The Marriage Deal(7)
Sandrine felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she sightlessly scanned the upcoming scene in her copy of the script.
Damn Michel. For every darn thing. And especially for invading her professional turf.
'Okay, everyone. Places, please.'
Thank heavens for small mercies, Sandrine accorded as she mentally prepared herself to be in character and silently rehearsed her few lines.
It was late afternoon before Sandrine was dismissed from the set with the news she wouldn't be required until Tuesday. The person responsible for continuity took the requisite Polaroid, and Sandrine went through the process of discarding the elegant costume and wig with help from the wardrobe assistant, then she removed her make-up and shook her hair free from the confining hairnet.
The comparison between screen actress in character and the modern jean-clad girl was remarkable. So remarkable, she decided ruefully, that it was unlikely anyone would recognise her as being one and the same person.
It was after five when she emerged into the parking lot, and she filched keys from her carry-bag as she walked towards her car.
'Hoping to slip away undetected?' Michel fell into step beside her, and she quickened her pace, choosing not to answer him.
A minute later she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door, then slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine.
A great exit line would have been Eat my dust, except the moment was dramatically reduced as her tyres squealed faintly on smooth bitumen, and she was forced to adhere to the low speed limit.
However, once she hit the highway she put her foot down and let the speedometer needle soar as far as she dared without risk to life or limb or threat of a speeding ticket. It provided some release for the build-up of tension.
Sandrine reached Sanctuary Cove in record time, and inside the villa she ran lightly upstairs, changed into a maillot, grabbed a towel, retraced her steps and went out to the pool.
The water was refreshingly cool, and she stroked several lengths of the pool before turning onto her back and lazily allowing the buoyancy of the water to keep her afloat.
It was all too easy to allow her thoughts to wander and reflect on the day's events.
And Michel.
She hadn't slept well and had spent much of her waking hours wondering at her sanity in sharing the same bed. It was madness, an act that amounted to masochism. For to lie so close, yet be so far from him, attacked her emotional foundation and tore it to shreds.
What would he have done if she'd reached out and touched him? If he'd ignored her, she'd have died. Yet if he'd responded, how could she hope to handle the aftermath?
Such an act could only amount to sexual gratification and achieve nothing except provide mutual satisfaction. Akin to scratching an itch.
The attuning of heart, mind and soul would be missing, and somehow just sex wasn't enough.
She was mad. Insane, she added mentally. Any other woman would catch hold of Michel's coat-tails, exult in all that his wealth and social prestige could provide and hang in there for the ride.
And what a ride! Even the thought of it sent warmth flooding through her body. Each separate nerve end quivered in anticipation, and sensation wreaked havoc with her equilibrium.
It had been bad enough when they were oceans apart. Now that he was here, it was a thousand times worse.
Magic, she thought. Highly sensitised, sensual sorcery of a kind that defied valid description. Trans-muted in the touch, the look, the promise … and the anticipation.
To part after a long night of loving and count each hour until they could be together again. To counter and feed that need with a phone call, a softly spoken promise. The delivery of a single red rose. That special look lovers exchange in a room filled with people. And the waiting, the wanting.
Was it love? The to-die-for, till-death-us-do-part kind of loving? Or was it sexual satiation, a sensual nirvana?
She'd thought it was both until their first serious argument. Now she wasn't so sure.
'Pleasant thoughts, I trust?'
The faintly inflected drawl caused her to jackknife and turn towards the tall male figure standing close to the pool's edge.
Michel had discarded his jacket and tie and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. His hair looked slightly ruffled, as if he'd dragged impatient fingers through its groomed length.
'How long have you been standing there?' she demanded.
'Does it matter?'
Watching her unobserved almost amounted to an invasion of privacy, and she didn't like it one bit.
A few strokes brought her to the side of the pool, and she levered herself easily to sit on its edge. Her towel lay out of reach on a lounger, and she rose to her feet, then caught it up in one quick movement.
His faint amusement didn't go unnoticed, and she determinedly blotted the excess moisture from her body before tending to her hair.
'I've booked a table for dinner at the Hyatt.'
Sandrine heard the words but momentarily chose to ignore them.
'I'm sure you'll enjoy the meal,' she managed calmly. 'I've heard the chef has an excellent reputation.'
'For two,' Michel informed her. 'At seven.'
'I shan't wait up.'
'You have an hour to shower and get ready.'
She looked at him steadily. 'I'm not going anywhere with you.'
'Damn, you try my patience!'
'And you try mine!'
'Is it unacceptable to want to share a meal with my wife in pleasant surroundings?'
'No,' Sandrine said sweetly. 'Providing your wife is willing. And in this instance, she's not!'
'Sandrine-'
'Don't threaten me, Michel.' She tried for quiet dignity but didn't quite make it. Her eyes speared his, dark and intense with emotion. 'I refuse to fall in with every suggestion you make.'
'You prefer to eat here?'
'Don't you get it? I don't want to share a meal with you. Anywhere.' A faint tremor shook her body, and she tightened her grip on the towel.
His eyes narrowed. 'You're shivering.'
'How perceptive,' she mocked. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll go take a hot shower.' As she moved past him, she endeavoured to ignore the sheer magnetism of the man. And her body's traitorous reaction.
Two more weeks, she reasoned as she ran lightly upstairs. Maybe less. And filming would be over. At least, her participation would finish. Could she go the distance, living in the same villa, sharing the same bed as the man who was bent on using any advantage he could gain?
Sandrine reached her bedroom and crossed into the adjoining en suite. A swift turn of the dial and warm water cascaded onto the tiled floor of the shower.
It took only seconds to strip the wet Lycra from her body, and she stepped into the large cubicle, reached for the bottle of shampoo, then began the task of lathering it through her hair.
Ten minutes later she emerged into the bedroom and came to a sudden halt at the sight of Michel in the process of discarding his clothes.
'Finished?'
Sandrine's left hand flew to the towel carelessly caught in a knot between her breasts, and with her right she steadied the towel wound high on her head.
'There are two other bathrooms on this level,' she pointed out in a slightly strangled voice.
'You object to sharing?'
Oh, my, he was good. Reasonable, faintly teasing beneath the edge of cynicism.
'Yes,' she returned, regaining her equilibrium as she crossed the room to collect fresh underwear. 'Considering your main purpose is to unsettle me.'
'An admission I'm succeeding, Sandrine?'
She'd fallen straight into that one, hadn't she? 'Not at all,' she responded calmly, and knew she lied. Her entire nervous system jangled at the very thought of him.
Watching Michel as he crossed the room to the bathroom created a havoc all of its own as she took in his broad frame, the muscular set of his shoulders, superb pectorals, the hard-packed diaphragm and firm waist.
She controlled a faint shiver at the thought of what it felt like to be held close, to feel the strength in those arms as he enfolded her firmly within them.
It was almost possible to breathe in the musky aroma of his skin, the clean freshness of the soap he used, the male cologne. Sense the way he tasted when her mouth joined with his, the faintly abrasive and moist slide as their tongues caressed and explored in an erotic mating dance.
The essence of his sex, the degree of power she experienced in taking him to the brink of his control, the way that large male body shook as he tumbled over the edge. Man at his most vulnerable.
Sandrine tried to restrain the way heat flared through her body, but she failed as the image of his lovemaking rose to taunt her.
He had the look, the touch, the power to drive a woman wild. And much to her chagrin, there was a part of her that wanted him badly. Without question or recrimination.
She heard the faint buzz of his electric razor, followed minutes later by the fall of water in the shower stall.