Michel intended to use to his advantage.
Each of the Lanier brothers possessed a considerable personal fortune, and sinking a few million dollars into a floundering movie wouldn’t put a dent in Michel’s assets.
A sudden screech of brakes, a muffled curse from the taxi driver, followed by an offered apology captured his attention, and he caught the buildup of traffic, the terrace houses, as the driver swung into the outer lane.
Raoul caught a glimpse of tall buildings stretched skyward in the distance, and estimated it would take ten minutes, fifteen at most, to reach the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Double Bay.
He was no stranger to this large southern hemispheric city, and he held a certain affection for its scenic beauty and stunning architecture, albeit that it was very young in terms of his native France.
Home was a luxury two-story apartment in Auteuil filled with antique furniture, marble-tiled floors, oriental rugs, objets d’art.
He had been born and raised in Paris, graduated from one of its finest universities, then was absorbed into the Lanier corporation as a junior executive.
Raoul gave a grim smile in memory of those early days beneath his father’s eaglelike tutelage. Henri Lanier had been a hard taskmaster. Ruthless, Raoul conceded, but fair.
Today, Henri presided as the figurehead of a multinational conglomerate, with Raoul and Michel holding equal power. Sebastian, on the other hand, had chosen law, graduated, practiced, then he penned and sold his first novel, and the rest as they say was history.
The taxi slid to a halt outside the entrance to a gracious well-established hotel a short distance from the waterfront.
Raoul handed the driver a folded note, then stepped from the vehicle while the concierge collected his bags from the boot.
Checking in was a simple procedure, and in his room he took bottled water from the bar-fridge and drank it, ordered room service to deliver lunch at midday, then he unpacked a few essentials, showered, shaved, donned a complimentary robe and replaced the receiver on the last of a few calls less than a minute before a steward presented lunch.
Afterward he dressed, checked his briefcase and took the lift to the main lobby. His meeting was scheduled for two. It was now three minutes past the hour. Essential minutes that gave him an edge, unless the man he was due to liaise with was also well-versed in tactical game-playing.
Eagerness inevitably bred punctuality, Raoul acknowledged, especially when the possibility of a large investment was at stake.
The meeting could easily have stretched to an hour. Raoul cut that time in half with clear instruction and assertive demand, leaving no shred of doubt as to who held command.
Afterward he returned to his room, snagged bottled water from the bar-fridge, then he opened his laptop and spent time keying in data and directing it via e-mail to Paris. He made two calls, the second of which was to Michel, alerting him to his arrival the following day.
Raoul flexed his limbs, then stretched his lengthy frame. He needed exercise. The gym? First, he’d exchange the business suit for sweats and sneakers, and take a walk in the fresh air. His plans for the evening encompassed nothing more than ordering in a light evening meal, followed by an hour or two on the laptop, then he intended to fall into bed and catch up on sleep.
The intercom buzzed, and Stephanie reached out to activate it.
‘Michel Lanier is here.’
She winced at the receptionist’s attempt at a French pronunciation, and stifled a faint smile at the girl’s obvious effort to impress. Michel Lanier was, she had to concede, an impressive man. If a woman was susceptible to a tall, dark-haired, attractive male.
‘Give me a minute, then show him in.’
It was an integral part of Stephanie’s job as a marketing manager to initiate discussions and venture opinions. She liked what she did for a living, it paid well and the rewards were many.
There was satisfaction in utilizing her expertise in film, together with an instinctive grasp of what attracted and titillated public interest, thus improving cinema attendance, and profitability for the film studios, the investors.
This particular movie had gone over budget, over time, financial avenues had been exhausted and a week ago it had been destined not to be completed.
The crux had been Sandrine Lanier, part-time model and actress, who had a minor role in the film, and her husband’s willingness to inject a considerable amount of money to salvage it.
Stephanie shuffled the papers she’d been perusing into a folder at the sound of a double knock on her door, and hit the Save button on her computer.
‘Michel and Raoul Lanier.’
She successfully hid her surprise as she registered both names, and she stood and summoned a friendly smile as Michel Lanier entered the room.
‘Please take a seat,’ she instructed, indicating a pair of comfortable leather chairs.
‘My brother requested he sit in at this meeting,’ Michel Lanier revealed smoothly. ‘You have no objection?’
What could she say? ‘No, of course not.’
Michel made the introduction. ‘Stephanie Sommers. Raoul Lanier.’
In his late thirties, she surmised, and the elder, if only by a few years.
Raoul Lanier stood an inch, maybe closer to two, taller than his brother. His broad frame held a familial similarity, as did his facial features. Except his hair was darker, almost black, and his jaw had the dark shadow of a man who was forced to shave night and morning.
Wide-set gray eyes, dark as slate, were far too knowledgeable for a woman’s peace of mind. As to his mouth…its curve held a sensuality that hinted at great passion. Equally she imagined those lines could thin, perhaps become almost cruel if he was so inclined.
His presence in her office hinted business, which raised doubt in her mind that Michel Lanier held the sole stake in a financial package aimed at rescuing the film in which his wife played a minor part.
‘Stephanie.’ He extended his hand in formal greeting, and she took it, choosing to ignore the faint tinge of mockery evident.
His handshake was firm, his touch warm, and she told herself the sensual awareness pulsing through her veins was merely a figment of her imagination.
‘Mr. Lanier,’ she acknowledged coolly.
One eyebrow rose, and his mouth curved slightly. ‘Raoul.’ He lifted a hand and indicated Michel with an expressive gesture. ‘Otherwise an adherence to formality will prove confusing.’
His accent was slight, but evident nonetheless, and the depth and intonation of his voice curled around her nerve endings and tugged a little, setting her internal protective mechanism on edge.
Charm, he had it. There was also knowledge apparent in those dark eyes, a knowledge that was wholly sensual, sexual, coupled with contemplative interest.
He would be lethal with women, she deduced wryly. Given his looks, his physique, his wealth,
