Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 32
ОглавлениеANDRÉ watched Kira. The skin at his nape was hot, his muscles bunched to spring forward and catch her should she faint. It seemed imminent. She swayed slightly and her face was leached of color again. All because he’d told her that he intended to destroy Edouard Bellamy’s empire.
“It’s been a trying day,” she said at last, her voice strained and tinged with weariness. “I need sleep.”
So did he, but he was too livid at his investigator’s initial report to shut off his mind. “I have just discovered that Edouard Bellamy paid for your education and your efficient Mini Cooper car. And how interesting that you moved into the spacious flat that Peter had called home for over a year.”
“You had me investigated?” she asked, features suddenly tense and expressive eyes wary.
“Oui.” She was the product of a single parent, and raised in an elite boarding school. Illegitimate, with “father unknown” marked on her birth certificate. “Bellamy gave you your first job as the hospitality manager at Le Cygne. Were you Peter’s mistress by then?”
An angry red flush mottled her cheeks. “No! Edouard offered me a scholarship to further my education, but I landed that position at Le Cygne because of my high marks. I had no idea that his son had once lived in the flat I was lent.”
He didn’t believe that for a heartbeat. “What did you do to acquire forty-nine percent of Chateau Mystique?”
“We’ve been over this once—which was quite enough. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. Because I’ve never been any man’s mistress!”
She whirled toward the door and stumbled. He caught her, alarmed by her too-pale complexion and near faint.
“You should have eaten more,” he said.
“It wouldn’t stay down.”
His brows slammed together. “You’re ill? Should I send for a physician?”
“No, I’m just tired and thirsty. The doctor stressed I need to drink more fluid in my condi—” She broke off, her lips parting and her eyes going wide. It was the look of someone who’d said more than they’d intended.
His gaze narrowed on hers, his heart beating too fast as his mind found the only appropriate word to finish her thought. “What is your condition?”
She swallowed hard, her gaze locking on his. “I’m three months pregnant.”
Mon Dieu! He drove his fingers through his hair, his mind reeling with that news. Had he known, had he suspected, he never would have taken her from the Chateau.
“But of course—you are enceinte with Peter’s child.”
“No, I’m not,” she said, jerking free of him. “You are the father.”
It was a lie. It had to be. But even as he thought it his mind replayed a vivid image of the one time he’d neglected to use protection. He’d wanted Kira so much that he’d not even thought about birth control until after the fact.
Now he would pay for that consequence. If it were true.
“When did you plan to tell me, ma chérie?”
She shook her head, hating that she’d blurted out the truth. But at least that secret was out. “I hadn’t decided.”
“Convenient.” His gaze narrowed on her. “Was this part of Bellamy’s scheme to further smear my reputation, or your ticket to gain a greater fortune?”
Kira stared into dark angry eyes that flashed as fierce as the desert lightning storms that terrified her. She was crushed he believed her so mercenary. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—explain herself, for she’d only incur his wrath.
“Answer me! Whose idea was it to steal my heir?”
A glint of longing softened his features, so brief she wondered if she’d imagined it, so real she nearly spoke with her heart. But no, it was too soon to trust him without question—never mind that she longed to do just that.
She’d been an unwanted child, disowned by her mother and regarded as an obligation by her father. She wouldn’t let her child be treated so dispassionately by a rich father.
“Your heir?” She forced a laugh, the sound harsh to her own ears. “Is that all our child means to you?”
How dared she ask that? André’s jaw throbbed from clenching his teeth. “There are tests that will prove if the baby you carry is your lover’s or—”
“I won’t risk my child’s life to satisfy your curiosity,” she said, a hand pressed protectively to her belly.
His temper flared. “Mon Dieu, do you think I’d put the baby’s life at risk?”
“I don’t know. You’ve done nothing to earn my trust.”
“Touché.”
André ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw, damning the tremor streaking up his arm. The baby was likely Bellamy’s.
But it was possible the child was his.
“My baby’s health is more important than anything,” she said, and he silently agreed with her. “Let me return to the Chateau. I need to see my doctor regularly—”
“I will arrange for an obstetrician from Martinique to visit you weekly here on Petit St. Marc.”
“Weekly? You can’t mean to keep me here.”
“Oui, you will stay on the island for the duration of your pregnancy.”
Until paternity could be proved, Kira realized with renewed annoyance.
Petit St. Marc would be her prison for the next six months. Unless she could break through the wall of resistance and hatred André had erected. Unless she could finally gain his trust. And if not—
“I never meant for you to find out this way,” she said at last, to fill the awful silence that roared in the room.
He let out a course bark of laughter. “Forgive me for not believing you.”
The thought of being unable to bridge this impasse made her queasy. “I’m going to my room.”
André cut her a sharp glare and cringed at the dark smudges beneath her eyes. She looked ready to collapse.
Guilt niggled at him, for he was responsible for her long, arduous journey here. He’d gone to Las Vegas to kidnap a scheming mistress, not an expectant mother. What the hell had he brought on himself?
Time would tell. For now he’d err on the side of caution. “Come. I’ll escort you to your room.”
She glared at him. “So you can lock me in again?”
He affected a negligent shrug as he longed to throw something—ah, she did speak to his inner beast. He waited until she’d started up the stairs before following her up.
“My apology for doing so earlier.” His fit of anger had been so reminiscent of his father that he still longed to rail at himself.
“But you did it anyway,” she said.
“You have my word that it won’t happen again.”
“Your word?” She laughed, a glacial sound vibrating with anger. “Why would I believe you?”
He grabbed her arm and tugged her to him, wanting to see her face when he replied. “Because, unlike your previous protector, I stand by my promises.”
She jerked free, her arms banding her middle to hug her tiny waist as he longed to do, amber eyes condemning him. “Tell me, André. Did you vow fidelity to your fiancée?”
“No.”
Clearly his admission was the last thing she’d expected, for the flush of anger left her cheeks, leaving her exhaustion plain to see. He huffed out an annoyed breath at himself. Continuing this war of words served no purpose tonight.
“Seek your bed, ma chérie.”
She stared at him, as if trying to see into his heart, his soul. A waste, for the lock to both was rusted shut and the key lost to painful experience.
“I don’t understand you, André,” she said.
“There is no reason why you should.”
André turned and sought his own room, leaving her to think what she would of him. It mattered little to him that she didn’t understand his motives.
Anger boiled in him—at himself, for he’d believed her when she’d admitted she was enceinte. He’d taken her at her word, which showed how dangerous she was to him.
He needed more than an admission. He needed proof.
Even then he wouldn’t tie himself to a woman who stirred such fiery passion in him. A woman who’d deceived him.
Just because she might be the mother of his child, it didn’t mean he had to include her in his life. If the child proved to be his, he could easily gain custody of his heir and banish Kira Montgomery from their lives.
She was a schemer. A puppet of Bellamy’s who’d thought nothing of doing the unthinkable. She didn’t deserve to be in charge of an innocent life.
Kira had smoothly lied to him from the start. He had proof. Proof didn’t lie, didn’t deceive.
She bore watching closely, for her will was strong. So were her wiles, and she knew how to use them to get her way. While her femme fatale act had won Bellamy over, it wouldn’t work on him.
But it had—and that shamed him.
He should not find her desirable—shouldn’t want her for his own. But he craved her with a hunger that startled him.
His body burned with need, even knowing what he did about her, knowing she would betray him the first chance she got. He loathed the crippling emotion and refused to be ruled by it.
As he’d watched Kira gain control of her emotions earlier, he’d realized she hated the attraction she had for him as well. She pulled him to her, a powerful, sensual magnet that he struggled to resist.
Oui, André was not alone in his passion. She wanted him with a fierceness that rivaled his. She would have given herself to him in the pool if he’d pushed. He’d come close to doing just that!
She was his for the taking. He knew it, and she did as well. He could have had her tonight if he chose to, but she’d expected that. Planned it! The damn paparazzi had even circled his waters like sharks!
Though he believed she was with child, he knew better than to trust a woman—especially one who’d deceived him before. Was still deceiving him.
He’d buy a pregnancy test kit in Martinique tomorrow and verify her condition. And after that?
After that, they’d wait to learn the baby’s paternity.
And while they waited she’d be his willing mistress, for there’d be no reason to deny what they both wanted.
Kira woke well past the first blush of dawn, stretching in the downy bed like a sated cat. She couldn’t recall when she’d felt so rested. Sleep had been a stranger to her of late—she’d endured weeks of minimal rest even before her arduous journey to Petit St. Marc.
She sighed, lulled by the distant crash of the sea to the shore and the foreign caw and trill of exotic birds. Most were distant or muffled, but all were soothing. She could lie in bed for hours—something she rarely did.
The creak of the rattan chair in her room seemed overly loud. Her nerves tightened, the calming mood gone.
She wasn’t alone.
Kira gathered the sheet to her chin and stared toward the chair. Her pulse quickened when her gaze lit on André’s tall form lounging negligently across from the bed, watching her.
“Bonjour,” he said, rising with fluid grace to cross to the bed with lazy purpose.
The closer he got, the clearer she read the impatience in his dark eyes. What now?
“Good morning,” she replied, and hoped it would be.
He sat a box on the bedside table. “I have it on good authority that these tests are reliable.”
Her gaze flicked from his to the box, then back to him. “You want me to take a pregnancy test?”
“Oui. It is suggested one should take it first thing.”
A fact she knew well, since she’d gone through this procedure when her cycle had been uncharacteristically late. Her doctor had confirmed the test was right—she was pregnant.
Yet André demanded proof again.
She shrugged, hiding her annoyance that he distrusted her so. “As soon as you leave I’ll take it, and satisfy your curiosity.”
“I’ll wait.”
He had to be kidding. But one look at the firm set to his mouth confirmed he was dead serious.
“Fine. Just give me a moment.” She left the bed and padded to the en suite bathroom. “Alone,” she added, when she sensed him following her.
She took the test, as prescribed, then carried the stick out into the room. “It takes five minutes.”
He checked his watch and nodded, his features a stony mask of indifference. An odd tension hummed between them to keep her on edge. What went through his mind? And, more importantly, could he love their baby?
Thirty seconds before time was up, he strode to her side and stared down at the test she held. As if it had awaited his arrival, a pink line materialized in the window.
“It is positive,” he said. “You are enceinte.”
She shook her head as she disposed of the test stick, her smile rueful. “I admitted that.”
He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if expecting her to say more. And she wanted to talk to him, for she had no idea how he felt about having a child.
“But who is the father?” he asked.
“I’ve told you already.”
“Oui, once.”
“Once is enough.” He could either believe her, or wait six months for the test that would prove she’d told him the truth.
“You surprise me, ma chérie. I expected you would insist that the baby you carry is mine and not Bellamy’s,” he said, his eyes dark and accusatory.
“Why should I bother? You don’t believe a word I say.”
“For once we are in agreement.” He strode to the door, back straight and broad shoulders stiff. “You will remain my guest until you have the baby.”
“Your prisoner, you mean,” she said.
“If you choose to look at it that way.”
“Fine—play the tyrant,” she said, so angry she could scream. But he’d expect that, and she’d not surrender to hysterics. Not now. “I can work on my laptop from here as easily as I can from the Chateau.”
He stopped at the door, his expression incredulous. At last she’d gotten some reaction from him. But in a flash it was gone, replaced by the hard look she’d come to hate.
“Your only job until you give birth is to take care of yourself and the baby,” he said.
“I can do that and continue working.”
“Out of the question.”
“Why? Have you fired me?”
“You have a new job now,” he said, leaving her to wonder. “Or have you so quickly forgotten your condition?”
She glared at him, chafing at the order. “Not likely. I’ll be pregnant for another six months. If I don’t have something with which to occupy my time I’ll go out of my mind.”
His smile came slowly—a thief of passion, sneaking in unaware. The sensual curl to his mouth sent heat unfurling in her and reminded her just how much she craved his touch, his kiss. Just how responsive she was to him.
“I will endeavor to keep you busy, ma chérie.” And with that he was gone.
Kira pressed her fists to her temples, so frustrated with André’s high-handedness she could scream. If she stayed she’d become his mistress. But no matter how appealing it would be to lose herself in his arms again, to stay placed her in a dangerous game she feared she’d not win.
For once André discovered she was a Bellamy, he’d treat her with the same hatred he harbored for Edouard and Peter. He’d hate her and their child.
She had to contact her solicitor today. She had to find out who had set her up to look like Peter’s accomplice.
Perhaps when the truth was out in the open she and André could reach a rational decision regarding the future of the Chateau and their child? And their own relationship? She could only hope.
Kira paced her room, wondering how she’d manage to sneak into André’s office and ring up her solicitor. It would have to be when he left the house. Even then she’d have to be careful, for Otillie was always around.
Kira dressed quickly in khaki capri pants and a floral blouse that made her eyes gleam like rich amber and enriched the auburn highlights in her hair.
She slipped into comfortable espadrilles and made her way downstairs to the dining room. Otillie appeared almost immediately, which confirmed what Kira feared—the housekeeper was watching her closely.
She took a seat and forced a casual mien. “Will André be joining me for breakfast?”
“No,” Otillie said, as she set an assortment of thinly sliced baguettes topped with ruby-tinted jelly and chocolate-filled croissants on the table. “Monsieur Gauthier ate earlier.”
“Perhaps I’ll see him at lunch, then.”
Otillie frowned as she poured coffee that smelled rich and strong. “Monsieur will not return until this afternoon. He requested dinner at seven, and will join you then, oui?”
“Of course. I’ll enjoy the beach, then,” she said, hoping Otillie would take her at her word.
The older woman looked her up and down, then nodded. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Kira ate a croissant, though her appetite was nil, then left the table. She resisted the urge to rush into André’s office, and waited until Otillie disappeared into the kitchen.
Her nerves twanged a discordant beat as she slipped into his masculine domain. She hadn’t been in this room in three months, yet it looked the same. With one exception. There was no telephone evident.
She searched everywhere, her frustration rising. He must have anticipated she’d try to place a call and removed the phone. He’d trumped her plan. Or so he thought.
Kira was not to be deterred—not on something as important as discovering who was set on discrediting her. She knew none of the cottages had telephones, yet there must be one at the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later she slipped into the only restaurant on the island. A guard sat at the bar, which was manned by a tall thin Carib.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the bartender said. “What is your pleasure?”
“Sparkling water with a twist of lime,” she said as she claimed a stool at the end of the bar.
From here she had a good view of behind the bar. But the only telephone visible was the mobile hooked to the bartender’s belt.
Feeling defeated, Kira grabbed her glass of water and took a stroll along the beach. She saw more guards positioned at the dock. Though they appeared to be resting, she knew they were watching her.
Kira continued onward, down the leeward side of the island away from the public beach, so frustrated she wanted to scream.
Petit St. Marc was a beautiful prison, a verdant green rainforest surrounded by white sand. The turquoise sea rolled in an endless expanse toward the horizon, broken only by a passing ship that was soon out of sight. She walked around the spit of land that jutted into the froth of water and stepped into a protected cay.
She caught a glimpse of a guard patrolling the beach before he disappeared around an outcropping. Closer to her, a Carib boy stood on the crescent of sand, staring out to sea. Kira followed his gaze.
Not far offshore she spotted a sleek kayak, slicing through the water with apparent ease. And far out in the water she spied the unmistakable green of trees. Another island?
Of course. The kayak must have come from there.
A daring plan teased her mind as she stood in the protection of the rocks while the mariner rowed toward the shore. Just before the lime-green kayak reached the beach the young Carib bounded out and pulled the shallow boat the rest of the way onto the sand.
The two boys ran up the track and disappeared into the forest. Her gaze flitted from the kayak to the other island. There’d be a telephone there—one that was not guarded.
If she left immediately she could ring her solicitor and be back on the island before anyone missed her. She’d know what Claude had found out in her absence. But she’d have to journey there in the kayak first.
Her stomach knotted at the thought of riding such a distance in a small watercraft. Her terror of small boats tended to paralyze her with fear. But this was her best chance to speak at length with her solicitor.
With Claude’s aid she could get to the bottom of this deception. But first she had to overcome her phobia.
She closed her eyes, trembling from head to toe, her stomach tossing like a storm-tossed sea. Dark memories of the boating accident darted from their shadows to taunt her. The pitch of the boat on Lake Mead. Her mother’s squeal of laughter as her newest lover drove the speedboat at a reckless speed. The sharp turn that had pitched Kira from the boat. The suffocating water that had rushed over her head, the numbing cold, the blackness that had seemed eternal.
Kira opened her eyes on a gasp, the wedge of green lying before her a blur through her tears. She couldn’t do it. Her fear was too great.
Yet even as she admitted it she knew she had to try.
Kira darted an uncertain glance at the forest. The boys had yet to return. Nobody else was around. This was her chance to slip away. Now.
Her stomach quivered and her knees trembled as she inched toward the kayak. One step. Two.
She had to think of her child. Of convincing André she wasn’t the conniving tart he believed her to be. This was the only way.
Yet even as she maneuvered the light vessel around and jumped in, she wondered if she could trust her solicitor with this request.
What if he was the one who’d set her up for this fall? Kira wondered as she put to sea. Who could she trust? Nobody.
André, her heart whispered.
No! It was too soon to trust him. She concentrated on rowing the kayak.
The first swell propelled the craft high on a wave and dropped it. Terror coursed through her in electrifying ripples. Her hands tightened so on the rounded handle of the paddle, fighting the waves that threatened to force her back to Petit St. Marc.
A young boy had managed it. Surely she could as well?
Kira focused on making the paddle work for her instead of against her. But reading about kayaking and doing it were two different things, further complicated by her numbing fear of sitting so low on the sea.
The salt spray stung her skin. The strong lap of the waves against the fiberglass kayak kept her on edge.
She dipped the paddle in the turquoise brine and thought of the men in her life. The promises made. Broken. The love she’d hoped to find that remained elusive.
The soul-searing passion she’d shared with just one man. André. The precious baby they’d created.
The past month she’d thought of coming back to him. Having lived her life embroiled in secrets, she’d grown to despise them. And now that he’d brought her back she was cloaked in more secrets that could destroy their future.
She kept her gaze trained on the island ahead. It still seemed small and remote. How long would it take to get there?
Hopefully not long. She needed to be back on Petit St. Marc when André returned.
Kira longed to give her weary arms a rest from rowing, but the sudden change in the wind was whipping her off course. It took all her strength to keep the kayak headed toward her destination.
She glanced back at Petit St. Marc. Though she was far from the island, it still loomed large and mysterious, much like its owner.
Her stomach rolled like the sea, growing angrier by the second. So did the wall of clouds hunkering on the horizon, stretching high and ominous in a blue sky that was quickly growing black.
A storm was approaching fast. Being out on the water in the small kayak doused her in renewed fear.
She’d made a mistake setting to sea. The clouds boiled into a tower that looked more ominous than André’s temper. She’d never make it to shore before the squall broke.
As if in agreement, a gust of wind hit her, lifting the kayak and sending it shooting a good ten feet in the wrong direction. Panic squeezed a scream from her. She shook so badly her knees knocked against the fiberglass hull of the craft.
The swell crashed over her, drenching her to the skin. Then again as it tossed the kayak further off course.
Kira forced her weary arms to work the paddle, slicing in the choppy water. Again and again. Fighting against the storm and her choking panic, knowing if she gave up she would die.
She was close enough to see details of the island’s shoreline. Her heart sank and new fear exploded within her.
The island was minuscule compared to Petit St. Marc—a heavily wooded dome that crashed into the sea, leaving a shoreline littered with treacherous rocks.
Her arms shook so badly with fear and exhaustion she could barely row. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t put ashore here.
It was too dangerous. She had to push on.
Surely she’d find a village on the other side?
Lightning streaked overhead and she jumped, nearly dropping the paddle. Her heart pounded so hard she grew light-headed.
Kira tried to skirt the side of the island. Her arms ached, her shoulders burned, and her stomach lurched with dread. But it was her mind that taunted her the most, chiding her for making a mistake that could kill herself and her child.
The sky opened. Rain pelted her, blinded her. Her clothes molded to her. Her long hair was plastered to her face and back. Water filled the small kayak.
Still she fought the paddle, fought the swell of the waves, fought her panic. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest until she got past the last cluster of jagged rocks that had turned black and sinister in the deluge.
The whine of a high-powered engine sliced through the rumble of a storm. Someone else was out in this weather. Coming closer. Perhaps the Carib boy’s father? Perhaps someone who could help her?
She whimpered with exhaustion and darted past the last outcropping, knowing to stop would send the kayak crashing into the rocks. But her strength was deserting her.
The engine’s whine grew closer. Closer. Apprehension skipped down her spine.
Nobody should be out in this weather. Yet she was, and she wasn’t alone.
She risked a quick glance back, hoping to see who was there, catching a glimpse of a man riding the crest of a wave.
André? No!
How had he found her so quickly?
It didn’t matter. He was here. She had absolute trust he’d save her, if only to upbraid her for setting to sea in a storm.
As if mocking her attempt to stay alive, a gust of wind broadsided the kayak. The paddle was ripped from her hands. The wind stole her scream. In a blink, the kayak flipped over.
Sea water was shoved into her face and enveloped her, dragging her down. Down. Down.
Dark.
Suffocating.
And her nightmare came back to life.
André’s heart stopped, only to start with a vengeance and race with the fury of the wind. He’d kill her for doing something so foolish, for putting herself and his baby in harm’s way.
But first he had to rescue her and see them safely onto Noir Creux. First he had to play the part of a fool again.
He cut the Jet Ski’s engine and dove into the spot where he’d seen her go down. He ticked off minutes in his mind, knowing time was precious. Crucial.
He died by centimeters as he searched the murky depths churned by the storm and didn’t find her. He stretched out, swimming fast and hard, pushing through the black water until his lungs burned.
Finally his fingers grazed skeins of silk. He wound a hand in the thick mass of hair and reeled her to him, then anchored her close and pushed them both to the surface at the same time.
Her fingers digging into his arms gave him hope, energy, profound relief. His choking fear died, only to give birth to an anger that made the storm pale in comparison.
They broke the surface together, pounded by rain and battered by waves, limbs entwined, gazes locked on one another. He read the fear and need and relief in her eyes. He recoiled from the odd tangled emotions that sank into him.
He didn’t want to feel more for her than lust. All he wanted was to capture her desire. But she took more. More than he had to offer. More than he wanted to give.
After his jaunt to Martinique to meet with his solicitor he knew why. For her impassioned vow that the Chateau was her home was a lie. She was an opportunist, flitting from one benefactor to another.
But not with him. He had the upper hand now, and he didn’t intend to relinquish it.
It was just as well she didn’t understand the turmoil eddying within him. She was an enchantress who wouldn’t hesitate to use his weakness toward her to further her goal.
He wrapped an arm around her tiny waist and struck out for shore, aware of the pitfalls he’d memorized years before. The press of her body against his was sheer torture.
Before his private hell had enveloped his life she’d been the type of woman he’d desired. Not just as a lover. No, as his mate.
But that had been an eternity ago.
He wasn’t the same man he’d been back then.
He’d lost patience with the gentler side that demanded trust, fidelity. Love.
He couldn’t give any woman those things. All he could offer was his protection. Money. Unbridled passion.
André certainly would never offer even that to his enemy, no matter how much he desired her. No matter that she likely carried his heir.
After an eternity, André felt the black grit of volcanic sand beneath him. He pushed from the surf, dragging her with him, her fingernails digging into his arm attesting to her fear.
She was his for the taking. One word, one touch, and she’d tumble into his arms.
That would be too easy, stripping him of any satisfaction of conquering her. Of catching her at her own duplicity.
The rain battered them now, as merciless as his feelings toward her. He trudged through the churning surf between towering rocks slicked by rain, her by his side, her essence coursing through his blood, luring him in.
A black hole loomed ahead and he ran into it, pulling her in beside him. Only then did he draw a decent breath. Only then did he look at her. Only then did he realize his heart was close to beating out of his chest.
Fury. That was why. Any other reason was unacceptable.
The deep shadows in the cave obscured her features. So he focused on each indrawn breath, each stutter of sound, each ripple of sensation that sped from her hand into his.
“Do you feel all right?” he dared to ask.
“Yes. Fine.” He heard her swallow, felt another tremor go from her, and he cursed the span of concern he felt for her. “We are all right.”
She and the baby were alive. He was alive. And they were marooned together until the storm abated.
He detested the fact she’d ensnared him in such seclusion. Even though he knew what he knew about her, she made him feel things that made no sense to him, that he’d never experienced before. That scared the hell out of him.
Yet he ached to make her his right now. Again. Alone in this primitive cave while the storm raged outside and his own tempest battered within him, when nothing and nobody could interrupt them this time.
He wanted to pound into her with the same intensity as the storm pummeled the islet. He wanted to break down her defenses and for once hear her admit the truth.
Mon Dieu! She’d drive him mad with her stubborn nature and siren’s body. She was a contradiction that defied reason.
How could she be terrified of small boats, yet risk her life in one today? To escape him. That was why.
She’d have done anything to flee the trap she’d ended up in, for a fortune awaited her. Yet how could she have known?
Damn her! “Have you no regard for my child?”
He felt her stiffen, sensed her muscles bunching as if to pull away from him. “I—I only meant to find a telephone here, then return to Petit St. Marc.”
No doubt she’d been desperate to contact Peter and confirm if the deal had gone through. If so, she’d have found a way to disappear. Her error in seeking help here, coupled with the storm, had thwarted that plan. It had dumped her right back into André’s lap. Just where he wanted her.
“You would’ve waited an eternity. Noir Creux is uninhabited. A nature sanctuary under the protection of France.” He hauled her against his side, stopping her retreat. “And me.”
“You watch over a nature sanctuary?” Incredulity rang in her voice.
“I watch over many precious things.” Like her?
The thought came unbidden and was met with immediate resistance. She was more dangerous than a hurricane. Her carnal sting more lethal than a scorpion’s.
“Noir Creux is unique,” he said at last, when his pulse had ceased hammering in his veins, when his need to take her had abated. “An extinct volcanic dome is attached to a coral reef. Both are ancient.”
“Any buried treasure?”
“Oui,” he said, attuned to her every word, to every subtle shift of her body, to the wild scent of the storm mingling with warm woman. “But to attempt to remove it would destroy something far more valuable than doubloons.”
“You surprise me, André.” The comment was soft. Intimate, yet tinged with awe.
His fingers curled into fists. He didn’t want her admiration, her praise. He didn’t want to think that she’d be more than willing to tumble into his arms now that he’d proved he cared about something other than making millions. Or was it just another act?
It didn’t matter anymore. He wanted her.
Here.
Fast.
Hard.
Kira was his booty, fetched from the sea. His prize to savor. His to command. Yet the life within her tempered him like nothing else had. Life they’d likely created.
She’d gotten to him, breached his defenses, made him deal with emotions he’d vowed never to feel. He hated the doubts that crept into his mind. Hated second-guessing himself. Hated that she had lied to him from the start.
It would stop now.
He wouldn’t be swayed by her excuses.
He had to throw up walls again.
He had to gain the upper hand.
He had just the means to make her hate him.
“You could have asked more for your shares, ma chérie,” he said.
“Shares?”
“Oui. Your stock in the Chateau.”
He heard her breath catch, felt tension eddy from her in icy waves. “I didn’t put a price on my shares because they aren’t for sale.”
Mon Dieu, was all that came from her mouth lies? “I received a call early this morning, giving me first chance to buy your shares. Just like Edouard’s were offered to me.”
“This can’t be happening,” she said. “Who called you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does, because I won’t sell.”
“You can’t change your mind now.”
“I most certainly can. I never approved a sale. My God, I have to call my solicitor, stop this before—”
“It’s too late. I paid your price,” he said. “As of an hour ago, Chateau Mystique is one hundred percent mine.”
