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Within minutes she was taking a refreshing sip of orange juice. A waiter paused beside her and proffered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She smiled automatically, selected one, then took a delicate bite. It was delicious and brought an onset of hunger. A sandwich at lunch, followed by an apple and mineral water wasn’t much in the way of sustenance.
Sandrine took a mini vol-au-vent and popped it into her mouth.
‘Where is the guest of honour?’ a feminine voice asked in bored tones, and she turned towards the attractive young lead actress.
‘Bent on making a grand entrance, perhaps?’
‘That’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart.’
The smile was a little too artificial, the voice a fraction too contrived. Cait Lynden had acquired star status and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Especially a fellow actress playing a minor part, Sandrine decided silently.
‘No one seems to know who he is,’ Cait mused. ‘A successful entrepreneur is all Tony will reveal.’ An acquisitive gleam darkened her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Obviously rich. As long as he’s presentable and under sixty, it could prove to be an interesting encounter.’
‘And single?’ Sandrine posed, only to hear the other’s musical laugh.
‘Darling, who cares?’
Not Cait, obviously.
Minutes later Sandrine detected a change in the buzz of conversation, a shift in tone definition that caused her to lift her head.
So he had finally arrived. Almost a half-hour late.
Some sixth sense alerted her attention, followed by a quick stab of apprehension.
‘Mine,’ Cait uttered, sotto voce.
Even as Sandrine turned slowly to conduct a sweeping appraisal of the room, a telltale prickle of awareness slithered down the length of her spine.
There was only one man who could generate this effect. One man whose soul was so closely attuned to her own they were almost twin halves of a whole.
Sandrine caught sight of a tall male frame, felt the familiar tug on her senses as she recognised the broad-boned, chiselled profile, the dark, conventionally groomed hair, which seven weeks ago had lain longer at his nape, adding a refined, untamed quality that was equally as dangerous as the man himself.
She’d adored threading her fingers through the silky thickness, the purchase it lent when she held fast his head and simply clung during the slow, exquisite torture of his lovemaking, the dazzling heat of their passion.
Those had been the wild, sweet days when there had been only love to guide them, she reflected. A time when she’d given him everything without thought of denial.
Now she watched Michel while he paused in conversation to lift his head as if he, too, sensed her presence. Dark grey eyes locked with hers, probing, intense, and totally lacking in any humour or warmth.
Time stood still as everything and everyone in the room faded to the periphery of her vision.
There was only Michel. The man, the moment, the exigent chemistry evident. She could sense it, feel its powerful pull as she became caught up in the magical spell of something so intensely primitive she felt raw, exposed and acutely vulnerable.
Then he smiled, and for an instant she was transported back to the time they first met. Almost a duplicate situation to this, where they’d caught sight of each other at the same time across a crowded room.
Except the past had little place in the present. She could see it in the sudden flare in those beautiful slate-grey eyes and sense it in his stance.
Body language. She’d studied it as part of her craft and she could successfully determine each movement, every gesture.
Did anyone else recognise the cool ruthlessness or define the latent anger that lurked beneath the surface of his control? They lent his features a dark, brooding quality and gave hint to a refined savagery, which unleashed could prove lethal.
He was a man who held no illusions and whose youthful passage had moulded him, shaping a destiny many of his peers could only envy.
Sandrine watched in mesmerised fascination as he murmured an excuse to their host, then crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace.
Fine Armani tailoring sheathed an awesome muscle definition in that powerful frame, and every movement held the lithe, flowing grace of a superb jungle animal.
Her heart thudded and quickened to a faster beat. Each separate nerve end became highly sensitised as he moved towards her, and she couldn’t think of one sensible word to say in greeting. Considering the carelessly flung words they’d hurled at each other all those weeks ago, a simple hello seemed incredibly banal.
She didn’t get the chance, for he captured her shoulders, slid one hand to hold fast her head, then his mouth took possession of hers in a kiss that sent her emotions spinning out of control.
It was claim-staking, she acknowledged dimly when she was able to breathe. Flagrant, seductive and hungry.
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 room knew the guest of honour’s identity, much less his connection with a little-known supporting actress.
‘This is hardly the time or place.’
Michel’s smile was a mere facsimile and bore not the slightest degree of humour. ‘No discussion, no negotiation. Just a simple yes or no.’
Simple? How could he deem something so complicated as simple? ‘You can’t demand conditions.’
‘Watch me.’
‘Blackmail, Michel?’
He gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘Label it what you will.’
‘And if I refuse?’ Sandrine queried bravely.
Something moved in those dark eyes, making them appear incredibly dangerous. ‘I walk out of here.’
And out of her life? As she’d walked out of his? Temporarily, she amended.
So why did she have the feeling she was poised on the edge of a precipice? One false move and she’d fall to unknown depths?
She could see the grim purpose etched in his features and she felt her stomach muscles clench in pain. ‘You don’t play fair.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘This isn’t a game.’
No, it wasn’t. Yet she hated him for employing manipulative tactics.
‘Yes or no,’ Michel reiterated with deadly quietness.
CHAPTER TWO
SANDRINE looked at Michel carefully, her eyes steady, her composure seemingly intact. Only she knew what effort it cost to present such a calm facade.
‘I’m sure Tony has other sources available from which to raise the necessary money.’
‘He has exhausted all of them.’
