The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

Madeleine Lanier was a pussycat. An aged, very fiercely loyal lady, who guarded her family with her life. But a pussycat, nonetheless.

  Anneke spared Sebastian a mischievous smile, and met his gleaming gaze, saw the faint shrug of resignation that accompanied it.

  ‘You are going to marry her, of course.’

  ‘Of course, Grandmère. I just haven’t got around to asking her yet.’

  Madeleine stopped in her tracks, turned and directed her grandson a baleful glare. ‘And why not?’

  Anneke didn’t know whether to smile or cry, for there was a very strong possibility jet lag had caused her to imagine the entire conversation.

  The glare shifted to Anneke. ‘You do want to marry Sebastian?’

  This was the craziest discourse she’d ever entered into! ‘If he asks me, I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  They took coffee in the conservatory. And tea. With tiny petits fours and dainty sandwiches. Then Madeleine shooed them upstairs.

  ‘Your luggage will be in your usual suite, Sebastian. Breakfast,’ she declared regally, ‘is served at eight. Don’t be late.’

  The staircase was wide and curved gently upwards in a sweeping arc to the upper floor central landing, from which a wide corridor stretched in both directions.

  Sebastian turned to the right and traversed the corridor to its end, then opened the door to an elegant suite with views out over the Seine.

  Anneke slipped out of her shoes and crossed to the window. It was drizzling, and what she could see of the city was shrouded in damp mist.

  In spring, in summer, it would be clear, the skies a delicate blue, and there would be colour instead of the grey of winter.

  Hard, masculine arms closed round her waist and linked together over her stomach, and she leaned back against him.

  She felt weary almost beyond belief. She wanted nothing more than a long, hot shower, and a comfortable bed.

  ‘I love you,’ Sebastian said gently. ‘I planned to ask you to marry me over a candlelit dinner on Christmas Eve, with champagne, a single red rose, the gift of my mother’s ring. To introduce you to the family on the day we present and open gifts. Noël.’

  His lips touched the vulnerable spot just beneath her ear, and she turned to meet his mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  It had been that easy. His arms tightened fractionally. ‘No qualifications?’

  ‘Two. We do the Christmas Eve thing, and you bring me back to Paris in the spring.’

  His smile stole her heart. ‘You’re beautiful, mon ange. My life.’

  Anneke reached up and brought his mouth down to hers.’ Je t’aime, mon amour. Je t’aime.’

  Family, Anneke reflected as she stood within the circle of Sebastian’s arms after breakfast on Christmas morning.

  The elegant lounge was filled with various aunts and uncles, cousins. And children. Madeleine Lanier’s great-grandchildren. Beautifully dressed, exquisitely groomed, and extremely well behaved. Madeleine would not have tolerated it otherwise.

  She glanced across the room and met the eyes of the gracious old lady, and smiled.

  Everyone together in peace and harmony. Sharing, caring. Hopes and dreams. Gifts and giving.

  For Madeleine Lanier, this house, her family, represented a lifetime of memories.

  And Anneke had gifted and been given the greatest gift of all.

  Love.

  The Marriage Deal

  Helen Bianchin

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘CUT,’ the director called. ‘That’s a wrap.’

  They were the sweetest words she’d heard all day, Sandrine decided as she lifted a hand to ease the weight of her elaborate wig.

  Period costume was not the most comfortable wearing apparel, nor was the boned, tightly laced corselet worn to achieve an eighteen-inch waist and push her breasts impossibly high and bare them almost to the point of indecent exposure.

  Add the heat of the studio lights, a lead actor who had an inflated ego and delusions of grandeur, the director from hell, and the axiom, ‘One should suffer in the name of one’s art’, had never been more pertinent.

  ‘A word, sweetheart.’

  From Tony’s lips, sweetheart was not a term of endearment, and she froze, then she turned slowly to face the aging director whose talent was legend, but whose manner on occasion belonged in a backstreet of Naples.

  ‘Dinner tonight, my place. Seven.’ Hard dark eyes speared hers. ‘Be there.’ He turned his head and swept an arm to encompass five of her fellow actors. ‘Everyone.’

  Sandrine stifled a faint groan. All she wanted to do was to change, shower, put on her own clothes and drive to the waterfront villa she called home for the duration of filming, catch a snack and read through her lines for tomorrow.

  ‘Do we get to ask why?’ the lead actor queried petulantly.

  ‘Money. The film needs it. My guest has it,’ the director declared succinctly. ‘If his request to meet the cast will clinch an essential injection of funds, so be it.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Sandrine reiterated, and suffered the dark lance of his gaze.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  If she did, voicing it would do no good at all, and she affected an eloquent shrug in resignation. ‘I guess not.’

  He swung an eagle eye over the rest of the cast. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘You could have given us more notice,’ the lead actor complained, and earned an earthy oath for his temerity.

  ‘Difficult, when the man only arrived in the country yesterday.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I get the picture.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ was the cryptic response. ‘Continuity,’ he commanded, and Sandrine gave a heartfelt sigh.

  Fifteen minutes later she was done with wardrobe, and she crossed the car park and slid in behind the wheel of her hire-car. Dressed in casual shorts and top, her long sable hair wound into a careless knot atop her head made for comfort in the intense afternoon heat.

  Sandrine activated the air-conditioning the instant the engine purred into life, and minutes later she gained the main southern highway.

  Her leased accommodation was a two-level villa overlooking water at Sanctuary Cove, a prestigious suburb on Queensland’s Gold Coast, only a ten-minute drive from the Coomera film studios.

  She activated the CD player as she took the Hope Island–Sanctuary Cove exit ramp and let the funky beat ease the kinks of a rough day.

  A tree-lined river wound its way towards a man-made canal system, a nest of beautiful homes and the lush grounds of a popular golf course.

  A view that exuded peace and tranquillity, she conceded as she veered towards Sanctuary Cove, then, clear of the security gate guarding the entrance to one of several residential areas, she took the gently curved road leading to the clutch of two-level villas hugging the waterfront.

  Cement-rendered brick, painted pale blue with white trim, pebbled gardens adorned with decorative urns provided a pleasant, refreshing facade, Sandrine acknowledged as she used a remote control to open the garage door.

  Inside, there was an abundance of cool marble floors, sleek lacquered furniture, soft leather sofas and chairs, and the kitchen was a gourmand’s delight with a wealth of modern appliances. The open-plan design was pleasing, encompassing a wide curved staircase at the far end of the foyer leading to a gallery circling the upper floor, where three large bedrooms, each with an en suite, reposed.

  Wide, sliding glass doors opened from the lounge and dining room onto a paved terrace that led to a private swimming pool. There was also a boat ramp.

  Sandrine discarded her bag, changed into a bikini and spent precious minutes exercising by swimming a few laps of the pool. She needed the physical release, the coolness of the water, in a bid to rid herself of the persistent edge of tension.

  A shower did much to restore her energy level, and she towelled her hair, then used a hand-held dryer to complete the process before crossing to the l
arge walk-in robe.

  Basic black, she decided as she riffled through her limited wardrobe. A social existence hadn’t been uppermost in her mind when she’d hurriedly packed for this particular sojourn, and most of her clothes were divided between three luxurious homes far distant from this temporary residence.

  Don’t even think about those homes or the man she’d shared them with, she determined as she cast a designer gown onto the bed, then extracted stiletto-heeled pumps and an evening bag in matching black.

  Yet the image invaded her mind, his broad, sculpted features with their angles and planes hauntingly vivid. Slate-grey eyes seemed to pierce right through to her soul, and she shivered at the memory of his mouth, its sensual curves and the devastating skill of its touch.

  Michel Lanier. Mid-thirties, and ten years her senior. Successful entrepreneur, patron of the arts, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the features of a Renaissance prince and the skilled mentality of a street warrior. Born of French parents in Paris, he’d begun his education in France and completed it in America.

  Husband, lover. A man who’d swept her into his arms, his heart, and made her his wife.

  They’d met at the party of a mutual friend in New York. Sandrine had just completed a modelling assignment during a seasonal break and was due to return to Sydney the following week to resume the filming of a long-running Australian-based television series.

  Sandrine flew in with Michel at her side, and within a week she’d introduced him to her family, announced her engagement and had the script writers rewrite her part in the series. As soon as the chilling episodes filming her character’s accident and demise were completed, she accompanied Michel back to New York.

  Two months later they were married quietly in a very private ceremony among immediate family, and divided their time between New York and Paris. Michel bought a luxury apartment in Sydney’s prestigious Double Bay with magnificent views out over the harbour. Their Australian base, he explained.

  For six months everything was perfect. Too perfect, Sandrine reflected as she selected black underwear and donned it, then pulled on filmy black hose before crossing to the mirror to begin applying make-up.

  The problem had begun three months ago when they spent two weeks in Sydney and a friend gave her a script to read. The story was good, better than good, and she felt an immediate affinity with the supporting character. A vision of how the part should be played filled her head and refused to leave.

  Sandrine had known the production time frame wouldn’t fit in with Michel’s European schedule. She told herself there was no way he’d agree to her spending four weeks in Australia without him.

  On a whim she decided to audition, aware her chance of success was next to nil, and she’d almost dismissed it from her mind when, days later, they returned to New York.

  Her agent’s call confirming she had the part brought a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Production was due to begin in a month at the Coomera studios in Queensland.

  She signed the contract when it arrived but delayed telling Michel, all too aware what his reaction would be. Each day that passed had made the telling more difficult, until there were too few days left.

  A hundred times she’d rehearsed the words in her mind, yet none of them came out sounding right, and what began as a discussion rapidly digressed into an argument of such magnitude she’d simply thrown some clothes into a bag in the early hours of the morning and booked into a hotel until it was time to take her scheduled flight to Brisbane.

  Sandrine had qualified that four weeks wasn’t a lifetime, yet with every passing day the physical and spiritual distance between then widened to a point where she feared it might never be repaired.

  Worse, Murphy’s Law descended, and production had suffered one delay after another. An estimated four weeks extended to five, then six. Budget was shot to pieces as they went into their seventh week. The subtropical midsummer heat was a killer, and tempers frequently ran short as professionalism was pushed to the limit.

  Sandrine stood back from the mirror, secured the last pin in the simple knot of hair atop her head, then slid her feet into the elegant black pumps, collected her evening bag and made her way downstairs.

  The day’s high temperatures had gone down a notch or two, and there was a slight sea breeze teasing the early evening air as Sandrine crossed the paved apron to the entrance of Tony’s Main Beach apartment building.

  Minutes later she rode the lift to a designated floor and joined the group of fellow thespians enjoying a cool drink on the wide, curved balcony overlooking the ocean.

  A portable barbecue had been set up, and a hired chef was organising a selection of seafood, prawns and kebabs ready for grilling.

  Sandrine accepted a wine spritzer and sipped it slowly as she cast the guests an idle glance. All present and accounted for, with the exception of the guest of honour, she perceived, and pondered his identity.

  ‘Smile, darling. It’s almost “show time” and we’re expected to shine,’ a husky male voice intoned close to her ear.

  She turned slowly to face the lead actor, whose birth name had been changed by deed poll to Gregor Anders. He was handsome in a rugged, rakish way and took his studio-generated image far too seriously, acquiring so many layers during his professional career it was almost impossible to detect the real man beneath the projected persona.

  ‘Gregor,’ Sandrine greeted coolly, and summoned a smile to lessen the sting of her words. ‘I’m sure you’ll shine sufficiently for both of us.’

  It was easy to admire his ability as an actor. Not so easy to condone were the subtle games he played for his own amusement. Yet his name was a drawcard. Women adored his looks, his physique, his sex appeal.

  ‘Now, now, darling,’ he chided with a wolfish smile. ‘We’re supposed to share a rapport, n’est-ce pas?’ One eyebrow slanted in mocking query.

  ‘On screen, darling,’ she reminded sweetly, and remained perfectly still as he lifted a hand and traced his forefinger down the length of her arm.

  ‘But it is so much easier to extend the emotions beyond the screen for the duration of filming, don’t you agree?’

  Her eyes locked with his. ‘No.’

  ‘You should loosen up a little,’ he cajoled, exerting innate charm.

  ‘I play before the camera. Off the set, I suffer no illusions.’

  ‘Strong words,’ Gregor murmured. ‘I could ensure you regret them.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Sandrine protested. ‘Go play Mr Macho with one of the sweet young things who’ll simply swoon at the thought of receiving your attention.’

  ‘While you’ve never swooned over a man in your life?’

  You’re wrong, she almost contradicted, but held her tongue. Gossip ran rife and, in these circles, quickly became embellished until only a grain of recognisable truth remained.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She lifted her empty glass a few inches aloft, then turned and crossed to the bar.

  Within minutes she was taking a refreshing sip of orange juice. A waiter paused beside her and proffered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She smiled automatically, selected one, then took a delicate bite. It was delicious and brought an onset of hunger. A sandwich at lunch, followed by an apple and mineral water wasn’t much in the way of sustenance.

  Sandrine took a mini vol-au-vent and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘Where is the guest of honour?’ a feminine voice asked in bored tones, and she turned towards the attractive young lead actress.

  ‘Bent on making a grand entrance, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart.’

  The smile was a little too artificial, the voice a fraction too contrived. Cait Lynden had acquired star status and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Especially a fellow actress playing a minor part, Sandrine decided silently.

  ‘No one seems to know who he is,’ Cait mused. ‘A successful entrepreneur is all Tony will reveal.’ An acquisitive gleam darkened her beauti
ful blue eyes. ‘Obviously rich. As long as he’s presentable and under sixty, it could prove to be an interesting encounter.’

  ‘And single?’ Sandrine posed, only to hear the other’s musical laugh.

  ‘Darling, who cares?’

  Not Cait, obviously.

  Minutes later Sandrine detected a change in the buzz of conversation, a shift in tone definition that caused her to lift her head.

  So he had finally arrived. Almost a half-hour late.

  Some sixth sense alerted her attention, followed by a quick stab of apprehension.

  ‘Mine,’ Cait uttered, sotto voce.

  Even as Sandrine turned slowly to conduct a sweeping appraisal of the room, a telltale prickle of awareness slithered down the length of her spine.

  There was only one man who could generate this effect. One man whose soul was so closely attuned to her own they were almost twin halves of a whole.

  Sandrine caught sight of a tall male frame, felt the familiar tug on her senses as she recognised the broad-boned, chiselled profile, the dark, conventionally groomed hair, which seven weeks ago had lain longer at his nape, adding a refined, untamed quality that was equally as dangerous as the man himself.

  She’d adored threading her fingers through the silky thickness, the purchase it lent when she held fast his head and simply clung during the slow, exquisite torture of his lovemaking, the dazzling heat of their passion.

  Those had been the wild, sweet days when there had been only love to guide them, she reflected. A time when she’d given him everything without thought of denial.

  Now she watched Michel while he paused in conversation to lift his head as if he, too, sensed her presence. Dark grey eyes locked with hers, probing, intense, and totally lacking in any humour or warmth.

  Time stood still as everything and everyone in the room faded to the periphery of her vision.

  There was only Michel. The man, the moment, the exigent chemistry evident. She could sense it, feel its powerful pull as she became caught up in the magical spell of something so intensely primitive she felt raw, exposed and acutely vulnerable.