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‘How can you know that?’ It didn’t warrant an answer, she acknowledged wryly. The Lanier family consortium held immense holdings, and Michel was extremely wealthy in his own right. As such, he had contacts and access to otherwise privileged information.
Without the injection of funds, the film wouldn’t be completed or make it into the cinemas, and the resulting financial loss would be disastrous.
The knowledge she held the film’s fate in her hands didn’t sit well. Nor did the fact that Michel had very skilfully planned it this way.
‘With the possible exception of Gregor Anders, the film doesn’t have the big-name leads to attract a runaway box office success,’ Michel relayed with damning accuracy. ‘The director and producer are both scrambling to resurrect their ailing careers with a period piece currently out of vogue.’
Add to that, she knew the film’s financial backers had set a limited budget that made little allowance for countless takes in a quest for perfection, delays, escalating expenses, and the result was a high-risk venture no sensible investor would touch.
Sandrine cast him a level look. ‘That’s your opinion.’
Michel’s gaze remained steady, obdurate. ‘Not only mine.’
‘If that’s true, why are you prepared to invest?’
His expression didn’t change, and for several seconds she didn’t think he was going to answer. ‘Honesty, Sandrine?’ he mocked lightly. ‘You.’
Her eyes widened, then narrowed slightly.
‘What did you think I would do, ultimately?’ Michel demanded silkily. ‘Just let you walk?’
She gritted her teeth, counted to five. ‘I didn’t walk,’ she denied vehemently. ‘I was committed to a signed contract. If I hadn’t checked into the studio on the designated date, I could 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, you’ve met Stephanie?’ she managed smoothly.
‘Yes. We shared an interesting discussion on marketing techniques.’
‘Albeit that it was brief.’
‘Something we will 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.
