The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  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 chairwoma
n’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 the
m. 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.