The Marriage Deal. Helen BianchinЧитать онлайн книгу.
have been sued.’
‘A contract you chose not to tell me you’d signed.’
‘You were locked into meetings in Europe.’
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?’
Damn. Sandrine barely swallowed the vengeful curse as Cait placed an arm along the back of her waist in a gesture that indicated they were the closest of friends.
‘Michel Lanier,’ Michel interposed smoothly.
‘Cait Lynden.’ The smile, the voice, the actions, combined to provide maximum impact. ‘So, you’re our knight in shining armour.’
Sandrine watched an exquisitely lacquered nail trace a provocative pattern down his suit sleeve and was overwhelmed by the desire to sweep it aside.
‘And Sandrine’s husband.’
Ouch. She felt Cait’s slight intake of breath, glimpsed the coy smile and felt the faint increase of pressure as fingers bit into the back of her waist.
‘Well,’ Cait acknowledged as she turned to shoot Sandrine an icy glare, ‘aren’t you the secretive one.’
Michel took hold of Sandrine’s hand and lifted it to his lips, then he spared Cait a level glance.
‘If you’ll excuse us? We were in the middle of a private discussion.’
Oh, my. He didn’t pull any punches. She watched as the lead actress proffered a sizzling smile, then turned and walked away with a blatant sway of her hips.
‘Another conquest,’ Sandrine commented lightly.
‘Let’s focus on the immediate issue, shall we?’
The master manipulator. Dammit, why did she want to crack his cool facade when she knew what lay beneath the surface of his control?
His skill with words in the midst of her volatile diatribe had been chilling. Hell, he hadn’t even raised his voice. She had been the one who’d lost it.
Now he was using that skill to employ invidious blackmail, cleverly positioning her between a rock and a hard place. She was the price, the film her prize.
‘You leave me little choice,’ she said with deliberate coolness, then waited a beat and added, ‘For now.’
He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. ‘No conditions.’
She felt her body’s betraying response to his touch, the heated sensation that invaded her bones and melted them to molten wax.
Sandrine’s eyes deepened, and her mouth shook a little. With anger, resentment and a need to swing into verbal attack mode. Except this wasn’t the time or place if she wanted to retain any sense of dignity.
As it was, speculation undoubtedly ran rife among the cast members and fellow guests. Did Tony know that Sandrine Arnette was Michel Lanier’s wife?
Michel watched as she fought to keep her conflicting emotions under wraps, and defined each and every one of them. With a degree of dispassionate anticipation, he was aware the fight between them had scarcely begun. He intended to win.
‘I need a drink,’ she admitted, watching as Michel’s lips curved to form a musing smile.
He lifted a hand, and in an instant a waitress appeared at his side. Michel had that effect on women. All women, of any age. It was an inherent charm, one he used quite ruthlessly on occasion.
He lifted two flutes of champagne from the tray and handed one to Sandrine.
‘Salut.’ He touched the rim of her flute with his own.
She ignored the temptation to drain the contents in one long swallow and deliberately sipped the chilled aerated wine, savoured the taste, then let the liquid slide down her throat.
‘Shall we join our host?’
Sandrine’s eyes clashed momentarily with his, then she veiled their expression. There would be an opportunity later to unleash the verbal diatribe seething beneath the surface. Round one might be his, but she had every intention the next would be hers.
She summoned a slow smile, her acting ability prominent as she tucked a hand into the curve of his elbow.
‘Having provided the guests with an unexpected floor show, don’t you think introductions are somewhat overdue?’
Minutes later Michel moved easily at Tony’s side, displaying an interest in each guest’s professional background as he posed questions with practised charm.
Working the room, Sandrine recognized with cynicism. A retentive and photographic memory ensured he was never at a loss in the business arena or among the social set.
‘As secrets go, yours is a doozey.’
She turned slightly and encountered a slender young woman whose name temporarily escaped her.
‘Stephanie Sommers, marketing.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Sandrine responded, warming to Stephanie’s faintly wicked smile.
‘I can understand you keeping him under wraps. Where did you find him?’
‘New York. We married in Paris.’
‘Ah, the universal city for lovers.’
Sandrine felt a shiver slither its way over the surface of her skin as she experienced instant recall of the city, the ambience. The magic. Paris in the spring, when the grey skies cleared and everything came alive. As her heart had when she first met Michel.
An ache centred in the region of her diaphragm, intensifying as memories surfaced. Memories that had held such promise, so much love, she’d imagined their lives together were inviolate and forever entwined.
The stuff of which fantasies are made, she reflected wryly. With little basis in reality.
‘Tony is on his best behaviour.’
Sandrine summoned a quick smile. Something that was becoming a habit as the evening progressed. ‘The future of the film is at stake.’
‘Is it?’
The query bore a certain quizzical humour as if Stephanie had already concluded the injection of essential finance was a done deal.
It was, although Sandrine wondered what the marketing manager’s reaction would be if she discovered the reason for Michel’s investment.
‘Okay. So the rest of us get to sweat it out a little longer.’
Sandrine looked suitably enigmatic until Stephanie gave a low, throaty chuckle.
‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’ The attractive blonde spared a glance at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave soon.’
‘A date?’
‘With a baby-sitter who can only stay until ten,’ the marketing manager replied with a touch of cynicism.
‘Divided loyalties?’
‘No contest. My daughter wins out every time.’ She quickly scanned the room, then lowered her voice to a confidential tone. ‘Your husband has escaped from Tony and is heading this way. Impressive beast, isn’t he?’
Beast was an apt description. Although not in the context Stephanie implied. ‘Tony, or Michel?’
She met Stephanie’s direct look with equanimity, glimpsed the momentary speculation before it was quickly masked and cast her a wicked smile.
‘Surely you jest?’
Sandrine refrained from responding as Michel loomed close.
She felt her body stiffen in anticipation of his touch and she unconsciously held her breath, only releasing it when he made no attempt at physical contact.
‘Michel,