One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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removed his shirt to reveal a bronzed back beautifully chiseled with muscles that bunched and bulged with each movement. She remembered the feel of that power beneath her fingers as she ran her hands up and down his back, clinging to him, scoring his flesh as he took her beyond any passion that she’d known. The firm smooth texture of his skin beneath her palms. The hint of salt on her tongue that had made her thirsty for more of him.
Her fingers flexed, her body quickening as her gaze flicked over him and she remembered more. His jeans rode low on his lean waist, yet his limbs still looked long and graceful.
Once with him had not been enough.
It never would be, she admitted.
That traitorous ache of want pulsed between her legs, radiating upward to turn her limbs languid, her blood thick and hot. It scared her to be that receptive to any man. That dependent. For it allowed him to dominate her thoughts and keep her on edge.
Just like she’d been all her life. The cycle had to end.
She was so tired of being dominated by powerful men. So weary of having no say in anything.
Oh, Edouard had given her carte blanche for implementation of new services at the Chateau. But the long hours she’d pored over the plans had been for naught.
The Chateau was lost to her. It was just another cherished dream that had failed. All because André had chosen to exert his iron control over her.
But he was wrong about one thing. Taking her child from her wasn’t for the best. She’d prove it to him. And if his heart still remained hardened, she’d simply disappear.
Talk was nonexistent on the trip back to Petit St. Marc. Not only did the whine of the Jet Ski make conversation nearly impossible, André suspected Kira was too engrossed battling her fear of an even smaller faster sea vessel.
André knew her fingernails would leave marks on his belly. She clung to him, pressing her face to his back, as if branding herself to him there as well.
Her terror rippled through her, tempering his speed as surely as the heat of her passion had burned him earlier. He felt her in every fiber of his being, each indrawn breath, each telling beat of his heart.
He wanted to hate her. Did hate her for siding with Peter Bellamy against him. Yet he desired her with an intensity he’d never felt before.
The admission worried him, for it had been that way from the beginning. When she’d first walked into his study on Petit St. Marc he’d been gripped with lust. He’d had to have her.
Even now, knowing she was in league with his enemy did not lessen his desire. He had the proof of her role in this charade tucked away in his safe, yet he wanted Kira Montgomery in his bed. Wanted his name on her lips when he brought her to climax.
And then what?
The question nagged at him as he killed the engine and beached the Jet Ski. He climbed off and helped her alight, reluctant to release her hand. So he didn’t.
For once she wasn’t pulling away from him either.
That glint of determination he noted in her eyes intrigued him. Now that they were on firm land, he imagined her mind was busy thinking of ways to convince him she needed to remain an integral part of her child’s life.
She didn’t need to bother.
He already knew she’d be a good mother.
The thought had embedded itself in André when she stood up to him, fire in her eyes, chin lifted proud, despite the telling tremors that streaked through her. He’d experienced a moment’s shame for tossing out the barbarous threat that he’d bar her from their child’s life.
But how could he endure her closeness either? Dare to trust her knowing that she’d repeatedly lied to him?
He didn’t know. The fact he was not ready to leave her company when he had things to do in his office annoyed him, but it was the truth nonetheless.
“Monsieur Gauthier!”
André looked up at the young boy running pell-mell toward him, one brown hand raised high and waving a snow-white envelope. The mail must have arrived, and Georges had determined this missive demanded his immediate attention.
He allowed a fleeting smile. The boy was eager to earn another euro for hand-delivering his mail. André knew the boy would use the money to help support his ill mother and younger siblings.
“Pour vous, monsieur,” Georges said, thrusting the envelope at him with a toothy smile.
The missive was from his detective, sent to the island by courier. It must be the final report on Kira Montgomery.
Unwilling to trek to the house to reward the boy, he tossed him the keys to the Jet Ski. “Take it. It is yours.”
George’s eyes rounded. “Merci—merci.”
André turned to Kira and motioned to the gate leading into his private beach. “Walk with me.”
“You’re going to let that boy borrow that dangerous thing?” she asked.
“No, he can have the Jet Ski.”
“Why?”
“Because he is loyal. Because it pleases me.”
She tipped her head back and stared up at him curiously. The angle was just perfect for the sun to streak highlights in her vibrant hair. The mass hung in rebellious curls, giving her that just-pleasured-by-a-man look.
He caught himself on the verge of smiling and shook his head, surprised again by the contradiction that was Kira Montgomery. She portrayed a refreshing innocence at times, like now, with a flush tinting her cheeks and her eyes wide with wonder.
It was a quality he’d never seen in a mistress before—certainly in none of the women he’d employed! Was it possible that Bellamy had been her first lover?
The thought of her lying with the old man rankled. He entwined his fingers with hers, his chest tightening with annoyance.
A woman with Kira’s passion deserved a virile man who could match her in bed, who’d boldly explore the myriad ways they could pleasure each other, who knew how to give and take in bed.
A man who treasured a woman instead of beating her.
He had it on good authority that Edouard Bellamy’s finesse in amour was lacking, that he was given to bouts of unparalleled jealousy and rage. He knew it was true, for he’d seen the bruises on the old man’s former mistress.
André had listened in silent rage as Suzette had made excuses for Bellamy’s inexcusable behavior. But she’d stayed with the old man because he had showered her with everything she wanted. She’d chosen Bellamy over her family. She’d loved their enemy.
Had Kira fallen into the same trap? Was she fatalistically loyal to Edouard Bellamy? Would she stab André in the back too?
“What makes you so angry?” she asked, breaking the silence.
He glanced at her and shrugged, pushing the past into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. “After your adventure to Noir Creux, I have reason to be angry, n’est-ce pas?”
“Perhaps. I just thought—” She shook her head, her expression pensive. “We need to talk, André.”
He frowned, knowing she sought reassurance. It was beyond him to offer comfort, yet he was hesitant to crush her spirits again. Nothing could be gained by beating her down more.
His win was her loss. He’d bested her. So where was the feeling of satisfaction?
André motioned to a massive hammock strung between poles and shaded by a canopy of palm fronds. “This way. I’ll join you in a moment.”
She bit her lip, as if hesitating, then set off toward the shade without argument.