IT HAD been a fraught day, Sandrine reflected as she garaged the car. Her final scene had to be shot again and again, and instead of being able to leave the set around midday, it was now almost seven.
She was tired, she had a headache, she was past hungry, and all she wanted to do was sink into a hot spa bath, slip on headphones and let the pulsing jets and music soothe her soul. For an hour.
Heaven, she breathed, entering the villa.
‘I was just about to embark on a rescue mission,’ Michel drawled as he strolled towards her. He took in her pale features, darkened eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders, and withheld an imprecation. ‘Bad day?’ he queried lightly. His hands curved over her shoulders as he drew her close. His mouth touched hers, lightly, briefly, and emotion stirred as she turned her face into the curve of his neck.
‘Tony insisted the scene be shot so many times. I lost count after fifteen.’ He smelt so good, felt so good, she could have stayed resting against him for ages. After a few timeless minutes she lifted her head and moved out of his arms. ‘I’m going to soak in the tub.’
Warm water, scented oil, an Andrea Bocelli CD on the Walkman. Sandrine closed her eyes and let the tension gradually seep out of her bones.
She didn’t hear Michel enter the bathroom, nor did she see him step into the tub, and the first indication she had was the light brush of fingers down her cheek.
Her eyelids flew wide and her mouth parted in unvoiced surprise as Michel positioned her in front of him.
She lifted a hand to remove the headphones only to have his hand close over hers holding them in place, then both hands settled on her shoulders and his fingers bit deep in a skilful massage that went a long way to easing the knots and kinks out of tense muscles.
She sighed blissfully as Michel handed her a flute of champagne, and she took a generous sip of the light golden liquid.
A slow warmth crept through her body, and with each subsequent sip she began to relax. Even her head felt light. Probably, she decided hazily, because she hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch.
Sandrine had no idea how long she stayed in the gently pulsating water. It seemed ages, and she uttered a mild protest when the jets were turned off.
Michel lifted her from the tub, then caught up a large fluffy towel and dried the excess moisture from her body.
‘You didn’t have any champagne,’ she murmured as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Relaxed.’
He switched on the bedside lamp, hauled back the bed covers and deposited her onto the sheeted mattress, then joined her.
All she wanted to do was curl into his arms, rest her head against his chest and absorb the strength and comfort he could offer her.
She felt his lips brush her own and she whispered his name in a semiprotest.
‘Just close your eyes,’ he bade huskily, ‘and I’ll do all the work.’ His mouth grazed the edge of her jaw, then slipped down the slope of her throat.
What followed was a supplication of the senses as he embraced her scented skin with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. With his lips, the pads of his fingers, he trailed a path from one sensory pleasure spot to another, lingering, savouring, until the warmth invading her body changed to slow-burning heat.
He lifted her hand and kissed each finger in turn, stroking the tip with his tongue, then when he was done he buried his mouth in her palm.
It was an evocative gesture that brought her response, only to have her touch denied as he completed a sensual feast that drove her wild.
He entered her slowly, and she groaned out loud as he initiated a long, sweet loving that was exquisite, magical. It left her weak-limbed and filled with languorous warmth.
Afterwards he folded her close into the curve of his body and held her as she slept. Her hair, loosened from its confining pins, spilled a river of silk over his pillow.
Michel waited a while, then carefully eased out of bed, showered, dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt, then went downstairs to the kitchen and began organising the evening meal. He’d give her an hour, then wake her.
When he returned to the bedroom, she lay precisely as he’d left her, and he stood quietly at the foot of the bed for several minutes watching as she slept.
She possessed a fierce spirit, an independence that was laudable. It had been those very qualities that had drawn him to her, as well as her inherent honesty. His wealth didn’t awe her, any more than he did. It was a rare quality to be liked for the man he was and not the Lanier family fortune.
Was she aware just how much she meant to him? She was the very air that he breathed, the daytime sun, the midnight moon.
Yet love alone wasn’t enough, and he wasn’t sufficiently foolish to imagine a ring and a marriage certificate were a guarantee of lifelong happiness.
Sandrine stirred, opened her eyes, focused on the man standing at the foot of the bed and offered him a slow, sweet smile.
‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep,’ she protested huskily. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost ten. Hungry?’
She didn’t have to think about it. ‘Ravenous.’
‘I’ve made dinner.’
Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You have?’ She pushed herself into a sitting position and drew the sheet over her chest, then grinned at his teasing smile. ‘Give me five minutes.’
She made it in seven, after the quickest shower on record, and slipped on a silky robe rather than dress.
‘Oh, my,’ Sandrine mused with pleasure as she sat down at the table. ‘You do have hidden talent.’
‘Singular?’ Michel queried mockingly.
‘Plural. Definitely plural,’ she applauded as she sampled a sip of wine with a sigh of appreciation.
Filet mignon, delectable salad greens, a crusty baguette, and an excellent red wine, with a selection of fresh fruit.
Sandrine ate with pleasurable enjoyment, finishing every morsel on her plate, and she watched Michel cross to the stereo and insert a CD. Then he moved towards her and drew her up from the chair.
‘What are you doing?’ she queried with a faint laugh as he led her to the centre of the room and pulled her close.
The music was slow, the lyrics poignant, vocalized in the husky tones of a popular male singer.
Mmm, this was good, so good, she silently breathed as he cradled her body against his own. His hands stroked a sensuous pattern down her spine, then he cupped her bottom as she lifted her arms and linked her hands together at his nape.
The warmth of his body seemed to penetrate her own, and she melted into him as they drifted as one to the seductive tempo.
His lips settled at her temple, then slid down to the edge of her mouth, and she angled her head, inviting his possession in a kiss that was slow and so incredibly sweet she never wanted it to cease.
Sandrine gave a soundless gasp as he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms, then held on tight as he carried her through to the bedroom.
‘Move, darling. Just a little closer now. Smile.’
If the photographer said smile one more time, she’d scream!
It was the end of what had been a very long day. Newspaper interviews and photographs from nine until eleven this morning, followed by a fashion shoot for the Australian edition of a top fashion magazine. Then an appearance at a high-profile charity luncheon held at the Sheraton Mirage, with a brief turn on the catwalk.
There had been photographs at Movieworld. One of the prime television channels was videotaping coverage for a spot on the evening news.
Tonight was the gala black-tie event to publicise the movie. Dignitaries would be present, and the city’s wealthy socialites would have paid handsomely to mix and mingle with the producer, director and actors.
It was all a planned marketing strategy to provide maximum impact in the publicity stakes. Gregor and Cait had given interviews in their hotel, and advertising trailers would run on television and in the cinemas.
Sandrine didn’t have star status in the film, but as a home-grown talent in acting and modelling, she gained attention. As Michel Lanier’s wife, she was guaranteed media coverage.
‘Pretend, darling,’ Cait murmured with a mocking edge. ‘You’re supposed to be an actress, so act.’
‘As you do, darling?’ she responded sweetly.
‘She really is a barrel of laughs,’ Gregor muttered to Sandrine sotto voce. ‘Desperate, dateless and deadly.’
‘I can have any man I want,’ Cait ventured disdainfully.
‘No,’ he denied smoothly. ‘Most, darling. But not all.’
‘Go get stuffed.’
‘I don’t participate in anatomically impossible feats.’
‘You could always try.’
‘We’ll move it over there,’ the photographer called, indicating the marina and one luxury cruiser in particular, whose owner had generously lent it for publicity purposes.
How much longer before she could escape? Surely they didn’t require her much longer?
‘Okay, Sandrine, you can go. Cait, Gregor, I want a few inside shots.’
Thank heavens. She’d almost kill for a long, icy cold drink with just a dash of alcohol to soothe the day’s rough edges.
‘Lucky you,’ Cait voiced cynically. ‘You’re off the hook.’
For now. She stepped off the cruiser and quickly cleared the marina. The adjoining luxury condominiums of the Palazzo Versace were spectacular in design, resembling a precious jewel set in a sparkling sapphire-blue sea.
Their hotel was reached via an overhead footbridge from the shopping complex, and Sandrine went directly to their suite.
Michel was seated at the small desk, his shirt sleeves turned back, studying the screen on his laptop as she entered. He glanced at her, then raised an eyebrow as she moved straight to the bar fridge, extracted a bottle of sparkling fruit spritzer and rummaged through the assortment of miniature bottles in the minibar.
‘That bad?’ he queried as he rose to his feet and crossed to her side.
‘Oh, yes.’ She broke the seal on the gin, added a splash, then filled the glass with spritzer and took a long sip. ‘And tonight will be worse.’ She felt his hands on her shoulders and sighed as he skilfully worked the tense muscles there. ‘Remind me we’re flying out of here tomorrow.’
She heard his husky chuckle and leaned back against him. He felt so good she just wanted to close her eyes, absorb his strength and have the immediate world go away.
‘Two days in Sydney,’ he drawled, and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘Then we fly home.’
Home had a nice ring to it. She pictured their New York apartment overlooking Central Park and sighed again, feeling some of the tension subside.
‘I have a few things to tie up there, which will take a week, maybe longer, then we’ll spend some time in Paris.’
‘I think I love you,’ Sandrine said fervently.
‘Only think, chérie?’
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. ‘I was being facetious.’
‘So one would hope.’
She turned slowly to face him, saw the gleam of humour evident in those dark eyes and aimed a loosely clenched fist at his chest. The next instant she cried out as he removed the glass from her fingers and hoisted her over one shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’
He walked towards the adjoining en suite, released her down onto the tiled floor, then began removing her clothes, followed by his own.
‘Michel?’
‘Taking a shower.’
She glimpsed the slumberous passion evident and shook her head. ‘We don’t have time for this.’
He reached into the glassed shower cubicle and turned on the water, adjusted the temperature dial, then stepped inside and drew her with him. ‘Yes, we do.’
The water beat down on her head, and she heard his husky chuckle as she cursed him. Then she stilled as he caught up the soap and ran it over her slim curves.
He was very thorough. Too thorough, Sandrine decided as heat flared through her body at his intimate touch, and she moaned out loud as his mouth closed over hers in an erotic tasting that almost sent her over the edge.
When he raised his head, she looked at him in dazed disbelief as he handed her the soap and encouraged her to return the favour.
She did, with such sensuous, lingering skill he lifted her high against him and plunged deep inside, again and again while she clung to him.
Afterwards he caught up the plastic bottle of shampoo and washed her hair, then rinsed it before shutting the water and reaching for both towels.
Dry, he pulled her close and kissed her with unabated passion, then put her firmly at arm’s length.
Sandrine looked at him with musing suspicion. ‘You planned that.’ It was a statement, not a query.
‘Guilty.’
She pulled the hair dryer from its wall attachment and switched it on. ‘We’ll be late.’
‘No, we won’t.’
Five minutes didn’t count, Sandrine acknowledged less than an hour later as they entered the large downstairs foyer.
Michel looked striking in full evening dress, and she felt confident in encrusted ivory silk organza with a scooped neckline. Elegant evening pumps in matching ivory completed the outfit, and she’d swept her hair high in a smooth French pleat.
The function-room doors were open and guests were beginning to enter. The Gold Coast’s social glitterati were evident in force, Sandrine perceived, noting the elegant gowns, expensive jewellery, exquisitely made-up and coiffed women present. Without exception, the men were in full evening dress and bow tie.
Sandrine sighted Stephanie, who returned her smile and joined them within seconds.
‘I’ve seated you with Cait Lynden, Gregor Anders, the charity’s chairwoman and her husband, and myself. The mayor and his wife are at Tony’s table immediately adjoining yours. There’ll be two tables seating the studio heads and various representatives from the marketing team.’
Sandrine saw Stephanie stiffen slightly and soon determined the reason as Raoul joined them.
‘The photographer was happy with everything today,’ Stephanie continued, ignoring Raoul after offering him a fleeting polite smile. ‘There will, of course, be more taken tonight. However, we’ll try to contain it so it doesn’t become too intrusive. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
‘You appear to have a disturbing effect on that young woman,’ Michel observed to his brother.
‘I’ll settle for disturb rather than disinterest,’ Raoul drawled in response, and Sandrine wrinkled her nose at her husband, then turned to Raoul.
‘Like that, is it?’ she teased. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to me and she avoids my calls.’
‘I imagine you’ve arranged a few meetings with marketing?’ she posed musingly, and glimpsed the gleam of humour evident in his expression. ‘In Michel’s absence, in the name of business, of course.’
His smile held a certain wry amusement. ‘Of course.’
‘Another rare young woman uninfluenced by the Lanier wealth and social status?’
‘I think we should go inside and take our seats,’ Michel indicated quizzically. ‘Naturally you’ve arranged to sit at our table?’
‘Oui,’ Raoul agreed dryly, and Sandrine suppressed a chuckle as a committee member checked their tickets and indicated their table location.
The chairwoman’s husband was the sole occupant, and upon introduction he explained that his wife was busy with last-minute details. Of Cait and Gregor there was no sign, and Sandrine suppressed the uncharitable thought that Cait was probably aiming to stage-manage a dramatic entrance.
She wasn’t wrong. Just as the lights flickered, indicating the formalities were about to begin, Cait swept into the function room with Gregor and a photographer in tow.
In a gown that was backless, strapless and appeared moulded to her figure, the actress stepped towards them, pausing every now and then to pose as the camera lens focused on her.
‘We’re not late, are we?’ The beautiful, sultry smile was at variance with the breathless little-girl voice.
Cait, the actress, playing to the audience, Sandrine perceived wryly. Of the remaining empty seats, Cait slid into the one between Raoul and Michel.
Sandrine kept a smile in place with difficulty and took a sip of chilled wine.
Stephanie slipped into her seat seconds before the evening’s master of ceremonies stepped on stage to take the microphone.
There were introductions and speeches as the spotlight focused on Cait, Gregor and Tony, followed by a studio representative. The mayor said his piece, then a small army of waiters began serving the starter as music beat through sound speakers and a singer provided entertainment on stage.
Sandrine was supremely conscious of the man seated at her side. His enviable aura of power combined with a dramatic measure of primitive sensuality had a magnetic effect.
Cait resembled a feline who’d just swallowed a saucer of cream, Sandrine observed as she forked a morsel of the artistically arranged starter.
‘Darling, you don’t mind if I have a few photos taken with Michel, do you?’ Cait queried, managing to make the request sound like a statement.
The female star and the man who’d rescued a movie from financial disaster, Sandrine reflected cynically, and wondered why she should feel like a possessive tigress. Protecting your interest, a tiny voice taunted. And her interest was Michel, her marriage.
‘Mr Lanier has specified any photographs in which he appears must also include his wife,’ Stephanie informed her with businesslike candour.
‘A group photo, perhaps?’ Raoul suggested in a slightly accented drawl. ‘Including the marketing manager?’
Stephanie cast him a level glance. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘Oh, but I think it is,’ Raoul argued smoothly. ‘Marketing is an integral part of any film production, non?’
Careful, Sandrine cautioned silently. Stephanie is a steel magnolia, not a fragile violet. Baiting her won’t achieve a thing.
‘Marketing as a whole,’ Stephanie agreed.
The chemistry between them sizzled, Sandrine mused. Raoul was a persistent and determined man. While Stephanie gave every indication of wanting to avoid him at any cost. Who would win?
Michel reached out a hand and threaded his fingers through her own. She turned towards him and caught the smouldering passion evident beneath his veiled gaze.
‘My money’s on Raoul,’ she said quietly.
‘Indeed,’ Michel agreed. ‘Although I doubt it’ll be an easy victory.’
His thumb began a disturbing pattern across the sensitive veins inside her wrist, an action that played havoc with her equilibrium. As he intended it to do.
‘I think I need to repair my make-up,’ Sandrine ventured, and caught Michel’s knowing smile. He realized the effect he had on her and precisely why she wanted a temporary escape.
‘You look beautiful just the way you are.’
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere,’ she responded with a teasing smile, aware that she lied. She was so incredibly susceptible to everything about him. His voice, the softly spoken French he frequently lapsed into whenever he became lost in the throes of passion. The fluid movement of his body, his limbs, the way he smiled and those chiselled features softened when he looked at her.
She’d thought independence was important, but nothing in her life held a candle to her love for Michel. He’d been right from the start. Why choose to be apart unless circumstances made it impossible to be together?
All those lonely nights she’d spent in her empty bed she’d longed for him to be beside her, to feel his touch. She’d enjoyed the part she’d played in the film, but that satisfaction didn’t come close in compensation for being away from her husband.
Sandrine pushed open the door to the powder room and freshened up. Just as she was about to leave, Cait entered the vestibule.
One eyebrow slanted in recognition, and her mouth curved into a petulant smile. ‘Really, darling, I’m surprised you could bear to leave Michel’s side.’
Sandrine was heartily sick of the actress’s game playing. ‘It’s a challenge, is it, Cait, to seduce another woman’s husband?’
‘Forbidden fruit, darling, tastes much sweeter than any that’s readily available.’ She raised a hand and placed the tip of a finger in her mouth. ‘And it’s always interesting to see if I can pluck the fruit from the tree.’ She deliberately licked her finger, removed it, then offered Sandrine a sultry look. ‘So to speak.’
Sandrine had had enough. She replaced her powder sponge and lipstick in her bag and closed the clasp. ‘If you can succeed with Michel, you can have him.’ She moved towards the door and paused momentarily at the sound of Cait’s sultry drawl.
‘Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?’
‘The hell I will,’ she said inelegantly, and stepped quickly to the function room.
The buzz of voices hit her the moment she reentered the large room, and she forced herself to walk slowly across the carpeted floor.
The chairwoman and her husband were absent from their table, as were Stephanie and Gregor. Only Michel and Raoul remained, and they appeared deep in conversation as she rejoined them.
Michel cast her a quick glance, glimpsed the faint edge of tension and accurately defined the reason for it.
‘Cait?’
She managed a wry smile. ‘She made it clear you’re the target of her affections.’
‘Indeed.’
He seemed amused, damn him.
‘If you choose to play her game, then she can have you.’
He picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips, then kissed each finger in turn. ‘Now why would I do that, chérie, hmm?’ He grazed his teeth against her thumb, and saw her eyes flare. ‘When all I want is you.’
‘Perhaps you should tell Cait that.’
He brushed his mouth across the delicate veins inside her wrist, and Sandrine barely controlled the shiver that threatened to scud the length of her spine.
She could feel herself slowly drowning when she looked at him. The liquid warmth evident in his gaze rendered her bones to jelly, and she had to physically stop herself from leaning forward to place her lips against the sensuous curve of his mouth.
As crazy as it seemed, she could almost feel him inside her, relive the strength and the power of him as muscles deep inside clenched and unclenched in intimate spasms.
He knew. She could see by the glint of those dark eyes that he’d somehow detected the way she was inwardly reacting to him. She lowered her lashes and attempted to pull her hand free. To no avail, as he merely carried her hand to rest on his thigh.
An equally dangerous move, and she pressed the tips of her fingernails into hard muscle in silent warning.
‘We’ve been invited to party on at the hotel’s nightclub,’ Michel relayed. ‘Everyone else associated with the film and marketing will be there.’
She almost groaned out loud. ‘Tell me our flight isn’t the early-morning one,’ she pleaded, and he gave a husky laugh.
‘Eleven-thirty.’
‘Breakfast before nine isn’t an option,’ she warned.
‘Plan on sleeping in, chérie?’
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Sleep is the operative word.’
The photographer got his shots, several of them. Raoul very cleverly positioned himself beside Stephanie while Cait insinuated herself between Raoul and Michel. Gregor, bless him, wriggled his eyebrows at them all and flanked Stephanie.
It was after eleven when the evening began to wind down, and half an hour later they wandered in groups towards the nightclub.
The DJ was spinning loud, funky music, the air was thick with noise, a cacophony of voices straining to be heard, and flashing strobe lighting provided a visual disturbance.
‘Let’s party, darling,’ Gregor invited as he swept a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waitress.
‘Why don’t you ask Sandrine to dance?’ Cait queried with a contrived pout. ‘I want to play with the big boys.’
‘Both of whom have their own women,’ Gregor warned, regardless of her careless shrug. ‘Don’t do it, sweetheart.’
‘Oh, stop trying to spoil my fun.’
Raoul turned towards Stephanie and indicated the crowded dance floor. ‘Are you game to enter the fray?’
‘With you?’
‘Of course with me.’
‘I’m not really into dancing.’
Cait placed a hand on Michel’s forearm and used her fingers to apply a little pressure as she tilted her head and offered a provocative smile. ‘Sandrine won’t mind if I drag you away.’ She turned towards Sandrine, openly daring her to object. ‘Will you, darling?’
Michel covered Cait’s hand with his own and transferred it to her side. His expression was polite, but there was an inflexible hardness apparent in his gaze. ‘Regrettably, I do mind.’
Cait didn’t bat an eyelash. ‘I think the idea is for everyone to loosen up a little now the film is in the can.’
‘Define “loosen up”,’ Michel drawled.
Sandrine recognised the faint inflection in his voice and almost felt sorry for Cait.
‘There’s the party after the party, if you know what I mean,’ the actress intimated with deliberate coquetry. ‘A very private party.’
Was she aware just how brazen she sounded? And how damning? There was an edge apparent, a hyped overbrightness that hinted at substance enhancement. It left a sick feeling in Sandrine’s stomach and provoked a degree of sadness.
‘No.’
Cait’s mouth formed a perfect bow. ‘No?’
If she stayed another minute, she’d say something regrettable! ‘Please, excuse me for a few minutes?’
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Stephanie asked.
It took several minutes to weave their way through the nightclub patrons and locate the powder room. Once inside, the noise level diminished to a bearable level as they joined the queue waiting to use the facilities.
‘Ten minutes, fifteen tops,’ Stephanie commented as she examined her nails. ‘Then I’m out of here, business and social obligations completed.’
‘The suits won’t have reason to complain,’ Sandrine agreed with a quizzical smile, then saw the marketing manager visibly relax.
‘It’s all coming together well. The trailers are good, and the media blitz will gain the public’s attention.’
The queue shifted, and they moved forward a few paces.
‘I understand you’re returning to Sydney tomorrow.’
Sandrine inclined her head. ‘Just for a few days, then we fly home.’
‘New York,’ Stephanie murmured. ‘I visited there once. Very fast, very cosmopolitan.’
‘It has a beat all its own.’
‘Distinctive.’
‘Like the Lanier men.’
‘One of them in particular,’ Stephanie declared dryly.
Sandrine shot her a teasing smile. ‘Persistent, is he?’ she queried, and caught the other woman’s wry grimace.
‘You could say that.’
‘Naturally, you don’t like him.’
‘He makes me feel uncomfortable.’
‘Uncomfortable is good.’
‘No,’ Stephanie refuted. ‘It’s a pain in the neck.’
A light bubble of laughter rose to the surface. ‘Good luck.’
‘For Raoul to catch me? Or for me to escape unscathed?’
‘Oh, I’ll take a gamble and go for the first option,’ Sandrine said wickedly.
‘Not in this lifetime.’
There was a finality about those few words, and she wondered what, or rather who had damaged Stephanie’s trust in men.
The music hit them in waves as they returned to the nightclub, and Stephanie joined a representative group from the marketing team as Sandrine crossed to rejoin Michel.
As she approached, Cait wound an arm round his neck and placed her mouth to his. It was a deliberate and calculated action, she knew, but one that angered her unbearably.
Michel showed restrained dignity as he broke the contact, and the actress turned towards Sandrine with a tantalising smile.
‘You said I could have him, darling.’
‘From where I stood, it didn’t look as if he wanted you,’ she managed in a remarkably even voice.
‘Bitch.’
‘I could say the same.’
Michel caught Sandrine’s hand and linked his fingers through hers, applying a slight warning pressure. Which she ignored.
‘Perhaps we should leave,’ he suggested indolently, and suppressed a degree of amusement as Sandrine shot him a stunning smile.
‘Why? I’m having so much fun.’ She lifted his hand and brushed her lips across his knuckles. ‘Ask me to dance.’
His eyes darkened and acquired a wicked gleam as he led her onto the dance floor. ‘Minx,’ he murmured close to her ear.
‘Confrontation,’ she mocked lightly. ‘Works so much better than retreat.’ A light gasp escaped her lips as he drew her in close. ‘That might be a bit of overkill.’ One hand cupped her bottom while the other slid to clasp her nape.
‘You think so?’ he drawled, enjoying the way her heart thudded into a quickened beat, the slight huskiness in her voice.
The music slowed, and they drifted together for several long minutes, only to break apart as the DJ switched discs and tempo.
By mutual consent they began circulating between the various business heads from marketing, the studio. Something that took a while, until they came at last to Raoul.
‘Sleep well,’ she bade as he brushed his lips to her cheek.
Minutes later they entered their suite, and Sandrine slipped off her shoes, then unfastened the zip and stepped out of her gown.
It had been a long day, and there was a sense of satisfaction that everything had come to a close.
She crossed to the en suite, removed her make-up, slipped on a silk nightshirt, then re-entered the bedroom and slid into bed.
Within seconds Michel joined her, snapped off the bedlamp, then caught her close.
It was heaven to lean against him, to feel the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her cheek. His lips touched her temple, then slid to her mouth to bestow a brief, warm kiss.
His chin rested against the top of her head, and she simply closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep within seconds.