The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Briefly to recap, when the completed film is delivered to us from the studio, it receives a private viewing by several people, about thirty in all. Various meetings are held to discuss the target market, what age group the film will most appeal to, which segments should be selected for the trailer.’ It was an involved process, and one in which she excelled. ‘We need to determine which shots will appear in press releases to television and the media, overseas and locally.’

  Raoul noted the way her skin took on a glow beneath the muted lighting, the small gestures she used to emphasis a point. The liking for her job seemed genuine, and her enthusiasm didn’t appear to be contrived. Unless he was mistaken, this was no hard sell by a corporate executive intent on personal success at any price.

  ‘In order to heighten public awareness of the film, we’ll organize a fashion shoot with one or more of the prestige fashion magazines, and arrange coverage in at least two of the major national weekly magazines. As well as local and interstate newspapers.’

  The waiter approached the table and set down their selected starters, and almost on cue the wine steward appeared to top up their drinks.

  ‘It would be advantageous to utilize Sandrine’s modeling connections to the fullest extent,’ Stephanie continued as she reached for her cutlery. ‘We’ll also arrange for you to be present at a few social events and organize media coverage. Press interviews will be set up with the main actors and a few of the cast, the release of which appear simultaneously to draw public attention to the film.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Michel drawled, incurring a sharp glance from his wife.

  ‘Laudable,’ Raoul inclined in agreement. ‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate—your degree of dedication to this particular project?’

  ‘Total,’ she responded, then qualified evenly, ‘With one exception. In terms of personal family crisis, my daughter Emma takes precedence.’

  ‘Not optimum,’ Raoul discounted, employing an edge of ruthlessness.

  A deliberate strategy to place her behind the eight ball? ‘You have no obligations whatsoever, Mr. Lanier?’ she posed smoothly. ‘No wife or mistress who has license to your time?’ Her gaze lanced his, level, unwavering, undeterred by the warning glint apparent. ‘Or does business consume your life to the exclusion of all else?’

  It was possible to hear a pin drop within the immediate vicinity of their table. No one, she imagined, had dared to confront Raoul Lanier in such a manner.

  ‘A subtle query on your part?’ Raoul posed with hateful amusement. ‘As to whether I have a wife?’

  ‘Your marital status is of no interest to me whatsoever,’ she responded evenly. It was the truth. ‘And you didn’t answer the question.’

  Would she be so brave if they were alone? Perhaps, he accorded silently, sufficiently intrigued to discover if the bravado was merely a facade.

  ‘I allow myself leisure time.’

  His drawled response set her teeth on edge, and she summoned a sweet smile. ‘Sensible of you.’

  She had no answer for the sensual tension electrifying the air between them. Or for the insane desire to challenge him to a verbal fencing match. It was almost as if some invisible imp was prompting her into battle, and putting words in her mouth she would normally never utter.

  ‘I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced in locating a baby-sitter at such short notice?’ Sandrine queried in what Stephanie perceived as a skilled attempt to switch the subject of conversation.

  ‘Fortunately not.’

  Sandrine offered a wry smile. ‘The Lanier brothers tend to snap their fingers and expect immediate action.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Stephanie responded dryly.

  ‘Can I persuade you to try some wine, Stephanie?’ Michel intervened smoothly. ‘Half a glass won’t affect your ability to drive.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  The waiter unobtrusively removed their plates, inquired if the starter was to their satisfaction, then retreated.

  Raoul leaned back in his chair and subjected Stephanie to an analytical appraisal. The subdued lighting emphasized delicate bone structure, lent a soft glow to her skin and accentuated the blue depth of her eyes.

  She possessed a lush mouth, full and softly curved, and he watched it draw in slightly, caught the faint tightening of muscles at the edge of her jaw as she became aware of his deliberate assessment.

  For one infinitesimal second her eyes blazed fire, and he noted the imperceptible movement as she attempted to minimize a convulsive swallow.

  Not so controlled, he decided with satisfaction, aware that it would provide an interesting challenge to explore the exigent chemistry between them.

  How would that mouth feel beneath the pressure of his own? There was a part of him that wanted to ruffle her composure, test the level of her restraint, and handle the aftermath.

  Stephanie barely restrained the impulse to hit him. He was deliberately needling her, like a supine panther who’d sighted a prey within reach and was toying with the decision to pounce, or play. Either way, the result would be the same.

  Raoul Lanier was in for a surprise if he thought he could try those tactics with her, she decided in silent anger.

  She held his gaze deliberately, and saw one eyebrow lift in a slow arch, almost as if he had read her mind. Mental telepathy? Somehow she doubted he possessed that ability. More likely it stemmed from an innate and accurate knowledge of women.

  The appearance of the waiter with their main course temporarily diverted her attention. She looked at the plate placed before her, and felt her appetite diminish to zero.

  ‘The meal isn’t to your liking?’

  Stephanie heard Raoul’s deep drawl, sensed the double entendre, and for a brief moment she entertained tossing the contents of her glass in his face.

  Smile, a tiny voice urged. This isn’t the first occasion you’ve had to deal with male arrogance, and it sure won’t be the last. Business was the purpose for this meeting, albeit that it was being conducted in luxurious surroundings with the accompaniment of fine food and wine.

  ‘Do you have any queries?’ she asked of Michel, and incurred his thoughtful gaze.

  ‘You appear to have covered everything for the moment.’

  ‘Perhaps Stephanie would care to give us her personal opinion on this film,’ Raoul drawled as he toyed with his wineglass.

  ‘My expertise is with marketing strategy, Mr. Lanier,’ she said with grave politeness, whereas underneath that superficial veneer she was seething.

  His gaze seemed to lance through every protective barrier she erected, and she hated him for it.

  ‘Surely you have an opinion?’ he queried mildly.

  ‘Nothing is a guaranteed success,’ she voiced steadily. ‘And there are varied degrees of success. I understand both director and producer have a certain reputation in their field, the cast comprises relatively high profile actors, the theme will attract public interest.’ Her gaze was unwavering as she held his. ‘I can only assure you marketing will do a commendable job with promotion.’

  She glimpsed his cynical smile, saw the hardness in those powerful features and refused to allow either to unsettle her equilibrium.

  ‘A standard response,’ Raoul acknowledged silkily. ‘That conveys precisely nothing.’

  She’d had enough. ‘You’re talking to the wrong person, Mr. Lanier. But then, you know that, don’t you? This so-called business dinner is merely a social occasion initiated by you for your own amusement.’ She removed her napkin and placed it beside her plate, then she stood to her feet and collected her evening purse. Ignoring Raoul, she focused her attention on Michel. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

  Without a further word she turned from the table and made her way to the main desk. Requesting the bill, she produced her corporate card, instructed the maximum estimated amount for the total be written in, then she signed the credit slip and pocketed her copy.

  Stephanie moved into the foyer and crossed to the lift, jabbing the Call butt
on with more force than necessary.

  Damn Raoul Lanier. He’d succeeded in getting beneath her skin, and she hated him for it. Hated herself for allowing him to affect her in a way that tore at the foundations of unbiased professional good manners.

  For heaven’s sake, where was the lift? Another five seconds, and she’d take the stairs. Almost on command, the doors slid open, four people emerged and Stephanie stepped into the cubicle, then turned toward the control panel.

  Only to freeze at the sight of Raoul Lanier on the verge of entering the lift.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she managed to ask in a furious undertone.

  ‘Accompanying you down to your car.’ He reached forward and depressed the button designating the car park.

  An action which galvanized Stephanie into jabbing the button that held the doors open. ‘Something that’s totally unnecessary. Get out.’

  He didn’t answer. Instead he leaned forward, captured both her hands and held them firmly while he depressed the appropriate button.

  Stephanie wrenched against his grasp in an attempt to get free, without success, and she watched with mounting anger as the doors slid closed and the lift began to descend.

  ‘Let go of me.’ Her voice was as cool as an arctic floe.

  ‘When the lift reaches the car park,’ Raoul drawled imperturbably.

  ‘You are the most arrogant, insolent, insufferable man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.’

  ‘Really? I’m flattered. I expected at least ten damning descriptions.’

  ‘Give me a few seconds,’ she threatened darkly.

  She was supremely conscious of him, his physical height and breadth, the aura of power he exuded, and this close his choice of cologne teased her senses, notwithstanding the essence of the man and the electric tension evident between them.

  The heightened sensuality was almost a tangible entity, powerful, primeval, riveting. It made her afraid. Not only of him, but herself and the long dormant emotions she’d deliberately tamped down for four years.

  The lift came to a smooth halt, and she wrenched her hands free, then exited the cubicle the instant the doors slid open.

  ‘Where is your car?’

  She began walking toward the glass doors that led to the car park. ‘There’s no need to play the gentleman. The area is well-lit.’

  She may as well have not spoken, and she drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as she deliberately ignored him and increased her pace.

  It took only minutes to reach her car, and she extracted her keys, unlocked the door, then stilled as a hand prevented her from sliding in behind the wheel.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking of doing,’ she said tightly, searing him with a look that would have felled a lesser man. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I was going to offer an apology.’

  ‘For initiating an unnecessary social occasion in the guise of business, then conducting a deliberate game of cat and mouse with me?’ Her tone was deceptively soft, but her eyes resembled crystalline sapphire. ‘An apology is merely words, Mr. Lanier, and I find your manner unacceptable.’ She looked pointedly at his hand. ‘You have three seconds to walk away. Otherwise I’ll alert security.’

  ‘And request you rejoin me at dinner,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I’m no longer hungry, I don’t like you, and—’ she paused fractionally, and aimed for the kill ‘—the last thing I want to do is spend another minute in your company. Is that clear?’

  Raoul inclined his head in mocking acceptance. ‘Perfectly.’ He attended to the clasp and held open the door. ‘Au revoir.’

  Stephanie slid in behind the wheel, inserted the key into the ignition and fired the engine. ‘Goodbye.’

  The instant he closed the door she reversed out of the parking bay, then without sparing him a glance she drove toward the exit.

  Minutes later she joined the flow of traffic traveling toward the center of town, and it wasn’t until she’d cleared the three major intersections that she allowed herself to reflect on the scene in the hotel car park.

  She’d managed to have the last word, but somehow she had the feeling Raoul Lanier had deliberately contrived his apparent defeat. And that annoyed the heck out of her!

  ‘You’re home early,’ Sarah said with surprise when Stephanie entered the house just before nine.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Stephanie asked as she placed her bag down onto the table, and began removing her earrings.

  ‘Fine. Emma is never any trouble. She had a glass of milk at seven-thirty, and went to bed without a murmur.’

  She looked at the textbooks laid out on the table, the empty coffee mug. ‘Another coffee? I’m making myself some.’

  Sarah stood, closed and stacked her books, then slid them into a soft briefcase. ‘Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.’

  ‘I appreciate your coming over at such short notice.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ the baby-sitter declared warmly. ‘You have a lovely quiet house, perfect study conditions.’ She grinned, then rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Two teenage brothers tend to make a lot of noise.’

  Stephanie extracted some bills from her purse and pressed them into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks, Sarah. Good luck with the exams.’

  She saw her out the door, then she locked up and went to check on Emma.

  The child was sleeping, her expression peaceful as she clutched a favorite rag doll to her chest. Stephanie leaned down and adjusted the covers, then lightly pushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen forward onto one soft cheek.

  The tug of unconditional love consumed her. Nothing, nothing was as wonderful as the gift of a child. Emma’s happiness and well-being was worth any sacrifice. A stressful job, the need to present cutting-edge marketing strategy, estimating consumer appeal and ensuring each project was a winner.

  The necessity, she added wryly, to occasionally entertain outside conventional business hours. She was familiar with an entire range of personality traits. In her line of business, she came into contact with them all.

  Yet no man had managed to get beneath her skin the way Raoul Lanier did. She dealt with men who’d made flirting an art form. Men who imagined wealth condoned dubious behavior and an appalling lack of manners. Then there were those who had so many tickets on themselves they no longer knew who they were.

  She’d handled each and every one of them with tact and diplomacy. Even charm. None of which qualities were evident in the presence of a certain Frenchman.

  He unsettled her. Far too much for her own liking. She didn’t want to feel insecure and vulnerable. She’d tread that path once before. She had no intention of retracing her steps.

  Stephanie entered the main bedroom, carefully removed her dress and slipped off her shoes, then she cleansed her face free of makeup, stripped off her underwear and donned a long cotton T-shirt before returning to collect her mug of coffee and sink into a deep-cushioned chair in front of the television.

  At ten she turned out the lights and went to bed, only to lay awake staring into the darkness as she fought to dismiss Raoul Lanier’s disturbing image.

  The in-house phone buzzed, and Stephanie automatically reached for it, depressed the button and endeavored to tame the frustrated edge to her voice. ‘Yes. What is it, Isabel?’

  It wasn’t shaping up to be a good day. That little Irish gremlin, Murphy, had danced a jig on her turf from the moment she woke. Water from the shower ran cold from the hot tap, necessitating a call to a plumber. Emma wanted porridge instead of cereal, then requested egg with toast cut into soldiers, only to take two mouthfuls and refuse to eat anymore. Depositing her daughter at day care resulted in an unprecedented tantrum, and she tore a nail wrestling the punctured tire from her boot at the tire mart en route to work.

  ‘I have a delivery for you out front.’

  ‘Whatever it is, take care of it.’

  ‘Flowers with a card addressed to you?’

  Flowers?
No one sent her flowers, except on special occasions. And today wasn’t one of them. ‘Okay, I’m on my way to reception.’

  Roses. Tight buds in cream, peach and pale apricot. Two, no three dozen. Long-stemmed, encased in cellophane, with a subtle delicate perfume.

  ‘Stephanie Sommers? Please sign the delivery slip for this envelope.’

  Who would send her such an expensive gift? Even as the query formed in her mind, her mouth tightened at the possible answer.

  He wouldn’t…would he?

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ Isabel breathed with envy as Stephanie detached an accompanying envelope and plucked out the card.

  “A small token to atone for last night. R.”

  Each word seemed to leap out in stark reminder, and she wanted to shove Raoul Lanier’s token into the nearest wastepaper bin. Atone? Twenty dozen roses wouldn’t atone for the studied arrogance of the man.

  ‘Shall I fetch a vase?’

  Stephanie drew a shallow breath, then released it. ‘Yes.’ She handed the large cellophane sheaf to her secretary. ‘Place these on the front desk.’

  ‘You don’t want them in your office?’

  ‘They’ll make me sneeze.’ A slight fabrication, but she didn’t want to be constantly reminded of the man who’d gifted them. ‘Take messages on any of my calls for the rest of the afternoon, unless they’re urgent, or from Emma’s day care center.’

  She stepped back into her office, closed the door, then crossed to her desk, picked up the letter opener and slit the envelope.

  Quite what she expected to find, she wasn’t sure. Certainly it had to be relatively important to warrant special delivery.

  Stephanie extracted the slim piece of paper, saw that it was a check, made out to her and signed by Raoul Lanier for an amount that covered the cost of dinner the previous evening. To endorse it, just in case she might be in doubt, there was a hotel business card attached with his name written on the reverse side.