The Marriage Deal. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      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.

      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.