The Marriage Deal. Helen Bianchin

‘Let us put this hate to the test, hmm?’

      She fought him, vainly twisting her body beneath his own as she attempted to wrench her hands free. ‘Don’t do this.’

      It was a statement, not a plea, and he noted all her fine anger, her fearless tenacity and her passion. All it would take was subtle persuasion and sensual skill to have her become pliant in his arms.

      ‘Then you should have thought before you pounded me with a pillow.’

      ‘If you bait me, expect a reaction,’ she launched in pithy response.

      His expression didn’t change although she could have sworn she glimpsed a glimmer of amusement.

      ‘So…do you want to continue with this game of one-upmanship, or shall we bring it to a halt? Your call, Sandrine.’

      She wanted to yell Fight to the death, and be damned. Except it would be her death. Emotionally, mentally, physically. And she didn’t want to offer him that power.

      ‘If you’ll move yourself,’ she suggested with expressive intonation, ‘I’ll go change and shower.’

      ‘Oui, but first…’ He took her mouth in a fleeting soft kiss, lingered at the edge, then swept his tongue into the silky interior to wreak brief and devastating havoc before easing his lengthy frame back onto the mattress. ‘Bonne nuit, mignonne.’

      He rolled onto his side, pulled the covering to his waist and closed his eyes.

      Sandrine lay frozen for a few seconds as she savoured the taste of him. Warm, musky and wickedly erotic. Damn him, she swore silently. He might have allowed her to call the tune, but he’d managed to have the last word.

      With extreme care, she slid off the bed and crossed to the en suite, undressed, then took a leisurely shower, allowing the hot spray to ease the tension tightening her neck and shoulder muscles. Then she closed the dial, reefed a towel and, minutes later, donned a cotton nightshirt.

      It seemed ironic and, she perceived wryly, probably owed something to her rebellious streak that she possessed complete sets of exquisite satin-and-lace French lingerie, yet alone she chose to wear something plain and functional to bed.

      Michel lay still, his breathing deep and even as she crossed the room to snap off the light.

      Afraid to share the bed with me? His words whispered in an unspoken challenge, taunting her.

      Maybe she should turn the tables on him and do the unexpected. He’d sleep for hours, and although she wouldn’t be there to witness it, she’d give almost anything to glimpse the look on his face when he woke and saw she’d occupied the other half of the bed.

      A secret smile curved her lips as she slipped under the covers. He wanted to play games, huh? Well, let the games begin!

      It gave her satisfaction to devise one scheme after another until sleep claimed her and tipped her into a world of dreams where Michel was alternately lover and devil, the location changed from one side of the world to another and became a film set where she was centre stage without any recollection of her lines.