One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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across from the bed, watching her.
“Bonjour,” he said, rising with fluid grace to cross to the bed with lazy purpose.
The closer he got, the clearer she read the impatience in his dark eyes. What now?
“Good morning,” she replied, and hoped it would be.
He sat a box on the bedside table. “I have it on good authority that these tests are reliable.”
Her gaze flicked from his to the box, then back to him. “You want me to take a pregnancy test?”
“Oui. It is suggested one should take it first thing.”
A fact she knew well, since she’d gone through this procedure when her cycle had been uncharacteristically late. Her doctor had confirmed the test was right—she was pregnant.
Yet André demanded proof again.
She shrugged, hiding her annoyance that he distrusted her so. “As soon as you leave I’ll take it, and satisfy your curiosity.”
“I’ll wait.”
He had to be kidding. But one look at the firm set to his mouth confirmed he was dead serious.
“Fine. Just give me a moment.” She left the bed and padded to the en suite bathroom. “Alone,” she added, when she sensed him following her.
She took the test, as prescribed, then carried the stick out into the room. “It takes five minutes.”
He checked his watch and nodded, his features a stony mask of indifference. An odd tension hummed between them to keep her on edge. What went through his mind? And, more importantly, could he love their baby?
Thirty seconds before time was up, he strode to her side and stared down at the test she held. As if it had awaited his arrival, a pink line materialized in the window.
“It is positive,” he said. “You are enceinte.”
She shook her head as she disposed of the test stick, her smile rueful. “I admitted that.”
He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if expecting her to say more. And she wanted to talk to him, for she had no idea how he felt about having a child.
“But who is the father?” he asked.
“I’ve told you already.”
“Oui, once.”
“Once is enough.” He could either believe her, or wait six months for the test that would prove she’d told him the truth.
“You surprise me, ma chérie. I expected you would insist that the baby you carry is mine and not Bellamy’s,” he said, his eyes dark and accusatory.
“Why should I bother? You don’t believe a word I say.”
“For once we are in agreement.” He strode to the door, back straight and broad shoulders stiff. “You will remain my guest until you have the baby.”
“Your prisoner, you mean,” she said.
“If you choose to look at it that way.”
“Fine—play the tyrant,” she said, so angry she could scream. But he’d expect that, and she’d not surrender to hysterics. Not now. “I can work on my laptop from here as easily as I can from the Chateau.”
He stopped at the door, his expression incredulous. At last she’d gotten some reaction from him. But in a flash it was gone, replaced by the hard look she’d come to hate.
“Your only job until you give birth is to take care of yourself and the baby,” he said.
“I can do that and continue working.”
“Out of the question.”
“Why? Have you fired me?”
“You have a new job now,” he said, leaving her to wonder. “Or have you so quickly forgotten your condition?”
She glared at him, chafing at the order. “Not likely. I’ll be pregnant for another six months. If I don’t have something with which to occupy my time I’ll go out of my mind.”
His smile came slowly—a thief of passion, sneaking in unaware. The sensual curl to his mouth sent heat unfurling in her and reminded her just how much she craved his touch, his kiss. Just how responsive she was to him.
“I will endeavor to keep you busy, ma chérie.” And with that he was gone.
Kira pressed her fists to her temples, so frustrated with André’s high-handedness she could scream. If she stayed she’d become his mistress. But no matter how appealing it would be to lose herself in his arms again, to stay placed her in a dangerous game she feared she’d not win.
For once André discovered she was a Bellamy, he’d treat her with the same hatred he harbored for Edouard and Peter. He’d hate her and their child.
She had to contact her solicitor today. She had to find out who had set her up to look like Peter’s accomplice.
Perhaps when the truth was out in the open she and André could reach a rational decision regarding the future of the Chateau and their child? And their own relationship? She could only hope.
Kira paced her room, wondering how she’d manage to sneak into André’s office and ring up her solicitor. It would have to be when he left the house. Even then she’d have to be careful, for Otillie was always around.
Kira dressed quickly in khaki capri pants and a floral blouse that made her eyes gleam like rich amber and enriched the auburn highlights in her hair.
She slipped into comfortable espadrilles and made her way downstairs to the dining room. Otillie appeared almost immediately, which confirmed what Kira feared—the housekeeper was watching her closely.
She took a seat and forced a casual mien. “Will André be joining me for breakfast?”
“No,” Otillie said, as she set an assortment of thinly sliced baguettes topped with ruby-tinted jelly and chocolate-filled croissants on the table. “Monsieur Gauthier ate earlier.”
“Perhaps I’ll see him at lunch, then.”
Otillie frowned as she poured coffee that smelled rich and strong. “Monsieur will not return until this afternoon. He requested dinner at seven, and will join you then, oui?”
“Of course. I’ll enjoy the beach, then,” she said, hoping Otillie would take her at her word.
The older woman looked her up and down, then nodded. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Kira ate a croissant, though her appetite was nil, then left the table. She resisted the urge to rush into André’s office, and waited until Otillie disappeared into the kitchen.
Her nerves twanged a discordant beat as she slipped into his masculine domain. She hadn’t been in this room in three months, yet it looked the same. With one exception. There was no telephone evident.
She searched everywhere, her frustration rising. He must have anticipated she’d try to place a call and removed the phone. He’d trumped her plan. Or so he thought.
Kira was not to be deterred—not on something as important as discovering who was set on discrediting her. She knew none of the cottages had telephones, yet there must be one at the restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later she slipped into the only restaurant on the island. A guard sat at the bar, which was manned by a tall thin Carib.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the bartender said. “What is your pleasure?”
“Sparkling water with a twist of lime,” she said as she claimed a stool at the end of the bar.
From here she had a good view of behind the bar. But the only telephone