to shine,’ a husky male voice intoned close to her ear.
She turned slowly to face the lead actor, whose birth name had been changed by deed poll to Gregor Anders. He was handsome in a rugged, rakish way and took his studio-generated image far too seriously, acquiring so many layers during his professional career it was almost impossible to detect the real man beneath the projected persona.
‘Gregor,’ Sandrine greeted coolly, and summoned a smile to lessen the sting of her words. ‘I’m sure you’ll shine sufficiently for both of us.’
It was easy to admire his ability as an actor. Not so easy to condone were the subtle games he played for his own amusement. Yet his name was a drawcard. Women adored his looks, his physique, his sex appeal.
‘Now, now, darling,’ he chided with a wolfish smile. ‘We’re supposed to share a rapport, n’est-ce pas?’ One eyebrow slanted in mocking query.
‘On screen, darling,’ she reminded sweetly, and remained perfectly still as he lifted a hand and traced his forefinger down the length of her arm.
‘But it is so much easier to extend the emotions beyond the screen for the duration of filming, don’t you agree?’
Her eyes locked with his. ‘No.’
‘You should loosen up a little,’ he cajoled, exerting innate charm.
‘I play before the camera. Off the set, I suffer no illusions.’
‘Strong words,’ Gregor murmured. ‘I could ensure you regret them.’
‘Oh, please,’ Sandrine protested. ‘Go play Mr Macho with one of the sweet young things who’ll simply swoon at the thought of receiving your attention.’
‘While you’ve never swooned over a man in your life?’
You’re wrong, she almost contradicted, but held her tongue. Gossip ran rife and, in these circles, quickly became embellished until only a grain of recognisable truth remained.
‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She lifted her empty glass a few inches aloft, then turned and crossed to the bar.
Within minutes she was taking a refreshing sip of orange juice. A waiter paused beside her and proffered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She smiled automatically, selected one, then took a delicate bite. It was delicious and brought an onset of hunger. A sandwich at lunch, followed by an apple and mineral water wasn’t much in the way of sustenance.
Sandrine took a mini vol-au-vent and popped it into her mouth.
‘Where is the guest of honour?’ a feminine voice asked in bored tones, and she turned towards the attractive young lead actress.
‘Bent on making a grand entrance, perhaps?’
‘That’s a woman’s prerogative, sweetheart.’
The smile was a little too artificial, the voice a fraction too contrived. Cait Lynden had acquired star status and wasn’t about to let anyone forget it. Especially a fellow actress playing a minor part, Sandrine decided silently.
‘No one seems to know who he is,’ Cait mused. ‘A successful entrepreneur is all Tony will reveal.’ An acquisitive gleam darkened her beautiful blue eyes. ‘Obviously rich. As long as he’s presentable and under sixty, it could prove to be an interesting encounter.’
‘And single?’ Sandrine posed, only to hear the other’s musical laugh.
‘Darling, who cares?’
Not Cait, obviously.
Minutes later Sandrine detected a change in the buzz of conversation, a shift in tone definition that caused her to lift her head.
So he had finally arrived. Almost a half-hour late.
Some sixth sense alerted her attention, followed by a quick stab of apprehension.
‘Mine,’ Cait uttered, sotto voce.
Even as Sandrine turned slowly to conduct a sweeping appraisal of the room, a telltale prickle of awareness slithered down the length of her spine.
There was only one man who could generate this effect. One man whose soul was so closely attuned to her own they were almost twin halves of a whole.
Sandrine caught sight of a tall male frame, felt the familiar tug on her senses as she recognised the broad-boned, chiselled profile, the dark, conventionally groomed hair, which seven weeks ago had lain longer at his nape, adding a refined, untamed quality that was equally as dangerous as the man himself.
She’d adored threading her fingers through the silky thickness, the purchase it lent when she held fast his head and simply clung during the slow, exquisite torture of his lovemaking, the dazzling heat of their passion.
Those had been the wild, sweet days when there had been only love to guide them, she reflected. A time when she’d given him everything without thought of denial.
Now she watched Michel while he paused in conversation to lift his head as if he, too, sensed her presence. Dark grey eyes locked with hers, probing, intense, and totally lacking in any humour or warmth.
Time stood still as everything and everyone in the room faded to the periphery of her vision.
There was only Michel. The man, the moment, the exigent chemistry evident. She could sense it, feel its powerful pull as she became caught up in the magical spell of something so intensely primitive she felt raw, exposed and acutely vulnerable.
Then he smiled, and for an instant she was transported back to the time they first met. Almost a duplicate situation to this, where they’d caught sight of each other at the same time across a crowded room.
Except the past had little place in the present. She could see it in the sudden flare in those beautiful slate-grey eyes and sense it in his stance.
Body language. She’d studied it as part of her craft and she could successfully determine each movement, every gesture.
Did anyone else recognise the cool ruthlessness or define the latent anger that lurked beneath the surface of his control? They lent his features a dark, brooding quality and gave hint to a refined savagery, which unleashed could prove lethal.
He was a man who held no illusions and whose youthful passage had moulded him, shaping a destiny many of his peers could only envy.
Sandrine watched in mesmerised fascination as he murmured an excuse to their host, then crossed the room and stepped out onto the terrace.
Fine Armani tailoring sheathed an awesome muscle definition in that powerful frame, and every movement held the lithe, flowing grace of a superb jungle animal.
Her heart thudded and quickened to a faster beat. Each separate nerve end became highly sensitised as he moved towards her, and she couldn’t think of one sensible word to say in greeting. Considering the carelessly flung words they’d hurled at each other all those weeks ago, a simple hello seemed incredibly banal.
She didn’t get the chance, for he captured her shoulders, slid one hand to hold fast her head, then his mouth took
