Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 33
ОглавлениеKIRA moved toward the mouth of the cave, her feet leaden, feeling cold and hollow inside. She’d thought she’d survived the worst life could fling at her. How naïve she’d been.
When Edouard had promoted her from hospitality manager of his elite Le Cygne Hotel in London to significant minority stockholder of Chateau Mystique, she’d been terrified and anxious. She’d wanted to please Edouard. Wanted to prove to him that she could run a luxury hotel, that she was worthy of his attention at last.
But she’d barely settled in when tragedy had struck. A car accident had taken the life of Edouard’s mistress and left him in critical condition.
That was when André Gauthier had struck, offering an outrageous sum for the whole of the Chateau. Edouard, through his solicitor Claude, had delivered a firm no—the Chateau wasn’t for sale. But André had persisted, and Kira had feared for Edouard’s recovery in the face of so much turmoil.
She’d said as much to Claude, who’d quickly arranged that meeting between Kira and André on Petit St. Marc. A meeting André still swore he’d known nothing about.
That was when she’d engaged in the most bracing debate of her life. That was when she’d lost a bit of her heart to André Gauthier.
Not once had she surrendered her stance on the availability of the Chateau, but she’d caved to his sensual demands.
The day after she’d returned to Las Vegas Edouard had died. Kira had mourned him in her own way, for though he’d been her father, she’d barely known him.
He’d made it clear when she was very young that he would provide for her, but he’d never give her his name. He would keep her apart from his legitimate family—the two would never become one. She was never to admit her paternity to anyone, and if she did he’d disinherit her.
She’d done as he’d asked because she’d been a child and alone. Because she’d known no better.
He had educated her and given her a job at his London hotel, but the biggest surprise had come when he’d brought her to America and given her shares in the Chateau. He’d made it clear that this was all she’d get from him, and his own shares wouldn’t pass to her until his death.
It had been enough. She’d had great plans to improve the hotel on the Vegas strip, and she’d had a chance to finally know her father.
But tragedy had struck first. And now, through an act of deceit, André owned it all.
And she had nothing but false promises.
She stared out at the rain sheeting over the islet. Had the person who’d trumped up documents to make it appear as if she’d conspired with Peter Bellamy to ruin André also forged her name to dispose of her shares? Had they done the same with Edouard’s shares as well?
Who had that much corporate power? Peter Bellamy?
According to Edouard, when Peter had discovered Kira’s existence his legitimate son had resented her. Had her half-brother sought to ruin her? If so, he’d done a good job of it, for both acquisitions had gotten past Claude, her and Edouard’s solicitor.
It could take years of litigation to regain her shares. She had no money. No resources. Nothing but a baby growing in her. While André had wealth and control on his side.
How utterly foolish she’d been to think she could come to terms with him. “How much did you pay?” she asked.
“You know the answer.”
“How much?” she asked, her voice cracking.
His pause stretched an eternity. “Two million.”
A fortune. Her fortune.
Kira pressed her head against the damp stone wall of the cave, feeling dry and burned up inside. Used and tossed aside like refuse.
She doubted the funds had gone into her account. No, whoever had plotted this embezzlement would have escaped with it.
Kira pressed a palm over the cold stone, so chilled by her bleak future that she barely felt the dampness seep deeper into her. She didn’t know what to do now. Didn’t know what she could possibly do.
She stared at the rain coursing over the rocks, each droplet knowing its destination. Gravity guided it, though the water was happy to stay its course, to rush on and join a larger pool, its identity lost in the community of water, joining the mass for the common good of the sea.
Kira envied those droplets, for as of now she had nowhere to go. No one to turn to for help. No family waiting to take her in. No purpose. Nothing.
All because of a traitor at the Chateau and André Gauthier’s thirst for vengeance.
She’d known André was ruthless, that he was a corporate raider who attained whatever he set out to conquer. He’d never lied about wanting the Chateau.
But she hadn’t guessed he’d be so relentless in his pursuit of it. That he’d abduct her in his quest for vengeance, then cut her out of her inheritance without remorse. That it would be so easy for him to achieve his goal with the destruction of her own.
Her own naïveté was much to blame, for she’d believed the trouble she’d faced at the Chateau had stemmed from a few disloyal employees who’d resented her sudden elevated status. She’d never dreamed someone was plotting her ruin.
Or were they? Could she truly believe André? Had he paid the traitor to do this bit of nasty business?
Her heart said no, that he’d simply been waiting for the opportunity to present itself. But her heart was too hungry for love to be trusted. Her heart was too open, too innocent—easy bait for the sly and cunning of the species. Like André?
He had the power to engineer such a takeover. The ruthless bent to take what he wanted by any means.
“Who is the conspirator?” she asked, too heartsick to cry or raise her voice. “I have a right to know his name.”
“How would I know?”
She whirled on him, blinking once, then again, before she saw him in the gloom. The shadows fit him well.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “You must have paid someone at the Chateau to do your bidding. Someone who would forge my name on documents so nobody would question why my stocks were offered to you, making your takeover complete.”
“I don’t resort to underhanded dealings.”
She jerked her chin up, willing him to read the movement as defiant. Livid. “Just kidnapping?”
“Don’t bait me, ma chérie.”
“Why not?” She moved toward him, trembling with anger as well as anxiety, tired of his bullying. “You stripped me of my home and my job. My dream. I have nothing left to lose.”
“No?”
He flung an arm around her and jerked her to him. Her breasts flattened against his chest, her stomach rubbing his taut belly. His powerful arms banded hers to her sides.
His captive. His desire. His!
She felt his dominance in every breath he took. Felt his savage need course from him into her, fueling her own wants which she could barely contain.
Kira knew the folly in trying to break free, so she stood as stiff as a statue and braced herself for a kiss meant to dominate. To punish.
Let him take. She could give no more.
For surely an arrogant man like André, who was this close to the edge, would take her now? He’d be driven to punish her for challenging him. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he controlled everything about her.
Like the last time they’d ended up entwined in each other’s arms? Making love with a fever that had threatened to consume them? That had created a life?
His head bent to hers, slowly, his gaze afire with need and something else she couldn’t recognize. She trembled, wanting him so badly she shook.
But she had to be strong—for her child. For her self-respect. That was all she had left. Kira turned her head, denying him.
Instead of his expected spate of anger, one strong, masculine hand slipped between their bodies and splayed on her belly. Tremors coursed through her with terrifying force, mocking her with a sense of rightness she was loath to admit. Firing her blood and her anger in turn.
But it was her heart that paused, warmed, softened. For surely that protective palm, pressed where their child thrived, meant he cared?
“I will file for complete custody,” he said, his lips grazing the tender skin behind her ear. But instead of heat, she felt chilled to the bone.
He couldn’t be that cold. That heartless. Yet he wasn’t a man to make idle threats either.
“You can’t mean that,” she said.
“But I do, ma chérie. The baby binds us together now, but after the birthing that will change.”
The forewarning speared her heart and soul, honing her maternal instincts to protect her baby however she must. How could she have thought she had nothing more to lose? That she had a chance for a future with André?
She’d do anything to keep her child. Anything.
She would not lose this battle.
Kira turned her head, her gaze seeking his in the minimal light. His resolute features confirmed he knew her weakness as well. And he knew how to use that against her.
Certainly whoever had sculpted his beautiful mouth had seduction in mind. She felt her own lips tingle, remembering the firmness of his mouth molded to hers, the provocative bow that tickled and teased and tempted her to shed her inhibitions. She had only to shift a little and lift her face to his to steal a kiss, to take the initiative again. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. But, oh, how she longed to!
And his eyes—my God, she could drown in their mesmerizing depths.
“You can’t seriously mean to take my child from me.” Because it was wrong and cruel. Because it would kill her to be cut from her child’s life.
“It is for the best,” he said, his voice lethally low and as impassive as his gaze. “I am wealthy and can provide for my heir.”
“I’ll fight you.”
“You will lose.”
She didn’t doubt that he was right, that he’d pull strings to get his way. But she wouldn’t capitulate either. Not on this. Not ever.
“Then I’ll seek joint custody—”
“No. After this reckless stunt you pulled today, you can’t be trusted to care for my baby.”
Unbidden tears stung her eyes and she looked away, feeling frantic now, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d brought her low again. She gathered her courage around her, ready to plead with him to have a heart, then reminded herself he had none. For no man possessing compassion would attempt to rip a child from his mother’s arms.
“I’ll fight you until my very last breath,” she said again, her fingers bunching his wet shirtfront. “I’ll never willingly give up my child.”
A charged silence rebounded off the cave walls, the tension punctuated by the rain that had reduced to a gentle patter, as if hushing to hear what he’d say. But time crawled by and he didn’t respond. Didn’t so much as move a muscle.
Slowly, sunlight crept into the cave, as if the heavens were rolling up their blinds. Even the air had become heavy and still, as if holding its breath in anticipation of his reply.
“Nor will I,” he said at last, his arms tightening a fraction in a parody of a hug before releasing her.
Kira stepped away from him, knowing things would only get worse when the truth came out, certain that whatever bargain she struck with André must be done soon. “I’ll never accept being a passing moment in my baby’s life.”
Some emotion flickered in his eyes—something beyond hate or lust or cold calculation. Something that gave her a thin thread of hope. She grabbed onto to it and held tight.
She trusted that André would never be so cruel as to rip her baby from her arms, from her heart. But if she was wrong…
André ran a hand over his hair, slicking the wet strands back off his tanned brow, his features unreadable as he motioned to the cave entrance. “It’s time we returned to Petit St. Marc.”
“How?”
She doubted she had the strength to paddle the kayak back to the island, even if she could find it. Most likely the small craft was lost to the sea.
“With luck, my Jet Ski rode out the squall.”
“And if it didn’t?” she asked.
He lifted one broad shoulder in a negligent shrug and left the cave. She took a deep breath, stretching her hands forward and then tightening her fingers into fists. Once. Twice.
But it did no good. Her hands still trembled, her stomach still pitched, and her heart still ached with old worries and new. For if she couldn’t reach his heart, she’d have to escape the island before her baby was born. She’d have to disappear. Start over. Hide the rest of her life. For a man like André would never let her best him.
Kira quit the cave and stepped onto the rain-soaked black sand beach. As she’d expected, there was no sign of the kayak.
Its burial at sea was fitting, since a pirate had seized control of her hotel. Her life. Her future.
Out with the old.
In with the new.
Her gaze flitted to André, knee-deep in the frothy surf, inspecting a long, sleek Jet Ski. His hair glistened blue-black in the now blinding sun, the thick mass waving in artful precision over the strong column of his neck.
He’d removed his shirt to reveal a bronzed back beautifully chiseled with muscles that bunched and bulged with each movement. She remembered the feel of that power beneath her fingers as she ran her hands up and down his back, clinging to him, scoring his flesh as he took her beyond any passion that she’d known. The firm smooth texture of his skin beneath her palms. The hint of salt on her tongue that had made her thirsty for more of him.
Her fingers flexed, her body quickening as her gaze flicked over him and she remembered more. His jeans rode low on his lean waist, yet his limbs still looked long and graceful.
Once with him had not been enough.
It never would be, she admitted.
That traitorous ache of want pulsed between her legs, radiating upward to turn her limbs languid, her blood thick and hot. It scared her to be that receptive to any man. That dependent. For it allowed him to dominate her thoughts and keep her on edge.
Just like she’d been all her life. The cycle had to end.
She was so tired of being dominated by powerful men. So weary of having no say in anything.
Oh, Edouard had given her carte blanche for implementation of new services at the Chateau. But the long hours she’d pored over the plans had been for naught.
The Chateau was lost to her. It was just another cherished dream that had failed. All because André had chosen to exert his iron control over her.
But he was wrong about one thing. Taking her child from her wasn’t for the best. She’d prove it to him. And if his heart still remained hardened, she’d simply disappear.
Talk was nonexistent on the trip back to Petit St. Marc. Not only did the whine of the Jet Ski make conversation nearly impossible, André suspected Kira was too engrossed battling her fear of an even smaller faster sea vessel.
André knew her fingernails would leave marks on his belly. She clung to him, pressing her face to his back, as if branding herself to him there as well.
Her terror rippled through her, tempering his speed as surely as the heat of her passion had burned him earlier. He felt her in every fiber of his being, each indrawn breath, each telling beat of his heart.
He wanted to hate her. Did hate her for siding with Peter Bellamy against him. Yet he desired her with an intensity he’d never felt before.
The admission worried him, for it had been that way from the beginning. When she’d first walked into his study on Petit St. Marc he’d been gripped with lust. He’d had to have her.
Even now, knowing she was in league with his enemy did not lessen his desire. He had the proof of her role in this charade tucked away in his safe, yet he wanted Kira Montgomery in his bed. Wanted his name on her lips when he brought her to climax.
And then what?
The question nagged at him as he killed the engine and beached the Jet Ski. He climbed off and helped her alight, reluctant to release her hand. So he didn’t.
For once she wasn’t pulling away from him either.
That glint of determination he noted in her eyes intrigued him. Now that they were on firm land, he imagined her mind was busy thinking of ways to convince him she needed to remain an integral part of her child’s life.
She didn’t need to bother.
He already knew she’d be a good mother.
The thought had embedded itself in André when she stood up to him, fire in her eyes, chin lifted proud, despite the telling tremors that streaked through her. He’d experienced a moment’s shame for tossing out the barbarous threat that he’d bar her from their child’s life.
But how could he endure her closeness either? Dare to trust her knowing that she’d repeatedly lied to him?
He didn’t know. The fact he was not ready to leave her company when he had things to do in his office annoyed him, but it was the truth nonetheless.
“Monsieur Gauthier!”
André looked up at the young boy running pell-mell toward him, one brown hand raised high and waving a snow-white envelope. The mail must have arrived, and Georges had determined this missive demanded his immediate attention.
He allowed a fleeting smile. The boy was eager to earn another euro for hand-delivering his mail. André knew the boy would use the money to help support his ill mother and younger siblings.
“Pour vous, monsieur,” Georges said, thrusting the envelope at him with a toothy smile.
The missive was from his detective, sent to the island by courier. It must be the final report on Kira Montgomery.
Unwilling to trek to the house to reward the boy, he tossed him the keys to the Jet Ski. “Take it. It is yours.”
George’s eyes rounded. “Merci—merci.”
André turned to Kira and motioned to the gate leading into his private beach. “Walk with me.”
“You’re going to let that boy borrow that dangerous thing?” she asked.
“No, he can have the Jet Ski.”
“Why?”
“Because he is loyal. Because it pleases me.”
She tipped her head back and stared up at him curiously. The angle was just perfect for the sun to streak highlights in her vibrant hair. The mass hung in rebellious curls, giving her that just-pleasured-by-a-man look.
He caught himself on the verge of smiling and shook his head, surprised again by the contradiction that was Kira Montgomery. She portrayed a refreshing innocence at times, like now, with a flush tinting her cheeks and her eyes wide with wonder.
It was a quality he’d never seen in a mistress before—certainly in none of the women he’d employed! Was it possible that Bellamy had been her first lover?
The thought of her lying with the old man rankled. He entwined his fingers with hers, his chest tightening with annoyance.
A woman with Kira’s passion deserved a virile man who could match her in bed, who’d boldly explore the myriad ways they could pleasure each other, who knew how to give and take in bed.
A man who treasured a woman instead of beating her.
He had it on good authority that Edouard Bellamy’s finesse in amour was lacking, that he was given to bouts of unparalleled jealousy and rage. He knew it was true, for he’d seen the bruises on the old man’s former mistress.
André had listened in silent rage as Suzette had made excuses for Bellamy’s inexcusable behavior. But she’d stayed with the old man because he had showered her with everything she wanted. She’d chosen Bellamy over her family. She’d loved their enemy.
Had Kira fallen into the same trap? Was she fatalistically loyal to Edouard Bellamy? Would she stab André in the back too?
“What makes you so angry?” she asked, breaking the silence.
He glanced at her and shrugged, pushing the past into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. “After your adventure to Noir Creux, I have reason to be angry, n’est-ce pas?”
“Perhaps. I just thought—” She shook her head, her expression pensive. “We need to talk, André.”
He frowned, knowing she sought reassurance. It was beyond him to offer comfort, yet he was hesitant to crush her spirits again. Nothing could be gained by beating her down more.
His win was her loss. He’d bested her. So where was the feeling of satisfaction?
André motioned to a massive hammock strung between poles and shaded by a canopy of palm fronds. “This way. I’ll join you in a moment.”
She bit her lip, as if hesitating, then set off toward the shade without argument.
He watched her, noticing her wet clothes no longer clung to her like his hands longed to do. That was his most challenging problem, for though she’d lied to him, deceived him, he wanted to believe her. His desire for her had blinded him to her perfidy.
André shook his head and tore open the letter from his detective, his impatience with himself escalating. His gaze flew over the short message that ended with a cryptic “more to follow when I receive proof.”
He scanned the note again, then read it slowly, absorbing every word. His body tensed as his ire blazed to life again. Could this be some mistake?
But, no, the detective was meticulous in his findings, checking and double-checking everything he uncovered. Which made this bit of news all the more troubling.
Just what the hell was going on? He stuffed the note in his pocket and headed across the sand that was bleached white under the sun’s glare.
He’d known from the start Kira was doing Bellamy’s bidding, having had proof of her involvement. He’d deduced that she’d now sold her shares in the Chateau so she could embark on a new life—escape his grasp out of fear of retaliation should the child be Bellamy’s, or entrapment if the baby was his, as he suspected.
But the two million André had paid for complete control of the Chateau had never showed up in her account in Las Vegas or in England. Likely she’d had the money funneled into a Swiss or offshore bank account. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind he doubted its validity.
Kira hadn’t had any access to a telephone—so she couldn’t have made the transaction. No, the only way she could have had a hand in this sale was if she’d set it up before he took her from Las Vegas.
It was plausible, for she had admitted to ringing her solicitor, but even so she’d had no idea of his plan. Then, too, why had she refused his earlier offer to buy her shares and then turned around and given him the first crack to acquire them for the price he’d offered earlier?
It made no sense.
She wasn’t a flighty businesswoman—of that he was sure. Yet this offer made it seem that way.
Everything she’d queried him about on Noir Creux came back to him. Her surprise at his acquisition and at the amount he’d paid for her shares. The anger, panic and defeat when she’d realized it was a done deal.
Her admission that she’d risked her life just to phone her solicitor to find out the truth. She wasn’t lying—of that he was sure.
His mouth pulled into a grim line at that admission. Whether she was the injured party or not, there was nothing he could do about it now. If his detective turned up anything that nullified Kira he’d take action then.
André scanned the beach for Kira. He spotted her, staring forlornly out to sea.
A chill tripped up his spine when he thought how close she’d come to dying. Mon Dieu, he had nearly lost them both!
His woman. His child.
A strange warmth expanded in his chest as he allowed himself to believe the truth in his heart. If she was to be believed he’d soon be a father. Not Bellamy. Him—André Gauthier.
It was sobering.
He and his former fiancée had discussed having a family once. She’d wanted two—no more than that! And she hadn’t wished to start a family until they’d been married at least three years. No exceptions.
He’d agreed, simply because it was a solid plan. Controlled, like every facet of his life. Because his impending marriage had been nothing more than a business deal.
Then Kira had burst into his life, vibrant and fiery as the morning sun. Her blinding light had exposed the rigidity of his life—she’d roused his anger and his lust. But her sharp mind had been the spark to ignite his interest.
Even knowing she was his enemy’s plaything, he’d wanted her then.
Even knowing she’d conspired to ruin him, he still wanted her.
And, damn, he’d have her now.
André ducked under the canopy, pleased Kira was stretched out on the hammock. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, letting it fall where it might. His cutoffs went next, and he heaved a relieved breath as his sex sprang free.
Her lips parted on a gasp. “What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable.” He moved toward her. The darkening glow of passion in her eyes confirmed she was battling desire without success. “Take your clothes off, ma chérie.”
“Absolutely not! Someone could come by—”
“Not here. This is my private beach. Nobody will see you but me.”
André had the satisfaction of watching her eyes widen, the pupils dilate, her breathing grow heavy. She wanted him as much as he did her, but she was clearly hesitant to shed her inhibitions or her clothes.
Contrary behavior for a mistress. But he’d come to realize Kira wasn’t ordinary. Oui, she was a contradiction.
Sexy, yet shy.
Passionate, yet refined.
Savvy, yet reserved.
He leaned over her, noting the quickening of her breath, the flushing of her skin. His mouth grazed her soft flushed cheek, nuzzled her neck, moving slowly to where a telling pulse hammered in the slender column of her throat, keeping pace with his own wild heartbeat.
He’d never wanted a woman as much as he did her. Had never exercised such restraint in seducing a woman. But though the chase made the anticipation all the more sweeter, his patience would not last much longer.
“I’ve seen you naked,” he said. “Why hesitate now?”
He heard her swallow, felt a shiver rip through her. “You dare to ask after you threaten to bar me from my child’s life?”
He read the resolute determination in her eyes and almost smiled. Almost. She possessed more power than she realized.
“One has nothing to do with the other, ma chérie,” he said, his fingers releasing the tiny buttons on her blouse.
She grasped his hand, stopping him. “It has everything to do with this—this passion between us. I won’t be removed from our child’s life, André. Not now, not ever.”
She’d thrown down the gauntlet, giving him the choice to refuse to bend, to acquiesce to her demand, or to lie. “Very well. You have my word that I won’t mention it again.”
“I—” She swallowed. Stared straight into his eyes. And he saw her acceptance for what it was. Trust. “Thank you.”
He didn’t want her gratitude. Didn’t want to tie anything to this moment but mutual desire. No strings, no promises.
“Now we will make love à la Caribbean Française, oui?”
“Yes,” she said.
Triumph surged through him, along with emotions he didn’t want to face. Not now. Not when these new disturbing sensations were hammering away at him.
He pushed her blouse wide and traced a finger over the lace trim on her demi-bra, surprised his hand trembled. Stunned that with her he felt like an untried youth again.
She moaned and splayed her hands on his chest, the small fingers flexing over his muscles. An electric jolt shot through him, his muscles snapping taut, his body quivering with need. Mon Dieu, but he’d never experienced such sexual awareness from a simple touch.
He stared at her, his gaze ravenous as it swept over the creamy swells of her breasts pushing above the lacy scrap of her bra. A growl of annoyance rumbled through him, for he hated the barrier. With a flick of his fingers he released the clasp.
She moaned as her bosom spilled free. He palmed a globe, intrigued by the pale silken texture of her breast against his tanned skin, of the taut puckered nipple begging for his kiss.
“You are beautiful.”
The tip of her tongue flicked over the lips he longed to taste and tease. But it was her eyes, lifted to his, that sent his heart racing into overdrive. Desire, longing, trust.
“I am average,” she said. “But you—you’re extraordinary.”
“You needn’t resort to flattery to win my favor.”
“I’m not,” she said, her voice breathy. “It’s just that I’ve never met a man like you before.”
“Nor will you,” he said, driven by a fierce possessiveness.
Raw need coursed through him, his own blood pooling hot and thick in his groin. He ached to have her. Protect her. To make her his and his alone.
The erotic drumbeat in his ears matched time with her erratic pulse as he removed the last of her clothes, until she was as naked as he. He stood there feasting on the pale curves and hollows of her body, knowing that for now she was his.
Oui, the time for waiting was over.
He’d have her here. Now. And damn the consequences.
Kira shivered with nervous energy and a good dose of shock. She’d never imagined she would enjoy lying naked beneath a man’s scrutiny. And in broad daylight on a beach, no less!
But the sultry promise in André’s eyes captivated her. She was under his spell, ensnared by the onslaught of his passion, a willing slave to his desire.
More than that, she trusted that he would make things right. That sometime he’d listen to her. That he’d believe she wasn’t the calculating woman he’d accused her of being.
She trusted him in this. It was enough. For now.
Warmth swept over her like a welcoming summer breeze, kissing the skin he’d just bared. He was going to make love with her and she would welcome him.
She ached for him to kiss her, to touch her. But he just stood by the hammock, his gaze devouring every inch of her. And her body reacted to his scrutiny as if the touch were real, her skin pebbling and flushing, her muscles tensing, her breath growing heavy as her pulse raced out of control.
The sensations were new and intense, robbing her of will, of restraint. She couldn’t push him away, not when her arms had ached to hold him to her again. Not when she’d dreamed of this moment for three long months.
Her body had throbbed in the dead of night, just remembering the wonder of his gloriously powerful form fitted to hers, moving in hers in a harmony she’d never felt before. When he’d made love to her before she’d felt their hearts beat in tandem.
She wanted that again. Had to have it.
The sensations he wrought in her defied description, but her soul knew this joining was right.
He was the flesh-and-blood man of her dreams. The father of her baby. She wanted him with a keening ache that overrode caution.
She smiled, her arms reaching for him, knowing she’d die if he didn’t kiss her, touch her, love her. Knowing she must steal this moment, this memory, now, before he learned the truth.
His mouth quirked, his eyes gleaming. He rolled into the hammock, the net dipping precariously as he settled beside her.
In the perfect synchronization of the lovers’ dance, her body shifted to fit against his. She focused on every nuance of the moment, skin touching skin, hard unyielding muscles pressing against soft flesh.
His hand rested on her hip, unmoving, light, yet his touch sent heat spiraling to her core. Her hand found a natural perch on his broad shoulder.
It felt right. Perfect.
It felt like forever.
But all it could ever be was now.
For the passion blazing between them would be doused the moment he learned she was Edouard Bellamy’s daughter.
