Читать книгу One Night Of Consequences Collection - Ким Лоренс, Annie West - Страница 37
ОглавлениеANDRÉ had expected her denial. But when the lie spilled from her sweet mouth the cynical curl to his lips eased a fraction. His blood slowed, his chest growing warm, his heart hesitating. For he almost believed her. Almost.
His weakness for her disgusted him.
Kira stood up and took a step toward him, stopped, her throat working, her face as white and delicate as the lace tablecloth. Her gaze lifted to his, her expression open, vulnerable.
He fisted his hands at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach for her, pull her close. Kiss her. Caress her. Sweep the servings from the table and take her here. Now.
Tell her all would be fine. Tell her that he forgave her.
That he loved her.
He’d vowed never to say those words. He’d thought it a simple promise to keep, for he believed himself incapable of such a crippling, all-consuming emotion.
“Someone else wrote these emails,” she said.
He laughed, thinking that for someone possessing such guile she was quite naïve. “Using your email server? Your electronic signature?”
“Someone hacked into my account,” she said, and frowned, clearly troubled, her clasped hands trembling.
Guilt, pure and simple. He’d trapped her in her own lie, and she was afraid. Terrified of what he’d do.
For once he was uncertain how to proceed. The satisfaction that usually filled him over besting an enemy was absent. Because in hurting her he hurt his child. He couldn’t abide that.
Mon Dieu, but he hated this untenable situation, hated the desire for her that wouldn’t die. He drove his fingers through his hair, tugging the strands, when he really wanted to weave his fingers in her hair, feel the skeins of silk brush his bare chest, his thighs.
Madness. He’d lost his mind. Lost his heart.
Lost her since she persisted in lying to him.
“Only one person had access to your account. You.” He nodded to the emails lying on the table. “Admit it, ma chérie. Be done with the lies.”
She shook her head slowly, fat tears spilling from her eyes. His gut tightened as he watched them course down her ashen face, and he jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out and wiping them from her soft cheeks.
He’d done it. Broken the enemy. Bested her. Won the game. But his victory was hollow.
He hurt more than she possibly could, because she’d forced him to take a resolute stand. He wouldn’t forsake honor. He couldn’t forget his vow of vengeance.
She drew in a shuddering breath, her slender shoulders squaring, her chin lifting even though it trembled. Proud. Strong. Qualities he admired in her.
“Could you have ever loved me?” she asked, the raw quality in her voice belying her courage.
“The daughter of my enemy? Never,” he said.
She flinched, as if he’d bellowed the denial, as if he’d slapped her. As if she believed him that easily. “Then let me go, André. Let us go. For if you can’t set aside your hatred for me, you won’t be able to for our child either.”
He stared at her, incredulous. Never mind that the same realization had crossed his mind. He couldn’t live with her, and he wasn’t sure he could live without her.
“One has nothing to do with the other.”
“You’re wrong. Can you honestly say it doesn’t bother you that your child is part Bellamy?”
Her question was a knife-thrust to his heart. His own nagging doubts the twist that filleted the emotions he’d held in check for so long. He crossed to the French doors that opened onto the rear terrace, staring at his meticulously groomed garden, whose wild fragrance paled in comparison to the subtle scent that was uniquely Kira.
Her fragrance reached out to him with silken arms, commanding all his senses, promising pleasure. Promising hope.
It would be so easy to put pleasure before honor. Go to her. Love her. Forget the world for this night. But their differences would still be there in the morning.
One shallow breath drew her deeper into his blood, into his soul, into his heart. When he’d brought her here he’d foolishly believed he could use her and then cast her aside. Forget her.
He couldn’t. Not then. Certainly not after he’d discovered she was with child. And not now, when his own emotions were so raw.
But he couldn’t forgive either. Forgiveness wasn’t in his blood. And she’d deceived him in the worst possible way.
André loved passionately, and he hated with the same intensity. There were no gray areas. No subtle riffling of the emotions at either extreme.
So he loved Kira and he hated her. The two emotions were ripping him apart.
“Let me go,” she said again, more strident this time.
Never, he thought, pressing a palm to the cool dark wood, feeling the grain bite into his flesh. He couldn’t bear to let her leave, and he couldn’t stand to live with a Bellamy.
“Where would you go?” he asked, turning to face her, hiding his own inner war behind practiced insouciance. “To Peter?”
She looked away, eyes closed, as if the sight of him pained her. Good. She should hurt as much as he hurt. Should feel this awful ache to her soul. For she’d come to him first, seduced him, bound him to her forever through their child.
“To the Chateau. Please, let me return to my job.”
“Out of the question.” He had to protect his child from the Bellamys, and the only way he could do that was by keeping her here, where he could watch her, or at least have her watched. “Your only job for the next six months is pampering yourself and my baby.”
“I don’t need to be pampered,” she said, her eyes too wide. Too bright. “I’ll fight you every day that you keep me on the island against my will.”
He smiled grimly, for there’d be no winner in this battle. “I expect no less from a Bellamy.”
Kira gripped the table, barely able to breathe through her choking anguish. The headache that had plagued her all day pounded relentlessly, each drubbing in her veins taunting her challenge to André.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t so much as blinked. Just watched her with a lethal intensity that sucked the moisture from her mouth. She licked her lips, but they burned, the skin too dry.
Her throat felt parched. She reached for her glass, but her hand shook so badly she tipped it over.
“Leave it,” he said, when she attempted to mop up the mess she’d made.
She ran her tongue over her lips again—so very thirsty, so very tired. The carafe of water was so far from her. The room spun. Her world careened out of control.
Kira had to get out of here—away from him and his heated glare. She couldn’t fight him now. Not with her strength depleted, with her heart breaking in two.
She took a shaky breath, steadied herself, and stared at the intricately carved newel posts, hoping if she focused on the staircase the dizziness would be tolerable.
“Where are you going?” he asked, grabbing her arm to stop her from walking past him.
“Let me go.”
His grip eased a fraction. “Answer me.”
She closed her eyes, disgusted her body ached to lean into him. “To my room.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
She glared at him. “I lost my appetite.”
His seductive lips flattened in a disagreeable line. “You need to eat. I’ll send Otillie up with a tray.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t be able to keep anything down tonight.”
He dropped his hand, only to punish her more by placing both hands on her shoulders. “You need food. The baby—”
“How dare you think of my child’s welfare now?” She shoved away from him and headed toward the stairs, each step a challenge.
Odd twinges ribboned across her belly. Her back ached so badly she thought it would break in two.
She reached the stairs and grabbed the newel post, clinging to it for balance and drawing air into her lungs. But each breath only fanned the flames that felt like they were burning out of control within her heart, her soul.
“My child. Mon enfant, ma chérie. Don’t forget that.”
As if she could. She looked back at him, thinking he was still the most handsome man she’d ever met. And dangerous, leaning a hip against the table, a replenished champagne flute held casually in one elegant hand.
“Go to hell, André.” She started up the stairs, each step slow, unsteady, her head throbbing, her vision blurring.
“I am already there,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant.
They both were, she thought.
She made it to the third step when cramps sliced through her, far worse than the last time.
The doctor’s admonition blared in her mind. Avoid the sun. Drink two liters of water a day.
She hadn’t done either. But she would drink her fill as soon as she reached her room. As soon as she was away from André and his dark accusations.
Her next step sent pain knifing across her middle, so sharp and piercing it took her breath away. She gasped and bent double, gripping the railing for dear life and cradling her belly with the other. But her world continued to spin away.
“André!”
She heard glass shatter. Then he was beside her, gathering her in his arms, his face ashen beneath his tan. But it was the stricken look in his eyes that terrified her, for it confirmed her worst fear.
“Our baby,” she got out, as black pinpricks danced before her eyes to block out the light.
She fell into the blackness, into his arms. Her last tormenting thought was that she was losing the baby.
André paced the hospital corridor. The last hour had passed in a hellish nightmare, from the time Kira had collapsed in his arms until they’d arrived on Martinique. He’d never felt so helpless, so afraid for anyone in his life. He’d never been gripped with such crushing guilt—even after his parents’ deaths.
For all his tough exterior and his vows to keep his heart removed from a woman, André wept silent tears in the velvety night, holding her close to his heart, his chest so tight he could barely breathe.
Seeing Kira so helpless had stripped him of all pretense, all thought but moving heaven and earth to save her and his baby’s life. But as they’d raced across a moonlit sea fear had clung to him like the dense sea mist.
She’d been too pale, too cold. She hadn’t roused, hadn’t done anything but lie in his arms like a rag doll.
He hadn’t prayed in ages, but he had then, and he continued to now, in the hospital. Prayed and paced. He relived every tension-riddled moment between him and Kira that had led up to her collapse. He held himself to blame.
Mon Dieu, he should have recognized something was wrong with her at dinner. But he’d been too intent on castigating her for being a Bellamy, for trying to ruin him, staunchly clinging to his pride, his vengeance.
He’d attacked her with the same energy and ruthless bent as he would a corporate adversary. Perhaps worse, because his emotions were tangled in knots when it came to Kira.
For once in his life he couldn’t separate his business and personal life. She was too much a part of both. He’d removed her from her job and placed her into the role of his mistress.
But she didn’t fit that image well because she was carrying his child.
A child whose life he’d endangered. A child who might die.
Sacre bleu! If anything happened to either of them he’d never forgive himself. Never!
The accusations he’d hurled at her played over and over in his mind. She denied authoring those emails. Still denied she’d conferred with Peter Bellamy.
Yet the small fortune he’d paid for her shares had gone straight to Peter. He’d been sure she’d contact her half-brother when she was offered the chance on St. Barth. But, no, she’d emailed her solicitor, believing that ineffectual man could somehow help her regain her shares. He’d offered no solution. In fact he’d seemed pleased she was no longer a part of the “family” corporation. Had she been disowned? Betrayed?
It seemed that way. Peter had never contacted André after he’d seen him shuffle Kira from the Chateau. It was as if Peter had been glad to see her go. But if that were true, why had her millions gone to Bellamy? And why send the paparazzi to the island again?
The doctor emerged from the emergency room, his white coat fluttering wide. But it was his scowl that captured André’s attention.
“Monsieur Gauthier. On your word, you promised that Miss Montgomery would heed my advice, no?”
“Oui, I did.” But it was obvious he’d failed miserably. He’d been too intent on his quest for vengeance to care for the mother of his child. “How is she—and my baby?”
“Miss Montgomery is seriously dehydrated. We could not rouse her enough to drink fluids.” The doctor paused and shook his head, and André’s gut clenched. He was fearing the worst, fearing he’d lost them both. “We’ve forced fluids into her intravenously, and she is improving now.”
“The baby?” he asked, afraid to hope they’d avoided a heart-wrenching disaster.
The doctor smiled. “The fetus has a strong heartbeat.”
André simply stared at him, for though he’d believed Kira carried a child, he’d never thought a heartbeat could be detected so soon. He’d not thought of anything but vengeance and lust in turn.
“I ordered tests to check her chemical balance. If her electrolytes are normal, we will release her today.”
“No!” André ran a hand through his hair, damning the way it shook.
The doctor canted his head to the side. “No?”
“She can’t be trusted to hydrate herself this soon,” André said, hoping the doctor wouldn’t see through that flimsy excuse.
In truth, he didn’t trust himself around Kira right now, for his emotions were still bouncing between love and hate.
The doctor rubbed his chin and frowned. “She will not like being detained, monsieur, for she has told me she wants to go home.”
Home. The Chateau Mystique had been her home, and he’d taken that from her. He’d stripped her of everything.
“You will be rewarded for keeping her here for a few days,” André said, calculating that would give him enough time to do what he must. “Tell her she must stay, for the baby’s welfare.”
“Very well, monsieur. We appreciate your largesse.” The doctor turned to leave, then paused. “You may see her now.”
André wanted to, but he didn’t dare see her face to face until he found out if she’d been telling him the truth. Because if she was innocent, as she proclaimed, then his honor demanded that he right the wrongs he’d done her.
But even if that wasn’t the case he would give her anything and do everything to keep her well, so she would deliver a healthy child. Their child.
His chest tightened, his heart heavy and burning. Raw.
He’d been ready to marry her. To make her his forever.
But she was a Bellamy, and no matter how much André desired her, no matter how much his heart ached to make her his, he couldn’t marry his enemy’s daughter.
Kira sat in bed, staring out the window at the thin white clouds drifting across the azure sky. The scene hadn’t changed much in the two days she’d been hospitalized. Clear blue sky broken by occasional clouds, their formation the only variance.
Inside nothing changed either. The same nurse and doctor tended to her every whim, as if she were royalty. The food was above par, though her appetite was nil. But she ate and drank for the baby’s sake.
Thank God her child was safe. If she’d lost the baby, or hurt it in any way because of her neglect, she never would have forgiven herself.
But she’d lost André. She was sure of it, for she hadn’t heard from him since that confrontational scene at his house.
She’d relived that moment when she had walked away from him a thousand times. The anger blazing in his eyes had burned into her, incinerating her will to win his heart, her determination to carve a niche for herself and their child in his life.
Yet she was tormented by that moment when she’d collapsed, when she’d seen pain and regret and fear in his eyes.
Tears blurred her vision and she angrily swiped them away. He hadn’t visited her at the hospital once. How could he abandon her and the baby? How could he just walk away?
Because she was Edouard Bellamy’s daughter.
He hated her—he hated their child as well.
A hollow ache expanded in her chest, her heart grieving for what would never be.
She should be thankful the ugly truth was revealed. That he’d left her in peace. That she’d likely never see him again. For if she did it would be a tense, unpleasant meeting.
She should be happy. But she’d never been so heartbroken.
On the morning of the third day something roused her from a restless sleep, snapping her awake and wary. Kira scanned her room, her heart accelerating as her gaze fell on the tall man standing at the window, his back to her.
She stared at those incredibly broad shoulders and blinked. Was she dreaming?
No. This was real. André had come at last, and her foolish heart was rejoicing even as her brain tried to warn her to move with caution around him.
Everything about him pulsed with raw intensity—his potent masculinity, his arrogant bearing, his brooding indifference, all more sharply defined as he stared out the window.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Not long. The doctor says you and the baby are well.”
“We were lucky,” she said, detecting no rancor in his voice.
But there was no emotion either. Or rather no more than one might bestow on a stranger in the wake of an accident. Simply a comment in the face of a near tragedy—an acknowledgement of survival—something to fill the tense silence.
She sighed, unable to be that detached even now. “Thank you for getting us here so quickly.”
One shoulder lifted in a careless shrug. “Don’t. I should never have confronted you with such—” He waved a hand, as if trying to snatch a word from thin air, as if annoyed that he couldn’t grasp a title for their situation.
“Animosity?” she supplied.
“Venom,” he said. “My behavior was inexcusable.”
“Yes,” she said, unwilling to forgive him so easily for setting her up for a verbal attack from which she couldn’t defend herself, unwilling to forgive them both for not putting their child’s needs first.
It would not happen again. No matter what he said. No matter what happened in the future. If they had a future. At this moment she could not guess what was going through André’s mind.
“We have unfinished business between us,” he said.
“Business? Are you talking about the Chateau?”
“No, personal business.”
Surely he didn’t mean—? “We have a child between us.”
“I am aware of my obligations, ma chérie.”
She flinched, angry and hurt that he chose to regard the tiny life they’d created as an obligation. Hurt that he thought so little of their precious child, and angry at herself for deluding herself about André Gauthier.
He didn’t want her, and he certainly didn’t want their child. He was just like her father—cold, calculating, ruthless.
André had returned for one reason—to bestow a settlement on her. To shuffle her out of his life. He’d likely want her to sign a document agreeing to his denouncing any obligation to her or their child.
“Fine. State your business,” she said, her fingers bunching the sheet in a tight knot that rivaled the hard ache in her stomach.
“I have confronted Peter Bellamy.”
She released a bitter laugh, more saddened than surprised that André still believed the worst of her. “Did he deny there was a conspiracy? Or did he perhaps swear I’d concocted some devilish scheme alone?”
“Neither. Peter laughed, pleased by the turmoil he’d wrought. He hates you.”
She’d known her half-brother resented her. She’d deduced he’d been the one who set out to ruin her. But she’d not considered that he’d be so pleased by her downfall. That he hated her so much.
Her insides felt raw, scraped of emotion, of feeling. She’d been a fool, longing for family, doing as asked by her mother for that brief time she’d known her, and by her father, who had been little more than a name throughout her life. She’d not asked for more, for it had been drummed into her that what she had was all she’d get.
She’d abided by her father’s rules, and in the end her family had betrayed her. Family she hadn’t even known.
But it crushed her spirit, her heart, that André had shut her out of his life after all they’d shared. Even now he stared out the window, as if unable to tolerate looking at her.
“Yet you still believe the worst of me,” she said.
His shoulders snapped a bit straighter. “You were innocent of his machinations.”
That admission failed to tell her how he felt about her, only that he believed her claim of innocence long after the fact.
“Is that the business you came here to attend to, then?” she asked.
“Not entirely.” André strode toward her, his broad shoulders straight, his jaw resolute, his arrogantly handsome face—
“My God!” She leaned forward, her heart hammering as she took in the bruises, the cut lip, the swollen eye. “What happened to you?”
His fierce scowl made him look more ravaged, more dangerous, despite the custom-tailored suit that screamed sophistication. “Peter and I fought as our ancestors did when pirating ships collided.”
Her mouth dropped open. She was shocked that the billionaire who was famed for his rapier-sharp verbal sparring had engaged in a physical fight on her behalf. That he seemed proud of it. What was she to make of that?
“You attacked him?”
“Oui. I could have killed him for his underhand dealings involving you, but I didn’t,” he said, looking away from her as if the admission pained him.
A tiny bud of hope unfurled inside her. He’d stood up for her.
But that didn’t mean he cared for her.
André was a complicated man. His reasons for fighting Peter could have nothing to do with her at all. It could all center around defending his honor.
“Why, André? Why did you do it?”
He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and stared down on her, his bearing so rigid she felt it snap the air with electricity like an approaching thunderstorm. “I have no tolerance for a man who endeavors to ruin his sister.”
“Illegitimate half-sister,” she said, unable to feel anything but pity for the half-brother who’d attacked her with such hatred.
“The same Bellamy blood flows in you and in him.”
She laughed at that, for even her father hadn’t welcomed her into his legitimate family. He’d sequestered her from them all her life, and made it clear she was never to admit her paternity to anyone. He’d stressed that if she ever directly contacted his family there’d be severe consequences to bear.
She’d abided by his wishes because she’d learned to be happy on her own. Because she’d had no wish to cause more scandal. Yet Peter obviously hadn’t felt the same.
“In this case water is thicker than blood,” she said.
He stared at her a long, uncomfortable moment. “Oui. You became the target of familial vengeance the day Edouard placed you in a position of power at Le Cygne.”
She suspected it had begun the day Peter had learned about her existence, but he’d bided his time until Edouard couldn’t defend her. “Peter obviously resented that his father had acknowledged his by-blow so richly.”
“Oui. But it was your solicitor who took umbrage.”
Had she heard him correctly? “Claude? But why?”
“You really don’t know?” He faced her, and she shook her head in answer. “Claude Deveaux is Edouard’s brother-in-law.”
More family. More hatred. She blinked back angry tears, sick of being manipulated by powerful men with hidden agendas.
“I trusted him,” she said.
“You made it easy for them both.”
She reached for her glass of water and drank, waiting for him to expound, forcing more than a sip down her emotion-clogged throat. But he simply watched her, his expression unreadable.
“How long have you known all this?” she asked.
He shrugged, a careless gesture she loathed and loved in turn, for she was never sure if he was the uncaring rake or the troubled man she’d lost her heart to. “I suspected something was amiss when your shares went public. But I didn’t begin to believe you were a pawn until our jaunt to St. Barthélemy, when you emailed your solicitor demanding answers.”
When had he had the time to check his computer? Or had he charged someone else to search it?
The Windward Islands were his domain. His world. She was merely a puppet in it, dancing to the melody he’d arranged.
“You set me up—knowing I was desperate to get word out,” she said.
That emotionless mask she detested stared back at her, giving nothing away. “I was certain you’d contact Peter, that I’d catch you devising a new plot to ruin me. But you didn’t.”
She called herself a fool for not suspecting the trap. For trusting him. Trust. As he’d said, she had made it easy for his enemies—and him—to deceive her.
Her chin came up, and she damned its tremor. “You knew that I didn’t email Peter, yet you still believed I’d conspired with him?”
He shrugged. “You are a Bellamy.”
“And you could never trust a Bellamy. You certainly could never love one.” Not her. Not even their child.
His jaw clenched so tight she feared he’d crack the bone, but his eyes gave nothing away. “I will provide for you. Nothing more.”
Kira set her glass down carefully, when her anger goaded her to lob the whole thing at him. That night on St. Barth, when he’d held her close to his heart and called her his love, his darling, she’d believed him. She’d thought that they would have a chance for a lifetime of happiness in each other’s arms. She’d hoped they could surmount any obstacle, though she’d known it wouldn’t be easy for him to accept her parentage.
She hadn’t totally given up hope. She’d foolishly trusted that love would conquer all.
But in the morning he’d treated her with biting indifference, as if he was furious with her again, and she’d feared the wondrous night had been a dream.
She’d never guessed it was because he’d discovered she was Edouard’s daughter. That he’d intended to lay a trap for her on Petit St. Marc instead of coming to her and talking it out.
Something in her changed, twisted, died. He’d used her so well—in bed and out. Would continue doing so if she let him.
And, sadly, she wanted him with every breath she took. Her weakness toward him shamed her.
Unabashedly, Kira knew she’d never meet another man she loved with the same intensity as she did André. She’d never even try, for she’d never trust another man that much again.
It wasn’t worth the heartache.
She’d found her one great love. And she’d lost him.
“Do you feel any guilt for your part in this?” she asked, her voice cracking as she felt the rift between them grow wider.
“I did what I had to.”
And so would she. She’d take the only course left to her.
The men in her life had used her. None of them had cared for her, respected her. Not her father, who’d seen her as an obligation. Not her half-brother or his uncle, who viewed her as a usurper they must eliminate at all costs. And certainly not André, who’d used her in the worst way, by capturing her heart completely just to satisfy his quest for vengeance.
“I hope Peter’s face looks as battered as yours. I hope you’re both in pain.” She stared at his beautifully masculine features, her tears unable to put out her fiery heartache. “I hope never to see you again.”
His body jolted, so slightly she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him. Or maybe it was just a mirage caused by her tears.
She’d meant to shock him. But she’d shocked herself as well. For her love for this man was so great that she already grieved over having André in her life.
“Is that your wish?” he asked.
She forced the lie past her dry lips. “Yes. It’s the only way. For you have no room in your heart for a Bellamy.”
A muscle in his cheek throbbed to the wild beat of her heart as he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the foot of the bed. The battering to his pride was evident in his bleak gaze that touched hers briefly, like a fleeting kiss, bittersweet.
“Au revoir, mon amour.”
He walked from her room, and she bit her tongue to keep from calling him back. Her breath hitched, her tears fell in a scalding waterfall, but they couldn’t wash away the hurt.
This pain was too great to ignore. She needed time to deal with all that had happened—time to heal, time to sort it out in her mind. She had to search her heart for what she should do.
So in the quiet of her room she curled into a ball and cried for her loss. And thanked God that through her child she’d always be tied to André. She’d always have a part of him to love.
Long hours later, Kira opened the envelope with trembling fingers, suspecting André had made provision for her as he would a mistress. She wouldn’t take it, of course. For that would sully the love they’d had.
She unfolded the paper and read, the chill that had gripped her fading as she read the document. Once. Twice.
Her gaze fell on the accompanying bank draft and her heart raced. She could scarce draw a decent breath as the enormity of what he’d done sank in.
All the shares of Chateau Mystique had been transferred to her. The hotel was solely hers—as was the bank draft for four million dollars. A fortune. All hers.
She’d gotten more than she’d wanted—would never have to depend on a man’s charity or whim again. But without André in her life having it all meant nothing.
