The Marriage Deal(2)

Minutes later she rode the lift to a designated floor and joined the  group of fellow thespians enjoying a cool drink on the wide, curved  balcony overlooking the ocean.

A portable barbecue had been set up, and a hired chef was organising a  selection of seafood, prawns and kebabs ready for grilling.

Sandrine accepted a wine spritzer and sipped it slowly as she cast the  guests an idle glance. All present and accounted for, with the exception  of the guest of honour, she perceived, and pondered his identity.                       
       
           



       

'Smile, darling. It's almost "show time" and we're expected to shine,' a husky male voice intoned close to her ear.

She turned slowly to face the lead actor, whose birth name had been  changed by deed poll to Gregor Anders. He was handsome in a rugged,  rakish way and took his studio-generated image far too seriously,  acquiring so many layers during his professional career it was almost  impossible to detect the real man beneath the projected persona.

'Gregor,' Sandrine greeted coolly, and summoned a smile to lessen the  sting of her words. 'I'm sure you'll shine sufficiently for both of us.'

It was easy to admire his ability as an actor. Not so easy to condone  were the subtle games he played for his own amusement. Yet his name was a  drawcard. Women adored his looks, his physique, his sex appeal.

'Now, now, darling,' he chided with a wolfish smile. 'We're supposed to  share a rapport, n'est-ce pas?' One eyebrow slanted in mocking query.

'On screen, darling,' she reminded sweetly, and remained perfectly still  as he lifted a hand and traced his forefinger down the length of her  arm.

'But it is so much easier to extend the emotions beyond the screen for the duration of filming, don't you agree?'

Her eyes locked with his. 'No.'

'You should loosen up a little,' he cajoled, exerting innate charm.

'I play before the camera. Off the set, I suffer no illusions.'

'Strong words,' Gregor murmured. 'I could ensure you regret them.'

'Oh, please,' Sandrine protested. 'Go play Mr Macho with one of the  sweet young things who'll simply swoon at the thought of receiving your  attention.'

'While you've never swooned over a man in your life?'

You're wrong, she almost contradicted, but held her tongue. Gossip ran  rife and, in these circles, quickly became embellished until only a  grain of recognisable truth remained.

'If you'll excuse me?' She lifted her empty glass a few inches aloft, then turned and crossed to the bar.

Within minutes she was taking a refreshing sip of orange juice. A waiter  paused beside her and proffered a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She smiled  automatically, selected one, then took a delicate bite. It was delicious  and brought an onset of hunger. A sandwich at lunch, followed by an  apple and mineral water wasn't much in the way of sustenance.

Sandrine took a mini vol-au-vent and popped it into her mouth.

'Where is the guest of honour?' a feminine voice asked in bored tones, and she turned towards the attractive young lead actress.

'Bent on making a grand entrance, perhaps?'

'That's a woman's prerogative, sweetheart.'

The smile was a little too artificial, the voice a fraction too  contrived. Cait Lynden had acquired star status and wasn't about to let  anyone forget it. Especially a fellow actress playing a minor part,  Sandrine decided silently.

'No one seems to know who he is,' Cait mused. 'A successful entrepreneur  is all Tony will reveal.' An acquisitive gleam darkened her beautiful  blue eyes. 'Obviously rich. As long as he's presentable and under sixty,  it could prove to be an interesting encounter.'

'And single?' Sandrine posed, only to hear the other's musical laugh.

'Darling, who cares?'

Not Cait, obviously.

Minutes later Sandrine detected a change in the buzz of conversation, a  shift in tone definition that caused her to lift her head.

So he had finally arrived. Almost a half-hour late.

Some sixth sense alerted her attention, followed by a quick stab of apprehension.

'Mine,' Cait uttered, sotto voce.

Even as Sandrine turned slowly to conduct a sweeping appraisal of the  room, a telltale prickle of awareness slithered down the length of her  spine.

There was only one man who could generate this effect. One man whose  soul was so closely attuned to her own they were almost twin halves of a  whole.

Sandrine caught sight of a tall male frame, felt the familiar tug on her  senses as she recognised the broad-boned, chiselled profile, the dark,  conventionally groomed hair, which seven weeks ago had lain longer at  his nape, adding a refined, untamed quality that was equally as  dangerous as the man himself.

She'd adored threading her fingers through the silky thickness, the  purchase it lent when she held fast his head and simply clung during the  slow, exquisite torture of his lovemaking, the dazzling heat of their  passion.

Those had been the wild, sweet days when there had been only love to  guide them, she reflected. A time when she'd given him everything  without thought of denial.                       
       
           



       

Now she watched Michel while he paused in conversation to lift his head  as if he, too, sensed her presence. Dark grey eyes locked with hers,  probing, intense, and totally lacking in any humour or warmth.

Time stood still as everything and everyone in the room faded to the periphery of her vision.

There was only Michel. The man, the moment, the exigent chemistry  evident. She could sense it, feel its powerful pull as she became caught  up in the magical spell of something so intensely primitive she felt  raw, exposed and acutely vulnerable.

Then he smiled, and for an instant she was transported back to the time  they first met. Almost a duplicate situation to this, where they'd  caught sight of each other at the same time across a crowded room.

Except the past had little place in the present. She could see it in the  sudden flare in those beautiful slate-grey eyes and sense it in his  stance.

Body language. She'd studied it as part of her craft and she could successfully determine each movement, every gesture.

Did anyone else recognise the cool ruthlessness or define the latent  anger that lurked beneath the surface of his control? They lent his  features a dark, brooding quality and gave hint to a refined savagery,  which unleashed could prove lethal.

He was a man who held no illusions and whose youthful passage had  moulded him, shaping a destiny many of his peers could only envy.

Sandrine watched in mesmerised fascination as he murmured an excuse to  their host, then crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace.

Fine Armani tailoring sheathed an awesome muscle definition in that  powerful frame, and every movement held the lithe, flowing grace of a  superb jungle animal.

Her heart thudded and quickened to a faster beat. Each separate nerve  end became highly sensitised as he moved towards her, and she couldn't  think of one sensible word to say in greeting. Considering the  carelessly flung words they'd hurled at each other all those weeks ago, a  simple hello seemed incredibly banal.

She didn't get the chance, for he captured her shoulders, slid one hand  to hold fast her head, then his mouth took possession of hers in a kiss  that sent her emotions spinning out of control.

It was claim-staking, she acknowledged dimly when she was able to breathe. Flagrant, seductive and hungry.

Worse was her own reaction as, after the initial shock, she relinquished a hold on sanity and opened her mouth to him.

She savoured the taste and feel of his tongue as it created a swirling,  possessive dance with hers and lured her into an emotional vortex where  time and place had no meaning.

When he lifted his head, she couldn't move. Gradually she became aware  of the sound of background music, the indistinct buzz of conversation,  as the room and its occupants filtered into her vision.

Dear heaven. How long had they remained locked in that passionate embrace? Thirty seconds, sixty? More?

All he had to do was touch her and she went up in flames. In seven weeks the passionate intensity hadn't lessened.

What did you expect? a tiny voice taunted. He's haunted your dreams  every night since you left him and invaded your thought processes almost  to the detriment of your work.

The emotional intensity shimmered between them, exigent, electric and  mesmeric. Yet there was also anger, not forgotten nor forgiven.

'What are you doing here?'

Was that her voice? It sounded so cool, so calm, when inside she was a seething mass of conflicting tensions.

'I concluded my business in Europe.'

Important meetings where his presence was paramount. No opportunity for  delegation there, she reasoned. What excuse had he given explaining her  absence to family in Paris? To his elder brother Raoul, his grand-mère?

She experienced a moment's regret and banked down the edge of remorse  she felt for the elderly matriarch who ruled with a fist of iron, yet  had the heart of a pussycat and of whom she'd become very fond.