Читать книгу Pirate Tycoon, Forbidden Baby - Janette Kenny, Janette Kenny - Страница 6
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
KIRA wondered if this day would ever end as she exchanged André’s private jet for the limousine waiting for them at Aimé Césaire International Airport. And what had her solicitor made of the harried message she’d left him?
She had no way of knowing. At least the flight from Las Vegas to Martinique had gone smoothly, but nearly fourteen hours of travel had exhausted her.
André’s stony silence had drained the last of her energy. She’d hoped to talk with him rationally on the flight, but he’d closed himself off from her. Now she was in no mood to engage in heartfelt conversation with him.
Her summer-weight sweater smothered her, and the skirt she’d thought would be refined and comfortable hung like a limp rag. The island humidity, vastly different from the dry Nevada air, urged her heavy hair into the natural curl that she’d struggled to straighten all of her life. She was sure the make-up she’d applied before André dragged her from the Chateau was gone.
But she had the satisfaction of not being the only one wearied by the trip. Though André’s perfectly tailored suit retained the crisp lines that complemented the brooding intensity of his dark eyes and matched his arrogance, dark stubble delineated his arrogantly handsome face.
That rogue’s shadow emphasized the grim set of his mouth and gave him a dangerously sexy look. She caught herself remembering how those firm lips had felt moving against hers, tearing down her defenses and arresting her fears. How his hands and mouth and powerful body had brought her to her first shattering climax, and then continued to do so more times than she could recall, until she’d been deliciously sated and more happy than she’d ever been.
That had been the calm before the storm. What she couldn’t fathom was what tempest now brewed in André, as the limo raced past fields of sugar cane toward Fort-de-France.
Three months ago, on his island, they’d both expressed that they never wished to see the other again in the heat of anger. Yet she’d rung him, and he’d come for her. Or had he planned to come to the Chateau anyway, to steal her away?
She suspected that was the case, as he hadn’t even asked why she’d contacted him. And with his anger heating the very air she breathed, it was better she hold her secret a bit longer.
Too weary to make sense of this nightmare, she stretched her legs to ease the dull ache in her back. Like the other drivers racing down the boulevard in a hurry to get to their homes, she was anxious to get settled for the day.
This extended close proximity to André wreaked havoc on her senses. Every subtle shift of his powerful body, every heated glance, each casual touch, muddled her mind more and more.
A dozen times she’d nearly blurted out that she was pregnant with his child. Let him deal with that! But his brooding silence had stopped her.
He barely resembled the teasing rogue she’d met on Petit St. Marc. The man who’d baited and lured her into rousing debate, who’d flirted shamelessly with her. Who’d made love to her with unbridled passion and made her feel wanted, if only for a moment.
He’d withdrawn from her like a wounded animal. She debated scooting closer and taking him into her arms. Intuition told her he wouldn’t welcome her gesture of comfort and empathy.
Kira bit her lower lip, exhausted and pensive. She’d never been this undone by a man, and her lack of control over her emotions mortified her. But then, she’d never been plunked into the middle of a dark drama without a script either.
She shifted on her seat as traffic slowed and the sleek white limo crawled past La Savane. Palms towered over the public gardens, lush with greenery and a profusion of flowers. How sad she’d not had time to visit the gardens when she was here before. She certainly wouldn’t ask André for a tour now.
As they neared the harbor, quaint shops and houses were stacked against the hills like colorful children’s blocks in bright crayon colors. A reggae beat from the market area danced in the air, yet the silence in the limo throbbed to the weary cadence of her heart.
“How much longer?” she asked, glancing at the harbor, where the docked sailboats resembled a denuded forest.
André gave a terse shrug, drawing her attention from the impressive breadth of his shoulders to the fatigue lines etched under his eyes. His was an intense gaze that seemed to look right through her. “An hour and a half at the most.”
No rest or respite anytime soon, then. She took small consolation in the fact he looked as weary as she felt.
Not for the first time she suspected he’d left near midnight to arrive in Las Vegas early this morning. Perhaps, like she, he’d had a sleepless night.
But where he’d likely dwelled on blackmailing her to leave the Chateau, her mind had spun with the miracle of motherhood. For the first time in her life she’d no longer be alone.
Kira rested a hand on her stomach and smiled. Last night she hadn’t been concerned about the hours ticking by while she lay in bed in wonder, awed by the precious baby growing in her.
She’d tried to envision how her life was about to change—had debated how she should let André know. She’d naïvely believed impending fatherhood might mellow him, that what they’d shared once could grow into something meaningful.
Love? Yes, the possibility of that blooming between them had played over in her mind as well, teasing her with how good her future with him could be.
For the first time in ages she’d taken a peek at the schoolgirl imaginings she’d painted in the dark of night back in the days of her youth, when she’d dreamed her prince would ride in on a white horse and whisk her away to his castle, where they’d live happily ever after. When she’d fall in love forever, and not just for a stolen moment.
Not once had she thought André would sail back into her life this morning like a bloodthirsty pirate, with pillaging and revenge burning in his soul. That he’d accuse her of joining forces with Peter to ruin him. If he only knew the truth.
No, if only he’d believe the truth!
She shut her eyes against cold, hard reality. Instead of a white horse bearing her to a castle, a white limo raced her toward an uncertain future. Instead of her prince gazing at her with loving eyes, André barely spared her a glance.
What would he do when she told him she carried his child? Accept his responsibility with resigned indifference, as her father had done? Surely he wasn’t that cold, that callous?
“What’s wrong?” André asked, his warm breath fanning her face. “Are you ill?”
I’m pregnant. She looked up at him, prepared to tell him, but his eyes were as dark and turbulent as a winter storm. She was simply too weary to brave the gale now.
“I was just—” Caught in a fairytale. But they never come true. Never. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long journey.”
He stared at her for a tense moment, his expression shifting to the hard, indifferent mask she’d come to hate. “You can rest on the boat.”
Kira laughed to herself as he moved to his side of the limo again, though the space between them afforded her no comfort. The express ferry she’d taken to and from the island before had provided seating, but no place where she could put her feet up.
Right now her ankles felt hot and swollen. Strange, since she’d refrained from satisfying her thirst so she wouldn’t spend the whole flight in the tiny restroom.
She stared at the glistening expanse of Flamands Bay, where a cruise ship dwarfed the catamarans and yachts that bobbed lazily in a turquoise sea. A welcoming breeze sent the palm fronds swaying, and gentled the tide to a mesmerizing ripple touched with gold. But she feared she couldn’t tolerate much more travel without succumbing to motion sickness.
That certainly wasn’t the way she wished to alert André of her condition. In fact, she was totally lost on how to broach the subject in light of today’s shocking events and his aggressive mood.
André exited the limo the second it stopped, as if anxious to get away from her. Fine. She welcomed the reprieve. But it was short-lived again. Instead of the driver helping her out, the handsome billionaire, unyielding and resolute, opened her door.
He extended an exquisitely manicured hand to her. She stared at it, at the fingers long and graceful, the tanned skin smooth and dusted with black hair.
Memories of those hands skimming over her naked flesh and bringing her to pleasure time and again tormented her. There was nothing of her body he hadn’t touched. Including her heart?
“I won’t bite,” he said, the arrogant tilt to his mouth hinting the opposite.
Not that she needed to be reminded. “You did before.”
She saw her own burning need flickering in his eyes and gasped. A flush stole over her, and she chided herself for reminding him of their night together.
“I wasn’t the only one with teeth, ma chérie.” He took her hand, and the electricity that zinged from him staggered her.
Kira wanted to jerk away, but couldn’t. She wanted to lean into him, but didn’t dare.
The warmth of his skin and his steely power made her feel safe when she was anything but. How pathetic she must be.
Only a fool would fantasize about the man who’d accused her of bringing the paparazzi to his island. Who’d somehow acquired majority shares in her hotel. Who’d forced her to return to his island, where she’d experienced blazing passion. Where they’d created a child.
Kira forced her feet to move, grateful the setting sun had taken the heat out of the day. Yet a more dangerous warmth replaced it as she kept pace with André toward the waterfront, his hand firmly grasping hers, his narrowed gaze seeming to look beyond the people around them.
A few native workers near the boatyard glanced their way as they passed, speaking in a rich patois accented with French. She could only make out a word or two—greetings, mostly, interspersed with his name. Obviously the billionaire was known here, but no one attempted to engage him in talk.
Several express taxis were moored at the ferry terminal, their gangplanks crowded with a blend of tourists, transplanted islanders and native Caribs. The thought of joining that mass of humanity made her break her out in a nervous sweat.
At the dock, André guided her away from the larger craft. All she saw were small speedboats, bobbing wildly in the water. Her stomach lifted, then slammed down again as she scanned the jetty for a larger vessel.
None were moored along its length. None!
“Please tell me you don’t expect me to ride in one of those little boats?” she asked.
“Oui, a dinghy. It is the fastest way.”
She held back—not easy, considering his strength and the way her knees knocked. “No, I can’t.”
He stared down at her, his lean features resolute, his dark eyes intense. “You’ve no choice.”
She swallowed her panic and closed her eyes, struggling to calm the riotous beat of her heart. “Small boats terrify me.”
“You’ve nothing to fear.”
Was he joking? No, the taut line of his jaw shadowed with stubble told her he was dead serious.
Panic clawed at her throat. As a child, she’d nearly died in a boating accident on Lake Mead. That memory and its devas tating aftermath still haunted her.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t, get in a small boat.
Kira jerked free, but before she could bolt up the pier he swept her into his arms. She squirmed, then went still as death as he stepped down into the rocking boat.
She flung her arms around his neck and clung like a sandbur, her heart beating so hard she knew he must feel it too. Each gasp for air drew the spicy scent of him deeper into her lungs, further muddling her senses.
A laugh rumbled from him, at odds with the ferocious temperament he’d shown thus far. “Relax, ma chérie. See that cruiser anchored in the bay?”
She reluctantly lifted her face from the shelter of his warm neck. A sleek white cabin cruiser gleamed like a pearl against the caramel-tinged sunset. But it was so far away.
“You’ll be perfectly safe on the Sans Doute.”
Her mouth formed a soundless “oh.”
André set her on her feet, his own braced wide as the boat rose and fell with the tide. He rattled off instructions in French to the boy manning the motor.
The engine powered up. André sat on the bench and pulled her down beside him. Her stomach pitched and her skin turned clammy, despite the refreshing seaspray.
She trembled with bone-deep fear. Her hand gripped the single handhold so tightly her fingers went numb.
He stared at her, his brows slammed together. “Mon Dieu, you are afraid.”
She gave a jerky nod.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, one hand making soothing circles on her arm. “Relax.”
If only she could. The dinghy raced away, the hull rising as they picked up speed. Her insides quivered and snapped like the nautical flags on nearby boats. She buried her face against his chest, her mind trapped in a nightmare.
“Look at me. Mon Dieu, look at me!”
She met his penetrating gaze, knowing hers was wide with fright, but uncaring what he thought of her. “I hate you.”
“I would expect no less from you.” His eyes blazed with dark emotion as his head lowered to hers.
Kira knew he intended to kiss her, and she knew it wouldn’t be gentle. She knew she should push him away—at the very least turn her head. And she knew she would do neither. For she wanted him to kiss her with a desperation that shocked her.
His mouth closed over hers with a hunger that devoured what remained of her will. She shuddered violently and held herself impassive for a heartbeat, knowing capitulation would signal her doom. Then the kiss changed, softened, and a different type of tremor swept through her, stripping her of reason.
She splayed her free hand over his heart, marveling at the strong rapid beat so in tandem with her own, kissing him in kind. He tasted of exotic spices and seduction, and she suddenly craved both so much she knew she’d die of want if he denied her.
As the boat cut across the waves, the rhythmic duel of their tongues and the ravenous glide of lips on skin consumed her with memories. She was lost. Adrift at sea with her corporate pirate. Enslaved to the sensations she’d only known with him.
His long strong fingers played an erotic melody on her back that made her heart sing and her body hum with need. Like a rosebud caressed by the sun, she blossomed in his arms, kissing him back with all the hunger she’d denied for so long.
He’d done nothing to earn her trust, yet she felt safe in his arms. Wanted. So she simply gave up rational thought and relished this moment.
Too soon he pulled away, when she would’ve begged him to touch her breasts, her sex.
“We’ve reached the Sans Doute, ma chérie, and you are safe.”
It was a lie. As long as she surrendered to his slightest touch she was in mortal danger of losing her heart and soul to this enigmatic man.
André prided himself on his rigid control in the boardroom and the bedroom, yet kissing Kira had been a mistake. He’d done it to take her mind off her crippling fear. But he’d come close to losing control of the situation.
She wasn’t an innocent, yet he’d felt hesitation ripple through her, felt her lips tremble against his, felt her fear of the sea. Then that whispered moan of surrender had sung through his blood and instinct had taken over.
She was an enchantress. A sea witch. Now she was his.
He helped her climb onto the aft deck of the Sans Doute, mindful of her shaky posture and her frantic hold on his hand, the nails digging in so deep they’d leave a mark. He was gripped with the sudden urge to hold her, protect her, make love to her until her fears dissipated.
Mon Dieu, he hated this raging desire that threatened to burn out of control for her. Hated the role she’d played in Bellamy’s life. Hated that he admired her pluck, that she hadn’t resorted to tears, threats or seduction once.
He escorted Kira up the circular stairs and propelled her through the main salon, dressed in the richest golden sateen and deepest burgundy velour, then up to the observation salon. His hand rested at the beguiling curve of her back—in part because he enjoyed touching her, and also because he knew it bothered her. He wanted her hot and bothered.
The bullet lights in the ceiling shot platinum and bronze streaks through her wealth of mahogany hair that his fingers itched to sift through. But she would not welcome his touch now. She was as flighty as a hummingbird, the pulse-point in her throat warbling to a frantic beat.
Still he ached to draw her close, to press his mouth over that spot, feel the beat of her heart match time with his. She’d not fight him. No, she’d melt in his arms—if only to take her mind off her fear.
That was reason enough to bide his time. It was imperative she crave his touch. That he earn her trust.
It shouldn’t be difficult to do, considering she’d been groomed to pleasure a man. Oui, before he was through she’d beg him to bed her.
It was inevitable—a fact Bellamy must be aware of. So why hadn’t his enemy contacted him yet?
“Make yourself comfortable.” He strode across the lounge to the bar. “Would you care for a drink before we get underway?”
“Water, please.”
He slipped behind the granite-topped bar and slid her a look. She’d taken a seat on the circular sofa, her legs curled beneath her and an overstuffed pillow hugged to her stomach. Her complexion was paler than before.
A spark of alarm hit him again. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just thirsty.” She flicked him an uncertain glance. “It’s been too long since I drank any water.” She shook her head as if dismissing the matter.
Another ploy to gather sympathy? To heap guilt on him for dragging her to the island against her will?
Of course. She’d only had to ask at any time and he would have made sure she was refreshed, that she was comfortable. He wasn’t an ogre, determined to make her suffer physically.
He poured sparkling water into a glass, added a twist of lime and took it to her. Annoyance burned his soul as he handed her the glass.
She took it, a telling gasp escaping her as their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” André said, which was far from the truth.
He stalked back to the bar and prepared a simple rum daiquiri with the barest squeeze of lime. Thoughts of Kira making love with Bellamy sped through his mind and left a white froth of rage in its wake.
Instead of savoring the heavy, rich swirl of rum, André tasted bitter revenge coating his tongue. Spending half a day with her had sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge.
Kira portrayed the ingénue when she was anything but innocent. Oui, he knew her for what she truly was, for he’d tasted her passion. One sip demanded more.
Every nuance of her was branded on his mind. The occasional tremor that rocked her, leaving her shaken. The pensive look he glimpsed in her eyes when she thought nobody was watching. Those odd moments when she rested a hand on her stomach and the most beauteous expression came over her.
It was as if she was sharing a secret with someone.
Well, he had secrets of his own. Dark, disturbing ones that robbed him of sleep.
“Do you have reliable internet on the island?” she asked.
“Oui. I have a private satellite connection in my office.” She would have limited access, at his discretion, and monitored. He prowled the carpeted salon and sipped his drink, her question spiking his suspicion. “Thinking of begging Peter to rescue you from the situation you’ve both created? Or do you need his instructions on how best to spy on me?”
Color streaked across her high cheekbones and her amber eyes snapped, her anger and defiance charging the air. “I intend to run my hotel from my prison.”
“You mean my hotel.”
“You are the majority stockholder now, but the Chateau will always be mine.”
His fingers tightened on his glass. She couldn’t be more wrong, but he’d let her hold her confidence for now. He took no pleasure in beating someone who was so near the edge.
The dark smudges beneath her eyes attested that she was close to exhaustion. Yet her narrow shoulders remained squared and her chin high, as if she was refusing to accept that she stood on thin ice regarding the Chateau—regarding him.
Her quiet strength intrigued him. He’d expected her to use her delectable body to court his favor, to deceive him more. But though she’d responded instantly to his touch, his kiss, she hadn’t attempted to take the initiative with him. Yet.
He tossed back his daiquiri as his anger burned anew. What was her game?
It didn’t matter. He’d have his revenge in the end. He had proof Peter had sent her to Petit St. Marc to seduce him, and alerted the paparazzi, and he now held documents proving her part in the deadly plot she and Peter had instigated.
The latter was enough to make him despise her. He hated that she’d acquired the Chateau with her deceit. Hated that she was Bellamy’s mistress. Hated that her solemn amber eyes had the power to make him question his plans.
He set his glass on the bar with a thunk and strode to her, his annoyance sparking like lightning when she lifted her chin and stared up at him, wide-eyed but unflinching. She was driving him mad, for he’d never wanted to intimidate a woman until now.
In one fluid movement he rested a knee on the cushions before her curled legs, braced one hand on the sofa’s arm and the other on its back. “I own Chateau Mystique and I own you. Never doubt you are both in my control.”
Her full lips thinned. “That is barbarous.”
“Perhaps you were unaware the blood of pirates courses through my veins?” He yanked away the pillow shielding her and splayed his fingers on her stomach, his thumb resting on her mons and his fingers grazing the swell of her breasts.
She gasped, eyes huge and dark, with awakening desire. The pulse in the ivory column of her neck throbbed to a savage tempo that mirrored his own erratic heartbeat.
Oui. She didn’t fear him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. In this they were equal. But not for long.
André affected a rapacious grin. “What? You have nothing to say?”
A tremor vibrated through her into him as she shoved his hand from her, but her eyes were still smoky with passion. “Nothing that you’d believe.”
“Save your professions of innocence.” He lurched from her and stared at her expressive eyes that challenged him. “Relax, ma chérie. I have no intention of ravishing you. At least not yet.”
She looked away, satisfying him that she understood his dismissal as well as his promise. The inevitability.
“Not ever,” she said, the words whispered, yet fierce.
The challenge hung between them—a cold, invisible wall that he longed to tear down.
André stalked across the salon and bounded up the stairs to the sundeck, knowing he was a hair’s breadth from toppling Kira back on the sumptuous sofa and showing her just how much she hungered for his touch. How easily she’d capitulate.
Now wasn’t the time. They were spent from the journey. In thirty minutes they’d land at Petit St. Marc. That wasn’t nearly enough time to enjoy her charms, and he fully intended to savor every inch of Kira at his leisure, for bedding her would enrage Peter Bellamy. Never mind that it would satisfy the savage beast within him as well.
For a moment he paused at the starboard side and simply soaked in the breathtaking view of the silvery disk of the sun as it slipped into the rippling mocha waters.
The horizon gleamed like buttered rum. Golden glimmers tinged with red skipped over the waves as if they were ablaze, glimmers of light that matched the highlights in Kira’s long luxurious hair.
Kira. Why did she bring out such poetic yearnings in him?
Out here was nothing but the sea, mistress to many of his ancestors. Mistress to him in many ways.
He shook his head at his own fanciful musings and took the stairs to the fly bridge. A stocky old sailor, wearing cutoff jeans and a tattered T-shirt, manned the helm.
“How’s she sail, Captain?”
The old salt flashed him a cunning grin. “I’d ask the same of you if I thought you’d tell me who that tempting gal is that you stowed on board.”
André scowled. “It’s a long story.”
The Captain chuckled. “Most interesting ones are.”
He shrugged. Though their friendship spanned a decade, he was loath to explain his association with Kira.
“Just keep it steady,” André said. “The lady isn’t accustomed to the sea.”
“Aye, aye, boss.”
André gave the horizon one last look, then hit the stairs. Annoyance bobbed within him like a storm-tossed buoy. Thanks to the scandal, every moment away from his desk cost him a fortune.
He hadn’t intended to make any changes at the Chateau as yet, for he wanted Kira to squirm, to wonder what he planned to do, to get comfortable in her role as his lover. Then he’d swoop in and exert his will over the hotel—and her.
Oui, he’d not soften toward Kira. He would not make the same mistakes his father had made. No woman would rule him.
André slammed into the master stateroom and dropped onto a tufted leather chair at his desk, even though he ached to pace the confines like a caged tiger scenting fresh meat. He grabbed the phone and put in a call to his private detective. The man answered on the second ring.
“Is Bellamy still at the Chateau?” André asked, dispensing with pleasantries.
“No. He left an hour after you did.”
“Back to Florida?”
“To California, to inaugurate a new hotel,” he said. “Do you want me to continue surveillance?”
“Oui. I want to know every damned thing he does. Who he talks to, who he does business with.”
“You got it,” the detective said.
André ended the connection and rocked back in his chair, his mind sifting through this startling news. Why was Bellamy carrying on as if nothing had happened instead of rushing back to his compound in Florida? It didn’t make sense, for Bellamy had seen André leave with Kira. The deception was over.
Had she simply been Bellamy’s pawn, used to publicly humiliate André? Used as needed and then discarded? Paid off with shares in the Chateau? It was a possibility he’d considered.
His fight with Edouard had been personal, rife with emotions André deemed crippling. Simple revenge. He was David going up against Goliath.
His feud with Peter was strictly business. One corporate raider battling another. But over the last six months Bellamy had turned vicious. Personal attacks on André that the media fed on.
Where Edouard had regarded him as a pest, Peter Bellamy set out to destroy him. And Kira had sided with the enemy to bring about his ruin.
Yet he desired her.
Mon Dieu! Sleep deprivation was warping his mind. He rubbed his gritty eyes and winced. His body screamed for rest, yet he couldn’t afford it yet.
André threw the pen on his desk and stormed from his stateroom. In moments he’d reached the main salon. His gaze sought and found the object of his scorn.
She lay curled on the sofa, napping, her hair spilling over a pillow in a waterfall of mahogany curls. He wasn’t sure how she managed to look innocent and provocative at the same time. Nor could he understand why he wanted her, knowing she was a calculating liar.
But his pulse quickened all the same. He longed to run his fingers through her hair as he covered her body with his. Would she welcome his caresses? Melt in his embrace? Sigh as he thrust inside her?
He undid the knot in his tie and gave it a savage jerk. The silver-gray silk whistled free in the quiet. He’d know soon.
