The Marriage Deal

by Helen Bianchin

  This was where she’d been born, raised and educated. Her family, her friends were here. For a while she could relax, visit family, meet friends and indulge a penchant for shopping.

  The benefit of travelling first class was the speed of disembarking, and in no time at all Michel had collected their bags from the luggage carousel and organised a taxi.

  It was a bright sunny day, with hardly a cloud in the sky. In some ways it seemed an age since she’d left Sydney; in others it was as if it were only yesterday.

  Nothing had changed, she noted as the taxi took the customary route from the airport. Industrial areas gave way to semi-industrial, then residential. The terrace houses looked the same, although a few had received a fresh coat of paint. Traffic hurtled along the busy road at maximum speed, accompanied by the hydraulic hiss of heavily laden trucks, the occasional squeal of hastily applied brakes as a driver attempted a risky switch of lanes and miscalculated.

  A turn-off led towards wide, tree-leafed roads, older-style homes, most lovingly restored and some still standing in palatial grounds.

  Double Bay housed an eclectic mix of homes and apartment buildings. It was an inner suburb where old-money status sat next to new, where Porsches, Bentleys and BMWs parked nose to tail with Ferraris, Audis and Rolls-Royces. It housed one of the city’s most exclusive shopping centres where trendy cafés nestled between designer boutiques, classy restaurants and a ritzy hotel.

  Michel’s apartment was situated atop a three-level, spacious old home that had been gutted and architecturally designed to resemble the original homestead. Pale lemon stucco with a white trim and black-painted, iron-lace railings provided a gracious exterior. Each floor housed a separate apartment, reached by a lift instead of the original staircase, and modern materials had been crafted to resemble the old, thereby retaining a sense of timeless grandeur that was complemented by exquisite antique furniture.

  Sandrine had fallen in love with it at first sight, and now she crossed the spacious lounge to wide glass doors guarding the entrance to a long veranda that offered panoramic views over Port Jackson Harbour.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Michel teased with measured indolence as he joined her. He linked his arms around her waist and drew her back against him.

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ she said reflectively. ‘Just a feeling of satisfaction at being home again.’

  ‘You’ll want to ring your family and make arrangements to meet them.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. But not collectively. There was definitely a yours and mine definition apparent, and she’d learnt from an early age not to shift the line between the two!

  ‘Lunch or dinner, whatever suits,’ Michel offered. ‘As long as I can put in a few hours on the laptop each day.’

  She watched a ferry glide across the harbour and glimpsed a freighter on the horizon. ‘You want to work this afternoon?’

  ‘Unless you have a better idea.’

  The temptation to tease him was irresistible. ‘Well, it’s ages since I had a manicure, my hair could do with a trim, and I need to replenish some make-up.’

  ‘I work, you shop,’ he quipped with a musing drawl.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  His hands slipped up to cover her breasts, the touch light, tantalising, and she caught her breath at the sensual promise evident as his lips settled in the sensitive curve of her neck.

  ‘Go, chérie. Be back by six, and we’ll eat out.’

  Unpacking could wait until later, and with a light laugh she slipped from his arms, caught up her shoulder-bag, then blew him a cheeky kiss before heading for the front door.

  Sandrine enjoyed a wonderful few hours. The manicure proved to be no problem, and the hair salon readily fitted her in between appointments. Tempted by a trendy café, she ordered a cappuccino, a salad and sandwich, then she browsed among several boutiques lining a narrow street of converted old-fashioned cottages.

  An arcade in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel housed several exclusive shops, and in one she discovered a perfect pair of shoes.

  It was almost six when the taxi pulled into the kerb adjacent to the apartment, and she cleared security, then rode the lift to the top floor.

  Michel was seated at an antique desk in one corner of the lounge, and he glanced up from the laptop as she entered the room. He’d changed out of his suit and wore dark chinos and an ivory chambray shirt.

  He caught sight of the brightly coloured carry bags, glimpsed the beautifully styled hair and offered her a warm smile as he closed down the computer.

  Sandrine deposited the bags on a nearby chair. ‘I bought shoes.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Very expensive shoes.’

  A husky laugh escaped his throat as he crossed to her side. ‘Hmm, new perfume?’

  ‘You noticed.’

  ‘I notice everything about you.’

  Just as she’d developed a keen sixth sense about him. The clean male smell of his soap and cologne, freshly laundered clothes and a masculine scent that was his alone.

  ‘What time did you book the restaurant?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Then I’d better go unpack, shower and dress.’

  He slid a hand beneath her hair and cupped her nape as he lowered his head down to hers. The kiss held passion and promise, and she felt vaguely regretful as he let her go.

  It was a warm summer’s evening, and she selected black silk evening trousers, a jewelled singlet top, then added a sheer black evening blouse. Stiletto-heeled pumps, a matching jewelled evening bag completed the outfit. Make-up was understated, with emphasis on her eyes.

  Michel had chosen a restaurant specialising in seafood, and they each selected a prawn starter and ordered grilled fish to follow. The wine steward presented a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne.

  ‘Did you get in touch with your parents?’

  She felt guilty that she hadn’t. ‘I’ll ring them both in the morning.’

  He lifted his flute and placed the rim against her own. ‘Salut.’

  Their starter arrived, and she bit into a succulent prawn and savoured the taste. Heaven. The sauce was perfect.

  ‘With both you and Raoul in Australia, who is minding—’

  ‘The store?’

  ‘Figuratively speaking.’

  ‘Henri heads a very capable team in our absence.’

  ‘When is Raoul returning to Paris?’

  His smile held a faint wryness. ‘Twenty questions, Sandrine?’

  She gave a slight shrug. ‘Curiosity, I guess.’

  ‘His plans are less flexible than mine.’

  ‘And you, Michel?’ she queried fearlessly. ‘How long will you stay in Australia?’

  His gaze was direct, unwavering. ‘As long as it takes.’

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Something curled inside her stomach and tightened into a painful ball. ‘I might be called back to the Gold Coast studios to reshoot a scene. Then there’s the publicity promotion…’

  ‘I’ve been working, myself, every day since I arrived in Australia.’

  The laptop. In this electronic age it was possible to access and transmit data at the touch of a button.

  ‘It isn’t necessary for—’

  ‘Yes,’ Michel interrupted. ‘It is.’

  The waiter removed their plates, and the wine steward refilled their flutes with champagne.

  ‘Michel…’ She trailed to a halt, and although her eyes searched his, she was unable to gain much from his expression.

  ‘We promised to take each day as it comes, remember?’

  Yes, so they had. But with every day that passed she realised how hard it would be to have to live without him. And she knew she didn’t want to. It should be so simple to mend an emotional bridge. You just said the words, and everything was fixed.

  Except they had to be the right words, and it had to be the right time and the right place.

  When they made love, she freely gave him her body, her soul, and prayed he knew what he m
eant to her. But she was a wordless lover, and “I love you” hadn’t passed her lips since the night before she left New York.

  The waiter presented their main dish, and Sandrine looked at the succulent barramundi, the artistically arranged salad and discovered her appetite had fled.

  So, too, had her conversational skills. For how did you talk banalities with someone you’d soon share sexual intimacy?

  She had only to look at him, and in her mind she could feel the touch of his hands, his lips, know the reaction of her traitorous body as he led her towards sensual fulfilment. Just as she knew he was equally as aware.

  It was akin to a silent game they played. Except there was no deliberation, no premeditation. Intense sensual chemistry sizzled between them, ready to ignite as easily as dry tinder at the toss of a lighted match.

  It had always been the same. Had she confused sexual attraction with love? And what is love?

  If you took away sexual desire, what was left? A solid friendship? She would have said yes, until he forbade her to take the movie role. A friend would have been pleased she’d auditioned successfully.

  Still, although friendship was important in marriage, a legal union was about commitment, honesty and trust. Because if you love, you want to commit, and there needed to be trust and honesty for the union to succeed.

  When it came to honesty, she’d shifted the boundaries, signed a contract without his knowledge and against his wishes, confronted him at the eleventh hour, taken the flight, the job, regardless.

  At the time she’d been so angry over his inflexibility she hadn’t really given anything else coherent thought. There was a part of her that cherished the sanctity of marriage. And her feelings for Michel weren’t in question.

  Yet she was an independent young woman. She’d owned her own apartment, her own car; she had not one, but two great jobs she loved, and for the past seven years she’d been a free spirit, answerable only to herself.

  Why had she imagined marriage to Michel wouldn’t change that?

  Be honest, a small voice taunted. Love was the prime moving force in this union. She’d been so caught up in the wonder and magic of it all that she hadn’t focused too much on the future.

  Carpe diem. Seize the day. And she had, only too willing to allow Michel to sweep her off her feet, exultant with joy at the thought of sharing her life with this man, and confident love would conquer all.

  In a world where women had fought and won equality with men in the business arena, she’d taken it for granted she would combine her career with marriage. Michel hadn’t objected to her participating in a few modelling assignments. Why should he object to her taking a part in a film?

  Yet he had. Warning irrevocably that he didn’t view marriage as two partners pursuing separate careers and leading separate lives.

  ‘The fish isn’t to your liking?’

  Sandrine glanced up quickly. ‘No. I mean, yes.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I’m not that hungry.’ She forked a mouthful of salad, alternated it with the succulent fish, then took another sip of champagne in the hope it would renew her appetite.

  ‘I’ve managed to get tickets for Les Misérables,’ Michel remarked, and she offered him a smile.

  ‘That’s great.’ She’d seen two different productions and loved both. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  There was also a popular movie she wanted to see, and she mentioned it. ‘Perhaps we could ask Angelina to join us?’ she posed, aware how much pleasure it would give her stepsister. In which case she’d have to even things out by issuing a similar invitation to her stepbrother.

  ‘Of course. But first, ascertain which night suits your mother and your father for dinner. As our guests.’

  Step-family politics, she mused, required delicate handling.

  It was almost ten when they left the restaurant, and within minutes Michel hailed a taxi to take them home.

  Sandrine felt pleasantly tired as they entered the apartment, and she slid off her shoes and hooked the sling-back straps over one finger.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ Michel offered as he shrugged out of his jacket. ‘I need to go on-line and check some data.’

  ‘Okay.’ She tried to stem a feeling of disappointment. A part of her wanted to curl up in his arms and enjoy a leisurely lovemaking. Maybe she wouldn’t be asleep when he came to bed, or if she was, he’d wake her. ‘I’ll go to bed and read.’

  Except she only managed one chapter before the book slipped from her fingers and hit the carpeted floor, and she didn’t stir when Michel slid quietly in beside her two hours later.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SANDRINE took the cordless phone into the bedroom after breakfast and rang her mother, had the call diverted to a mobile number and interrupted Chantal at the manicurist.

  ‘Dinner, darling? Love to. How long are you in town?’

  ‘A week, at least.’

  ‘The weekend is out. Thursday?’

  ‘Thursday’s fine,’ she agreed.

  ‘Cristal. Seven o’clock? We’ll meet you there.’

  Her father was in a business meeting, but Lucas took the call, his conversation equally as brief as that of her mother.

  ‘Friday,’ Sandrine wrote in her diary planner.

  That left Angelina and Ivan, step-siblings and arch-rivals for her attention. They were both in school and couldn’t be contacted until late afternoon.

  There were a few close friends she wanted to communicate with and she spent the next hour glued to the phone.

  Michel was seated at the desk in the lounge when she emerged. The laptop was open, and he was speaking rapid French into his cell phone.

  Sandrine wandered into the kitchen, poured herself some fresh orange juice, then sat down at the dining-room table and leafed through the daily newspaper.

  ‘What do you want to do with the day?’ Michel queried when he finished his call.

  ‘Me as in me?’ she posed with a faint smile. ‘Or me as in you and me?’

  ‘You and me,’ he drawled, reaching across to catch hold of her chin.

  ‘Too much togetherness might not be wise.’

  ‘You have me at your mercy. Choose.’

  She pretended to consider as she ticked off each option on her fingers. ‘The beach, a movie, shopping, wander around Darling Harbour, the Rocks, visit the Chinese Gardens, visit a few art galleries, the museum. Hmm,’ she deliberated, then added without changing her voice, ‘Or I could tie you to the bed and have my wicked way with you.’ She sent him a stunning smile. ‘Darling Harbour, I think. I’ll go get changed.’

  He tilted her chin and settled his mouth on hers in an all-too-brief evocative kiss. ‘I’ll take a raincheck.’

  ‘On Darling Harbour?’

  His eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘The bed.’ She slipped from his grasp. ‘You did say I get to choose.’

  It was a lovely day, with just enough of a breeze to take the edge off the summer’s heat. Together they strolled along the boardwalk stretching the length of the Darling Harbour complex, enjoyed an excellent lunch at a waterfront restaurant, then browsed through the shops and crossed the pedestrian bridge. On impulse they took in a two-hour harbour cruise, then caught the monorail into the city.

  It was almost six when they re-entered the apartment, and after a quick shower they each changed into elegant evening wear and took a taxi into the city.

  There wasn’t time for a leisurely meal, so they skipped the starter, settled for the main and forewent coffee in order to take their seats in time for the first act of Les Misérables.

  It was a magnificent production, and Sandrine was lavish with her praise as they emerged into the foyer after the final act.

  They chose a trendy café in which to have coffee, then hailed a taxi to the apartment.

  Michel curved an arm round her waist as they stepped into the lift, and Sandrine rested her head against his shoulder. It had been a pleasant day, followed by a lov
ely evening, and she told him so.

  ‘Thank you,’ she added simply as they entered the lounge.

  ‘For what, chérie? Spending a day with my wife?’

  ‘For taking the time.’

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, gently at first, then with increasing passion as she lifted her arms and wrapped them round his neck.

  It was a while before he released her, and she stood there, his arms linked loosely around her hips. ‘You’re not going to check the laptop for messages?’

  ‘There’s nothing that can’t wait until morning.’

  She crossed to the wide hallway and made her way to the main bedroom, where she removed her shoes, the slim-fitting black gown and the beautifully crafted sequined jacket, then she reached to take the pins from her hair and encountered Michel’s hand in the process of undoing the elegant French pleat.

  When he was done, she helped him remove his jacket, the dress shirt, then the trousers. His eyes held hers as he slipped out of his shoes and peeled off his socks.

  All that remained between him and total nudity was a pair of black hipster briefs, and she let her hand slide over his chest, teasing one male nipple, then the other, before skimming her fingers down to his waist.

  She didn’t tie him to the bed, but she did tease and tantalise him in a wicked exploration that tested the limit of his control. With her lips, the soft feather-light stroke of her fingers, the brush of her skin against his.

  Sandrine lost track of time as she played the role of seductress, and just as he reached for her, she sank onto him and took his length in one exultant movement that shattered both of them.

  What followed became a sweet, savage lovemaking that broke through the barriers of ecstasy and took them to a place where sensation ruled the mind, body and soul.

  They went to sleep in each other’s arms, and the last thing Sandrine remembered was the touch of Michel’s lips against her temple, the deep, heavy tempo of his heart as it beat strongly in his chest.

  Dinner with her mother, stepfather and Angelina carried undertones she was loath to pin down. Chantal was so incredibly vivacious it hurt, Roberto overdid the charm, and Angelina barely touched her food. Consequently the evening became something of a strain.