The Marriage Deal. Helen Bianchin
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correct, n’est-ce pas?’
Oh, my, he was good. The right amount of interest, the desired element of charm, with hard business acumen just visible beneath the surface.
‘It will be a pleasure,’ Stephanie accorded, then she excused herself, and Sandrine watched as she talked briefly to Tony before exiting the room.
‘She is a friend?’
The mildness of Michel’s voice didn’t deceive her. ‘Actors have little to do with the business heads.’
‘Am I to assume, then, that tonight is the first time you’ve met?’
She cast him a mocking glance. ‘Would you like me to give you a run-down on everyone at this soiree? Whom I speak to, touch?’ She paused a beat. ‘Kiss?’
‘Careful,’ Michel warned silkily. ‘You’re treading dangerous ground.’
‘In the name of one’s craft, of course,’ she added, and derived a degree of personal satisfaction at the way his eyes narrowed.
‘If I thought otherwise,’ he drawled, ‘I’d carry you kicking and screaming onto the first plane out of here.’
‘Neanderthal tactics belong to a distant civilisation.’
‘Neanderthal and civilised do not mesh, chérie. Persist in baiting me, and I’ll show you just how uncivilised I can be.’
Her chin lifted, and her eyes remained remarkably steady as they clashed with his. ‘Too late, mon amant. I’ve already been there, remember?’
‘I retain a vivid memory of a little wildcat who threw a few objects at me in temper.’
Expensive Waterford crystal. An inkwell, a paperweight and a small clock decorating the antique desk in his study.
At the time she’d been too angry to care, but afterwards she’d experienced a pang of regret for the exquisite crystal items that formed part of a desk set. And the panelled wall they’d collided with before falling to the marble floor to shatter in glittering shards when Michel deftly moved out of the line of fire.
Now, as she reviewed her explosive reaction, she felt ashamed for having displayed such a lack of control.
‘You provoked me.’
‘It was reciprocal.’
Words. His, cool and controlled, whereas hers had been the antithesis of calm. Yet equally hurtful, uttered in frustrated anger.
‘Space and time, Michel?’ Sandrine queried with a trace of bitterness. ‘In which to cool down and pretend it never happened?’
‘I imagined we’d already resolved the situation.’
The gold flecks in her eyes became more pronounced as she held on to her anger. Twin flags of colour highlighted her cheekbones as the memory of the very physical sex they’d shared immediately afterwards came vividly to mind. On top of his magnificent antique desk. Hard, no-holds-barred sex, libidinous, barbaric and totally wild. Afterwards he’d cradled her close and carried her upstairs, bathed and gently towelled her dry, then he’d taken her to bed where he made exquisite love long into the night.
She’d waited until he’d fallen asleep, then she’d dressed, thrown clothes into a suitcase, penned a hastily scrawled note and left as the new day’s dawn was lightening a shadowed grey sky.
‘No.’ The single negation emerged with quiet dignity. Sex…even very good sex, she amended, didn’t resolve anything.
He had never felt so frustrated in his life when he discovered she’d left. If he could have, he’d have boarded the next Australia-bound flight and followed her. Except Raoul was in America, and Sebastian, youngest of the three Lanier brothers, was honeymooning overseas. He’d had no option but to attend scheduled meetings in various European cities, then conclude them with a brief family visit with his grand-mère in Paris.
‘An empty space in bed, a brief note, and a wife on the other side of the world who refused to take any of my calls.’ For that, he could have shaken her senseless.
‘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