'You could say that, darling.'
'A new life?'
'Angelina told you,' Chantal said without concern, and Sandrine inclined her head.
'The news disturbed me.'
'It's my life to lead as I choose.'
'With a man several years younger than yourself?' Chantal gave the waitress her order, then she leant back in her chair and took a long sip of champagne. 'I thought I was meeting my elder daughter for a chat over lunch.'
'I think I deserve some answers.'
'Why? It doesn't affect you in any way.' That stung. 'It affects Angelina.' Just as your breakup with Lucas affected me.
'She'll get over it,' Chantal said carelessly. 'You did.'
Yes, but at what cost? It had succeeded in instilling such a degree of self-sufficiency that she thought only of herself, her needs and wants. And such a level of self-containment had almost cost her her marriage.
A slight shiver shook her slim frame. She didn't want to be like Chantal, moving from one man to another when she was no longer able to live life on her own terms. That wasn't love. It was self-absorption at its most dangerous level.
'This new man is-how old? Thirty?'
'Thirty-two.'
'Which means when you're sixty, he'll only be forty-four.'
'Don't go down that path, Sandrine,' Chantal warned.
'Why? Because you refuse to think that far ahead?'
'Because I only care about now.'
I don't, she noted with silent certainty. I care enough about the future to want to take care of every day that leads towards it. And I care about Michel enough to want a future with him. Desperately.
It was as if everything fell into place. And because it did, she chose not to pursue Chantal's indiscretions. Instead, she asked a string of the meaningless questions Chantal excelled in answering as they ate a starter and a main, then lingered over coffee.
They left the restaurant at three, promising to be in touch soon, and Sandrine took a page out of her own advice to Angelina. She went shopping. Nothing extravagant. A silk tie for Michel, despite the fact he owned sufficient in number to be able to wear a different one each day for several months. But she liked it and paid for it with a credit card linked to her own account and not the prestigious platinum card Michel had given her following their wedding.
'For you,' she said, presenting it to him within minutes of entering the apartment.
'Merci, chérie.'
'It's nothing much.'
His smile held a warmth that sent the blood coursing through her veins. 'The thought, mignonne, has more value than the gift itself.'
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with such slow eroticism she almost groaned out loud when he released her.
'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.
CHAPTER NINE
IT 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.'