'Wake up,' she vented between clenched teeth. 'Damn you, wake up!' She lifted the pillow and brought it down for the second time. 'You're not staying in my room!'
He didn't move, and in a gesture of sheer frustration she pounded the pillow onto his chest.
A hand snaked out as she made to lift the pillow for another body blow, and she gasped as his fingers mercilessly closed over her forearm. Dark eyes seared hers.
'This is my room, my bed. And you're not occupying either.'
'You want a separate room, a separate bed?' His eyes seemed to shrivel her very soul. 'Go choose one.'
'You're doing this deliberately, aren't you?' she demanded, sorely tried. Pain focused behind each temple, and she lifted her hands to soothe the ache with her fingers. 'I'm not sleeping with you.'
'Sleep is the operative word,' Michel drawled.
She controlled the urge to hit him … by the skin of her teeth. 'You expect me to believe that?'
He looked … magnificent, and dangerous as hell. The brooding sexuality he exuded sent warning flares of heat racing through her veins.
Sandrine shifted her attention to his face and settled fleetingly on his mouth. Her lips quivered in vivid memory of how they'd moved beneath his own only a few hours ago. A traitorous warmth invaded her body, and she almost waived controlling it. Almost.
'Afraid to share the bed with me, Sandrine?'
Yes, she longed to cry. Because all it will take is the accidental brush of skin against skin in the night when I'm wrapped in sleep to forget for a few essential seconds, and then it'll be too late.
'Sex isn't going to make what's wrong between us right.'
'I don't recall suggesting that it would.'
'Then perhaps you'd care to explain why you've chosen my room, my bed?' she sputtered, indicating the bed, him. She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. 'If you had any gentlemanly instincts, you would have found another room!'
'I have never pretended to be a gentleman.'
Sandrine glared at him. 'No,' she agreed. 'Barbarian is more appropriate!'
'Careful, chérie,' Michel warned silkily.
A small decorative cushion lay within easy reach, and she swept it up in one hand and hurled it at him. 'I hate you.'
Two seconds later she lay pinned to the mattress as Michel loomed close above her. 'Let us put this hate to the test, hmm?'
She fought him, vainly twisting her body beneath his own as she attempted to wrench her hands free. 'Don't do this.'
It was a statement, not a plea, and he noted all her fine anger, her fearless tenacity and her passion. All it would take was subtle persuasion and sensual skill to have her become pliant in his arms.
'Then you should have thought before you pounded me with a pillow.'
'If you bait me, expect a reaction,' she launched in pithy response.
His expression didn't change although she could have sworn she glimpsed a glimmer of amusement.
'So … do you want to continue with this game of one-upmanship, or shall we bring it to a halt? Your call, Sandrine.'
She wanted to yell Fight to the death, and be damned. Except it would be her death. Emotionally, mentally, physically. And she didn't want to offer him that power.
'If you'll move yourself,' she suggested with expressive intonation, 'I'll go change and shower.'
'Oui, but first … ' He took her mouth in a fleeting soft kiss, lingered at the edge, then swept his tongue into the silky interior to wreak brief and devastating havoc before easing his lengthy frame back onto the mattress. 'Bonne nuit, mignonne.'
He rolled onto his side, pulled the covering to his waist and closed his eyes.
Sandrine lay frozen for a few seconds as she savoured the taste of him. Warm, musky and wickedly erotic. Damn him, she swore silently. He might have allowed her to call the tune, but he'd managed to have the last word.
With extreme care, she slid off the bed and crossed to the en suite, undressed, then took a leisurely shower, allowing the hot spray to ease the tension tightening her neck and shoulder muscles. Then she closed the dial, reefed a towel and, minutes later, donned a cotton nightshirt.
It seemed ironic and, she perceived wryly, probably owed something to her rebellious streak that she possessed complete sets of exquisite satin-and-lace French lingerie, yet alone she chose to wear something plain and functional to bed.
Michel lay still, his breathing deep and even as she crossed the room to snap off the light.
Afraid to share the bed with me? His words whispered in an unspoken challenge, taunting her.
Maybe she should turn the tables on him and do the unexpected. He'd sleep for hours, and although she wouldn't be there to witness it, she'd give almost anything to glimpse the look on his face when he woke and saw she'd occupied the other half of the bed.
A secret smile curved her lips as she slipped under the covers. He wanted to play games, huh? Well, let the games begin!
It gave her satisfaction to devise one scheme after another until sleep claimed her and tipped her into a world of dreams where Michel was alternately lover and devil, the location changed from one side of the world to another and became a film set where she was centre stage without any recollection of her lines.
CHAPTER THREE
SANDRINE came sharply awake to the shrilling sound of her digital alarm and automatically reached out a hand to turn it off. Except she was on the wrong side of the bed, and her fingers came into contact with a hard, warm male shoulder.
Michel. She tore her hand away as he uttered a muffled Gallic curse and reared into a sitting position.
'My alarm,' she explained sweetly as she slipped out of bed and crossed round to still the strident sound. The illuminated numerals registered four-thirty. 'Sorry if it woke you.'
She wasn't sorry at all. It was payback time for last night, and victory was sweet.
Drapes covered the wall of glass, filtering the early dawn light. This was Queensland, and the height of summer when the sun rose soon after four in the morning.
Sandrine crossed to the walk-in robe, selected jeans and a sleeveless ribbed top, then she collected fresh underwear and stepped into the adjoining en suite.
Ten minutes later she emerged, dressed, her face completely devoid of any make-up and her hair twisted into a loose knot at her nape.
She didn't give the bed or its occupant a single glance as she caught up her bag and exited the room.
In the kitchen she extracted fresh orange juice, drank it, then picked up a banana and made her way through to the garage.
Fifteen minutes later she was in make-up, mentally going over her lines while the wizard in cosmetic artistry began transforming her for the camera.
On reflection, it was not a happy day. Everyone was edgy, tempers flared as the temperature rose, and professionalism was strained to the limit.
It hadn't helped when Michel put in an appearance on the set after the lunch break. He stood in the background, his presence unquestioned given his possible investment, an apparently interested observer of the film-making process as the actors went through their paces … again and again as Tony sought perfection in his quest to impress.
No matter how hard Sandrine tried to ignore her indomitable husband, he was there, a constant on the edge of her peripheral vision, ensuring that her total focus was shot to hell.
'What are you doing here?' she demanded sotto voce during a break from filming.
Michel leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple. 'Chérie, is that any way to greet your husband?'
'Please. Go away.'
She caught a glimpse of humour lurking at the edge of his mouth and bit back the need to scream.
'If I'm going to invest a considerable amount of money in order to salvage this venture,' he drawled, 'I think I should check out the action.'
'This is supposed to be a closed set.'
'I'm here at Tony's invitation.'
'Very cleverly baited, I imagine, so that our esteemed director took the hook?'
His smile didn't reach his eyes. 'You know me so well.'
No, she wanted to refute. I thought I did, but now I feel I hardly know you at all.
'How long do you intend to stay?'
'On the set? Until you finish for the day.' He lifted a hand and brushed gentle fingers across one cheek. 'Why? Does my presence bother you?'
She sharpened her verbal claws. 'Isn't that your purpose?'
'Shouldn't you read through your lines?' Michel countered, watching as she turned without a word and crossed to pick up her copy of the script.
It didn't help any that Cait Lynden chose that moment to exert her considerable feminine charm or that Michel appeared responsive, albeit politely so.
A ploy to make her jealous? It's working, isn't it? a wretched little imp taunted.
She watched them surreptitiously beneath veiled lashes and had to admit the blood simmered in her veins as Cait flirted outrageously with the deliberate touch of her hand on his sleeve, the wickedly sensual smile, the brazen knowledge evident in those glittering blue eyes.