The Marriage Deal(4)

His skill with words in the midst of her volatile diatribe had been  chilling. Hell, he hadn't even raised his voice. She had been the one  who'd lost it.

Now he was using that skill to employ invidious blackmail, cleverly  positioning her between a rock and a hard place. She was the price, the  film her prize.

'You leave me little choice,' she said with deliberate coolness, then waited a beat and added, 'For now.'

He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. 'No conditions.'

She felt her body's betraying response to his touch, the heated sensation that invaded her bones and melted them to molten wax.

Sandrine's eyes deepened, and her mouth shook a little. With anger,  resentment and a need to swing into verbal attack mode. Except this  wasn't the time or place if she wanted to retain any sense of dignity.                       
       
           



       

As it was, speculation undoubtedly ran rife among the cast members and  fellow guests. Did Tony know that Sandrine Arnette was Michel Lanier's  wife?

Michel watched as she fought to keep her conflicting emotions under  wraps, and defined each and every one of them. With a degree of  dispassionate anticipation, he was aware the fight between them had  scarcely begun. He intended to win.

'I need a drink,' she admitted, watching as Michel's lips curved to form a musing smile.

He lifted a hand, and in an instant a waitress appeared at his side.  Michel had that effect on women. All women, of any age. It was an  inherent charm, one he used quite ruthlessly on occasion.

He lifted two flutes of champagne from the tray and handed one to Sandrine.

'Salut.' He touched the rim of her flute with his own.

She ignored the temptation to drain the contents in one long swallow and  deliberately sipped the chilled aerated wine, savoured the taste, then  let the liquid slide down her throat.

'Shall we join our host?'

Sandrine's eyes clashed momentarily with his, then she veiled their  expression. There would be an opportunity later to unleash the verbal  diatribe seething beneath the surface. Round one might be his, but she  had every intention the next would be hers.

She summoned a slow smile, her acting ability prominent as she tucked a hand into the curve of his elbow.

'Having provided the guests with an unexpected floor show, don't you think introductions are somewhat overdue?'

Minutes later Michel moved easily at Tony's side, displaying an interest  in each guest's professional background as he posed questions with  practised charm.

Working the room, Sandrine recognized with cynicism. A retentive and  photographic memory ensured he was never at a loss in the business arena  or among the social set.

'As secrets go, yours is a doozey.'

She turned slightly and encountered a slender young woman whose name temporarily escaped her.

'Stephanie Sommers, marketing.'

'Yes, of course,' Sandrine responded, warming to Stephanie's faintly wicked smile.

'I can understand you keeping him under wraps. Where did you find him?'

'New York. We married in Paris.'

'Ah, the universal city for lovers.'

Sandrine felt a shiver slither its way over the surface of her skin as  she experienced instant recall of the city, the ambience. The magic.  Paris in the spring, when the grey skies cleared and everything came  alive. As her heart had when she first met Michel.

An ache centred in the region of her diaphragm, intensifying as memories  surfaced. Memories that had held such promise, so much love, she'd  imagined their lives together were inviolate and forever entwined.

The stuff of which fantasies are made, she reflected wryly. With little basis in reality.

'Tony is on his best behaviour.'

Sandrine summoned a quick smile. Something that was becoming a habit as  the evening progressed. 'The future of the film is at stake.'

'Is it?'

The query bore a certain quizzical humour as if Stephanie had already  concluded the injection of essential finance was a done deal.

It was, although Sandrine wondered what the marketing manager's reaction  would be if she discovered the reason for Michel's investment.

'Okay. So the rest of us get to sweat it out a little longer.'

Sandrine looked suitably enigmatic until Stephanie gave a low, throaty chuckle.

'You can't say I didn't try.' The attractive blonde spared a glance at her watch. 'I'm going to have to leave soon.'

'A date?'

'With a baby-sitter who can only stay until ten,' the marketing manager replied with a touch of cynicism.

'Divided loyalties?'

'No contest. My daughter wins out every time.' She quickly scanned the  room, then lowered her voice to a confidential tone. 'Your husband has  escaped from Tony and is heading this way. Impressive beast, isn't he?'

Beast was an apt description. Although not in the context Stephanie implied. 'Tony, or Michel?'

She met Stephanie's direct look with equanimity, glimpsed the momentary  speculation before it was quickly masked and cast her a wicked smile.

'Surely you jest?'

Sandrine refrained from responding as Michel loomed close.

She felt her body stiffen in anticipation of his touch and she  unconsciously held her breath, only releasing it when he made no attempt  at physical contact.

'Michel, you've met Stephanie?' she managed smoothly.

'Yes. We shared an interesting discussion on marketing techniques.'

'Albeit that it was brief.'

'Something we will correct, n'est-ce pas?'                       
       
           



       

Oh, my, he was good. The right amount of interest, the desired element  of charm, with hard business acumen just visible beneath the surface.

'It will be a pleasure,' Stephanie accorded, then she excused herself,  and Sandrine watched as she talked briefly to Tony before exiting the  room.

'She is a friend?'

The mildness of Michel's voice didn't deceive her. 'Actors have little to do with the business heads.'

'Am I to assume, then, that tonight is the first time you've met?'

She cast him a mocking glance. 'Would you like me to give you a run-down  on everyone at this soiree? Whom I speak to, touch?' She paused a beat.  'Kiss?'

'Careful,' Michel warned silkily. 'You're treading dangerous ground.'

'In the name of one's craft, of course,' she added, and derived a degree of personal satisfaction at the way his eyes narrowed.

'If I thought otherwise,' he drawled, 'I'd carry you kicking and screaming onto the first plane out of here.'

'Neanderthal tactics belong to a distant civilisation.'

'Neanderthal and civilised do not mesh, chérie. Persist in baiting me, and I'll show you just how uncivilised I can be.'

Her chin lifted, and her eyes remained remarkably steady as they clashed  with his. 'Too late, mon amant. I've already been there, remember?'

'I retain a vivid memory of a little wildcat who threw a few objects at me in temper.'

Expensive Waterford crystal. An inkwell, a paperweight and a small clock decorating the antique desk in his study.

At the time she'd been too angry to care, but afterwards she'd  experienced a pang of regret for the exquisite crystal items that formed  part of a desk set. And the panelled wall they'd collided with before  falling to the marble floor to shatter in glittering shards when Michel  deftly moved out of the line of fire.

Now, as she reviewed her explosive reaction, she felt ashamed for having displayed such a lack of control.

'You provoked me.'

'It was reciprocal.'

Words. His, cool and controlled, whereas hers had been the antithesis of calm. Yet equally hurtful, uttered in frustrated anger.

'Space and time, Michel?' Sandrine queried with a trace of bitterness. 'In which to cool down and pretend it never happened?'

'I imagined we'd already resolved the situation.'

The gold flecks in her eyes became more pronounced as she held on to her  anger. Twin flags of colour highlighted her cheekbones as the memory of  the very physical sex they'd shared immediately afterwards came vividly  to mind. On top of his magnificent antique desk. Hard, no-holds-barred  sex, libidinous, barbaric and totally wild. Afterwards he'd cradled her  close and carried her upstairs, bathed and gently towelled her dry, then  he'd taken her to bed where he made exquisite love long into the night.

She'd waited until he'd fallen asleep, then she'd dressed, thrown  clothes into a suitcase, penned a hastily scrawled note and left as the  new day's dawn was lightening a shadowed grey sky.

'No.' The single negation emerged with quiet dignity. Sex … even very good sex, she amended, didn't resolve anything.

He had never felt so frustrated in his life when he discovered she'd  left. If he could have, he'd have boarded the next Australia-bound  flight and followed her. Except Raoul was in America, and Sebastian,  youngest of the three Lanier brothers, was honeymooning overseas. He'd  had no option but to attend scheduled meetings in various European  cities, then conclude them with a brief family visit with his grand-mère  in Paris.

'An empty space in bed, a brief note, and a wife on the other side of  the world who refused to take any of my calls.' For that, he could have  shaken her senseless.