'If you're through with the interrogation,' Sandrine said stiffly, 'I'd like to leave. I have an early call in the morning.'
His features hardened and his eyelids lowered slightly, successfully masking his expression. 'Then let's find our host and thank him for his hospitality.' He took hold of her arm, only to have her wrench it out of his grasp.
'I'm not going anywhere with you.'
One eyebrow arched in a deliberately cynical gesture. 'Are you forgetting our bargain so soon?'
'Not at all,' Sandrine declared bravely. 'But I'm damned if I'll allow you to share a house with me!'
His smile bore no humour at all. 'Separate residences aren't part of the deal.'
'Go to hell,' she vented, sorely tried.
'I've been there,' Michel said with dangerous softness. 'I don't intend a return trip.'
'I think,' she declared with controlled civility, 'we should save any further discussion until later.'
'I haven't even begun,' he stated with deliberate emphasis. 'And the guests are free to speculate as they like.' He curved an arm around her waist and anchored her firmly to his side. 'Place one foot in front of the other and smile as we bid Tony goodnight.'
'Or else?' Sandrine countered with controlled anger.
'It's a matter of dignity. Yours,' Michel declared in a silky smooth tone. 'You can walk out of here or you can exit this apartment hoisted over my shoulder. Choose.'
Her stomach turned a slow somersault. One glance at his set features was sufficient to determine it wouldn't be wise to oppose him.
Her eyes held a chill that rivalled an arctic floe. 'I prefer the first option,' she said with icy politeness.
It took ten minutes to exchange pleasantries and have Michel confirm a business meeting with Tony the following morning. Sandrine didn't miss the slight tightness of Tony's smile or the fleeting hardness evident in his eyes.
'He's sweating on your decision,' she inferred as they rode the lift down to the ground floor. 'A calculated strategy, Michel?'
He sent a dark, assessing look in her direction, and she glimpsed a faint edge of mockery beneath the seemingly inscrutable veneer.
The query didn't require a verbal affirmation. The three Lanier brothers, Raoul, Michel and Sebastian, controlled a billion-dollar corporation spearheaded by their father, Henri, who had ensured each of his three sons' education encompassed every financial aspect of business.
The lift slid to a smooth halt, and they crossed the foyer to the main external entrance.
Sandrine extracted her cell phone and flipped it open. 'I'll call you a taxi.'
The streetlight nearby provided a luminous glow, the shadows highlighting the strong planes of his face.
'I have a hire-car,' Michel informed her silkily. 'I'll follow you.'
'You can move in tomorrow-' She broke off as the connection engaged. 'Could you send a cab to-'
Michel ended the call by the simple expediency of removing the small unit from her hand.
'How dare you?' The words spilled out in spluttered rage, and she made a valiant attempt to snatch the cell phone from him, failing miserably as he held it beyond her reach. 'Give it to me!'
One eyebrow arched in silent cynicism as she stamped her foot in wordless rage.
'Where are you parked?'
She glared at him balefully, incensed that much of her visual anger was diminished by the dark evening shadows. 'Aren't you booked in somewhere?'
She had tenacity, temper and tendresse. The latter had never been so noticeably absent. A faint twinge of humour tugged at the edge of his mouth. 'I checked out this morning.'
Damn, damn him, she silently vented. 'My car is the white Honda hatchback,' she told him in stilted tones. She turned away, only to have his hand snag her arm, and she whirled back to face him in vengeful fury. 'What now?'
'Your cell phone,' Michel said mildly as he held it out to her. She snatched it from him as if his fingers represented white-hot flame.
She would, she determined angrily as she slid in behind the wheel and engaged the engine, drive as fast as she dared and hope to lose him. Fat chance, Sandrine silently mocked minutes later as she ran an amber light and saw, via the rear-vision mirror, his car follow.
Knowing Michel's attention to detail, it wouldn't surprise her if he had already discovered her address and was therefore quite capable of reaching it with the aid of a street map. It was a sobering thought and one that relegated her actions to a foolish level.
No more taking risks with the traffic lights, she determined as she settled down to the twenty-minute drive and tried to ignore the twin set of headlights following several metres to the rear of her car.
Sandrine switched on the radio, selected a station at random and turned up the sound. Heavy rock music filled the interior, and she tried to lose herself in the beat, hoping it would distract her attention from Michel.
It didn't work, and after several minutes she turned down the sound and concentrated on negotiating a series of traffic roundabouts preceding the Sanctuary Cove turn-off.
A security gate guarded the entrance to the road leading to her waterfront villa, and she activated it, passed through, then followed the curving ribbon of bricked road past a clutch of low-rise apartment buildings until she reached her own.
After raising the garage door by remote control, she eased the car to a halt as Michel slid a sleek late-model sedan alongside her own.
The garage door closed, and Sandrine emerged from behind the wheel to see Michel pop the boot of his car and remove a set of luggage. She wanted to ignore him, but Michel Lanier wasn't a man you could successfully ignore.
Something twisted painfully in the pit of her stomach as she unlocked the door leading from the garage into the villa.
Pausing, she turned back towards him. 'There are three bedrooms upstairs,' she informed in a tone resembling that of a hostess instructing a guest. 'Choose one. There's spare linen in the cupboard.'
He didn't answer, and the silence was enervating. Without a further word, she stepped through to the hallway and made her way towards the kitchen.
The villa's interior was light and modern, with high ceilings and huge glass floor-to-ceiling windows. Large urns painted to blend with the muted peach-and-green colour scheme held a variety of artificial flowers and greenery, adding a tropical ambience to the expanse of marble-tiled floors.
The only sound was the staccato click of her stiletto heels as she crossed into the kitchen, and within minutes the coffee machine exuded an exotic aroma of freshly dripped brew.
Sandrine extracted two cups and saucers, sugar, milk, placed them on the counter, then she filled one cup and took an appreciative sip.
It was quiet, far too quiet, and she crossed into the lounge and activated the television, switching channels until she found something of interest. The images danced, her vision unfocused as her mind wandered to the man who had invaded her home.
Temporary home, she corrected, aware that filming would wrap up within a week or two. Less for her, as she was only required in a few more scenes. Then what? Where would she go? There were a few options, and she mentally ticked them off. One, return to Sydney. Two, find modelling work. Three … No, she didn't want to think about the third option. A marriage should be about equality, sharing and understanding each other's needs. Domination of one partner by another was something she found unacceptable.
Sandrine finished her coffee, rinsed her cup, checked her watch, then released a heavy sigh. It was late, she was tired, and, she decided, she was damned if she'd wait any longer for Michel to put in an appearance. She was going to bed.
The silence seemed uncanny, and she found herself consciously listening for the slightest sound as she ascended the stairs. But there was none.
If Michel had showered, unpacked and made up a bed, he'd achieved it in a very short time.
The curved staircase led onto a semicircular, balustraded gallery. Three bedrooms, each with an en suite, were positioned along it, while the double doors at the head of the stairs opened to a spacious sitting room.
Sandrine turned right when she reached the top and entered the bedroom she'd chosen to use as her own. Soft lighting provided illumination, and her nostrils flared at the scent of freshly used soap and the lingering sharpness of male toiletries even as her eyes swivelled towards the large bed.
The elegant silk spread had been thrown back, and a long male frame lay clearly outlined beneath the light covering.
Michel. His dark head was nestled comfortably on the pillow, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even.
Dammit, he was in her bed! Asleep!
Well, that would soon change, she decided furiously as she marched across the room. Without hesitation she picked up a spare pillow and thumped it down onto the mattress mere inches from his chest.