'Another rare young woman uninfluenced by the Lanier wealth and social status?'
'I think we should go inside and take our seats,' Michel indicated quizzically. 'Naturally you've arranged to sit at our table?'
'Oui,' Raoul agreed dryly, and Sandrine suppressed a chuckle as a committee member checked their tickets and indicated their table location.
The chairwoman's husband was the sole occupant, and upon introduction he explained that his wife was busy with last-minute details. Of Cait and Gregor there was no sign, and Sandrine suppressed the uncharitable thought that Cait was probably aiming to stage-manage a dramatic entrance.
She wasn't wrong. Just as the lights flickered, indicating the formalities were about to begin, Cait swept into the function room with Gregor and a photographer in tow.
In a gown that was backless, strapless and appeared moulded to her figure, the actress stepped towards them, pausing every now and then to pose as the camera lens focused on her.
'We're not late, are we?' The beautiful, sultry smile was at variance with the breathless little-girl voice.
Cait, the actress, playing to the audience, Sandrine perceived wryly. Of the remaining empty seats, Cait slid into the one between Raoul and Michel.
Sandrine kept a smile in place with difficulty and took a sip of chilled wine.
Stephanie slipped into her seat seconds before the evening's master of ceremonies stepped on stage to take the microphone.
There were introductions and speeches as the spotlight focused on Cait, Gregor and Tony, followed by a studio representative. The mayor said his piece, then a small army of waiters began serving the starter as music beat through sound speakers and a singer provided entertainment on stage.
Sandrine was supremely conscious of the man seated at her side. His enviable aura of power combined with a dramatic measure of primitive sensuality had a magnetic effect.
Cait resembled a feline who'd just swallowed a saucer of cream, Sandrine observed as she forked a morsel of the artistically arranged starter.
'Darling, you don't mind if I have a few photos taken with Michel, do you?' Cait queried, managing to make the request sound like a statement.
The female star and the man who'd rescued a movie from financial disaster, Sandrine reflected cynically, and wondered why she should feel like a possessive tigress. Protecting your interest, a tiny voice taunted. And her interest was Michel, her marriage.
'Mr Lanier has specified any photographs in which he appears must also include his wife,' Stephanie informed her with businesslike candour.
'A group photo, perhaps?' Raoul suggested in a slightly accented drawl. 'Including the marketing manager?'
Stephanie cast him a level glance. 'I don't think that's necessary.'
'Oh, but I think it is,' Raoul argued smoothly. 'Marketing is an integral part of any film production, non?'
Careful, Sandrine cautioned silently. Stephanie is a steel magnolia, not a fragile violet. Baiting her won't achieve a thing.
'Marketing as a whole,' Stephanie agreed.
The chemistry between them sizzled, Sandrine mused. Raoul was a persistent and determined man. While Stephanie gave every indication of wanting to avoid him at any cost. Who would win?
Michel reached out a hand and threaded his fingers through her own. She turned towards him and caught the smouldering passion evident beneath his veiled gaze.
'My money's on Raoul,' she said quietly.
'Indeed,' Michel agreed. 'Although I doubt it'll be an easy victory.'
His thumb began a disturbing pattern across the sensitive veins inside her wrist, an action that played havoc with her equilibrium. As he intended it to do.
'I think I need to repair my make-up,' Sandrine ventured, and caught Michel's knowing smile. He realized the effect he had on her and precisely why she wanted a temporary escape.
'You look beautiful just the way you are.'
'Flattery won't get you anywhere,' she responded with a teasing smile, aware that she lied. She was so incredibly susceptible to everything about him. His voice, the softly spoken French he frequently lapsed into whenever he became lost in the throes of passion. The fluid movement of his body, his limbs, the way he smiled and those chiselled features softened when he looked at her.
She'd thought independence was important, but nothing in her life held a candle to her love for Michel. He'd been right from the start. Why choose to be apart unless circumstances made it impossible to be together?
All those lonely nights she'd spent in her empty bed she'd longed for him to be beside her, to feel his touch. She'd enjoyed the part she'd played in the film, but that satisfaction didn't come close in compensation for being away from her husband.
Sandrine pushed open the door to the powder room and freshened up. Just as she was about to leave, Cait entered the vestibule.
One eyebrow slanted in recognition, and her mouth curved into a petulant smile. 'Really, darling, I'm surprised you could bear to leave Michel's side.'
Sandrine was heartily sick of the actress's game playing. 'It's a challenge, is it, Cait, to seduce another woman's husband?'
'Forbidden fruit, darling, tastes much sweeter than any that's readily available.' She raised a hand and placed the tip of a finger in her mouth. 'And it's always interesting to see if I can pluck the fruit from the tree.' She deliberately licked her finger, removed it, then offered Sandrine a sultry look. 'So to speak.'
Sandrine had had enough. She replaced her powder sponge and lipstick in her bag and closed the clasp. 'If you can succeed with Michel, you can have him.' She moved towards the door and paused momentarily at the sound of Cait's sultry drawl.
'Aren't you going to wish me good luck?'
'The hell I will,' she said inelegantly, and stepped quickly to the function room.
The buzz of voices hit her the moment she reentered the large room, and she forced herself to walk slowly across the carpeted floor.
The chairwoman and her husband were absent from their table, as were Stephanie and Gregor. Only Michel and Raoul remained, and they appeared deep in conversation as she rejoined them.
Michel cast her a quick glance, glimpsed the faint edge of tension and accurately defined the reason for it.
'Cait?'
She managed a wry smile. 'She made it clear you're the target of her affections.'
'Indeed.'
He seemed amused, damn him.
'If you choose to play her game, then she can have you.'
He picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips, then kissed each finger in turn. 'Now why would I do that, chérie, hmm?' He grazed his teeth against her thumb, and saw her eyes flare. 'When all I want is you.'
'Perhaps you should tell Cait that.'
He brushed his mouth across the delicate veins inside her wrist, and Sandrine barely controlled the shiver that threatened to scud the length of her spine.
She could feel herself slowly drowning when she looked at him. The liquid warmth evident in his gaze rendered her bones to jelly, and she had to physically stop herself from leaning forward to place her lips against the sensuous curve of his mouth.
As crazy as it seemed, she could almost feel him inside her, relive the strength and the power of him as muscles deep inside clenched and unclenched in intimate spasms.
He knew. She could see by the glint of those dark eyes that he'd somehow detected the way she was inwardly reacting to him. She lowered her lashes and attempted to pull her hand free. To no avail, as he merely carried her hand to rest on his thigh.
An equally dangerous move, and she pressed the tips of her fingernails into hard muscle in silent warning.
'We've been invited to party on at the hotel's nightclub,' Michel relayed. 'Everyone else associated with the film and marketing will be there.'
She almost groaned out loud. 'Tell me our flight isn't the early-morning one,' she pleaded, and he gave a husky laugh.
'Eleven-thirty.'
'Breakfast before nine isn't an option,' she warned.
'Plan on sleeping in, chérie?'
She wrinkled her nose at him. 'Sleep is the operative word.'
The photographer got his shots, several of them. Raoul very cleverly positioned himself beside Stephanie while Cait insinuated herself between Raoul and Michel. Gregor, bless him, wriggled his eyebrows at them all and flanked Stephanie.
It was after eleven when the evening began to wind down, and half an hour later they wandered in groups towards the nightclub.
The DJ was spinning loud, funky music, the air was thick with noise, a cacophony of voices straining to be heard, and flashing strobe lighting provided a visual disturbance.
'Let's party, darling,' Gregor invited as he swept a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waitress.
'Why don't you ask Sandrine to dance?' Cait queried with a contrived pout. 'I want to play with the big boys.'
'Both of whom have their own women,' Gregor warned, regardless of her careless shrug. 'Don't do it, sweetheart.'
'Oh, stop trying to spoil my fun.'