The Marriage Deal. Helen Bianchin

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      Worse was her own reaction as, after the initial shock, she relinquished a hold on sanity and opened her mouth to him.

      She savoured the taste and feel of his tongue as it created a swirling, possessive dance with hers and lured her into an emotional vortex where time and place had no meaning.

      When he lifted his head, she couldn’t move. Gradually she became aware of the sound of background music, the indistinct buzz of conversation, as the room and its occupants filtered into her vision.

      Dear heaven. How long had they remained locked in that passionate embrace? Thirty seconds, sixty? More?

      All he had to do was touch her and she went up in flames. In seven weeks the passionate intensity hadn’t lessened.

      What did you expect? a tiny voice taunted. He’s haunted your dreams every night since you left him and invaded your thought processes almost to the detriment of your work.

      The emotional intensity shimmered between them, exigent, electric and mesmeric. Yet there was also anger, not forgotten nor forgiven.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      Was that her voice? It sounded so cool, so calm, when inside she was a seething mass of conflicting tensions.

      ‘I concluded my business in Europe.’

      Important meetings where his presence was paramount. No opportunity for delegation there, she reasoned. What excuse had he given explaining her absence to family in Paris? To his elder brother Raoul, his grand-mère?

      She experienced a moment’s regret and banked down the edge of remorse she felt for the elderly matriarch who ruled with a fist of iron, yet had the heart of a pussycat and of whom she’d become very fond.

      ‘And discovered I wasn’t waiting in the New York apartment,’ Sandrine voiced evenly. Her chin lifted fractionally and the topaz flecks in her eyes shone deep gold. ‘Subdued and contrite at having thwarted you?’

      ‘Difficult,’ he acknowledged with wry cynicism. ‘When a delayed filming schedule kept you here.’

      Sandrine opened her mouth to refute that was something he couldn’t have known, then she closed it again. All he had to do was lift the phone and instruct someone to report her every move. It angered her unbearably that he had.

      ‘What’s your purpose, Michel?’ she launched with polite heat. If they were alone, she would have hit him. Or made every effort to try.

      ‘You didn’t answer any of the several messages I left on your message bank.’

      She’d let every call go to voice mail and become selective in whose messages she returned. ‘What was the point when we’d said it all?’

      ‘Nothing is resolved in anger.’

      So he’d let her go, sure in the knowledge that, given time, she’d come to her senses and run back to him? How many nights had she lain awake fighting against the need to do just that? Except pride and determined resolve had kept her firmly where she was. As well as loyalty to a project and a legally binding contract.

      She looked at him carefully, noting the fine lines that fanned from the outer corners of his eyes, the faint shadows beneath. Unless it was her imagination, the faint vertical crease slashing each cheek seemed deeper.

      Once, those dark grey eyes had gleamed with naked passion…for her. Only her. She’d looked into their depths and melted.

      Now there was only darkness and a hard quality that chilled her bones.

      ‘You haven’t explained why you’re an invited guest in Tony’s apartment,’ Sandrine managed evenly, and saw one eyebrow arch.

      ‘You mean you haven’t guessed?’

      There was soft mockery evident in his tone, an underlying hint of steel that tore the breath from her throat.

      ‘Your sojourn in Europe is over and you’ve come to haul me home?’

      Her facetiousness didn’t escape him, and his mouth assumed a cynical slant. ‘Try again.’

      Anger overlaid fear. ‘You want a divorce.’

      His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted, hardened. ‘There hasn’t been a divorce in the Lanier family for three hundred years.’

      ‘You mean women have suffered the overbearing, arrogant, autocratic will of Lanier men for centuries without offering a word in complaint?’

      ‘I imagine any complaints were soon—’ he paused, the emphasis significant ‘—satisfactorily dealt with.’

      She took his meaning and rode with it. ‘Sex isn’t the answer to everything.’

      ‘Lovemaking.’

      There was a difference. Dear heaven, such a difference. Even thinking about Michel’s powerful body joining with hers brought a surge of warmth that raced through her veins, heating her body to fever pitch.

      He saw the reaction in the subtle shading of her skin, the faint convulsive movement of her throat, the sudden, too rapid sweep of eyelashes as she sought to veil her response. And he experienced satisfaction.

      ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

      ‘Which particular question is that?’

      Her lashes flew wide, and the intensity of those deep brown, gold-flecked eyes held a brilliance that danced close to anger.

      ‘What you’re doing here, tonight?’

      His gaze was direct, probing, and held a degree of cynical humour. ‘Why, chérie, I am the guest of honour at this soiree.’

      ‘The guest of honour touted to inject sufficient funds to rescue the film?’

      Michel confirmed it with the faint inclination of his head. ‘For a price,’ he conceded with chilling softness.

      Something inside her stomach curled into a painful knot. ‘And that is?’

      ‘A reconciliation.’ Succinct, blatant and chillingly inflexible.

      Dear God. Pious salutation had nothing to do with the words that remained locked in her throat.

      From somewhere she dredged up the courage to confront him. ‘A marriage certificate doesn’t transform me into a chattel you own.’

      Michel took in her pale features, the dark eyes that seemed too large for her face, the loss of a few essential kilos, and barely restrained himself from wringing her slender neck.

      Sandrine became aware of the circumspect glances, the ripple of curiosity Michel’s action had generated. Cait Lynden’s expression was composed, although her brilliant blue eyes were icy.

      Their marriage hadn’t been written up in any of the international society pages. It was doubtful anyone in this СКАЧАТЬ