her go through with this, was he?
She stood in briefs and bra, and although they covered her more adequately than a bikini, she felt vulnerable and exposed.
He stood perfectly still, his gaze steady and unblinking as she looked at him.
Damn him, he wasn't going to help her out. With slow, sure steps she crossed to where he stood. His shirt was short-sleeved with three buttons at the neck. She caught hold of the knit fabric on either side of his rib cage and pulled it free from his waistband. Then she tugged upwards with little success until he obligingly raised his arms and lowered his head to accommodate the shirt's easy removal.
Too much. He really was much too much, she muttered silently. The spread of his shoulders, the breadth of chest, the strong musculature that rippled and bunched with every movement.
She threw the shirt in the path of her blouse and jeans, then turned back and reached for the snap on his jeans, pulled it open, then stifled a soft curse.
Buttons. No zip for easy unfastening. Each one presented a fresh torture. Her fingers fumbled, and she felt totally inadequate for the task. It didn't help any that the denim was stretched tight against a hard male arousal.
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.