One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West
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Only Kira wasn’t in the room. A young, dignified man rose from behind the desk to greet him, his smile polite yet wary.
“How may I help you, Monsieur Gauthier?” the man asked.
André didn’t mince words—didn’t have the time or the patience to jump through hoops. “I must speak with Kira Montgomery immediately.”
The young man let out a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Montgomery isn’t here.”
André inhaled deeply and blew it out in frustration. Fine. He would wait.
“When will she return?”
“I don’t know,” the manager said. “She left a week ago and told me not to expect her back anytime soon.”
He hadn’t anticipated that. The Chateau meant the world to Kira. She wouldn’t leave it indefinitely unless something pressing had come up.
Fear lanced through him. Mon Dieu, the baby!
“Is she all right? Where did she go?” André asked.
The manager stiffened, his smile replaced by a professional mask. “I can’t divulge that.”
André gritted his teeth. Loyalty could be an annoying quality in employees. “Then tell me how I can contact her.”
The manager gave a wry laugh. “Sir, I was left with strict orders that Miss Montgomery was not to be disturbed, unless there is a pressing problem at the Chateau that I can’t handle.”
André slammed both palms on the table and leaned forward, crowding the young manager’s space, ready to beat the truth out of the cheeky man if he must. “I am André Gauthier, and I demand to speak with Miss Montgomery. Now, where the hell is she?”
“She mentioned being homesick,” the manager said. “Before you ask, she didn’t divulge where her home happened to be.”
That couldn’t be. The Chateau was her home. “You are sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stormed from the office, so angry at himself he could have bellowed his rage. She shouldn’t be traveling in her condition.
And just where was home? England? The boarding school where she’d spent the bulk of her life?
The possibilities were endless. The fear that he could lose her seeped into his bones, rattling his confidence, shaking his world.
His hand shook as he called his investigator. “I need to know where Kira Montgomery has gone on holiday.”
“I’ll get right on it,” his private detective said. “As for the paternity issue—Bellamy was cremated. Blood type can reveal if it was possible for him to have been her father, but it won’t prove conclusively if he actually is.”
“Forget it, then. Just find Kira.”
He stormed from the Chateau and arranged to return to Petit St. Marc. He’d wait there, worry, throw himself into work to keep from losing his mind.
But, no matter how long it took, he’d not give up finding her and making her his.
André stormed into his house, barely acknowledging Otillie waiting at the door, her face wreathed in an effusive smile.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Gauthier,” she said. “Comment allezvous?”
“Exhausted,” he said. As well as angry, and worried sick, and in no mood for pleasantries.
He strode to the stairs just before that subtle floral scent snared him, that silken string of remembrance bringing him up short. Just like he’d been tormented in his dreams. Only this was real. Kira!
He whirled, scanning his house, alert, hoping to hell that he hadn’t finally gone mad and imagined her. “Where is she?”
Otillie laughed. His opinionated Carib housekeeper, who’d taken a dislike to Kira when she’d barged into his house months ago, who’d been furious with him for going after her and bringing her here, was laughing with great pleasure.
“Mademoiselle is in the salon,” she said at last.
Heart beating savagely against his ribs, André crossed the hall in six long strides. He stopped in the doorway and leaned against the jamb, simply because he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him the rest of the way.
For a long moment he drank in the sight of Kira curled on his sofa, looking radiant and inviting in his home. Their home.
Mon Dieu, what a fool he’d been. She’d told her staff she was going home. She considered Petit St. Marc home. Thought his house was hers. That had to be a good sign.
She was here with him at last—had returned to him of her own accord. All would be well.
But, no, she was frowning at him now, looking wary. Unapproachable.
His blood pounded with the need to touch her, kiss her, love her. At this moment he felt every inch the pirate, rugged and ruthless, uncouth and unashamed of grabbing the spoils of war. For this fabulous English rose was his booty.
He’d wanted her the first time she barged into his office. He’d taken her, believing she was involved in the cutthroat war he’d waged with Bellamy. He’d continued to take her even when doubts had encroached.
She’d deserved so much more than the cold life meted out to her by Bellamy. She certainly hadn’t deserved André’s hostility, his constant doubts over her innocence, his refusal to give her anything but physical love.
Oui, he was unworthy of her. That was why he’d walked away from her that day in the hospital.
But he couldn’t let go of her. He, who’d vowed never to let a woman embed herself in his heart and soul, caught himself thinking about her during his days, dreaming about her during the long, lonely nights.
He loved her. The admission came hard for a man who had vowed never to fall victim to that crippling emotion. But refusing to admit it crippled him more, for he was haunted by her smile, her touch, her love.
No, he couldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.
He pushed away from the doorway and strode to her, stopping when he reached her side. His fingers curled into fists, trembling, for he knew if he touched her he’d tumble her back on the sofa and caress her everywhere. Make love to her, here, now, without a modicum of finesse.
“Marry me,” he said.
Her eyes bugged and her inviting lips parted. “What?”
A gruff sound of impatience rumbled in his throat. “You look beautiful. You are pregnant with my child, mon amour. Marry me.”
She flushed, her body stiffening, putting up a wall he hated, one that would geld him should he attempt jumping it. But he would jump it.
“I was pregnant a month ago, when you rushed me to the hospital, yet you didn’t offer marriage then,” she said.
Touché—a direct hit. Damn, but he was doing this badly. “I was an ass.”
“And now you’re not?”
He drove his fingers through his hair, frustrated, trembling like a schoolboy, tasting fear and despising it. For if he said the wrong thing she’d never marry him.
Mon Dieu, was this the tangled emotion that had gripped his father? That had made him act the fool with his mother?
“I am the father of your child,” he said. “The man you love.”
“True.” She stared at him a long, uncomfortable moment. “But you hate all Bellamys. You’ve spent considerable time and money to destroy Edouard’s dynasty and ruin Peter. Need I remind you that I am Edouard Bellamy’s daughter?”
“I