The Marriage Deal

by Helen Bianchin

  His manipulative skill in the business arena was highly regarded among his peers. Women actively pursued him for his wealth and social position. They pandered to his ego, made all the right practised moves in an existence that he’d come to consider artificial. Experience had made him both cynical and wary.

  Until Sandrine.

  Sandrine, with her lack of guile and artifice, whose laughter was both infectious and earthy. Her smile could light up her whole body so that her skin glowed and her eyes gleamed with a reflected warmth that came straight from the heart.

  He’d wanted her from that first moment, not just in the biblical sense. Instinct warned it would be more than that. Much more.

  She was his most precious possession, and from the beginning he’d wanted to shield and protect her.

  There was no way he could sanction her flying off to the other side of the world without him. Or staying there alone. The timing, given his professional responsibility, couldn’t have been worse.

  A wry smile twisted his mouth. Financial wizardry was his speciality, and fate had been on his side. He could rescue a movie on the brink of foundering and employ emotional blackmail to salvage his marriage. What was it they said? Kill two birds with one stone.

  The movie didn’t present a problem. Sandrine, on the other hand, would be no easy victory.

  It was a challenge. The most important of his life, and one he was determined to win.

  A slight sound caught his attention, and he watched as she turned restlessly onto her back.

  She looked defenceless in sleep, he mused. Her skin smooth and translucent in the reflected hall light. Her eyelashes impossibly long, and her mouth soft and lushly curved.

  His emotions stirred into life, and he determinedly tamped them down as he gathered her into his arms and carried her back to the room they’d shared the previous night.

  She stirred slightly as he lowered her into bed, then she settled, and he removed his clothes and slid in beside her to lie silent and unmoving in the darkness until sleep finally claimed him long after the witching hour of midnight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SANDRINE woke slowly as gradual awareness dispensed one layer of unconsciousness after another, bringing with it the reality of a new day.

  Sunday, she determined with a restful sigh. No early-morning call, no studio.

  Then she remembered, and with memory came the realisation that she wasn’t in the bed or the room she’d retreated to last night.

  What’s more, she wasn’t alone.

  A masculine arm held her anchored closely against a very male frame. A very aroused male.

  Michel’s hand splayed over her stomach, and she could feel his steady, rhythmic heartbeat against her shoulder.

  Dear God.

  Seeking help from the Deity didn’t work. Nor did the fervent but faint hope she might be dreaming, for no one dreamed with their eyes open.

  Her thoughts reflected a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions as she rationalised what action she should take.

  If she kept her breathing even and she moved slowly, an inch at a time, maybe Michel wouldn’t notice, and eventually she’d be able to slip free from his grasp and the bed.

  A ridiculous strategy, she silently castigated herself seconds later when the slightest movement resulted in an involuntary tightening of his hold.

  What now? Jab her elbow into his ribs? Thump a fist against his forearm? Maybe both? Yes, that might work.

  ‘Planning your method of attack?’ a deep voice drawled far too close to one ear.

  ‘You got it in one,’ she responded thickly, aiming a vicious jab with her elbow…and missed as he successfully deflected the manoeuvre. Kicking her heel against his shins didn’t make an impression at all, and she uttered a growl in rage. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘S’il vous plaît?’ he queried musingly.

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘If you want to play…’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she retorted vengefully as she twisted helplessly to free herself.

  ‘Not particularly. I prefer a woman to be pliant and willing in my arms.’

  ‘Fat chance!’

  ‘You would like me to prove how easily I can change your mind?’

  Sandrine lay very still as she attempted to control the sudden hitch in her breathing. All too easily, she agreed silently, much to her chagrin.

  He buried his mouth in the soft curve of her neck, then trailed a path to her temple. His hand moved up to cup her breast, and her stomach muscles tightened against the onslaught of sensation.

  ‘Is this where you insist I fulfil my part of the bargain?’

  With one easy movement he rolled onto his back and carried her with him to straddle his waist. His features were dark, accentuated by the visible evidence of a night’s growth of beard. His eyes held a watchful quality, assessing and vaguely analytical.

  This, this, she qualified shakily, could prove highly dangerous.

  He resembled a lazy tiger, supine, visually content, but exuding a primitive degree of power. One wrong word or move on her part and she entertained no doubt his indolent facade would swiftly vanish.

  Her position was extremely tenuous, to say the least.

  He lifted a hand and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, then slid them forward to cup her chin. ‘Your definition, not mine.’

  He pressed his thumb against the centre of her lower lip, and acute sensation quivered through her body. ‘I moved into another room by choice.’

  ‘And I brought you back here.’

  ‘Because you don’t like sleeping alone?’ she queried with deliberate sarcasm.

  ‘Sex isn’t necessarily a prerequisite to sharing the nuptial bed.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? Of you?’

  He was silent for several telling seconds, and when he spoke his voice was so silky it sent shivers scudding down the length of her spine. ‘I have a vivid memory of the long nights we shared, chérie.’

  So did she. Nights when she became a willing wanton in his arms as she embraced a sensual feast so erotic there were times when she wept from the joy of it.

  ‘That was then,’ Sandrine said slowly, and glimpsed his wry smile.

  ‘And this is now, hmm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, let’s get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.’ In one smooth movement he lifted her to stand on the floor, then he swept aside the covers and slid to his feet.

  Clothes, bathroom, she decided, in that order, gathering jeans and a stretch rib-knit top. Seconds later she was safely ensconced behind a closed door with, she hoped, total privacy.

  There were no locks on the internal doors, and she took a quick shower, dressed, then emerged to find the bedroom empty.

  Sandrine descended the stairs and followed the aroma of freshly brewed coffee to the kitchen, where Michel looked completely at ease breaking eggs into a bowl while a skillet heated on the stove top. Dressed in black designer jeans and a white polo-neck knit shirt, he looked indecently male.

  His actions reminded her of the breakfasts they’d shared and their easy camaraderie. Then, she would have teased him mercilessly, applauded his skill and uttered a husky laugh as he carried her back to the bedroom.

  Now, she silently filled two glasses with orange juice, poured the coffee and transferred everything onto the table.

  Michel placed one plate with a steaming omelette before her, then settled in the seat opposite.

  Her stomach felt as if it were tied in knots, and it irked her considerably that his appetite didn’t appear in the least affected.

  Sandrine forked a few morsels into her mouth, bit off a segment of toast, then sipped the strong black coffee.

  Michel refilled his cup, added sugar, then pushed his empty plate to one side and sank back in his chair. ‘We have the day. What do you suggest we do with it?’

  She replaced her cup on its saucer and met his steady gaze with equanimi
ty. ‘I plan to go shopping.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Food,’ she answered succinctly. ‘Staples such as bread, milk, eggs, fruit.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Take the car and explore a little.’

  Michel rose to his feet and began clearing the table. ‘I’ll drive. You can play navigator.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He cast her a musing glance that held a hint of patient forbearance. ‘We’ll take in the supermarket, then explore.’

  ‘Since when did I become we?’

  His silence was telling, his expression equally so, and she was the one to break his gaze as she gathered up a few spreads and carried them to the refrigerator.

  ‘What if I’d prefer to be alone?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Sandrine.’

  It took only minutes to rinse and stack the few plates in the dishwasher, then Sandrine collected her shoulder-bag, slid sunglasses atop her head and walked through to the garage, uncaring whether Michel followed or not.

  Sanctuary Cove village comprised a wide variety of up-market stores and trendy boutiques, numerous cafés and restaurants and was accessed via two bricked lanes whose median strip held immaculately trimmed palm trees. The adjoining grounds fringed a lush green golf course, which seasonally hosted international competitions.

  The few grocery staples required to boost supplies could have been selected in five minutes, but Sandrine deliberated over the choice of fruit, the varieties of lettuce, and opted to visit the local bakery rather than select packaged sliced bread.

  Michel added a few selections of his own and appeared mildly amused when she rejected more than one.

  Half an hour later they retreated to the villa, stored their purchases and returned to the car.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘There are mountains, beaches, theme parks,’ Sandrine responded as Michel eased the car through the security gate. ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Noosa.’

  She cast him a startled glance. ‘That’s more than a two-hour drive north.’

  He gave a slight shrug. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  He reached a large roundabout and circled it. ‘Navigate, Sandrine.’

  She directed him onto the multilane highway where they joined the swift flow of traffic travelling north, and after an hour they took the Sunshine Coast bypass.

  Soon they were driving through farmland devoted to sugarcane, avocados, pineapples, strawberries and a variety of fruit trees. Small country towns reflected a slower-paced lifestyle, old-style buildings mingling with modern, and in the distance lay the brooding range of bush-clad hills, a deep blue-green against the azure skyline.

  ‘The Glasshouse Mountains,’ Sandrine revealed, studying the tour-guide booklet. ‘Montville, Maleny. Craft ware, quaint teashops, picturesque.’

  ‘We’ll go there tomorrow.’

  She frowned and cast him a quick glance. It was difficult to determine anything from his expression for his eyes were shaded by dark sunglasses and his focus was on the road ahead.

  ‘What do you mean…tomorrow?’ she demanded.

  ‘We’ll detour through on the way back to the Coast,’ Michel explained patiently.

  ‘You intend for us to stay overnight in Noosa?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘You’re darn right it’s a problem. I don’t have a change of clothes for a start,’ she said heatedly.

  ‘It’s a tourist strip. The shops will be open. We’ll buy what we need.’

  She turned on him with ill-concealed anger. ‘Did you plan this?’

  ‘It seems foolish to travel back to the Coast tonight, only to turn around and return again tomorrow,’ he said reasonably.

  ‘You could have asked me!’

  ‘And given you the opportunity to refuse?’ She shot him a fulminating glare. ‘I dislike being hijacked.’

  ‘Look on it as an adventure.’

  Some adventure! If she managed to get through the next thirty-six hours without hitting him, it would be a miracle.

  ‘If I’d known you had this in mind, I’d have brought along the script. It might have escaped your attention, but I’m due on the set Tuesday and I need to study my lines!’

  ‘I have it on good authority the lines are few, and unless the scene needs to be reshot, you should be done by midday.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Hate is a strong emotion and, as such, better than indifference.’

  ‘You just missed the turn-off.’

  ‘Caused by a navigational distraction?’ he mocked as he decelerated, then swung the car into a wide turn.

  Her lips tightened, and she refrained from uttering a further word except for curt, explicit instructions.

  Michel chose the most up-market hotel resort on the main Hastings Street strip, relinquished the vehicle for valet parking, then led her into the main foyer to register.

  It would serve him right if the hotel was fully booked, she reflected vengefully. Luck wasn’t on her side as Michel completed the necessary paperwork and accepted a card folder with their room security tags.

  Their suite overlooked the river towards a bank of riverfront mansions, Sandrine discovered on crossing to the window. The tranquil vista exuded a different ambience from that of the Gold Coast.

  ‘Lunch,’ Michel declared. ‘Let’s go find a place to eat.’

  Sandrine turned towards him. ‘I don’t want to be part of a game you’ve chosen to play.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘You’re a superb tactician, Michel,’ she acknowledged dryly.

  ‘Is that a compliment, or a condemnation?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Merci,’ he returned with wry humour. ‘What game is it you imagine I’m playing?’

  ‘One of revenge.’

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘Choosing to keep you in suspense as to when I begin collecting on our deal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He wanted to cross the room and shake her until she pleaded for mercy. Instead, he thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and controlled the timbre of his voice. ‘What if I said tonight?’

  Something inside her stomach curled into a hard, painful ball. ‘Why wait? Why not now?’

  She reached for the buttons on her blouse and slowly undid one, then the other, forcing her fingers to remain steady until all the buttons were freed.

  ‘Do you have any specific requirements?’ Dear heaven, how could she sound so calm when inside she was shaking like a leaf?

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘You’re the one calling the shots.’ She slid the blouse off one shoulder, then the other, and draped it carelessly over a nearby chair. As her fingers went to the snap fastening on her jeans, she looked over at him. ‘Aren’t you going to get out of your clothes?’

  How far would she go? ‘When you’re done,’ Michel drawled, calling her bluff, ‘you can undress me.’

  Pain arrowed through her body, so acute it almost made her wince. Act, a tiny voice prompted. You’re good at it.

  Sandrine managed a faint shrug. ‘If that’s what turns you on.’ She slid the zip down on her jeans and slowly eased the denim over her hips. She slipped off her joggers, lifted one leg free, then the other, and tossed the jeans on top of the blouse.

  He wasn’t going to let her go through with this, was he?

  She stood in briefs and bra, and although they covered her more adequately than a bikini, she felt vulnerable and exposed.

  He stood perfectly still, his gaze steady and unblinking as she looked at him.

  Damn him, he wasn’t going to help her out. With slow, sure steps she crossed to where he stood. His shirt was short-sleeved with three buttons at the neck. She caught hold of the knit fabric on either side of his rib cage and pulled it free from his waistband. Then she tugged upwards with little success until he obligingly raised his arms and lowered his head to accommodate the shirt’s easy remova
l.

  Too much. He really was much too much, she muttered silently. The spread of his shoulders, the breadth of chest, the strong musculature that rippled and bunched with every movement.

  She threw the shirt in the path of her blouse and jeans, then turned back and reached for the snap on his jeans, pulled it open, then stifled a soft curse.

  Buttons. No zip for easy unfastening. Each one presented a fresh torture. Her fingers fumbled, and she felt totally inadequate for the task. It didn’t help any that the denim was stretched tight against a hard male arousal.

  She could, she reasoned, literally throw up her hands and tell him to complete the task himself. Except she was darned if she’d allow him the satisfaction of winning a challenge. She could almost hear his musing drawl, see the faint mockery in those dark eyes as he finished discarding his clothes.

  As he would, if only to witness her discomfort, she determined as she dealt with another button.

  How things had changed, she reflected wryly. In the not-too-distant past she’d have laughed and delighted in the task, taking pleasure in teasing him outrageously and exulting in his reaction.

  Now, he had control while she slipped into such a state of nerves she couldn’t even manage something as simple as undoing a series of buttons!

  Just do it, the tiny voice urged. Slip into pretend mode and imagine he’s someone who means nothing to you.

  There, it was done. Stretch fashion jeans possessed one inescapable flaw. They were the very devil for someone else to remove! Tailored trousers wouldn’t have presented any problem, but jeans were a different story, she decided, gritting her teeth as she tugged the fabric down over powerful thighs.

  The action brought her face close to a vulnerable part of his anatomy, and she entertained the brief vindictive thought that with one quick movement she could cause him considerable pain. The consequences, however, wouldn’t be worth it.

  In a few swift movements he slid off his joggers, then stepped out of his jeans and kicked them to one side. Fine black silk skimmed his hips and couched his manhood, emphasising olive skin roughened by hair and a male frame in superb physical shape.

  Sandrine momentarily closed her eyes, then opened them again. Michel wasn’t an unknown lover. Why hesitate?