Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 30
ОглавлениеKIRA stirred, awakened by the crushed-velvet voice of her dreams. She understood very little French, but her body recognized the sultry promise his tone evoked.
She frowned, annoyed. It was always this way—André’s voice rousing her from sleep as if to taunt her about the passion they’d shared once. Passion she’d never had with another man. Passion she missed with a soul-deep ache that never left her.
As always, she was helpless to stop the desire radiating in her belly, spreading low and leaving her hot and throbbing and so restless she couldn’t lie still. She thrashed and arched in mute supplication for his touch, his kiss.
His hand glided under her skirt and up her inner thigh, his fingers splaying over her skin, so close to where she wept for his touch. Sensations exploded in her in dizzying colors and she moaned as she was drawn into the kaleidoscope of desire.
A soft laugh shattered the dream. She froze, knowing before her eyes popped open that the intimate touch was as real as the man. André loomed over her, his eyes dark and his features unreadable, his fingers inches from the juncture of her thighs.
Her heart careened crazily, for in that second she wanted him to touch her there like he had before. Wanted him to see her as a woman with dreams and hopes, not just as a sexual partner. The knowledge that wouldn’t likely happen snapped her from her sensual haze.
She slammed her hands against his shoulders. Mistake. Electricity arced into her as his muscles bunched and quivered. Her hands shifted over his chest, and she marveled at the power pulsing beneath her palms that she ached to explore.
“Stop it,” she said, as much to herself as to him, shoving against him to scoot away, only to have the sofa’s marble-topped divider table stop her. “What do you think you are doing?”
His lips pulled into a predatory smile that made her shiver with sexual awareness. “That should be obvious.”
She shook her head, shocked he’d taken advantage of her while she was sleeping, stunned that she’d nearly begged him to take her. Hard. Fast. Deep.
“I’m not making that mistake again.”
Something akin to pain flashed in his eyes, a lightning strike of emotion she couldn’t read. “Yet you desire me, oui?”
“No.”
“I know when a woman is faking and when she is gripped by passion.”
One bold hot finger slipped beneath the lace trim of her silky panties and traced the sensitive crease of her leg. She couldn’t stop the tremor that bolted through her, leaving her quivering with need.
She drew on every ounce of courage she possessed to defy his potent masculinity and preserve what remained of her dignity. “You’re wrong. I don’t want you.”
André slid his finger from her, depriving her of his touch, giving her false security. He flashed a beautifully masculine smile and skimmed that same finger over the desire-dampened crotch of her panties.
Her body jerked of its own volition. She bit her lip to stifle a moan of raw pleasure, and her face flamed with embarrassment and anger for he’d proven his point.
She was putty in his hands. Helpless to resist him.
“I knew you were ready before I touched you,” he said.
“André, don’t,” she said, curling her fingers into fists so she couldn’t clutch him and draw him to her.
“Why? We have nothing to lose.”
“You’re wrong.” She was already in danger of losing her heart to him—which made no sense, considering how he’d taken over her hotel and was dragging her to his island lair.
“Is that a challenge?” His hand slid down her calf and lower, sending hot quivers of sensation spiraling up her leg.
“No.” She’d be a fool to square off against André when her defenses were so low, when she was so weary she could barely think straight.
He didn’t play fair, and she did. Even now, with her emotions stretched thin, she became lost in his touch. Her breath hitched and her heart raced, and she willed his hand to glide back up her leg, to—
His palm cupped her foot, the fingers curling beneath the arch to skim the ball of her foot. A burning pain shot up her leg and her pleasure popped like a child’s balloon.
“Don’t! That hurts.” An exaggeration. The skin burned hot all over.
He examined her foot, his frown darkening. His finger lightly traced the strap indentations cutting across her skin and she set her teeth against the fiery pinpricks that danced across her skin.
He spat out a torrent of French that she was sure were curses, yet his touch remained gentle. “You are a fool to sacrifice comfort for fashion. How long have your feet been like this?”
“They began hurting as we walked from the car to the dock.”
“You should have told me.”
She glared at him and tried pulling her foot free of his hold. “You were not exactly in a friendly mood.”
He moved faster than lightning, pressing her deeper into the sumptuous cushions, blanketing her with his powerful body. His arms bracketed beside her head kept some of his weight off her, but not his groin. She felt the steely length of his sex against her belly and bit back a moan, afraid he’d ravish her, and equally afraid she’d not find the will to stop him.
“Discovering I had been tricked by my fiercest rival’s mistress puts me in a bad mood,” he said, his mouth tantalizingly close to hers, his eyes dark and mercurial.
“I’m not Peter’s mistress,” she said, willing him to believe her this time.
His features changed, hardening more than she’d thought was possible. “Why do you persist in lying?”
“Why won’t you believe me?”
He snorted. “Because I know what you are.”
Hot color stained her cheeks, her anger mounting. “No, you only think you do.”
“Then tell me. How did you gain control of the Chateau?”
The truth was poised on her tongue, burning to be released. There was no reason to keep the promise she’d made Edouard. No reason except to weigh the danger in confiding in André. For if he hated her now, he’d despise her when he knew the rest.
“Having trouble sorting out your lies?” he asked.
No, the truth. “Nothing of the sort.”
Kira looked away from the anger flashing in André’s eyes. She was tired of working long hours to earn her rightful place at the Chateau, only to have a stranger step in and take it all away from her. Tired of living on the fringe of Edouard Bellamy’s life so his family would be spared the stigma of knowing that he’d sired and provided for his bastard. Tired of receiving only crumbs of Edouard’s affection. Tired of fighting this same argument with André.
“I’m simply an employee who invested wisely in Bellamy Enterprises,” she said at last, repeating the excuse Edouard had devised.
“Did you receive a bonus when you came to my island and seduced me?”
“Of course not. I came to talk with you,” she said.
“So you said. Yet you found your way into my bed.”
“It was a mutual seduction.”
“Oui, but I wasn’t the one who invited the world to witness our affair the next morning.”
Kira shook her head, having nothing to say in her defense. He wouldn’t believe her anyway. She wouldn’t rail at him, because he volleyed her barbs back with the ease of a tennis pro—only his shots drew blood.
“Neither did I.”
“Perhaps you didn’t issue the order,” he said. “But you were aware that was Peter’s intent before you came.”
“If I had known, I assure you I’d never have come,” she said, furious that he doubted her at every turn. “And, for the last time, my solicitor had assured me that you’d requested a meeting between us.”
“Bravo, Miss Montgomery, for sticking with your story. Perhaps later you can entertain me with the story of how a new employee managed to buy a forty-nine percent holding in a multimillion-dollar Las Vegas hotel.”
Before she could think how or if she should respond to that, a shrill whistle echoed in the salon.
He surged to his feet, his features rigid with anger. “We’ve arrived at Petit St. Marc.”
Kira intended to do little more than rest for the remainder of this day, and maybe the next as well. She’d deal with André and the baby that tied them together later.
She watched him shrug into his suit jacket and give the lapels a tug. Except for the shadow of a beard lending him a roguish look, he looked no worse for wear.
Kira was sure she looked as weary as she felt. She swung her legs off the sofa and tugged down the skirt he’d rucked to her thighs. Her checks burned hot with mortification.
In London she’d spent her days working in a hotel and her evenings devoted to night classes. Edouard Bellamy had paid for her hospitality degree, but he’d insisted that was all the education she needed. She was, as her father had reminded her often, only suited to be a hospitality manager. But she’d had higher aspirations.
She needed a business degree to run a hotel. Her hotel!
Kira picked up her sling heels, hooked her purse over her shoulder and started across the main salon. The carpet felt good underfoot, but the onyx floors were sheer heaven, cooling her feverish feet like nothing else had.
No matter what else she did when she settled into a cottage, she intended to soak her abused feet. She descended the steps with care and moved across the carpeted deck to the railing. Her first look at the island took her breath away.
The lush rainforest on Petit St. Marc covered the humped dome of an extinct volcano. The knot of trees was so lush and dense that the forest appeared black at its heart—much like André’s must surely be.
Palm trees close to the water swayed in the gentle southeasterly breeze that was refreshing her heated skin as it skipped over the expanse of sea, carrying with it the tang of salt and the intoxicating sweet scent of exotic flowers.
She tensed as his shadow fell over her, but as the island came into sharp focus her temper mellowed. “It’s breathtaking.”
“Oui,” he said.
She looked away from the men mooring the yacht with quiet efficiency to André. Instead of staring at the island he frowned at her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d seen beauty here. As if he couldn’t believe she was here again.
Not by choice. And not for long, if she had anything to say about it.
“Come. The hour grows late.” He motioned toward the short gangplank being secured to the aft deck.
Kira moved down it with care, and stepped onto the weathered boards of the dock. Heat burned the soles of her feet. She hissed in a breath and took a cautious step.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“No. I just need to put on my shoes.”
She gripped the railing and tried to don her slings. Impossible. Her feet were too swollen to fit under the straps.
Strong arms swept her off her feet.
She grabbed André’s shoulders and felt a frisson of heat shoot through her. “You don’t have to carry me.”
“There is much I don’t have to do, ma chérie.” He carried her with effortless grace down the length of the dock.
Kira wanted to upbraid him for his Neanderthal ways, but she couldn’t bring herself to knock his kindness. The closeness to him was to her detriment, though, for resting against the stalwart wall of his chest not only teased her with erotic memories, but incited the desire to create new ones.
Dangerous thoughts. Hopefully when she was in her own quarters she’d be able to control this bizarre attraction to André. She wasn’t fool enough to believe she could remain indifferent to him.
André deposited her in the front seat of a canopied utility cart, his hands lingering on her bare skin for a charged fraction before deserting her. She tugged her skirt over her knees, annoyed that her body still throbbed with desire.
The utility cart dipped slightly as he eased his big frame behind the wheel, power and sensuality radiating off him in waves that rivaled the golden-tinged ones rolling toward the shore. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle and sprinkled with black hair. The breeze flattened his fine shirt against the hard planes of his chest and upper arms.
He was all power and dominance, a king in his kingdom. But it was that sultry gleam in his eyes as they undressed her that took her breath away. For just one look had her forgetting about the tenuous position she was in.
Disgusted at her weakness for him, she turned her head to watch a young Carib jostle her luggage onto the rear deck of the cart. Unlike his decadently rich employer’s, his smile was kind and respectful.
Kira returned the gesture. Though the Caribs treated her like a guest, she suspected none of them would help her escape.
What unnerved her was that her captivity was two-fold. For the child growing within her bound her tighter to André than any lock or key.
The vehicle jolted forward, the electric hum of its engine fading as the peaceful sigh of the island took dominance. “Do you ever grow weary of it here?”
“Only during hurricane season.”
He maneuvered the utility cart up a winding path paved with crushed seashells, the fat tires crunching them into a finer roadbed. The smooth surface was a welcome surprise.
Kira scanned the area anew. The first time she’d come here she’d been too incensed to appreciate the resort. And now? Her gaze took in the red-tiled roofs of the cottages almost hidden in the forest, and moved down to the secluded white beach below.
She caught a glimpse of a couple strolling hand in hand, naked as the day they were born. “You have a nude beach here?”
“Four natural beaches, all private, and all reserved before-hand by the guests.” A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Tops are optional on the public beach. We are very European here.”
“I’m too British to appreciate it.”
“You’ll learn to enjoy it.”
Never. Unlike her mother, she didn’t flaunt her body.
Kira closed her eyes to the beauty around her as the ugliness of her past tried to intrude. No, she wasn’t like her mother at all. She slid a hand over her belly. The past was just that—past. This baby was her future.
The utility vehicle whirred past another lane leading to another cottage and sped up an incline beneath a canopy of trees alive with birds. Through the light flickering through the foliage Kira caught a glimpse of the big house, nestled into the hillside.
She gripped the handrail and swallowed the panic building in her chest. He couldn’t mean to move her into his dwelling.
But as the vehicle emerged from the trees into an area cleared behind the old plantation house, she was certain that was his intention. Living on his island would be taxing enough. But to stay in his home and endure his temper? Impossible.
“I’d prefer my own quarters.” Away from him and temptation.
“The cottages are for paying guests.” He stepped from the cart and pocketed the key.
“Fine. I’ll pay,” she said, craning her neck to see where he’d gone. “I won’t live with you.”
“You don’t have a choice, ma chérie.”
She whipped around to find him at her side. One arm rested on the top of the canopy and the other gripped the support pole.
At first glance his was a casual pose. But one look at his white knuckles, at the corded muscles in his arms and the grim set of his mouth, dispelled that thought.
“I won’t be your mistress,” she said.
“I didn’t offer you the position.”
It was true. He hadn’t said a word about her being his lover. She should feel relieved, not disappointed. What was wrong with her?
His enigmatic gaze held hers another long moment before he straightened and extended a hand to her. “It has been a taxing journey. Come. I’ll help you inside.”
“I can manage myself.” Kira swung her legs out and stood.
Her sensitive feet settled onto the crushed shells and her breath hitched, but she was determined to walk into his house under her own power.
“Mon Dieu!” André stepped forward and swept her up in his arms again. “Are you always this stubborn?”
She planted her hands on his shoulders to force a minute distance between their bodies. “Are you always this domineering?”
“Only with you.”
Kira didn’t believe that for a moment as he strode up the walk, his shoes crunching the walkway. She resisted the urge to rest her head against his shoulder, refused to relax against the comforting wall of his chest.
He climbed the two steps to the front terrace with ease. The temperature was refreshingly cooler beneath the roofed porch. His housekeeper stood at the open door, the white ruffle on her peasant blouse and the hem of her orange floral skirt fluttering in the breeze that filtered through the house.
A smile wreathed her face. “Bonjour, Monsieur Gauthier.”
“Bon après-midi, Otillie.” André shouldered through the door with Kira in his arms, speaking rapidly in the island patois which sailed right over Kira’s head.
Otillie volleyed back with what sounded like affronted questions, and stepped in front of André, bringing him up short.
After a few choice words from him, Otillie tossed her hands in the air and quit the living room, muttering under her breath.
“What was that about?” Kira asked.
“Otillie is annoyed with me for not telling her I was bringing a guest home.”
“You should have let me rent a cottage.”
“I should have kicked you off my island when you first came here to play out your vengeance.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, refusing to be baited into the same argument about her reasons for coming here.
“Because you intrigued me.”
That feeling had been mutual. She’d never met a man like André. Never felt such a strong connection to another man. It had been more than sex to her, yet she suspected that was where their similarities ended.
He climbed the steps with apparent ease and continued down a hall swathed in shadows. Her blood heated and her heart quickened, for she knew there were only bedrooms on this level.
And she knew exactly which room was his.
Tingles of awareness streaked through her, sending her heart into a crazy rhythm. Was that where he was taking her? Would she be a prisoner in his bed?
Surely not? Even André couldn’t be that barbarous. Yet he’d taken her from the Chateau and brought her here. She was on his island. In his house. At his mercy.
Mercy? She gave in to a shiver. He had none.
He was a ruthless corporate pirate and a master of seduction. She might not be a match for him in business, but she’d proved she was his carnal equal. In that they were well suited.
That admission terrified her more than anything, for she was fatally attracted to him—like a moth to a flame. She’d been burned once by tumbling into his bed. The next time the flames of desire would consume her—if his quest for vengeance didn’t destroy her first.
He passed the door to his chamber without pause—the room where they’d made love, the room where the world had intruded on their ideal, the room she’d fled in anger and shame.
She shook off those memories as he shouldered open a louvered door midway down the hall, and pushed into a cool, dark room. A gorgeous canopied bed dominated the space, its mosquito netting rippling in the refreshing breeze that filtered through the room.
André headed straight toward the bed, his features so hard and unyielding they looked carved from stone. Yet he laid her on the bed gently, his touch lingering a telling moment.
Instead of pouncing on her, as she’d half expected he’d do, he stood back and stared at her with cold derision. She sensed he waged a war within himself, and a part of her commiserated, for she was fighting her own private battle to remain unmoved by him. It had been so good between them that one glorious night.
Though her heart pounded louder than the drums that had greeted them on their arrival, she sat up and faced him. And waited for him to break the tense silence.
“I’m a private man,” he said, pacing before the foot of the bed. “I guarded my business and my private life. But in one night you stripped me bare and invited the world as witness.”
“I had nothing to do with that swarm of paparazzi.”
He sliced a hand through the air. “Of course you would deny your part in that.”
“What about you?” she asked, having learned after Edouard’s death that André wasn’t a man to be crossed—or trusted. “You’re as much to blame for the dissolution of your engagement.”
He released a cold, hard laugh. “As much as I value privacy, my former fiancée cherished it more. You destroyed that and humiliated her.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” she said, in a burst of irritation.
He slammed both hands on the footboard, making the bed shake. “Don’t remind me.”
His eyes burned into hers, a mixture of anger and desire that made her light-headed. She looked away, breaking the spell.
At least André was no longer in the limelight. Just two weeks ago, a new celebrity upheaval had dimmed the spotlight on André Gauthier and his equally rich ex-fiancée. And the hunt to find his mystery lover—Kira—had finally lost its appeal.
But Kira would always regret being “the other woman”—a role she’d vowed never to assume. “I’m sorry your fiancée was hurt.”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Yes! I’m not a homewrecker. If I’d known you were engaged I never would have let you touch me.”
“But of course you have manipulated this in your mind, so I am to blame for not telling you.”
“Why didn’t you speak up?”
An awful quiet hummed between them. The muscles and tendons in his face were stretched so tight she feared they’d snap. He looked angry enough to kill her with his bare hands, and at that moment she wouldn’t have blamed him.
She was furious at herself for listening to her solicitor and coming here for the meeting that André had always denied requesting. Though they’d tumbled into bed soon after, he surely had to admit he was as much at fault as her—maybe more so.
For he’d been affianced. He should have sent Kira away instead of seducing her.
“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” he asked, his voice lethally soft.
She bit back the desire to ask him the same, for that would lead to questions she wasn’t prepared to answer yet. “I exposed you for what you are. It was you alone who broke her heart.”
“Are you really that naïve?”
Anger sparked in her—again directed as much at herself as at him. “I know what I saw. When your fiancée found us together she was devastated that you’d broken your pledge to her. If she hadn’t loved you, your infidelity wouldn’t have bothered her.”
He shook his head and his mouth pulled into a grim smile. “Oui, she was furious that my affair was made public. So furious she rescinded the offer that would have merged our companies. You, Miss Montgomery, cost me a fortune.”
Kira blanched, certain he was exaggerating. “You make it sound as if your impending marriage was just a business merger.”
“It was.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“But I am. You did more than create a scandal,” he said. “You interfered in a lucrative deal. But then Peter must have made you aware of that. That’s why you must suffer the consequences of your actions.”
That was why he’d struck now to acquire the Chateau—why he’d blackmailed her into leaving with him. The corporate raider with meticulous timing. The father of her child.
A man who broke his vows—just like her father. A man who took pleasure exacting revenge.
Without another word he turned and stormed from the room, closing the door behind him with a demoralizing click.
Kira leapt from the bed and raced to the door, not done with this argument yet. She spied his shadow through the louvers and grabbed the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. Locked.
She pounded the doorframe so hard the louvers rattled. “Unlock this door! We need to talk.”
“I’ve said all I intend to say for now.”
“Wait! You can’t keep me in here.”
“Oui, I can.”
It was a fact she detested. She was marooned on an island with a man who burned with revenge—and she was pregnant with his child. He likely believed he’d rendered her helpless.
But then, André really didn’t know her.
“If you don’t unlock this door, I’ll—I’ll—”
“Do what?” he asked, his voice smug. “Throw a tantrum?”
Kira seethed and scanned the room. Her gaze fell on a pair of rococo vases adorning a shelf. Old Paris Mantle vases, she was sure. Lovely. Delicate.
“No, something far more valuable,” she said, and heaved both vases at the door. The porcelain shattered in a million rose-hued shards—just like her dreams.
