The Marriage Deal. Helen Bianchin

      She had tenacity, temper and tendresse. The latter had never been so noticeably absent. A faint twinge of humour tugged at the edge of his mouth. ‘I checked out this morning.’

      Damn, damn him, she silently vented. ‘My car is the white Honda hatchback,’ she told him in stilted tones. She turned away, only to have his hand snag her arm, and she whirled back to face him in vengeful fury. ‘What now?’

      ‘Your cell phone,’ Michel said mildly as he held it out to her. She snatched it from him as if his fingers represented white-hot flame.

      She would, she determined angrily as she slid in behind the wheel and engaged the engine, drive as fast as she dared and hope to lose him. Fat chance, Sandrine silently mocked minutes later as she ran an amber light and saw, via the rear-vision mirror, his car follow.

      Knowing Michel’s attention to detail, it wouldn’t surprise her if he had already discovered her address and was therefore quite capable of reaching it with the aid of a street map. It was a sobering thought and one that relegated her actions to a foolish level.

      No more taking risks with the traffic lights, she determined as she settled down to the twenty-minute drive and tried to ignore the twin set of headlights following several metres to the rear of her car.

      Sandrine switched on the radio, selected a station at random and turned up the sound. Heavy rock music filled the interior, and she tried to lose herself in the beat, hoping it would distract her attention from Michel.

      It didn’t work, and after several minutes she turned down the sound and concentrated on negotiating a series of traffic roundabouts preceding the Sanctuary Cove turn-off.

      A security gate guarded the entrance to the road leading to her waterfront villa, and she activated it, passed through, then followed the curving ribbon of bricked road past a clutch of low-rise apartment buildings until she reached her own.

      After raising the garage door by remote control, she eased the car to a halt as Michel slid a sleek late-model sedan alongside her own.

      The garage door closed, and Sandrine emerged from behind the wheel to see Michel pop the boot of his car and remove a set of luggage. She wanted to ignore him, but Michel Lanier wasn’t a man you could successfully ignore.

      Something twisted painfully in the pit of her stomach as she unlocked the door leading from the garage into the villa.

      Pausing, she turned back towards him. ‘There are three bedrooms upstairs,’ she informed in a tone resembling that of a hostess instructing a guest. ‘Choose one. There’s spare linen in the cupboard.’

      He didn’t answer, and the silence was enervating. Without a further word, she stepped through to the hallway and made her way towards the kitchen.

      The villa’s interior was light and modern, with high ceilings and huge glass floor-to-ceiling windows. Large urns painted to blend with the muted peach-and-green colour scheme held a variety of artificial flowers and greenery, adding a tropical ambience to the expanse of marble-tiled floors.

      The only sound was the staccato click of her stiletto heels as she crossed into the kitchen, and within minutes the coffee machine exuded an exotic aroma of freshly dripped brew.

      Sandrine extracted two cups and saucers, sugar, milk, placed them on the counter, then she filled one cup and took an appreciative sip.

      It was quiet, far too quiet, and she crossed into the lounge and activated the television, switching channels until she found something of interest. The images danced, her vision unfocused as her mind wandered to the man who had invaded her home.

      Temporary home, she corrected, aware that filming would wrap up within a week or two. Less for her, as she was only required in a few more scenes. Then what? Where would she go? There were a few options, and she mentally ticked them off. One, return to Sydney. Two, find modelling work. Three… No, she didn’t want to think about the third option. A marriage should be about equality, sharing and understanding each other’s needs. Domination of one partner by another was something she found unacceptable.

      Sandrine finished her coffee, rinsed her cup, checked her watch, then released a heavy sigh. It was late, she was tired, and, she decided, she was damned if she’d wait any longer for Michel to put in an appearance. She was going to bed.

      The silence seemed uncanny, and she found herself consciously listening for the slightest sound as she ascended the stairs. But there was none.

      If Michel had showered, unpacked and made up a bed, he’d achieved it in a very short time.

      The curved staircase led onto a semicircular, balustraded gallery. Three bedrooms, each with an en suite, were positioned along it, while the double doors at the head of the stairs opened to a spacious sitting room.

      Sandrine turned right when she reached the top and entered the bedroom she’d chosen to use as her own. Soft lighting provided illumination, and her nostrils flared at the scent of freshly used soap and the lingering sharpness of male toiletries even as her eyes swivelled towards the large bed.

      The elegant silk spread had been thrown back, and a long male frame lay clearly outlined beneath the light covering.

      Michel. His dark head was nestled comfortably on the pillow, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even.

      Dammit, he was in her bed! Asleep!

      Well, that would soon change, she decided furiously as she marched across the room. Without hesitation she picked up a spare pillow and thumped it down onto the mattress mere inches from his chest.

      ‘Wake up,’ she vented between clenched teeth. ‘Damn you, wake up!’ She lifted the pillow and brought it down for the second time. ‘You’re not staying in my room!’

      He didn’t move, and in a gesture of sheer frustration she pounded the pillow onto his chest.

      A hand snaked out as she made to lift the pillow for another body blow, and she gasped as his fingers mercilessly closed over her forearm. Dark eyes seared hers.

      ‘This is my room, my bed. And you’re not occupying either.’

      ‘You want a separate room, a separate bed?’ His eyes seemed to shrivel her very soul. ‘Go choose one.’

      ‘You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?’ she demanded, sorely tried. Pain focused behind each temple, and she lifted her hands to soothe the ache with her fingers. ‘I’m not sleeping with you.’

      ‘Sleep is the operative word,’ Michel drawled.

      She controlled the urge to hit him…by the skin of her teeth. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

      He looked…magnificent, and dangerous as hell. The brooding sexuality he exuded sent warning flares of heat racing through her veins.

      Sandrine shifted her attention to his face and settled fleetingly on his mouth. Her lips quivered in vivid memory of how they’d moved beneath his own only a few hours ago. A traitorous warmth invaded her body, and she almost waived controlling it. Almost.

      ‘Afraid to share the bed with me, Sandrine?’

      Yes, she longed to cry. Because all it will take is the accidental brush of skin against skin in the night when I’m wrapped in sleep to forget for a few essential seconds, and then it’ll be too late.

      ‘Sex isn’t going to make what’s wrong between us right.’

      ‘I don’t recall suggesting that it would.’

      ‘Then perhaps you’d care to explain why you’ve chosen my room, my bed?’ she sputtered, indicating the bed, him. She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘If you had any gentlemanly instincts, you would have found another room!’

      ‘I have never pretended to be a gentleman.’

      Sandrine glared at him. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Barbarian is more appropriate!’

      ‘Careful,