The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (228 page)

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 meant 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.

S
ANDRINE
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 lovely 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.

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 her 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.