Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 36
ОглавлениеANDRÉ’S mobile phone chirped early the next morning. He took the call on the downstairs balcony, so as not to disturb Kira—she needed sleep, for they’d made love into the wee hours of the morning. He smiled, thinking of the passion, the feeling of rightness that hummed within him.
Hearing his detective on the line tempered his euphoria. He squinted at the horizon and wished he was upstairs with Kira, wished he’d not had to order a more thorough investigation of his lover.
“Any news on the money?” he asked, squinting at the horizon as the sun burst through the windows to gild the room in gold.
“Yes, sir. I checked my resources twice to ensure the information was correct.”
The pause crackled with tension, lashing the calm André had harbored since waking with Kira curled against him. “Spit it out,” he said, impatient to know the truth.
“The two million you paid to acquire the Chateau was immediately diverted into an account held by Peter Bellamy.”
“You’re positive?” André asked. “There can be no mistake?”
The detective answered immediately. “There’s no error.”
André pushed away from the railing and stormed into his suite, his gut erupting with the destructive force of a volcano, his suspicions running as hot as lava. All this time Kira’s beautiful mouth had spouted lies.
She’d sworn time and again she didn’t know Peter Bellamy, yet moments after receiving a wire for two million dollars the funds had been routed to Bellamy. Her protector.
What had Bellamy given Kira in return?
“There’s more,” the detective said.
“Concerning Miss Montgomery?”
“Yes, sir.”
André laughed, the sound deceptively soft as he stared up the stairs to the bed where she still slept. “Goes from bad to worse, oui?”
“Not my place to say.”
Of course not. That was his decision to make.
He’d used this detective before. Knew that he was like a dog with a bone, that he wouldn’t give up until he’d discovered everything about the person in question. In this case, Kira.
But it had taken a damnably long time to gain the truth. André’s patience for intrigue was gone. He wanted all the facts. All the secrets revealed. He wanted to see the whole picture, warts and all.
“Out with it,” André said.
“I tracked down Kira Montgomery’s mother,” the detective said, without inflection or pause. “She swears Miss Montgomery’s father is Edouard Bellamy.”
The words went into André’s mind and exploded, sending something dark and dangerous coursing through him. He gripped the railing as the sharp ache of betrayal speared his chest, stealing his breath. His heart skipped a beat, then started racing as the awful truth sank into his soul.
Of all the scenarios he’d imagined, of all the contrivances he’d suspected, this hadn’t been one of them. This news blind-sided him, drove a spike in his heart.
Oui, he’d been blind too often where Kira was concerned. Too ensnared by her beauty, her artful innocence, her passion.
Not anymore.
“There is no question this is so?” André asked.
“Only DNA tests can dispel doubts. But I spoke with the woman myself and followed up tracing the dates and places. It fits that Kira Montgomery is Edouard Bellamy’s illegitimate child.”
He thanked his detective and ended the communication, his mind a whirlpool of dark, putrid thoughts. Her insistence that she wasn’t Peter’s mistress tolled in his ears—at least in that she told the truth. Mon Dieu—they were brother and sister.
It was all so obvious now—Edouard Bellamy had educated her. Given her a coveted position at his La Cygne Hotel in London and forty-nine percent of Chateau Mystique. Because she was his daughter!
Mon Dieu! With Suzette dead, Edouard must have known that André would launch a takeover. But, according to the proof he had, Peter had sent Kira here.
She and Peter had conspired to forestall André. Not by engineering a public and humiliating end to his engagement, as he’d assumed—never mind that he and his fiancée had secretly parted ways the week before, by mutual agreement. And not by destroying a lucrative business deal that he’d worked hard to achieve.
No, she and Peter had trumped André with an innocent baby.
They’d ruthlessly plotted to force André to make a terrible choice, certain he’d choose the one that would damn him in eternal hell. For Edouard’s blood coursed in his child’s veins through Kira.
Kira had played well the part of corporate whore.
If André held to his vow to destroy the Bellamys he’d see the downfall of his own flesh and blood. An innocent life, caught in the crossfire.
He strode back onto the balcony and stared down at the palace he’d created. Peace eluded him.
The hell he’d been plunged into shrouded the beauty surrounding him. All he saw was Kira—memories of her loving him, challenging him, deceiving him.
His earlier thought that she’d make a good mother taunted him, enraged him. Not for his child.
Her conspiracy left him no choice—his only thought rested with the child. His child. When the baby was born, when tests had confirmed the child was his, he’d take sole custody.
Kira was a Bellamy. Not his lover, not the mother of his child, but his enemy’s daughter. She was his enemy as well.
He swiped a shaky hand over his mouth, shoving compassion and his passion for her from his mind. She’d baited him—now she’d pay the price.
She’d give birth on Petit St. Marc and he’d see she had the best care money could provide. But she’d never know his child. Never!
He’d employ every resource available to him as he waged this war against her. When he was done with her she’d regret that she’d agreed to deceive him.
At midday, Kira went in search of André. He’d barely spoken to her on their early-morning return to Petit St. Marc, and she’d been too exhausted from their night of lovemaking to take offense. Back on the island, he’d insisted she take a nap.
She hadn’t argued. But her rest had been fitful.
Keeping her secret was twisting her stomach into knots. She had to tell him now.
He was going out the door just as she descended the stairs. She quickened her steps. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
His spine stiffened, his shoulders snapping back as he stopped abruptly in the doorway. He glanced at her, and his fierce expression burned holes in her courage.
“Is it urgent?”
She thought it was vital, but, considering his mood right now, she shook her head. She’d taken the coward’s way out this long. A few more hours wouldn’t make any difference.
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “It can wait.”
“I will see you this evening, then.”
And he was gone, without any explanation of where he was taking himself off to. Not that his business was hers. Even the Chateau was his now.
Kira aimlessly strolled through the house, her mind too cluttered with worry to do anything else. She ended up at the door to André’s office, surprised Otillie hadn’t intercepted her yet. But the house was quiet, as if she was the only one there.
She slipped inside with thoughts of scanning his bookshelf. But the glow on his desk changed her mind. He’d not only left his computer here, but it was on.
In moments she’d accessed her mail. Her solicitor’s reply slammed into her so hard she dropped on the chair.
She couldn’t believe he suggested she should hire investigators to look into her claim. He insisted he’d seen the document, with her signature, authorizing the sale of her shares of the Chateau, but that he’d couldn’t divulge where the money had gone.
In short, because she’d divested herself of the shares, company counsel no longer represented her.
She logged off and returned to her room, so sick at heart she could have retched. Edouard had told her Peter resented her. Told her not to contact him because he would not be receptive to her.
Had her half-brother set out to destroy her the moment their father had drawn his last breath? How could she prove it?
She was so deep into piecing together the irregular sections of this ugly puzzle that she didn’t realize Otillie had entered her room until she spoke.
“You have not been drinking water, mademoiselle,” Otillie said.
Kira glanced at her full pitcher of water and frowned. Her throat did suddenly seem parched. Her head ached from her efforts to make sense of this debacle she’d been thrust into, and she was growing more miserable.
“I forgot,” she said, accepting a glass of water and drinking deeply.
“Monsieur Gauthier will not be pleased,” the woman said.
That was the least of her worries, considering what she had to tell him when he returned. She sat her empty glass on the table, her spirits low, her worries shooting into the impossibly blue sky. That was when she noticed the large box on her bed.
She motioned to it. “What’s that?”
“A gift for you from Monsieur Gauthier,” Otillie said.
Her lips parted and her heart began racing. Two gifts in as many days? That was an extravagance she’d never experienced before.
Was this another indulgence for his kept woman? Or an apology for his earlier abruptness? Don’t be a fool and look for a deeper meaning, she chided herself.
She read the attached note—Dinner at seven. Wear this.
No endearments. No explanations. Still she smiled as she stared at the strokes of his signature, as strong and demanding as the man.
She tore into the package, unable to stay her excitement.
The gift was a sarong, the fabric pure Carib. The soft greens, golds and browns seemed to be plucked straight from the heart of Petit St. Marc.
Kira glanced at the clock. She had less than an hour to get ready. Less than an hour before she divulged the secret that might signal an end to her idyll with André.
Forty minutes later, reality dimmed her enthusiasm. But the sarong was simply gorgeous and sexy, and she absolutely loved it.
A narrow bandeau barely covered her breasts, which were fuller, more sensitive, and flushed a telling shade of pink. Her neck and shoulders were bare, covered only by her hair, which she’d let cascade in thick curls down her back.
Three sharp raps sounded at her door. Her gaze fixed on the louvered panels, noting the tall shadow at her door.
André. He’d come for her.
She tamped down the nervous laugh that threatened to bubble up in her. This was a wretched time to be struck by a case of anxiety.
Taking deep breaths did nothing to calm her. Her hands shook as she smoothed her palms down her skirt, her stomach heaved—muscles clutching. Her legs trembled, as if ready to give way.
She forced herself to walk slowly toward the door, even managed to affect a welcoming smile as she opened the louvers.
The sight of him robbed her of breath. He was dressed entirely in black. The silky shirt lay open at his neck, exposing whirls of thick black hair.
The long sleeves were ruched up, yet full, lending him a rogue’s look. The trousers lay flat over his washboard belly and hugged the long muscular lines of his legs.
Casual elegance, she thought.
His face was a study in art itself, the brow strong, the nose straight and not too thin.
His cheekbones were high, the jaw was firm and dusted with a rakish five o’clock shadow, making him look more daring. More resolute. More sexy. Her pirate.
“Bonsoir.” His sculpted lips pulled into a smile that melted her heart. “You are beautiful.”
“So are you,” she said, her heart brimming with love.
She’d never been so terrified in her life, but they’d get past this last obstacle. They had to. Love would find a way.
“Thank you for the sarong. It’s fabulous.”
“It suits you.”
His dark gaze swept over her, much like a predator would watch easy prey. Sudden tension needled up her limbs, and she had the sudden urge to flee. Run while she had the chance.
Then he extended his arm to her, smiled that pirate’s grin, and the moment was gone. “Shall we?”
Kira nodded and slipped her arm in the crook of his. The heat and power under her hand left her breathless, even more unsure of herself.
She’d been affected by his potent sensuality from the first time she’d met him, but what she sensed in him now had nothing to do with carnal promises.
The leashed anger in him was palpable, stripping away her shaky confidence and flooding her with renewed apprehension. She’d felt that same raging tension in him when he’d come to the Chateau, when he’d forced her to leave with him.
“What’s wrong, André?”
“Nothing. All is in order.”
Yet a litany of doom pulsed in the air as she descended the stairs. He walked indecently close behind her, his hand on the small of her back, one finger resting in a dimple on her derrière.
The heat of him burned her through her dress, branding her skin. But the touch blazed with power rather than affection.
He seated her at a table dressed in stark white, and she finally filled her lungs with air when he strode to his chair. Crystal chandeliers held long white tapers, their golden flames casting a sultry aura over the table.
He poured sparkling water for her, champagne for himself. The romance of it wasn’t lost on her. But there was no warmth in his eyes.
She took a sip of water and her stomach pitched, rebelling again. She would not be able to manage food tonight. She’d not be able to tolerate this tension that made her head spin.
A bead of sweat popped out on her temple, slowly streaking down her face. She dabbed at it with what she hoped was an offhand movement, hating that her hand shook, that his dark, expressionless eyes remained on her. Inquisitive. Or inquisitional?
Was this how a mouse felt when cornered by a cat? Her stomach fluttered and her breath came short and shallow.
Sweat gathered beneath her breasts. She licked lips that had gone dry. How could she possibly confess her secret when he was in this dark, dangerous mood?
This moment was more unsettling than when he’d swept into the Chateau and forced her to leave with him. The eloquent hands that had brought her such pleasure held his glass too tightly. His admirable posture was too rigid, the broad shoulders held with military precision, his spine too unbending.
He’d hated her then because he’d believed she was Peter’s mistress. The truth would be worse. She knew it. No matter that they’d shared exquisite passion in each other’s arms. No matter that she carried his child. No matter that she had somehow fallen in love with him.
Her heart broke as she met his dark gaze. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever met, and she was painfully aware this could be the last time she shared anything but disdain with him. However could she begin?
“I used your computer today,” she said, to break the horrid silence that roared in the room.
He took a sip of champagne and regarded her over the lavish tulip glass with eyes that caught the light and threw its glare back at her. Like an inquisitor. Reserved. Controlling.
“Did you email your brother again?” he asked.
Kira nearly lost her grip on her glass—did lose her breath. He knew. My God, he already knew her secret! No wonder he stared at her so coldly.
“No.” She set her glass down with care, her hand shaking so badly it took effort. She drew in a breath, then another, but neither seemed enough for her starving lungs. “I never have.”
He snorted and tossed back his drink. When he looked at her this time, his gaze was openly hostile.
A demoralizing dread seeped into her.
His rage threatened to consume her. Burn her alive. The flames different than the passion, more powerful because of the dark emotion fueling the fire. This inferno would not just burn her. It would kill her.
“How long have you known?” she asked, proud her voice remained calm despite the tempest whirling around her.
“Since this morning.” He set his flute down and reached for the champagne bottle, his movements slow, precise.
He poured champagne in his glass, his finesse obviously shaken for he spilled some on the table. His scowl conveyed his annoyance at the minuscule lack of control.
She stared at the bubbles in his glass and thought ironically that they mirrored the riot going on in her stomach—a cold boil that popped around her, leaving her on shaky ground.
Kira chanced a look at him and wished she hadn’t, for his rage was evident in the hard, unyielding lines of his face. She stared at her hands, the fingers bleached white from gripping the table linen as the awful truth weighed her down.
She’d never been subjected to such cold scrutiny. Never been the recipient of such scathing wrath.
Never wanted to right a wrong more than she did at this moment. “I—I intended to tell you tonight, after dinner.”
His laugh was brittle and cold. “But of course you would say that now.”
“It’s the truth. I’ve thought of little else today.”
Except for those moments when she’d become lost in the memory of lying in André’s arms. Of those strong hands playing over her skin, making her senses sing with pleasure.
“Interesting, as your deceit has been on my mind as well,” he said, his thumb idly stroking the tulip glass.
She looked at those hands now, watching that slow glide, and flushed hot as her breasts grew heavier. She couldn’t still want him to touch her, to pleasure her? Yet she knew if he did she’d be lost in his arms again.
Panic took root in her, for her body was betraying her. Her body wanted him any way she could get him. She was weak—exhausted by his relentless onslaught of her senses.
She hated his power over her. Hated that he was playing the tyrant to perfection.
That would stop now. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was his equal—his lover—whether he admitted it or not.
“If you’d just allow me to explain?”
He made a magnanimous gesture with his hand, the shadow of his movement caressing the wall much like that same hand had caressed her last night. “Please do.”
Kira took another sip of water, hating that her hand trembled, that her breathing hitched, that her stomach remained queasy. She could barely force the much needed fluid down her throat, even though she was thirsty. It had been like that all day—nerves and tension and the unknown, all battling together in a gigantic knot within her.
“You must understand,” she began. “I—I’ve never told anyone before, you see. Edouard insisted, and I never thought to disobey.”
“Then I should feel honored to be the first to hear your story.” He saluted her with his glass and drank deeply. “Bravo to you and your father for launching this honeytrap. You planned it well—right down to getting pregnant.”
“There was no conspiracy,” she said. “I just came here to meet with you about the Chateau. How dare you insinuate that I set out to trap you?”
He smirked, the expression a barbed taunt that angered her more than any insult, any accusation. “How fitting that you should begin with a lie.”
She closed her eyes a moment, knowing he’d read it as guilt but no longer caring, knowing he’d not listen to her denials again. He’d believe what he wished.
He’d close his mind to the truth.
The door to the kitchen opened, and a Carib bustled in to serve them. Kira stared at the exquisite meal and knew that she’d never get a morsel down her throat.
She draped her napkin over the plate, hating that she’d offend the cook, and met André’s hooded glare. She read hatred in his eyes. All targeted at her.
“It is senseless to continue. You know the truth and you’ve condemned me without hearing my side. Enjoy your meal.” She rose, praying her trembling legs would support her.
“Sit down.” His command cracked like a whip.
She hesitated a moment, staring into his dark eyes and silently challenging him. A crazy thing to do, for she knew André could pounce on her with the stealth and power of a jaguar.
He could crush her with a condemning look, rip her heart out with a word—for he’d done both with ease. Was doing so now. And the pain of his hatred was tearing her apart inside.
She grabbed the edge of the table, her fingernails biting into the polished surface. “If you’ll listen to me, I’ll stay.”
He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze never leaving hers, his anger so strong she felt it pulsing in the room, in her veins. “You’ll stay whether I choose to listen or not.”
“Fine. Rant and pound your chest if you like.” She dropped onto the chair, so defeated, so weary. “How did you find out?”
He pushed his own food away without sampling it and lounged back in his chair with an insolent air. “Through a private detective. He tracked down your mother.”
Kira stared at him, unblinking, an incredulous laugh escaping her. How ironic that the one person she hadn’t seen in over twenty years should return to ruin her life.
“She’s still alive, then?” she said, hearing the bitterness ring in her voice and not caring.
She’d given up being concerned about the woman who’d given birth to her long ago.
“You don’t like her?” he said.
She shrugged. “I told you before, I barely remember her.”
He looked away, frowning, and she wondered what went through his mind. He’d had a mother and father who’d loved him. A family that cared.
“I hope you didn’t pay her for the information,” she said, angry. Hurt. “She made far too much off me years ago.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. She sold me to my father—which was odd, since he didn’t want me either.”
Something shifted in his eyes, a flicker of something warm. Or was it just a reflection from the candles?
Kira didn’t know anymore. Her head pounded and her back ached. She hurt inside. Felt drained, battered. Everything was an effort. Sitting here, talking, breathing, thinking about what had happened. Worrying about what was to come.
“Tell me,” he said.
She shook her head, believing there was no point in divulging so much now. All her life she’d held her secrets close, hid them and hid the pain.
“Tell me, ma chérie,” he said, his voice softer, lower, intimate.
How devastating that the hushed timbre of his voicing the endearment melted the starch holding her up. She dashed away a tear that slipped free, but another quickly formed, then too many to stop.
Silly, really, for she couldn’t remember crying for her mother. Not once.
“I was an accident. She never wanted me, but for some reason she kept me for a few years. Until I was hurt in a boating mishap.” She frowned, remembering that horrid event so clearly, yet she had trouble remembering her mother’s face. “Edouard told me that she offered me to him then. He paid her price and I never saw her again.”
“How old were you?”
“Nearly five.”
“That’s when he placed you in an elite boarding school in England?”
“Yes. I spent the rest of my formative years being shuffled from nannies to boarding school. Not once did my father welcome me to his home for a holiday or a brief visit. Not once.”
She looked away, for there was really nothing more to tell. She had studied, read, and had seen Edouard once or twice a year when the mood had struck him.
And all the while she’d dreamed of one day having a family. Of having someone in her life who cared about her. Who would love her and who she could love in return.
Her hand stole to her belly to cradle her baby. She would have that dream become a reality soon.
“What was your reward for seducing me?” André asked.
She shook her head, scowling, angry that he thought she’d seduce him for money, that he equated her with her mother. “There was no reward, because there was no conspiracy.”
“The truth, s’il vous plaît.”
She slapped both palms on the table, her patience and energy spent. “I am telling you the truth.”
He swore and jumped to his feet, chest heaving, fists clenched tight. His gaze raked over her, furious, insulting in its curt, deliberate movement.
Then he stalked from the room.
Kira put her head down and sighed, giving in to the tremors that whispered over her. But that only made her dizziness worse and set her stomach churning. If she could just find the strength to return to her room…
She heard heavy footsteps approaching. She’d tarried too long. Her respite was gone.
André stopped beside her chair, currents of anger radiating from his body in hot, scalding waves. He dropped a stack of paper before her.
“Try to deny these.”
She stared at the heading, recognizing her corporate email address. Above it was an address she was unfamiliar with.
She skimmed the first note and paled. Then read another. And another.
This couldn’t be…
But it was.
This was the electronic proof he’d told her about. The evidence that she and Peter Bellamy had conspired to launch a smear campaign against André. Sickening details of every calculated move, right down to her agreeing to come here on the pretext of a meeting when her intent was to seduce André while Peter alerted the paparazzi.
Except she hadn’t carried on this dialogue with Peter. She hadn’t set out to seduce André and humiliate him publicly, so the large corporation he’d been trying to solidify a deal with would pull out because he lacked family values. And she certainly hadn’t tried to become pregnant.
She hadn’t been aware of Peter’s calculating plans until now. Hadn’t written one word of this correspondence. But it had been sent from her email address, using her electronic signature. How could she prove she’d had no part in this? She couldn’t.
Still, she lifted her chin and said simply, “I didn’t write any of these.”
