SANDRINE focused her attention on the scene beyond the windscreen as the car entered the flow of northbound traffic.
The night was clear, the air sharp, and the lighted windows of various high-rise apartment buildings vied with far distant stars in an indigo sky.
‘Shall we continue where we left off?’
She cast Michel a steady glance, aware that the night’s shadows were highlighting the angles and planes of his face.
Her voice assumed unaccustomed cynicism. ‘It won’t change the fact that we had a major fight over my decision to fulfil an acting contract.’
He smote a clenched fist against the steering wheel, and she looked at him in startled disbelief.
‘Mon Dieu. This is not about you pursuing a career.’ He paused at a roundabout, waiting for two cars to circle and exit. ‘It’s about us being together. Not me being forced to spend time in one city while you’re on the other side of the world in another. Comprends?’
‘It was unavoidable.’
‘It need not have been if you’d enlightened me about the audition at the time,’ Michel enunciated with restraint. ‘Thus giving me the opportunity to implement a contingency plan.’ He directed her a dark look returning his attention to the road. ‘I won’t allow it to happen again.’
She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘Excuse me? You won’t allow it?’
‘No,’ he reiterated hardily. ‘In future there will be no misunderstandings, no assumptions. We communicate and leave nothing in doubt.’
‘I’m not sure we have a future,’ she countered wretchedly, and could have bitten her tongue for uttering the foolish words.
‘Oh, yes, we do, mignonne.’ His voice was deadly soft.
‘How can you say that?’
‘Easily.’
‘What about unresolved issues?’
‘Name them,’ Michel challenged.
‘You,’ Sandrine began, crossing each of his sins off on her fingers. ‘Keeping tabs on me, investigating everyone to do with the film, conspiring to come up with a financial rescue package and making me a condition. Blackmail,’ she asserted finally, ‘is a criminal offense.’
‘You’re the wife of a wealthy man whose access to a family fortune makes anyone associated with me a prime target. Ransom, extortion, kidnapping. Of course I had someone watch over you.’
‘You could have told me! How do you think I’d have reacted if I saw someone following me?’
‘You refused to take or answer any of my calls, remember?’ he retorted. ‘And I pay for the best. Not some amateur who’d frighten you by being visible.’
‘What did he do?’ she demanded, immeasurably hurt. ‘Report whom I spoke to, where I went, what I did…every minute of every day?’
‘It wasn’t about my lack of trust in you,’ he bit out angrily. ‘It was about protection. Yours.’
‘It was an invasion of privacy. Mine.’ She was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop. ‘I hate you for it.’
‘So hate me, mignonne. At least I knew you were safe.’
‘I guess the film running overtime and over budget played right into your hands. It gave you a lever, a figurative gun to hold to my head. Do what I say, or else.’ She directed him a fulminating glare. ‘I’ll never forgive you for that.’
“‘Never” is a long time.’
‘It’s as long as my lifetime.’
‘Tell me,’ Michel drawled. ‘What did you intend to do when filming was completed?’
‘Visit my family.’
‘And afterwards?’
That was in the hazy future and something she’d deliberately not given much thought.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted honestly, and grimaced at the husky oath that rent the air.
‘You don’t know.’ He raised both hands off the wheel, then gripped it hard. ‘Next you’ll tell me you intended contacting me through a lawyer.’
‘I suppose it was a possibility.’
‘Not telephoned me? Or caught a flight home?’
‘Where is home, Michel?’ she queried wryly. ‘You have a residential base in several cities. I’d have had to have your secretary check on your whereabouts at the time.’
‘Sacré bleu. You have my personal cell phone number where you can reach me anywhere at any time!’
‘Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to!’
‘Did it not occur to you that I might have taken all that into consideration and put, as you so cynically called it, “a figurative gun” to your head?’
The car slowed almost to a halt, and Sandrine was startled to see Michel activate the security gate permitting access to the Sanctuary Cove residential suburb. Seconds later the gate slid open and they drove through.
‘Believe me, I would have used any weapon I had.’
‘Blackmail, Michel?’
‘You wouldn’t answer my calls. If I arrived on your doorstep, would you have let me in?’
‘Probably not.’ At least, not at first. Her initial instinct would have been to slam the door in his face. The next…call the police? No, she refuted silently. She wouldn’t have gone that far.
Was he right insisting on an enforced reconciliation? Putting them in the same residence, giving her no choice in the matter?
Within minutes they reached the villa, and once inside she crossed to the stairs and made her way up to the main bedroom.
For weeks she’d been so angry with Michel, herself, the circumstances that had caused the dissent between them. Now there was a degree of self-doubt, a measure of regret…and pain.
In the bedroom she slipped off her shoes and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window. She made no attempt to draw the drapes as she looked out across the bay to the brightly lit restaurant cantilevered over the water.
Within a few days she’d leave here and probably not return. Sydney beckoned, and family. Her mother would be pleased to see her, likewise her father. But on separate occasions at different venues. She’d visit, take gifts, greet each of her step-siblings, and pretend she belonged.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the loneliness deep inside. An ache behind her eyelids culminated in tears that escaped and slid slowly down each cheek.
A faint sound, a slight movement, alerted her to Michel’s presence, and she prayed he wouldn’t turn on the light.
Sandrine sensed rather than heard him cross to stand behind her, then his hands closed over her shoulders as he drew her back against him.
‘We made a deal, remember?’
‘What deal are you referring to?’
‘Never to spend a night apart. Except in circumstances beyond our control.’
So they had. And somehow taking a bit part in a movie being shot on the other side of the world didn’t come close in the qualifying stakes of circumstances beyond our control.
‘Where do we go from here?’ she queried quietly, and he didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
‘Let’s just take it one day at a time, hmm?’
For several minutes he didn’t move, then his hands slid down her arms and linked together at her waist. She felt his lips brush against her ear, then trail slowly down the sensitive cord of her neck to nuzzle the soft hollow there.
It was heaven to lean her head into the curve of his shoulder and just be. To absorb the warmth of that large pulsing body, to take comfort in the shelter it afforded her, and to luxuriate in the touch of his hands, his lips.
He didn’t offer a word, nor did she. They didn’t move, just stood there for what seemed an age.
Then Michel gently turned her to face him, and she lifted her arms to encircle his neck as he lowered his head down to hers.
His mouth explored the soft lower curve of her own, grazing it with the edge of his teeth before sweeping his tongue to test the delicate tissues and tease the sensitised ridges in an erotic tasting that made her want more than this gentle supplication.
He’d removed his jacket and tie, but his shirt was an impossible barrier she sought to remove. She needed to touch his skin, to feel the heavy pulse of his heart beneath his rib cage and to explore the very essence of him.
By tacit agreement, they divested each other’s clothes in a leisurely, evocative fashion, the slither of silk over skin arousing and heightening the senses to fever pitch.
Now. She wanted him now. Hard and fast. She needed to feel his strength, his unfettered passion.
Her mouth met his hungrily as he tumbled her down onto the bed, and she was aware of uttering small sounds of encouragement as he explored her, then she groaned out loud with pleasure as he entered her in one long thrust, stilling for timeless seconds as she absorbed him.
He withdrew and she lifted her hips as he plunged deep inside. She clung to him, urging him harder, closer, until pleasurable sensation reached an almost unbearable intensity.
Sandrine cried out, beseeching him with a litany of pleas as she became helpless beneath an emotion so treacherous it almost succeeded in destroying her.
Afterwards she could only lie there and attempt to regain control of her ragged breathing. And her sanity.
His eyes never left hers, and she felt as if she were drowning as he traced a finger over the soft curve of her mouth, probing the inner skin with erotic sensitivity.
Not content, he trailed a path down the length of her throat, then lowered his head to her mouth to create fresh havoc with her senses as he kissed her, thoroughly, mindlessly, then feathered his lips to the sensitive hollows beneath her throat, her breasts, savouring each peak in turn with devastating eroticism.
As he travelled lower, her body quivered, then tautened against an invasion so blatantly intimate she began to burn with the intoxicating heat of his touch.
After play merged into foreplay as passion reignited, and she was driven by a hunger so intense she became a willing wanton in his arms, taking intimate liberties that had him groaning beneath her as they both became lost in mesmeric rapture.
They took the late-morning flight out of Coolangatta airport, approaching the outskirts of Sydney just over an hour later.
The jet banked towards the ocean, providing a panoramic view of the harbour and city. Tall skyscrapers vied with elegant homes dotting numerous coves and inlets. Scenic landmarks such as the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House were distinctive from this height, and Sandrine felt the familiarity of home as they began their descent.
This was where she’d been born, raised and educated. Her family, her friends were here. For a while she could relax, visit family, meet friends and indulge a penchant for shopping.
The benefit of travelling first class was the speed of disembarking, and in no time at all Michel had collected their bags from the luggage carousel and organised a taxi.
It was a bright sunny day, with hardly a cloud in the sky. In some ways it seemed an age since she’d left Sydney; in others it was as if it were only yesterday.
Nothing had changed, she noted as the taxi took the customary route from the airport. Industrial areas gave way to semi-industrial, then residential. The terrace houses looked the same, although a few had received a fresh coat of paint. Traffic hurtled along the busy road at maximum speed, accompanied by the hydraulic hiss of heavily laden trucks, the occasional squeal of hastily applied brakes as a driver attempted a risky switch of lanes and miscalculated.
A turn-off led towards wide, tree-leafed roads, older-style homes, most lovingly restored and some still standing in palatial grounds.
Double Bay housed an eclectic mix of homes and apartment buildings. It was an inner suburb where old-money status sat next to new, where Porsches, Bentleys and BMWs parked nose to tail with Ferraris, Audis and Rolls-Royces. It housed one of the city’s most exclusive shopping centres where trendy cafés nestled between designer boutiques, classy restaurants and a ritzy hotel.
Michel’s apartment was situated atop a three-level, spacious old home that had been gutted and architecturally designed to resemble the original homestead. Pale lemon stucco with a white trim and black-painted, iron-lace railings provided a gracious exterior. Each floor housed a separate apartment, reached by a lift instead of the original staircase, and modern materials had been crafted to resemble the old, thereby retaining a sense of timeless grandeur that was complemented by exquisite antique furniture.
Sandrine had fallen in love with it at first sight, and now she crossed the spacious lounge to wide glass doors guarding the entrance to a long veranda that offered panoramic views over Port Jackson Harbour.
‘Penny for them,’ Michel teased with measured indolence as he joined her. He linked his arms around her waist and drew her back against him.
‘Nothing in particular,’ she said reflectively. ‘Just a feeling of satisfaction at being home again.’
‘You’ll want to ring your family and make arrangements to meet them.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. But not collectively. There was definitely a yours and mine definition apparent, and she’d learnt from an early age not to shift the line between the two!
‘Lunch or dinner, whatever suits,’ Michel offered. ‘As long as I can put in a few hours on the laptop each day.’
She watched a ferry glide across the harbour and glimpsed a freighter on the horizon. ‘You want to work this afternoon?’
‘Unless you have a better idea.’
The temptation to tease him was irresistible. ‘Well, it’s ages since I had a manicure, my hair could do with a trim, and I need to replenish some make-up.’
‘I work, you shop,’ he quipped with a musing drawl.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
His hands slipped up to cover her breasts, the touch light, tantalising, and she caught her breath at the sensual promise evident as his lips settled in the sensitive curve of her neck.
‘Go, chérie. Be back by six, and we’ll eat out.’
Unpacking could wait until later, and with a light laugh she slipped from his arms, caught up her shoulder-bag, then blew him a cheeky kiss before heading for the front door.
Sandrine enjoyed a wonderful few hours. The manicure proved to be no problem, and the hair salon readily fitted her in between appointments. Tempted by a trendy café, she ordered a cappuccino, a salad and sandwich, then she browsed among several boutiques lining a narrow street of converted old-fashioned cottages.
An arcade in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel housed several exclusive shops, and in one she discovered a perfect pair of shoes.
It was almost six when the taxi pulled into the kerb adjacent to the apartment, and she cleared security, then rode the lift to the top floor.
Michel was seated at an antique desk in one corner of the lounge, and he glanced up from the laptop as she entered the room. He’d changed out of his suit and wore dark chinos and an ivory chambray shirt.
He caught sight of the brightly coloured carry bags, glimpsed the beautifully styled hair and offered her a warm smile as he closed down the computer.
Sandrine deposited the bags on a nearby chair. ‘I bought shoes.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Very expensive shoes.’
A husky laugh escaped his throat as he crossed to her side. ‘Hmm, new perfume?’
‘You noticed.’
‘I notice everything about you.’
Just as she’d developed a keen sixth sense about him. The clean male smell of his soap and cologne, freshly laundered clothes and a masculine scent that was his alone.
‘What time did you book the restaurant?’
‘Seven.’
‘Then I’d better go unpack, shower and dress.’
He slid a hand beneath her hair and cupped her nape as he lowered his head down to hers. The kiss held passion and promise, and she felt vaguely regretful as he let her go.
It was a warm summer’s evening, and she selected black silk evening trousers, a jewelled singlet top, then added a sheer black evening blouse. Stiletto-heeled pumps, a matching jewelled evening bag completed the outfit. Make-up was understated, with emphasis on her eyes.
Michel had chosen a restaurant specialising in seafood, and they each selected a prawn starter and ordered grilled fish to follow. The wine steward presented a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne.
‘Did you get in touch with your parents?’
She felt guilty that she hadn’t. ‘I’ll ring them both in the morning.’
He lifted his flute and placed the rim against her own. ‘Salut.’
Their starter arrived, and she bit into a succulent prawn and savoured the taste. Heaven. The sauce was perfect.
‘With both you and Raoul in Australia, who is minding—’
‘The store?’
‘Figuratively speaking.’
‘Henri heads a very capable team in our absence.’
‘When is Raoul returning to Paris?’
His smile held a faint wryness. ‘Twenty questions, Sandrine?’
She gave a slight shrug. ‘Curiosity, I guess.’
‘His plans are less flexible than mine.’
‘And you, Michel?’ she queried fearlessly. ‘How long will you stay in Australia?’
His gaze was direct, unwavering. ‘As long as it takes.’
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Something curled inside her stomach and tightened into a painful ball. ‘I might be called back to the Gold Coast studios to reshoot a scene. Then there’s the publicity promotion…’
‘I’ve been working, myself, every day since I arrived in Australia.’
The laptop. In this electronic age it was possible to access and transmit data at the touch of a button.
‘It isn’t necessary for—’
‘Yes,’ Michel interrupted. ‘It is.’
The waiter removed their plates, and the wine steward refilled their flutes with champagne.
‘Michel…’ She trailed to a halt, and although her eyes searched his, she was unable to gain much from his expression.
‘We promised to take each day as it comes, remember?’
Yes, so they had. But with every day that passed she realised how hard it would be to have to live without him. And she knew she didn’t want to. It should be so simple to mend an emotional bridge. You just said the words, and everything was fixed.
Except they had to be the right words, and it had to be the right time and the right place.
When they made love, she freely gave him her body, her soul, and prayed he knew what he meant to her. But she was a wordless lover, and “I love you” hadn’t passed her lips since the night before she left New York.
The waiter presented their main dish, and Sandrine looked at the succulent barramundi, the artistically arranged salad and discovered her appetite had fled.
So, too, had her conversational skills. For how did you talk banalities with someone you’d soon share sexual intimacy?
She had only to look at him, and in her mind she could feel the touch of his hands, his lips, know the reaction of her traitorous body as he led her towards sensual fulfilment. Just as she knew he was equally as aware.
It was akin to a silent game they played. Except there was no deliberation, no premeditation. Intense sensual chemistry sizzled between them, ready to ignite as easily as dry tinder at the toss of a lighted match.
It had always been the same. Had she confused sexual attraction with love? And what is love?
If you took away sexual desire, what was left? A solid friendship? She would have said yes, until he forbade her to take the movie role. A friend would have been pleased she’d auditioned successfully.
Still, although friendship was important in marriage, a legal union was about commitment, honesty and trust. Because if you love, you want to commit, and there needed to be trust and honesty for the union to succeed.
When it came to honesty, she’d shifted the boundaries, signed a contract without his knowledge and against his wishes, confronted him at the eleventh hour, taken the flight, the job, regardless.
At the time she’d been so angry over his inflexibility she hadn’t really given anything else coherent thought. There was a part of her that cherished the sanctity of marriage. And her feelings for Michel weren’t in question.
Yet she was an independent young woman. She’d owned her own apartment, her own car; she had not one, but two great jobs she loved, and for the past seven years she’d been a free spirit, answerable only to herself.
Why had she imagined marriage to Michel wouldn’t change that?
Be honest, a small voice taunted. Love was the prime moving force in this union. She’d been so caught up in the wonder and magic of it all that she hadn’t focused too much on the future.
Carpe diem. Seize the day. And she had, only too willing to allow Michel to sweep her off her feet, exultant with joy at the thought of sharing her life with this man, and confident love would conquer all.
In a world where women had fought and won equality with men in the business arena, she’d taken it for granted she would combine her career with marriage. Michel hadn’t objected to her participating in a few modelling assignments. Why should he object to her taking a part in a film?
Yet he had. Warning irrevocably that he didn’t view marriage as two partners pursuing separate careers and leading separate lives.
‘The fish isn’t to your liking?’
Sandrine glanced up quickly. ‘No. I mean, yes.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m not that hungry.’ She forked a mouthful of salad, alternated it with the succulent fish, then took another sip of champagne in the hope it would renew her appetite.
‘I’ve managed to get tickets for Les Misérables,’ Michel remarked, and she offered him a smile.
‘That’s great.’ She’d seen two different productions and loved both. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
There was also a popular movie she wanted to see, and she mentioned it. ‘Perhaps we could ask Angelina to join us?’ she posed, aware how much pleasure it would give her stepsister. In which case she’d have to even things out by issuing a similar invitation to her stepbrother.
‘Of course. But first, ascertain which night suits your mother and your father for dinner. As our guests.’
Step-family politics, she mused, required delicate handling.
It was almost ten when they left the restaurant, and within minutes Michel hailed a taxi to take them home.
Sandrine felt pleasantly tired as they entered the apartment, and she slid off her shoes and hooked the sling-back straps over one finger.
‘Coffee?’
‘I’ll make it,’ Michel offered as he shrugged out of his jacket. ‘I need to go on-line and check some data.’
‘Okay.’ She tried to stem a feeling of disappointment. A part of her wanted to curl up in his arms and enjoy a leisurely lovemaking. Maybe she wouldn’t be asleep when he came to bed, or if she was, he’d wake her. ‘I’ll go to bed and read.’
Except she only managed one chapter before the book slipped from her fingers and hit the carpeted floor, and she didn’t stir when Michel slid quietly in beside her two hours later.