One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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“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,