The Marriage Deal

‘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. She felt Cait’s slight intake of breath, glimpsed the coy smile and felt the faint increase of pressure as fingers bit into the back of her waist.

‘Well,’ Cait acknowledged as she turned to shoot Sandrine an icy glare, ‘aren’t you the secretive one.’

Michel took hold of Sandrine’s hand and lifted it to his lips, then he spared Cait a level glance.

‘If you’ll excuse us? We were in the middle of a private discussion.’

Oh, my. He didn’t pull any punches. She watched as the lead actress proffered a sizzling smile, then turned and walked away with a blatant sway of her hips.

‘Another conquest,’ Sandrine commented lightly.

‘Let’s focus on the immediate issue, shall we?’

The master manipulator. Dammit, why did she want to crack his cool facade when she knew what lay beneath the surface of his control?

His skill with words in the midst of her volatile diatribe had been chilling. Hell, he hadn’t even raised his voice. She had been the one who’d lost it.

Now he was using that skill to employ invidious blackmail, cleverly positioning her between a rock and a hard place. She was the price, the film her prize.

‘You leave me little choice,’ she said with deliberate coolness, then waited a beat and added, ‘For now.’

He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. ‘No conditions.’

She felt her body’s betraying response to his touch, the heated sensation that invaded her bones and melted them to molten wax.

Sandrine’s eyes deepened, and her mouth shook a little. With anger, resentment and a need to swing into verbal attack mode. Except this wasn’t the time or place if she wanted to retain any sense of dignity.

As it was, speculation undoubtedly ran rife among the cast members and fellow guests. Did Tony know that Sandrine Arnette was Michel Lanier’s wife?

Michel watched as she fought to keep her conflicting emotions under wraps, and defined each and every one of them. With a degree of dispassionate anticipation, he was aware the fight between them had scarcely begun. He intended to win.

‘I need a drink,’ she admitted, watching as Michel’s lips curved to form a musing smile.

He lifted a hand, and in an instant a waitress appeared at his side. Michel had that effect on women. All women, of any age. It was an inherent charm, one he used quite ruthlessly on occasion.

He lifted two flutes of champagne from the tray and handed one to Sandrine.

‘Salut.’ He touched the rim of her flute with his own.

She ignored the temptation to drain the contents in one long swallow and deliberately sipped the chilled aerated wine, savoured the taste, then let the liquid slide down her throat.

‘Shall we join our host?’

Sandrine’s eyes clashed momentarily with his, then she veiled their expression. There would be an opportunity later to unleash the verbal diatribe seething beneath the surface. Round one might be his, but she had every intention the next would be hers.

She summoned a slow smile, her acting ability prominent as she tucked a hand into the curve of his elbow.

‘Having provided the guests with an unexpected floor show, don’t you think introductions are somewhat overdue?’

Minutes later Michel moved easily at Tony’s side, displaying an interest in each guest’s professional background as he posed questions with practised charm.

Working the room, Sandrine recognized with cynicism. A retentive and photographic memory ensured he was never at a loss in the business arena or among the social set.

‘As secrets go, yours is a doozey.’

She turned slightly and encountered a slender young woman whose name temporarily escaped her.

‘Stephanie Sommers, marketing.’