The Marriage Deal. HELEN BIANCHIN

was soft mockery evident in his tone, an underlying hint of steel that tore the breath from her throat.

      ‘Your sojourn in Europe is over and you’ve come to haul me home?’

      Her facetiousness didn’t escape him, and his mouth assumed a cynical slant. ‘Try again.’

      Anger overlaid fear. ‘You want a divorce.’

      His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted, hardened. ‘There hasn’t been a divorce in the Lanier family for three hundred years.’

      ‘You mean women have suffered the overbearing, arrogant, autocratic will of Lanier men for centuries without offering a word in complaint?’

      ‘I imagine any complaints were soon—’ he paused, the emphasis significant ‘—satisfactorily dealt with.’

      She took his meaning and rode with it. ‘Sex isn’t the answer to everything.’

      ‘Lovemaking.’

      There was a difference. Dear heaven, such a difference. Even thinking about Michel’s powerful body joining with hers brought a surge of warmth that raced through her veins, heating her body to fever pitch.

      He saw the reaction in the subtle shading of her skin, the faint convulsive movement of her throat, the sudden, too rapid sweep of eyelashes as she sought to veil her response. And he experienced satisfaction.

      ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

      ‘Which particular question is that?’

      Her lashes flew wide, and the intensity of those deep brown, gold-flecked eyes held a brilliance that danced close to anger.

      ‘What you’re doing here, tonight?’

      His gaze was direct, probing, and held a degree of cynical humour. ‘Why, chérie, I am the guest of honour at this soiree.’

      ‘The guest of honour touted to inject sufficient funds to rescue the film?’

      Michel confirmed it with the faint inclination of his head. ‘For a price,’ he conceded with chilling softness.

      Something inside her stomach curled into a painful knot. ‘And that is?’

      ‘A reconciliation.’ Succinct, blatant and chillingly inflexible.

      Dear God. Pious salutation had nothing to do with the words that remained locked in her throat.

      From somewhere she dredged up the courage to confront him. ‘A marriage certificate doesn’t transform me into a chattel you own.’

      Michel took in her pale features, the dark eyes that seemed too large for her face, the loss of a few essential kilos, and barely restrained himself from wringing her slender neck.

      Sandrine became aware of the circumspect glances, the ripple of curiosity Michel’s action had generated. Cait Lynden’s expression was composed, although her brilliant blue eyes were icy.

      Their marriage hadn’t been written up in any of the international society pages. It was doubtful anyone in this room knew the guest of honour’s identity, much less his connection with a little-known supporting actress.

      ‘This is hardly the time or place.’

      Michel’s smile was a mere facsimile and bore not the slightest degree of humour. ‘No discussion, no negotiation. Just a simple yes or no.’

      Simple? How could he deem something so complicated as simple? ‘You can’t demand conditions.’

      ‘Watch me.’

      ‘Blackmail, Michel?’

      He gave an imperceptible shrug. ‘Label it what you will.’

      ‘And if I refuse?’ Sandrine queried bravely.

      Something moved in those dark eyes, making them appear incredibly dangerous. ‘I walk out of here.’

      And out of her life? As she’d walked out of his? Temporarily, she amended.

      So why did she have the feeling she was poised on the edge of a precipice? One false move and she’d fall to unknown depths?

      She could see the grim purpose etched in his features and she felt her stomach muscles clench in pain. ‘You don’t play fair.’

      His expression didn’t change. ‘This isn’t a game.’

      No, it wasn’t. Yet she hated him for employing manipulative tactics.

      ‘Yes or no,’ Michel reiterated with deadly quietness.

      CHAPTER TWO

      SANDRINE looked at Michel carefully, her eyes steady, her composure seemingly intact. Only she knew what effort it cost to present such a calm facade.

      ‘I’m sure Tony has other sources available from which to raise the necessary money.’

      ‘He has exhausted all of them.’

      ‘How can you know that?’ It didn’t warrant an answer, she acknowledged wryly. The Lanier family consortium held immense holdings, and Michel was extremely wealthy in his own right. As such, he had contacts and access to otherwise privileged information.

      Without the injection of funds, the film wouldn’t be completed or make it into the cinemas, and the resulting financial loss would be disastrous.

      The knowledge she held the film’s fate in her hands didn’t sit well. Nor did the fact that Michel had very skilfully planned it this way.

      ‘With the possible exception of Gregor Anders, the film doesn’t have the big-name leads to attract a runaway box office success,’ Michel relayed with damning accuracy. ‘The director and producer are both scrambling to resurrect their ailing careers with a period piece currently out of vogue.’

      Add to that, she knew the film’s financial backers had set a limited budget that made little allowance for countless takes in a quest for perfection, delays, escalating expenses, and the result was a high-risk venture no sensible investor would touch.

      Sandrine cast him a level look. ‘That’s your opinion.’

      Michel’s gaze remained steady, obdurate. ‘Not only mine.’

      ‘If that’s true, why are you prepared to invest?’

      His expression didn’t change, and for several seconds she didn’t think he was going to answer. ‘Honesty, Sandrine?’ he mocked lightly. ‘You.’

      Her eyes widened, then narrowed slightly.

      ‘What did you think I would do, ultimately?’ Michel demanded silkily. ‘Just let you walk?’

      She gritted her teeth, counted to five. ‘I didn’t walk,’ she denied vehemently. ‘I was committed to a signed contract. If I hadn’t checked into the studio on the designated date, I could have been sued.’

      ‘A contract you chose not to tell me you’d signed.’

      ‘You were locked into meetings in Europe.’

      ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling?’

      Damn. Sandrine barely swallowed the vengeful curse as Cait placed an arm along the back of her waist in a gesture that indicated they were the closest of friends.

      ‘Michel Lanier,’ Michel interposed smoothly.

      ‘Cait Lynden.’ The smile, the voice, the actions, combined to provide maximum impact. ‘So, you’re our knight in shining armour.’

      Sandrine watched an exquisitely lacquered nail trace a provocative pattern down his suit sleeve and was overwhelmed by the desire to sweep it aside.

      ‘And Sandrine’s husband.’

      Ouch.