The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  A secret smile curved her lips as she slipped under the covers. He wanted to play games, huh? Well, let the games begin!

  It gave her satisfaction to devise one scheme after another until sleep claimed her and tipped her into a world of dreams where Michel was alternately lover and devil, the location changed from one side of the world to another and became a film set where she was centre stage without any recollection of her lines.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SANDRINE came sharply awake to the shrilling sound of her digital alarm and automatically reached out a hand to turn it off. Except she was on the wrong side of the bed, and her fingers came into contact with a hard, warm male shoulder.

  Michel. She tore her hand away as he uttered a muffled Gallic curse and reared into a sitting position.

  ‘My alarm,’ she explained sweetly as she slipped out of bed and crossed round to still the strident sound. The illuminated numerals registered four-thirty. ‘Sorry if it woke you.’

  She wasn’t sorry at all. It was payback time for last night, and victory was sweet.

  Drapes covered the wall of glass, filtering the early dawn light. This was Queensland, and the height of summer when the sun rose soon after four in the morning.

  Sandrine crossed to the walk-in robe, selected jeans and a sleeveless ribbed top, then she collected fresh underwear and stepped into the adjoining en suite.

  Ten minutes later she emerged, dressed, her face completely devoid of any make-up and her hair twisted into a loose knot at her nape.

  She didn’t give the bed or its occupant a single glance as she caught up her bag and exited the room.

  In the kitchen she extracted fresh orange juice, drank it, then picked up a banana and made her way through to the garage.

  Fifteen minutes later she was in make-up, mentally going over her lines while the wizard in cosmetic artistry began transforming her for the camera.

  On reflection, it was not a happy day. Everyone was edgy, tempers flared as the temperature rose, and professionalism was strained to the limit.

  It hadn’t helped when Michel put in an appearance on the set after the lunch break. He stood in the background, his presence unquestioned given his possible investment, an apparently interested observer of the film-making process as the actors went through their paces…again and again as Tony sought perfection in his quest to impress.

  No matter how hard Sandrine tried to ignore her indomitable husband, he was there, a constant on the edge of her peripheral vision, ensuring that her total focus was shot to hell.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded sotto voce during a break from filming.

  Michel leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘Chérie, is that any way to greet your husband?’

  ‘Please. Go away.’

  She caught a glimpse of humour lurking at the edge of his mouth and bit back the need to scream.

  ‘If I’m going to invest a considerable amount of money in order to salvage this venture,’ he drawled, ‘I think I should check out the action.’

  ‘This is supposed to be a closed set.’

  ‘I’m here at Tony’s invitation.’

  ‘Very cleverly baited, I imagine, so that our esteemed director took the hook?’

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know me so well.’

  No, she wanted to refute. I thought I did, but now I feel I hardly know you at all.

  ‘How long do you intend to stay?’

  ‘On the set? Until you finish for the day.’ He lifted a hand and brushed gentle fingers across one cheek. ‘Why? Does my presence bother you?’

  She sharpened her verbal claws. ‘Isn’t that your purpose?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you read through your lines?’ Michel countered, watching as she turned without a word and crossed to pick up her copy of the script.

  It didn’t help any that Cait Lynden chose that moment to exert her considerable feminine charm or that Michel appeared responsive, albeit politely so.

  A ploy to make her jealous? It’s working, isn’t it? a wretched little imp taunted.

  She watched them surreptitiously beneath veiled lashes and had to admit the blood simmered in her veins as Cait flirted outrageously with the deliberate touch of her hand on his sleeve, the wickedly sensual smile, the brazen knowledge evident in those glittering blue eyes.

  Sandrine felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she sightlessly scanned the upcoming scene in her copy of the script.

  Damn Michel. For every darn thing. And especially for invading her professional turf.

  ‘Okay, everyone. Places, please.’

  Thank heavens for small mercies, Sandrine accorded as she mentally prepared herself to be in character and silently rehearsed her few lines.

  It was late afternoon before Sandrine was dismissed from the set with the news she wouldn’t be required until Tuesday. The person responsible for continuity took the requisite Polaroid, and Sandrine went through the process of discarding the elegant costume and wig with help from the wardrobe assistant, then she removed her make-up and shook her hair free from the confining hairnet.

  The comparison between screen actress in character and the modern jean-clad girl was remarkable. So remarkable, she decided ruefully, that it was unlikely anyone would recognise her as being one and the same person.

  It was after five when she emerged into the parking lot, and she filched keys from her carry-bag as she walked towards her car.

  ‘Hoping to slip away undetected?’ Michel fell into step beside her, and she quickened her pace, choosing not to answer him.

  A minute later she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door, then slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine.

  A great exit line would have been Eat my dust, except the moment was dramatically reduced as her tyres squealed faintly on smooth bitumen, and she was forced to adhere to the low speed limit.

  However, once she hit the highway she put her foot down and let the speedometer needle soar as far as she dared without risk to life or limb or threat of a speeding ticket. It provided some release for the build-up of tension.

  Sandrine reached Sanctuary Cove in record time, and inside the villa she ran lightly upstairs, changed into a maillot, grabbed a towel, retraced her steps and went out to the pool.

  The water was refreshingly cool, and she stroked several lengths of the pool before turning onto her back and lazily allowing the buoyancy of the water to keep her afloat.

  It was all too easy to allow her thoughts to wander and reflect on the day’s events.

  And Michel.

  She hadn’t slept well and had spent much of her waking hours wondering at her sanity in sharing the same bed. It was madness, an act that amounted to masochism. For to lie so close, yet be so far from him, attacked her emotional foundation and tore it to shreds.

  What would he have done if she’d reached out and touched him? If he’d ignored her, she’d have died. Yet if he’d responded, how could she hope to handle the aftermath?

  Such an act could only amount to sexual gratification and achieve nothing except provide mutual satisfaction. Akin to scratching an itch.

  The attuning of heart, mind and soul would be missing, and somehow just sex wasn’t enough.

  She was mad. Insane, she added mentally. Any other woman would catch hold of Michel’s coat-tails, exult in all that his wealth and social prestige could provide and hang in there for the ride.

  And what a ride! Even the thought of it sent warmth flooding through her body. Each separate nerve end quivered in anticipation, and sensation wreaked havoc with her equilibrium.

  It had been bad enough when they were oceans apart. Now that he was here, it was a thousand times worse.

  Magic, she thought. Highly sensitised, sensual sorcery of a kind that defied valid description. Trans-muted in the touch, the look, the promise…and the anticipation.

  To part after a long night of loving and count each hour until they could be together again. To counte
r and feed that need with a phone call, a softly spoken promise. The delivery of a single red rose. That special look lovers exchange in a room filled with people. And the waiting, the wanting.

  Was it love? The to-die-for, till-death-us-do-part kind of loving? Or was it sexual satiation, a sensual nirvana?

  She’d thought it was both until their first serious argument. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Pleasant thoughts, I trust?’

  The faintly inflected drawl caused her to jackknife and turn towards the tall male figure standing close to the pool’s edge.

  Michel had discarded his jacket and tie and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. His hair looked slightly ruffled, as if he’d dragged impatient fingers through its groomed length.

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’ she demanded.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Watching her unobserved almost amounted to an invasion of privacy, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  A few strokes brought her to the side of the pool, and she levered herself easily to sit on its edge. Her towel lay out of reach on a lounger, and she rose to her feet, then caught it up in one quick movement.

  His faint amusement didn’t go unnoticed, and she determinedly blotted the excess moisture from her body before tending to her hair.

  ‘I’ve booked a table for dinner at the Hyatt.’

  Sandrine heard the words but momentarily chose to ignore them.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy the meal,’ she managed calmly. ‘I’ve heard the chef has an excellent reputation.’

  ‘For two,’ Michel informed her. ‘At seven.’

  ‘I shan’t wait up.’

  ‘You have an hour to shower and get ready.’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  ‘Damn, you try my patience!’

  ‘And you try mine!’

  ‘Is it unacceptable to want to share a meal with my wife in pleasant surroundings?’

  ‘No,’ Sandrine said sweetly. ‘Providing your wife is willing. And in this instance, she’s not!’

  ‘Sandrine—’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Michel.’ She tried for quiet dignity but didn’t quite make it. Her eyes speared his, dark and intense with emotion. ‘I refuse to fall in with every suggestion you make.’

  ‘You prefer to eat here?’

  ‘Don’t you get it? I don’t want to share a meal with you. Anywhere.’ A faint tremor shook her body, and she tightened her grip on the towel.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘How perceptive,’ she mocked. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go take a hot shower.’ As she moved past him, she endeavoured to ignore the sheer magnetism of the man. And her body’s traitorous reaction.

  Two more weeks, she reasoned as she ran lightly upstairs. Maybe less. And filming would be over. At least, her participation would finish. Could she go the distance, living in the same villa, sharing the same bed as the man who was bent on using any advantage he could gain?

  Sandrine reached her bedroom and crossed into the adjoining en suite. A swift turn of the dial and warm water cascaded onto the tiled floor of the shower.

  It took only seconds to strip the wet Lycra from her body, and she stepped into the large cubicle, reached for the bottle of shampoo, then began the task of lathering it through her hair.

  Ten minutes later she emerged into the bedroom and came to a sudden halt at the sight of Michel in the process of discarding his clothes.

  ‘Finished?’

  Sandrine’s left hand flew to the towel carelessly caught in a knot between her breasts, and with her right she steadied the towel wound high on her head.

  ‘There are two other bathrooms on this level,’ she pointed out in a slightly strangled voice.

  ‘You object to sharing?’

  Oh, my, he was good. Reasonable, faintly teasing beneath the edge of cynicism.

  ‘Yes,’ she returned, regaining her equilibrium as she crossed the room to collect fresh underwear. ‘Considering your main purpose is to unsettle me.’

  ‘An admission I’m succeeding, Sandrine?’

  She’d fallen straight into that one, hadn’t she? ‘Not at all,’ she responded calmly, and knew she lied. Her entire nervous system jangled at the very thought of him.

  Watching Michel as he crossed the room to the bathroom created a havoc all of its own as she took in his broad frame, the muscular set of his shoulders, superb pectorals, the hard-packed diaphragm and firm waist.

  She controlled a faint shiver at the thought of what it felt like to be held close, to feel the strength in those arms as he enfolded her firmly within them.

  It was almost possible to breathe in the musky aroma of his skin, the clean freshness of the soap he used, the male cologne. Sense the way he tasted when her mouth joined with his, the faintly abrasive and moist slide as their tongues caressed and explored in an erotic mating dance.

  The essence of his sex, the degree of power she experienced in taking him to the brink of his control, the way that large male body shook as he tumbled over the edge. Man at his most vulnerable.

  Sandrine tried to restrain the way heat flared through her body, but she failed as the image of his lovemaking rose to taunt her.

  He had the look, the touch, the power to drive a woman wild. And much to her chagrin, there was a part of her that wanted him badly. Without question or recrimination.

  She heard the faint buzz of his electric razor, followed minutes later by the fall of water in the shower stall.

  She immediately visualised Michel’s naked form, his potent masculinity, the impressive power sheathed at the apex of his thighs.

  Focus, concentrate, remember the accusations they’d exchanged seven weeks ago, she silently raged as she discarded the towel and stepped into briefs, then fastened her bra before pulling on a pair of jeans and a cotton top.

  That fateful night she had looked at Michel…someone she’d loved with all her heart, in whom she had implicit trust, and believed their lives, their love, were forever entwined…and now it was like looking at a stranger.

  With an irritated gesture, Sandrine unwound the towel from her head and shook out hair that fell in a cloud of sable silk onto her shoulders.

  How did the axiom go? Marry in haste, repent at leisure?

  She reached for the hair dryer, plugged it in, then began combing the warm air through her hair.

  What would have happened if she’d stayed? If she’d cancelled her flight and risked a breach of contract? Would they have resolved anything? Or had her abrupt departure merely precipitated their separation?

  Seven weeks. Weeks that could be viewed as a brief respite, or a lifetime, depending on the interpretation.

  ‘You intend wearing casual gear to dinner?’

  Sandrine reached forward and switched off the hair dryer. Via mirrored reflection, she saw him discard the towel, step into briefs, then pull on tailored trousers before crossing to the wardrobe and extracting a shirt.

  ‘I hadn’t planned on dressing up.’ She caught her hair and began winding it into a knot.

  ‘Leave it loose.’

  Her hands didn’t falter as she fastened the knot with pins. ‘It’s cooler if I wear it up.’

  Michel buttoned his shirt, fastened his trousers, then pulled on socks and shoes.

  ‘No make-up?’

  ‘Why?’ Sandrine countered. ‘I’m not planning on going anywhere.’

  His expression didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. ‘I leave in five minutes, Sandrine. With, or without you. Your choice.’

  She turned to face him. ‘You could always ring Cait. She’d just die to share anything with you.’ Without a further word, she walked from the room and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  A tin of salmon and a tossed salad were poor substitutes for the appetiser, main course, fruit and cheese board Michel would no doubt enjoy with table service, a fine wine, subdued lighting and soft ba
ckground music. She told herself she didn’t care as she heard him exit the house, followed by the start of a car engine.

  Half an hour later she rinsed the few plates she’d used, placed them in the dishwasher, then filled a glass with bottled water and crossed into the lounge to watch television.

  At ten she dimmed the lights and went upstairs to bed. For a few minutes she dithered over which bed, rationalising that the main bedroom was hers, and if Michel was determined to make it his, then he could damn well suffer because she didn’t intend to move.

  Yet sharing the bed was akin to playing with fire, and no way did she want to get burned. To slip into the convenience of pleasurable sex wasn’t on her agenda.

  With that thought in mind she collected linen and made up the bed in a room farthest from the one Michel had designated his own. Then she moved a few essentials in clothes and toiletries and determinedly slid between cool percale sheets, then turned out the light.

  Moonlight shone through in between the painted wooden shutters, and after what seemed an interminable length of time spent tossing and turning, she padded across to the window to adjust them.

  Sleep was never more distant, and she did the yoga thing, counted sheep and endeavoured to think pleasant, relaxing thoughts. Except the image that rose to taunt her belonged to Michel, and she rolled onto her stomach and punched the pillow.

  Her room faced the water and was therefore at the opposite end of the house to the garage. Was he home yet? She hadn’t heard so much as a sound to indicate he’d returned.

  Maybe some gorgeous female had insisted on sharing his table and right this minute they were caught up in a web of harmless seduction. Or would it be harmless? Michel was a practised raconteur, and charm personified. He also possessed an indefinable sensual aura that had most women conjuring up every ploy in the book to attract his attention.

  Sandrine played numerous different scenarios in her mind, damning Michel in every one of them until her subconscious mind took her deeper into vivid dreams that seemed no less real.

  It was after eleven when the powerful car whispered to a halt in the garage. Michel entered the house and turned out lights as he gained the upper floor.