'He's with the doctor,' Raoul soothed, taking hold of her elbow as he led her down a corridor. 'He's fine. The wound needs a few stitches.'
Her stomach clenched at the thought of torn flesh being stitched together. 'How bad is it?'
Raoul gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. 'A few scratches, some bruising.' He indicated a doorway to the right. 'He's in here.'
Sandrine's heart missed a beat, then thudded loudly in her chest as she stepped into the room. The attending doctor partly obscured Michel from her view, and she moved quickly to his side, her eyes sweeping over his features, his lengthy frame, in a bid to determine the extent of his injuries.
'Michel,' she breathed raggedly as she took in those flawless, broad-boned facial features, then roved over his bare chest.
No scratches, no visible bruising, she noted with relief. The doctor was working on Michel's left arm, stitching what looked to be a deep gash, and she paled at the sight of the needle suturing the wound.
'My wife,' Michel drawled as the doctor paused in his task to give her a quick glance.
'Your husband is fine. A few bruised ribs from the restraining seat belt, plus a gashed arm. I'll be done in a few minutes, then you can take him home.'
Sandrine felt the blood drain from her face as her vivid imagination envisaged the car screeching as Michel applied the brakes, the sickening crunch as two cars collided, the reflexive action at the moment of impact.
For one brief, infinitesimal second she experienced a mental flash of how it might have been, and the thought of what could have happened almost destroyed her. A life without Michel in it would be no life at all.
A hand curved round her nape as Michel pulled her towards him, and her hands instinctively clutched hold of his shoulders. Then his mouth was on hers in a brief, hard kiss that almost immediately softened to a light caress before he released her.
'Don't, chérie,' he chastised huskily, and uttered a muffled curse as he saw her lips tremble.
She tried to smile but didn't quite make it. Michel's eyes darkened, and he caught her hand and held it. His thumb lightly caressed the veins inside her wrist, moving in a rhythmic pattern that stirred her senses. Just looking at him made her want to fling her arms around him and hold on tight.
Relief flooded her veins, closely followed by love. The deep, abiding-forever kind. Her heart, her emotions, belonged to this man, unequivocally. Nothing else held any importance.
'There, all done,' the doctor declared as he applied a dressing and secured it. 'Those stitches need to be removed in a week.'
Michel rose to his feet, grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair, shrugged it on and attended to the buttons before slipping into his jacket. 'Let's get out of here.'
'I'll organise the cab and drop you off on my way to the airport,' Raoul stated as they exited the building, and Sandrine gave him a brief, keen glance.
'You're flying back to the Gold Coast?'
He offered her a wry smile. 'Yes.'
'I see.'
'Do you?'
Her eyes held musing humour. 'Oh, yes.' Stephanie was in for a battle if she thought she could easily dismiss Raoul. The Lanier men fought for what they wanted. 'I recognise the signs.'
'Then wish me luck, Sandrine.'
'Do you need it?'
His expression assumed a faint bleakness.
So he wasn't so sure after all. Good, she decided silently. He'd appreciate Stephanie all the more for not providing him with an easy victory.
She lifted a hand and brushed her fingers down that firm cheek. 'You have it, Raoul.'
He offered her a smile that held warmth and affection. 'Merci.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THERE was a rank of taxis outside the main entrance, and one moved forward at a flick from Michel's fingers.
Twenty minutes later the cab slid to a halt outside their apartment building, and they bade Raoul a quick farewell, then made their way through the foyer to the lift.
The instant the lift doors closed behind them, Michel punched the appropriate panel button, then he pulled her close and fastened his mouth over hers in a kiss that was all too brief as the doors slid open at their designated floor. They walked the few steps to their door and then entered the apartment.
For a few seconds she stood in dazed silence, her eyes large as she looked at him. There was so much she wanted to say, yet the words seemed caught in her throat.
He was so dear to her, so very special. Life itself. Without him, the flame within her would flicker and die.
Something flared in his eyes, and she stood perfectly still as he threaded his fingers into her hair and tilted her head.
'I couldn't bear to lose you,' she said simply, and saw his lips curve into a gentle smile. 177
'It isn't going to happen.'
'Today, just for a while, I thought it might have.'
As long as he lived, he'd never forget the expression in her eyes, the paleness of her features when she entered the emergency room. His thumb caressed the firm line of her jaw. 'I know.'
She swallowed, the expression in her eyes mirroring her emotions. 'You probably should rest,' she voiced huskily.
'You think so?'
'Michel … ' She paused as his head lowered down to hers and his lips settled on one cheekbone, then began trailing a path down the slope of her jawbone to settle at the edge of her mouth.
'Hmm?'
'I can't think when you do that.'
'Is it so important that you think?'
One hand moved to the vee of her top and slid beneath it.
'I want … ' Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed the slope of her breast, the touch infinitely erotic over the soft silk and lace of her bra.
His lips teased hers, light as a butterfly's wing, as they stroked over the sensuous lower curve, then he swept his tongue to taste the sweetness within.
This, this, was where she was meant to be. Held in the arms of the man who was her soul mate. Nothing else mattered.
'What is it you want, chérie?' Michel drawled gently.
'You,' she said simply. 'But first … ' Her voice climbed a few notches, then came to a sudden halt as his fingers slid to unfasten the clip of her bra. The sensitive peaks burgeoned in anticipation of his touch, and heat arrowed from deep within as he began an erotic, evocative stroking. It drove her wild, and she groaned out loud as he pulled the knit top over her head, discarded her bra, then lowered his mouth to one highly sensitised peak.
She could feel herself begin to melt as her body melded to his, aligning itself to allow him access as her hands crept round his neck.
A long, heartfelt sigh whispered from her lips as he shifted his attention to render a similar salutation to its twin. For what seemed an age she exulted in the sheer sensation his touch evoked, feeling every pore, every nerve cell pulse into vibrant life.
It wasn't enough, and she murmured encouragement when his fingers slipped to her waist and attended to the zip fastening.
His clothes were an impossible barrier she sought to remove with considerable care, and his gentle smile almost completely undid her as he put her at arm's length and finished the task.
Sandrine took in his muscled frame, the olive-toned skin stretching over superb bone structure and honed sinew. His shoulders were broad, his chest tightly muscled and liberally sprinkled with dark, curling hair that arrowed down to his waist, then flared into a geometric vee at the juncture of his thighs.
He was an impressive, well-endowed man, a skilled and exciting lover whose degree of tendresse melted her bones, while his passion had the power to awe and overwhelm.
With one easy movement he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest.
'Your arm,' she protested, and heard his husky laughter.
'Afraid it might hinder me?' Michel teased as he strode through to the bedroom.
'Hurt you,' she corrected as he pulled back the bed-clothes and drew her down with him onto the sheets.
He kissed her, deeply and with such soul-destroying intensity she lost track of time and place until he slowly released his mouth from her own.
She looked kissed, he saw with satisfaction. Her mouth was slightly swollen, and her eyes resembled huge liquid pools a man could drown in.
He wanted to savour the taste of her, skim his lips over every inch of her skin, suckle at her breasts with the ferocity of a newborn infant seeking succour. Except a man nurtured his woman's breasts to give her pleasure, for some of the most sensitised nerve endings were centred at those peaks.
Most of all he wanted to bury himself deep in her moist heat and become lost in the sweet sorcery that was Sandrine. His woman, his wife. His life.
From the moment he met her, he had only one agenda. It was instant, breathtaking desire. Yet it had been more than that, much more. Deep within the raw, primitive emotion had been the instinctive knowledge they were meant to be. Almost as if they'd known each other in a former existence.