The Marriage Deal(8)

She immediately visualised Michel's naked form, his potent masculinity, the impressive power sheathed at the apex of his thighs.

Focus, concentrate, remember the accusations they'd exchanged seven  weeks ago, she silently raged as she discarded the towel and stepped  into briefs, then fastened her bra before pulling on a pair of jeans and  a cotton top.

That fateful night she had looked at Michel … someone she'd loved with all  her heart, in whom she had implicit trust, and believed their lives,  their love, were forever entwined … and now it was like looking at a  stranger.

With an irritated gesture, Sandrine unwound the towel from her head and  shook out hair that fell in a cloud of sable silk onto her shoulders.

How did the axiom go? Marry in haste, repent at leisure?

She reached for the hair dryer, plugged it in, then began combing the warm air through her hair.

What would have happened if she'd stayed? If she'd cancelled her flight  and risked a breach of contract? Would they have resolved anything? Or  had her abrupt departure merely precipitated their separation?

Seven weeks. Weeks that could be viewed as a brief respite, or a lifetime, depending on the interpretation.

'You intend wearing casual gear to dinner?'

Sandrine reached forward and switched off the hair dryer. Via mirrored  reflection, she saw him discard the towel, step into briefs, then pull  on tailored trousers before crossing to the wardrobe and extracting a  shirt.

'I hadn't planned on dressing up.' She caught her hair and began winding it into a knot.

'Leave it loose.'

Her hands didn't falter as she fastened the knot with pins. 'It's cooler if I wear it up.'

Michel buttoned his shirt, fastened his trousers, then pulled on socks and shoes.

'No make-up?'

'Why?' Sandrine countered. 'I'm not planning on going anywhere.'

His expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened. 'I leave in five minutes, Sandrine. With, or without you. Your choice.'                       
       
           



       

She turned to face him. 'You could always ring Cait. She'd just die to  share anything with you.' Without a further word, she walked from the  room and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

A tin of salmon and a tossed salad were poor substitutes for the  appetiser, main course, fruit and cheese board Michel would no doubt  enjoy with table service, a fine wine, subdued lighting and soft  background music. She told herself she didn't care as she heard him exit  the house, followed by the start of a car engine.

Half an hour later she rinsed the few plates she'd used, placed them in  the dishwasher, then filled a glass with bottled water and crossed into  the lounge to watch television.

At ten she dimmed the lights and went upstairs to bed. For a few minutes  she dithered over which bed, rationalising that the main bedroom was  hers, and if Michel was determined to make it his, then he could damn  well suffer because she didn't intend to move.

Yet sharing the bed was akin to playing with fire, and no way did she  want to get burned. To slip into the convenience of pleasurable sex  wasn't on her agenda.

With that thought in mind she collected linen and made up the bed in a  room farthest from the one Michel had designated his own. Then she moved  a few essentials in clothes and toiletries and determinedly slid  between cool percale sheets, then turned out the light.

Moonlight shone through in between the painted wooden shutters, and  after what seemed an interminable length of time spent tossing and  turning, she padded across to the window to adjust them.

Sleep was never more distant, and she did the yoga thing, counted sheep  and endeavoured to think pleasant, relaxing thoughts. Except the image  that rose to taunt her belonged to Michel, and she rolled onto her  stomach and punched the pillow.

Her room faced the water and was therefore at the opposite end of the  house to the garage. Was he home yet? She hadn't heard so much as a  sound to indicate he'd returned.

Maybe some gorgeous female had insisted on sharing his table and right  this minute they were caught up in a web of harmless seduction. Or would  it be harmless? Michel was a practised raconteur, and charm  personified. He also possessed an indefinable sensual aura that had most  women conjuring up every ploy in the book to attract his attention.

Sandrine played numerous different scenarios in her mind, damning Michel  in every one of them until her subconscious mind took her deeper into  vivid dreams that seemed no less real.

It was after eleven when the powerful car whispered to a halt in the  garage. Michel entered the house and turned out lights as he gained the  upper floor.

The empty bed gave him a bad moment, then he systematically conducted a  quiet search of the remaining rooms and experienced an enormous degree  of relief when he discovered his wife's recumbent form caught in a  tangled twist of sheets.

He stood in the open doorway for several long minutes, then crossed to the bed.

She was beautiful. So fiercely independent and possessed of so much  spirit. He wanted to smooth the hair back from her forehead and brush  his lips across her temple.

Damn. He wanted more, so much more than a gesture of tenderness. He  craved what they'd once shared. The mesmeric magical heat that  culminated in shameless passion and encapsulated them as twin halves of a  whole. Complete, inviolate, one on every level … spiritually, mentally,  emotionally.

Another curse whispered from his lips, one that would have scorched the  ears of anyone who chanced to overhear it. Directed entirely at himself  for allowing the strictures of business to take precedence over love for  his wife.

Instead of taking the next flight in pursuit, he'd thrown himself into  resolving extremely delicate financial negotiations in a takeover bid  integral to the family's overflowing coffers. And ensured Sandrine's  safety by employing a pair of highly reputable professionals to watch  over her twenty-four hours a day.

His manipulative skill in the business arena was highly regarded among  his peers. Women actively pursued him for his wealth and social  position. They pandered to his ego, made all the right practised moves  in an existence that he'd come to consider artificial. Experience had  made him both cynical and wary.

Until Sandrine.

Sandrine, with her lack of guile and artifice, whose laughter was both  infectious and earthy. Her smile could light up her whole body so that  her skin glowed and her eyes gleamed with a reflected warmth that came  straight from the heart.

He'd wanted her from that first moment, not just in the biblical sense. Instinct warned it would be more than that. Much more.

She was his most precious possession, and from the beginning he'd wanted to shield and protect her.

There was no way he could sanction her flying off to the other side of  the world without him. Or staying there alone. The timing, given his  professional responsibility, couldn't have been worse.                       
       
           



       

A wry smile twisted his mouth. Financial wizardry was his speciality,  and fate had been on his side. He could rescue a movie on the brink of  foundering and employ emotional blackmail to salvage his marriage. What  was it they said? Kill two birds with one stone.

The movie didn't present a problem. Sandrine, on the other hand, would be no easy victory.

It was a challenge. The most important of his life, and one he was determined to win.

A slight sound caught his attention, and he watched as she turned restlessly onto her back.

She looked defenceless in sleep, he mused. Her skin smooth and  translucent in the reflected hall light. Her eyelashes impossibly long,  and her mouth soft and lushly curved.

His emotions stirred into life, and he determinedly tamped them down as  he gathered her into his arms and carried her back to the room they'd  shared the previous night.

She stirred slightly as he lowered her into bed, then she settled, and  he removed his clothes and slid in beside her to lie silent and unmoving  in the darkness until sleep finally claimed him long after the witching  hour of midnight.





CHAPTER FOUR


SANDRINE woke slowly as gradual awareness dispensed one layer of  unconsciousness after another, bringing with it the reality of a new  day.

Sunday, she determined with a restful sigh. No early-morning call, no studio.

Then she remembered, and with memory came the realisation that she wasn't in the bed or the room she'd retreated to last night.

What's more, she wasn't alone.

A masculine arm held her anchored closely against a very male frame. A very aroused male.

Michel's hand splayed over her stomach, and she could feel his steady, rhythmic heartbeat against her shoulder.

Dear God.

Seeking help from the Deity didn't work. Nor did the fervent but faint  hope she might be dreaming, for no one dreamed with their eyes open.

Her thoughts reflected a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions as she rationalised what action she should take.