The Marriage Deal

by Helen Bianchin

  A call to her mother the next day brought an assurance Sandrine didn’t buy for a second. It would do no good to question her father, and she didn’t even bring up Chantal’s name during dinner the following evening.

  A shopping expedition on Saturday with Angelina brought forth a confidence that settled the question.

  ‘Mum and Dad are getting a divorce,’ Angelina blurted out as they shared lunch.

  Sandrine experienced a gamut of emotions but managed to school most of them as she took in her stepsister’s pinched features and lacklustre expression. ‘How do you feel about it?’ she queried gently.

  ‘I hate it.’

  I’m not that rapt, either, she echoed silently. Roberto may not be the ideal husband, but he was a caring father.

  ‘She’s seeing someone else,’ Angelina informed her morosely.

  ‘She’s the cat’s mother,’ Sandrine corrected absently.

  ‘Mother,’ her stepsister declared with mocking emphasis, ‘has a toy boy. I doubt he’s thirty.’

  Hell, that put a slightly different complexion on things. ‘Maybe she’s just—’

  ‘Using him for sex?’

  ‘Taking time out,’ she continued, and wondered why she was trying to play down Chantal’s behaviour to a sixteen-year-old who was more au fait with the situation.

  ‘He drives a Ferrari, has oodles of money and looks like he stepped out of GQ wearing a Versace suit.’

  Some contrast, when Roberto was on the wrong side of fifty, three stone overweight and losing his hair.

  ‘And you hate him,’ she deduced, and saw the younger girl work herself into a hissy fit.

  ‘I hate her. What does she think she’s doing? Dad practically lives at work, and I may as well not have sat my exams, the marks were so bad.’

  Sandrine finished her latte. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Okay.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Let’s go? That’s it?’

  ‘Shopping.’ She cast Angelina a purposeful smile. ‘When the going gets tough, women go shopping.’ She made a beckoning gesture. ‘On your feet, girl. I’m about to indulge your wildest fantasy.’

  Her stepsister’s face was a study in conflicting emotions. ‘You are?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Sandrine was as good as her word, and when she had the taxi drop Angelina home early that evening, her stepsister was weighed down with a wide assortment of emblazoned carry bags.

  ‘Thanks, Sandrine.’ Angelina planted a kiss on her cheek before sliding out from the taxi. ‘You’re the best.’

  No, Sandrine silently denied as the taxi swung back into the flow of traffic. I merely trod the same path when Chantal and my father broke up, and I’d have given anything to have someone understand my pain.

  She’d rung Michel from her cell phone to say she’d be late, and it was almost seven when she entered the apartment.

  Michel met her at the door, saw her apparent tenseness and immediately cancelled plans he’d made for the evening. Instead, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then pushed her lightly in the direction of their bedroom.

  ‘Go change, and I’ll order in.’

  Sandrine shot him a grateful glance. ‘Pizza?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She kept walking, and in the bedroom she went into the en suite, took a leisurely shower, then she slipped on a short silk robe and pinned up her hair.

  Michel sat sprawled on one of several sofas in the lounge, and he patted the seat beside him as she crossed the room. ‘Come here.’

  It would be heaven to receive some comfort, and she slid down onto the seat and curled her feet beneath her as he pulled her into the curve of his body.

  ‘Want to tell me what’s bothering you?’

  Was she that transparent? Or was it because this man was so attuned to her that very little escaped him?

  She told him briefly, wondering how anyone who hadn’t shared a similar experience could possibly understand the breakdown of the family unit.

  ‘You’re concerned for Angelina.’

  ‘The emotional upheaval has a far-reaching effect,’ Sandrine said slowly. ‘It made me very aware of my own survival. I became very independent and self-contained. I guess I built up a protective shell.’

  Yes, Michel agreed silently. She had at that, removing it for him, only to raise the barrier again at the first sign of discord. Self-survival… He was no stranger to it himself.

  The intercom buzzed, and Michel answered it, releasing security for the pizza-delivery guy, and afterwards they bit into succulent segments covered with anchovies, olives, capsicum, mushrooms and cheese, washing them down with an excellent red wine while watching a romantic comedy on video.

  The days that followed held a similar pattern. Michel divided the first half of each day to business via his laptop and cell phone, while Sandrine caught up with friends over coffee. Most evenings they dined out, took in a show or visited the cinema.

  Sandrine’s stepbrother, Ivan, chose the premiere screening of the latest Star Wars episode, and they indulged his preference for burgers and Coke.

  Pinning down Chantal for a mother-and-daughter chat proved the most difficult to organise, with two lunch postponements. Third time lucky, Sandrine hoped as she ordered another mineral water from the waitress and half expected a call on her cell phone announcing Chantal’s delay.

  Fifteen minutes later Chantal slid into the chair opposite with a murmured apology about the difficulty of city parking and an express order for champagne.

  ‘Celebrating, Chantal?’ She hadn’t called Chantal Mother since her early teens.

  ‘You could say that, darling.’

  ‘A new life?’

  ‘Angelina told you,’ Chantal said without concern, and Sandrine inclined her head.

  ‘The news disturbed me.’

  ‘It’s my life to lead as I choose.’

  ‘With a man several years younger than yourself?’ Chantal gave the waitress her order, then she leant back in her chair and took a long sip of champagne. ‘I thought I was meeting my elder daughter for a chat over lunch.’

  ‘I think I deserve some answers.’

  ‘Why? It doesn’t affect you in any way.’ That stung. ‘It affects Angelina.’ Just as your breakup with Lucas affected me.

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Chantal said carelessly. ‘You did.’

  Yes, but at what cost? It had succeeded in instilling such a degree of self-sufficiency that she thought only of herself, her needs and wants. And such a level of self-containment had almost cost her her marriage.

  A slight shiver shook her slim frame. She didn’t want to be like Chantal, moving from one man to another when she was no longer able to live life on her own terms. That wasn’t love. It was self-absorption at its most dangerous level.

  ‘This new man is—how old? Thirty?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Which means when you’re sixty, he’ll only be forty-four.’

  ‘Don’t go down that path, Sandrine,’ Chantal warned.

  ‘Why? Because you refuse to think that far ahead?’

  ‘Because I only care about now.’

  I don’t, she noted with silent certainty. I care enough about the future to want to take care of every day that leads towards it. And I care about Michel enough to want a future with him. Desperately.

  It was as if everything fell into place. And because it did, she chose not to pursue Chantal’s indiscretions. Instead, she asked a string of the meaningless questions Chantal excelled in answering as they ate a starter and a main, then lingered over coffee.

  They left the restaurant at three, promising to be in touch soon, and Sandrine took a page out of her own advice to Angelina. She went shopping. Nothing extravagant. A silk tie for Michel, despite the fact he owned sufficient in number to be able to wear a different one each day for several months. But she liked it and paid for it with a credit card linked to he
r own account and not the prestigious platinum card Michel had given her following their wedding.

  ‘For you,’ she said, presenting it to him within minutes of entering the apartment.

  ‘Merci, chérie.’

  ‘It’s nothing much.’

  His smile held a warmth that sent the blood coursing through her veins. ‘The thought, mignonne, has more value than the gift itself.’

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with such slow eroticism she almost groaned out loud when he released her.

  ‘A call came through this afternoon. Tony wants you back on the set to reshoot a scene.’

  Damn. Having to reshoot was something she’d been hoping to avoid. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve booked an early flight and accommodation at the Sanctuary Cove Hyatt.’

  For the next few days the pace would be frenetic, she perceived. After the film wrapped, the publicity promotion would follow.

  ‘Go change,’ Michel bade her. ‘We’ll eat out, then get an early night.’

  They chose an intimate French restaurant that served exquisite nouvelle cuisine, then afterwards they strolled along the street, pausing now and then to admire a shop window display. Michel threaded his fingers through her own, and with daylight-saving providing a late-evening dusk, the magic of pavement cafés and ornamental street lighting provided an illusory ambience.

  Darkness fell, breaking the spell, and Michel hailed a cruising taxi to take them home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT HAD been a fraught day, Sandrine reflected as she garaged the car. Her final scene had to be shot again and again, and instead of being able to leave the set around midday, it was now almost seven.

  She was tired, she had a headache, she was past hungry, and all she wanted to do was sink into a hot spa bath, slip on headphones and let the pulsing jets and music soothe her soul. For an hour.

  Heaven, she breathed, entering the villa.

  ‘I was just about to embark on a rescue mission,’ Michel drawled as he strolled towards her. He took in her pale features, darkened eyes, the slight droop of her shoulders, and withheld an imprecation. ‘Bad day?’ he queried lightly. His hands curved over her shoulders as he drew her close. His mouth touched hers, lightly, briefly, and emotion stirred as she turned her face into the curve of his neck.

  ‘Tony insisted the scene be shot so many times. I lost count after fifteen.’ He smelt so good, felt so good, she could have stayed resting against him for ages. After a few timeless minutes she lifted her head and moved out of his arms. ‘I’m going to soak in the tub.’

  Warm water, scented oil, an Andrea Bocelli CD on the Walkman. Sandrine closed her eyes and let the tension gradually seep out of her bones.

  She didn’t hear Michel enter the bathroom, nor did she see him step into the tub, and the first indication she had was the light brush of fingers down her cheek.

  Her eyelids flew wide and her mouth parted in unvoiced surprise as Michel positioned her in front of him.

  She lifted a hand to remove the headphones only to have his hand close over hers holding them in place, then both hands settled on her shoulders and his fingers bit deep in a skilful massage that went a long way to easing the knots and kinks out of tense muscles.

  She sighed blissfully as Michel handed her a flute of champagne, and she took a generous sip of the light golden liquid.

  A slow warmth crept through her body, and with each subsequent sip she began to relax. Even her head felt light. Probably, she decided hazily, because she hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch.

  Sandrine had no idea how long she stayed in the gently pulsating water. It seemed ages, and she uttered a mild protest when the jets were turned off.

  Michel lifted her from the tub, then caught up a large fluffy towel and dried the excess moisture from her body.

  ‘You didn’t have any champagne,’ she murmured as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Relaxed.’

  He switched on the bedside lamp, hauled back the bed covers and deposited her onto the sheeted mattress, then joined her.

  All she wanted to do was curl into his arms, rest her head against his chest and absorb the strength and comfort he could offer her.

  She felt his lips brush her own and she whispered his name in a semiprotest.

  ‘Just close your eyes,’ he bade huskily, ‘and I’ll do all the work.’ His mouth grazed the edge of her jaw, then slipped down the slope of her throat.

  What followed was a supplication of the senses as he embraced her scented skin with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. With his lips, the pads of his fingers, he trailed a path from one sensory pleasure spot to another, lingering, savouring, until the warmth invading her body changed to slow-burning heat.

  He lifted her hand and kissed each finger in turn, stroking the tip with his tongue, then when he was done he buried his mouth in her palm.

  It was an evocative gesture that brought her response, only to have her touch denied as he completed a sensual feast that drove her wild.

  He entered her slowly, and she groaned out loud as he initiated a long, sweet loving that was exquisite, magical. It left her weak-limbed and filled with languorous warmth.

  Afterwards he folded her close into the curve of his body and held her as she slept. Her hair, loosened from its confining pins, spilled a river of silk over his pillow.

  Michel waited a while, then carefully eased out of bed, showered, dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt, then went downstairs to the kitchen and began organising the evening meal. He’d give her an hour, then wake her.

  When he returned to the bedroom, she lay precisely as he’d left her, and he stood quietly at the foot of the bed for several minutes watching as she slept.

  She possessed a fierce spirit, an independence that was laudable. It had been those very qualities that had drawn him to her, as well as her inherent honesty. His wealth didn’t awe her, any more than he did. It was a rare quality to be liked for the man he was and not the Lanier family fortune.

  Was she aware just how much she meant to him? She was the very air that he breathed, the daytime sun, the midnight moon.

  Yet love alone wasn’t enough, and he wasn’t sufficiently foolish to imagine a ring and a marriage certificate were a guarantee of lifelong happiness.

  Sandrine stirred, opened her eyes, focused on the man standing at the foot of the bed and offered him a slow, sweet smile.

  ‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep,’ she protested huskily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost ten. Hungry?’

  She didn’t have to think about it. ‘Ravenous.’

  ‘I’ve made dinner.’

  Surprise widened her eyes. ‘You have?’ She pushed herself into a sitting position and drew the sheet over her chest, then grinned at his teasing smile. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  She made it in seven, after the quickest shower on record, and slipped on a silky robe rather than dress.

  ‘Oh, my,’ Sandrine mused with pleasure as she sat down at the table. ‘You do have hidden talent.’

  ‘Singular?’ Michel queried mockingly.

  ‘Plural. Definitely plural,’ she applauded as she sampled a sip of wine with a sigh of appreciation.

  Filet mignon, delectable salad greens, a crusty baguette, and an excellent red wine, with a selection of fresh fruit.

  Sandrine ate with pleasurable enjoyment, finishing every morsel on her plate, and she watched Michel cross to the stereo and insert a CD. Then he moved towards her and drew her up from the chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she queried with a faint laugh as he led her to the centre of the room and pulled her close.

  The music was slow, the lyrics poignant, vocalized in the husky tones of a popular male singer.

  Mmm, this was good, so good, she silently breathed as he cradled her body against his own. His hands stroked a sensuous pattern down her spine, then he cupped he
r bottom as she lifted her arms and linked her hands together at his nape.

  The warmth of his body seemed to penetrate her own, and she melted into him as they drifted as one to the seductive tempo.

  His lips settled at her temple, then slid down to the edge of her mouth, and she angled her head, inviting his possession in a kiss that was slow and so incredibly sweet she never wanted it to cease.

  Sandrine gave a soundless gasp as he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms, then held on tight as he carried her through to the bedroom.

  ‘Move, darling. Just a little closer now. Smile.’

  If the photographer said smile one more time, she’d scream!

  It was the end of what had been a very long day. Newspaper interviews and photographs from nine until eleven this morning, followed by a fashion shoot for the Australian edition of a top fashion magazine. Then an appearance at a high-profile charity luncheon held at the Sheraton Mirage, with a brief turn on the catwalk.

  There had been photographs at Movieworld. One of the prime television channels was videotaping coverage for a spot on the evening news.

  Tonight was the gala black-tie event to publicise the movie. Dignitaries would be present, and the city’s wealthy socialites would have paid handsomely to mix and mingle with the producer, director and actors.

  It was all a planned marketing strategy to provide maximum impact in the publicity stakes. Gregor and Cait had given interviews in their hotel, and advertising trailers would run on television and in the cinemas.

  Sandrine didn’t have star status in the film, but as a home-grown talent in acting and modelling, she gained attention. As Michel Lanier’s wife, she was guaranteed media coverage.

  ‘Pretend, darling,’ Cait murmured with a mocking edge. ‘You’re supposed to be an actress, so act.’

  ‘As you do, darling?’ she responded sweetly.

  ‘She really is a barrel of laughs,’ Gregor muttered to Sandrine sotto voce. ‘Desperate, dateless and deadly.’

  ‘I can have any man I want,’ Cait ventured disdainfully.