It was a warm summer's evening, and she selected black silk evening trousers, a jewelled singlet top, then added a sheer black evening blouse. Stiletto-heeled pumps, a matching jewelled evening bag completed the outfit. Make-up was understated, with emphasis on her eyes.
Michel had chosen a restaurant specialising in seafood, and they each selected a prawn starter and ordered grilled fish to follow. The wine steward presented a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne.
'Did you get in touch with your parents?'
She felt guilty that she hadn't. 'I'll ring them both in the morning.'
He lifted his flute and placed the rim against her own. 'Salut.'
Their starter arrived, and she bit into a succulent prawn and savoured the taste. Heaven. The sauce was perfect.
'With both you and Raoul in Australia, who is minding-'
'The store?'
'Figuratively speaking.'
'Henri heads a very capable team in our absence.'
'When is Raoul returning to Paris?'
His smile held a faint wryness. 'Twenty questions, Sandrine?'
She gave a slight shrug. 'Curiosity, I guess.'
'His plans are less flexible than mine.'
'And you, Michel?' she queried fearlessly. 'How long will you stay in Australia?'
His gaze was direct, unwavering. 'As long as it takes.'
She didn't pretend to misunderstand. Something curled inside her stomach and tightened into a painful ball. 'I might be called back to the Gold Coast studios to reshoot a scene. Then there's the publicity promotion … '
'I've been working, myself, every day since I arrived in Australia.'
The laptop. In this electronic age it was possible to access and transmit data at the touch of a button.
'It isn't necessary for-'
'Yes,' Michel interrupted. 'It is.'
The waiter removed their plates, and the wine steward refilled their flutes with champagne.
'Michel … ' She trailed to a halt, and although her eyes searched his, she was unable to gain much from his expression.
'We promised to take each day as it comes, remember?'
Yes, so they had. But with every day that passed she realised how hard it would be to have to live without him. And she knew she didn't want to. It should be so simple to mend an emotional bridge. You just said the words, and everything was fixed.
Except they had to be the right words, and it had to be the right time and the right place.
When they made love, she freely gave him her body, her soul, and prayed he knew what he meant to her. But she was a wordless lover, and "I love you" hadn't passed her lips since the night before she left New York.
The waiter presented their main dish, and Sandrine looked at the succulent barramundi, the artistically arranged salad and discovered her appetite had fled.
So, too, had her conversational skills. For how did you talk banalities with someone you'd soon share sexual intimacy?
She had only to look at him, and in her mind she could feel the touch of his hands, his lips, know the reaction of her traitorous body as he led her towards sensual fulfilment. Just as she knew he was equally as aware.
It was akin to a silent game they played. Except there was no deliberation, no premeditation. Intense sensual chemistry sizzled between them, ready to ignite as easily as dry tinder at the toss of a lighted match.
It had always been the same. Had she confused sexual attraction with love? And what is love?
If you took away sexual desire, what was left? A solid friendship? She would have said yes, until he forbade her to take the movie role. A friend would have been pleased she'd auditioned successfully.
Still, although friendship was important in marriage, a legal union was about commitment, honesty and trust. Because if you love, you want to commit, and there needed to be trust and honesty for the union to succeed.
When it came to honesty, she'd shifted the boundaries, signed a contract without his knowledge and against his wishes, confronted him at the eleventh hour, taken the flight, the job, regardless.
At the time she'd been so angry over his inflexibility she hadn't really given anything else coherent thought. There was a part of her that cherished the sanctity of marriage. And her feelings for Michel weren't in question.
Yet she was an independent young woman. She'd owned her own apartment, her own car; she had not one, but two great jobs she loved, and for the past seven years she'd been a free spirit, answerable only to herself.
Why had she imagined marriage to Michel wouldn't change that?
Be honest, a small voice taunted. Love was the prime moving force in this union . She'd been so caught up in the wonder and magic of it all that she hadn't focused too much on the future.
Carpe diem. Seize the day. And she had, only too willing to allow Michel to sweep her off her feet, exultant with joy at the thought of sharing her life with this man, and confident love would conquer all.
In a world where women had fought and won equality with men in the business arena, she'd taken it for granted she would combine her career with marriage. Michel hadn't objected to her participating in a few modelling assignments. Why should he object to her taking a part in a film?
Yet he had. Warning irrevocably that he didn't view marriage as two partners pursuing separate careers and leading separate lives.
'The fish isn't to your liking?'
Sandrine glanced up quickly. 'No. I mean, yes.' She gave a helpless shrug. 'I'm not that hungry.' She forked a mouthful of salad, alternated it with the succulent fish, then took another sip of champagne in the hope it would renew her appetite.
'I've managed to get tickets for Les Misérables,' Michel remarked, and she offered him a smile.
'That's great.' She'd seen two different productions and loved both. 'When?'
'Tomorrow night.'
There was also a popular movie she wanted to see, and she mentioned it. 'Perhaps we could ask Angelina to join us?' she posed, aware how much pleasure it would give her stepsister. In which case she'd have to even things out by issuing a similar invitation to her stepbrother.
'Of course. But first, ascertain which night suits your mother and your father for dinner. As our guests.'
Step-family politics, she mused, required delicate handling.
It was almost ten when they left the restaurant, and within minutes Michel hailed a taxi to take them home.
Sandrine felt pleasantly tired as they entered the apartment, and she slid off her shoes and hooked the sling-back straps over one finger.
'Coffee?'
'I'll make it,' Michel offered as he shrugged out of his jacket. 'I need to go on-line and check some data.'
'Okay.' She tried to stem a feeling of disappointment. A part of her wanted to curl up in his arms and enjoy a leisurely lovemaking. Maybe she wouldn't be asleep when he came to bed, or if she was, he'd wake her. 'I'll go to bed and read.'
Except she only managed one chapter before the book slipped from her fingers and hit the carpeted floor, and she didn't stir when Michel slid quietly in beside her two hours later.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANDRINE took the cordless phone into the bedroom after breakfast and rang her mother, had the call diverted to a mobile number and interrupted Chantal at the manicurist.
'Dinner, darling? Love to. How long are you in town?'
'A week, at least.'
'The weekend is out. Thursday?'
'Thursday's fine,' she agreed.
'Cristal. Seven o'clock? We'll meet you there.'
Her father was in a business meeting, but Lucas took the call, his conversation equally as brief as that of her mother.
'Friday,' Sandrine wrote in her diary planner.
That left Angelina and Ivan, step-siblings and arch-rivals for her attention. They were both in school and couldn't be contacted until late afternoon.
There were a few close friends she wanted to communicate with and she spent the next hour glued to the phone.
Michel was seated at the desk in the lounge when she emerged. The laptop was open, and he was speaking rapid French into his cell phone.
Sandrine wandered into the kitchen, poured herself some fresh orange juice, then sat down at the dining-room table and leafed through the daily newspaper.
'What do you want to do with the day?' Michel queried when he finished his call.
'Me as in me?' she posed with a faint smile. 'Or me as in you and me?'
'You and me,' he drawled, reaching across to catch hold of her chin.
'Too much togetherness might not be wise.'
'You have me at your mercy. Choose.'
She pretended to consider as she ticked off each option on her fingers. 'The beach, a movie, shopping, wander around Darling Harbour, the Rocks, visit the Chinese Gardens, visit a few art galleries, the museum. Hmm,' she deliberated, then added without changing her voice, 'Or I could tie you to the bed and have my wicked way with you.' She sent him a stunning smile. 'Darling Harbour, I think. I'll go get changed.'
He tilted her chin and settled his mouth on hers in an all-too-brief evocative kiss. 'I'll take a raincheck.'