The Marriage Deal. Helen Bianchin
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guarding the entrance to one of several residential areas, she took the gently curved road leading to the clutch of two-level villas hugging the waterfront.
Cement-rendered brick, painted pale blue with white trim, pebbled gardens adorned with decorative urns provided a pleasant, refreshing facade, Sandrine acknowledged as she used a remote control to open the garage door.
Inside, there was an abundance of cool marble floors, sleek lacquered furniture, soft leather sofas and chairs, and the kitchen was a gourmand’s delight with a wealth of modern appliances. The open-plan design was pleasing, encompassing a wide curved staircase at the far end of the foyer leading to a gallery circling the upper floor, where three large bedrooms, each with an en suite, reposed.
Wide, sliding glass doors opened from the lounge and dining room onto a paved terrace that led to a private swimming pool. There was also a boat ramp.
Sandrine discarded her bag, changed into a bikini and spent precious minutes exercising by swimming a few laps of the pool. She needed the physical release, the coolness of the water, in a bid to rid herself of the persistent edge of tension.
A shower did much to restore her energy level, and she towelled her hair, then used a hand-held dryer to complete the process before crossing to the large walk-in robe.
Basic black, she decided as she riffled through her limited wardrobe. A social existence hadn’t been uppermost in her mind when she’d hurriedly packed for this particular sojourn, and most of her clothes were divided between three luxurious homes far distant from this temporary residence.
Don’t even think about those homes or the man she’d shared them with, she determined as she cast a designer gown onto the bed, then extracted stiletto-heeled pumps and an evening bag in matching black.
Yet the image invaded her mind, his broad, sculpted features with their angles and planes hauntingly vivid. Slate-grey eyes seemed to pierce right through to her soul, and she shivered at the memory of his mouth, its sensual curves and the devastating skill of its touch.
Michel Lanier. Mid-thirties, and ten years her senior. Successful entrepreneur, patron of the arts, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the features of a Renaissance prince and the skilled mentality of a street warrior. Born of French parents in Paris, he’d begun his education in France and completed it in America.
Husband, lover. A man who’d swept her into his arms, his heart, and made her his wife.
They’d met at the party of a mutual friend in New York. Sandrine had just completed a modelling assignment during a seasonal break and was due to return to Sydney the following week to resume the filming of a long-running Australian-based television series.
Sandrine flew in with Michel at her side, and within a week she’d introduced him to her family, announced her engagement and had the script writers rewrite her part in the series. As soon as the chilling episodes filming her character’s accident and demise were completed, she accompanied Michel back to New York.
Two months later they were married quietly in a very private ceremony among immediate family, and divided their time between New York and Paris. Michel bought a luxury apartment in Sydney’s prestigious Double Bay with magnificent views out over the harbour. Their Australian base, he explained.
For six months everything was perfect. Too perfect, Sandrine reflected as she selected black underwear and donned it, then pulled on filmy black hose before crossing to the mirror to begin applying make-up.
The problem had begun three months ago when they spent two weeks in Sydney and a friend gave her a script to read. The story was good, better than good, and she felt an immediate affinity with the supporting character. A vision of how the part should be played filled her head and refused to leave.
Sandrine had known the production time frame wouldn’t fit in with Michel’s European schedule. She told herself there was no way he’d agree to her spending four weeks in Australia without him.
On a whim she decided to audition, aware her chance of success was next to nil, and she’d almost dismissed it from her mind when, days later, they returned to New York.
Her agent’s call confirming she had the part brought a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Production was due to begin in a month at the Coomera studios in Queensland.
She signed the contract when it arrived but delayed telling Michel, all too aware what his reaction would be. Each day that passed had made the telling more difficult, until there were too few days left.
A hundred times she’d rehearsed the words in her mind, yet none of them came out sounding right, and what began as a discussion rapidly digressed into an argument of such magnitude she’d simply thrown some clothes into a bag in the early hours of the morning and booked into a hotel until it was time to take her scheduled flight to Brisbane.
Sandrine had qualified that four weeks wasn’t a lifetime, yet with every passing day the physical and spiritual distance between then widened to a point where she feared it might never be repaired.
Worse, Murphy’s Law descended, and production had suffered one delay after another. An estimated four weeks extended to five, then six. Budget was shot to pieces as they went into their seventh week. The subtropical midsummer heat was a killer, and tempers frequently ran short as professionalism was pushed to the limit.
Sandrine stood back from the mirror, secured the last pin in the simple knot of hair atop her head, then slid her feet into the elegant black pumps, collected her evening bag and made her way downstairs.
The day’s high temperatures had gone down a notch or two, and there was a slight sea breeze teasing the early evening air as Sandrine crossed the paved apron to the entrance of Tony’s Main Beach apartment building.
Minutes later she rode the lift to a designated floor and joined the group of fellow thespians enjoying a cool drink on the wide, curved balcony overlooking the ocean.
A portable barbecue had been set up, and a hired chef was organising a selection of seafood, prawns and kebabs ready for grilling.
Sandrine accepted a wine spritzer and sipped it slowly as she cast the guests an idle glance. All present and accounted for, with the exception of the guest of honour, she perceived, and pondered his identity.
‘Smile, darling. It’s almost “show time” and we’re expected to shine,’ a husky male voice intoned close to her ear.
She turned slowly to face the lead actor, whose birth name had been changed by deed poll to Gregor Anders. He was handsome in a rugged, rakish way and took his studio-generated image far too seriously, acquiring so many layers during his professional career it was almost impossible to detect the real man beneath the projected persona.
‘Gregor,’ Sandrine greeted coolly, and summoned a smile to lessen the sting of her words. ‘I’m sure you’ll shine sufficiently for both of us.’
It was easy to admire his ability as an actor. Not so easy to condone were the subtle games he played for his own amusement. Yet his name was a drawcard. Women adored his looks, his physique, his sex appeal.
‘Now, now, darling,’ he chided with a wolfish smile. ‘We’re supposed to share a rapport, n’est-ce pas?’ One eyebrow slanted in mocking query.
‘On screen, darling,’ she reminded sweetly, and remained perfectly still as he lifted a hand and traced his forefinger down the length of her arm.
‘But it is so much easier to extend the emotions beyond the screen for the duration of filming, don’t you agree?’
Her eyes locked with his. ‘No.’
‘You should loosen up a little,’ he cajoled, exerting innate charm.
‘I play before the camera. Off the set, I suffer no illusions.’
‘Strong words,’ Gregor murmured. ‘I could ensure you regret them.’
‘Oh, please,’ Sandrine protested. ‘Go play Mr Macho with one of the sweet young things who’ll