The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

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 be
en 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.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Stepha
nie 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.