One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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embarrassment and anger for he’d proven his point.
She was putty in his hands. Helpless to resist him.
“I knew you were ready before I touched you,” he said.
“André, don’t,” she said, curling her fingers into fists so she couldn’t clutch him and draw him to her.
“Why? We have nothing to lose.”
“You’re wrong.” She was already in danger of losing her heart to him—which made no sense, considering how he’d taken over her hotel and was dragging her to his island lair.
“Is that a challenge?” His hand slid down her calf and lower, sending hot quivers of sensation spiraling up her leg.
“No.” She’d be a fool to square off against André when her defenses were so low, when she was so weary she could barely think straight.
He didn’t play fair, and she did. Even now, with her emotions stretched thin, she became lost in his touch. Her breath hitched and her heart raced, and she willed his hand to glide back up her leg, to—
His palm cupped her foot, the fingers curling beneath the arch to skim the ball of her foot. A burning pain shot up her leg and her pleasure popped like a child’s balloon.
“Don’t! That hurts.” An exaggeration. The skin burned hot all over.
He examined her foot, his frown darkening. His finger lightly traced the strap indentations cutting across her skin and she set her teeth against the fiery pinpricks that danced across her skin.
He spat out a torrent of French that she was sure were curses, yet his touch remained gentle. “You are a fool to sacrifice comfort for fashion. How long have your feet been like this?”
“They began hurting as we walked from the car to the dock.”
“You should have told me.”
She glared at him and tried pulling her foot free of his hold. “You were not exactly in a friendly mood.”
He moved faster than lightning, pressing her deeper into the sumptuous cushions, blanketing her with his powerful body. His arms bracketed beside her head kept some of his weight off her, but not his groin. She felt the steely length of his sex against her belly and bit back a moan, afraid he’d ravish her, and equally afraid she’d not find the will to stop him.
“Discovering I had been tricked by my fiercest rival’s mistress puts me in a bad mood,” he said, his mouth tantalizingly close to hers, his eyes dark and mercurial.
“I’m not Peter’s mistress,” she said, willing him to believe her this time.
His features changed, hardening more than she’d thought was possible. “Why do you persist in lying?”
“Why won’t you believe me?”
He snorted. “Because I know what you are.”
Hot color stained her cheeks, her anger mounting. “No, you only think you do.”
“Then tell me. How did you gain control of the Chateau?”
The truth was poised on her tongue, burning to be released. There was no reason to keep the promise she’d made Edouard. No reason except to weigh the danger in confiding in André. For if he hated her now, he’d despise her when he knew the rest.
“Having trouble sorting out your lies?” he asked.
No, the truth. “Nothing of the sort.”
Kira looked away from the anger flashing in André’s eyes. She was tired of working long hours to earn her rightful place at the Chateau, only to have a stranger step in and take it all away from her. Tired of living on the fringe of Edouard Bellamy’s life so his family would be spared the stigma of knowing that he’d sired and provided for his bastard. Tired of receiving only crumbs of Edouard’s affection. Tired of fighting this same argument with André.
“I’m simply an employee who invested wisely in Bellamy Enterprises,” she said at last, repeating the excuse Edouard had devised.
“Did you receive a bonus when you came to my island and seduced me?”
“Of course not. I came to talk with you,” she said.
“So you said. Yet you found your way into my bed.”
“It was a mutual seduction.”
“Oui, but I wasn’t the one who invited the world to witness our affair the next morning.”
Kira shook her head, having nothing to say in her defense. He wouldn’t believe her anyway. She wouldn’t rail at him, because he volleyed her barbs back with the ease of a tennis pro—only his shots drew blood.
“Neither did I.”
“Perhaps you didn’t issue the order,” he said. “But you were aware that was Peter’s intent before you came.”
“If I had known, I assure you I’d never have come,” she said, furious that he doubted her at every turn. “And, for the last time, my solicitor had assured me that you’d requested a meeting between us.”
“Bravo, Miss Montgomery, for sticking with your story. Perhaps later you can entertain me with the story of how a new employee managed to buy a forty-nine percent holding in a multimillion-dollar Las Vegas hotel.”
Before she could think how or if she should respond to that, a shrill whistle echoed in the salon.
He surged to his feet, his features rigid with anger. “We’ve arrived at Petit St. Marc.”
Kira intended to do little more than rest for the remainder of this day, and maybe the next as well. She’d deal with André and the baby that tied them together later.
She watched him shrug into his suit jacket and give the lapels a tug. Except for the shadow of a beard lending him a roguish look, he looked no worse for wear.
Kira was sure she looked as weary as she felt. She swung her legs off the sofa and tugged down the skirt he’d rucked to her thighs. Her checks burned hot with mortification.
In London she’d spent her days working in a hotel and her evenings devoted to night classes. Edouard Bellamy had paid for her hospitality degree, but he’d insisted that was all the education she needed. She was, as her father had reminded her often, only suited to be a hospitality manager. But she’d had higher aspirations.
She needed a business degree to run a hotel. Her hotel!
Kira picked up her sling heels, hooked her purse over her shoulder and started across the main salon. The carpet felt good underfoot, but the onyx floors were sheer heaven, cooling her feverish feet like nothing else had.
No matter what else she did when she settled into a cottage, she intended to soak her abused feet. She descended the steps with care and moved across the carpeted deck to the railing. Her first look at the island took her breath away.
The lush rainforest on Petit St. Marc covered the humped dome of an extinct volcano. The knot of trees was so lush and dense that the forest appeared black at its heart—much like André’s must surely be.
Palm trees close to the water swayed in the gentle southeasterly breeze that was refreshing her heated skin as it skipped over the expanse of sea, carrying with it the tang of salt and the intoxicating sweet scent of exotic flowers.
She tensed as his shadow fell over her, but as the island came into sharp focus her temper mellowed. “It’s breathtaking.”
“Oui,” he said.
She looked away from the men mooring the yacht with quiet efficiency to André. Instead of staring at the island he frowned at her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d seen beauty here. As if he couldn’t believe she was here again.
Not by choice. And not for long, if she had anything to say about it.