than ever.
So he’d locked the door to keep her from charging from the room and challenging him. For this time he’d not be able to walk away. It was a chilling admission to make.
He’d never experienced this sensual intensity with another woman. He’d soared to a summit with Kira that he’d not known existed. A place he’d feared going all his life, for he’d had to relinquish control to get there.
It had been just one night of passion. One damned night. But he recalled every detail. The taste of her skin, the silken strength of her muscles straining with his, her lusty response to each intimate stroke of his hands, his mouth, his body.
Mon Dieu, her anger was as fiery as her desire—the flint to ignite his passion. Knowing she’d flung a set of exquisite rococo vases against the door had awakened a primitive side in him. Like the passion-crazed hero in La Valse Chaloupée, he was tempted to kick down the door, grab her by her hair, and drag her into his bedroom.
But this was life, not a facsimile of the Apache Dance. Though he was his father’s only son, he’d be damned if he’d let a woman blind him to reason. Not again!
History would not repeat itself through him. Never.
Yet it had, for he’d been lenient with her from the start. That would end now.
Though Kira was the object of his baser desires, she’d been his enemy’s mistress. She’d come here to seduce him, to drag his name through the muck. Her success had ruined the most lucrative deal of his life, and made a fool of him.
His enemy had won that battle through her. But he’d not be deterred from his goal this time.
Biting off a curse, he strode the length of the hall to his room. The southeasterly breeze drifting through his chamber failed to refresh him.
He was weary and hot, and disgusted with himself. Spending the better part of a day in Kira’s close company had driven him mad with lust.
André strode into his en suite glass-enclosed shower and turned the jets on full blast. Cold water rained down on his body, pelting muscles that had grown so tense and knotted they ached.
He flattened both hands on the ceramic-tiled wall and put down his head, welcoming the water coursing over his body, cooling his ardor, his anger. The intense feelings warring within him were new, and he hated that he’d lost control with her again.
Yes, this had to be similar to the hell his father had endured throughout his marriage. André would have none of it.
The water spurting from the jets beat his savage jealousy for Kira to a manageable level. He’d run on pure adrenaline the past few hours. But he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.
He’d brought Kira to Petit St. Marc and he’d exact his revenge. Peter Bellamy would be livid by now, knowing that he held Kira here, that he’d use whatever means necessary to access any secrets she held about Bellamy Enterprises. Yet Bellamy had been deceptively silent, going about his life as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. What was his plan?
Perhaps Bellamy had anticipated André would strike back, that he’d go after Kira to bring Bellamy to heel? Perhaps that was why Kira hadn’t put up much resistance to leave the Chateau. Perhaps the plan was to ensure that lightning struck twice—she was to seduce him and create another media nightmare.
It was a possibility he couldn’t ignore. Paparazzi could be on their way to the island now, in hopes of catching André availing himself of Bellamy’s tempting mistress again.
The thought pulsed in his blood like lava, thick and scalding hot.
André pushed away from the shower wall and turned off the water. The cold dousing had cooled his temper, but he was still semi-aroused.
He stalked into his room, his body dripping water, his sex heavy. He stared at the security panel, smiled, then punched in numbers to deactivate the lock on her door.
Bellamy’s feigned uninterest in André taking Kira from the Chateau roused his darkest suspicions. If she made no attempt to escape, then it was likely she and Bellamy already had an ulterior plan in place, should André try to use Kira to crush Bellamy.
He wouldn’t be played for a fool again. He’d alerted his guards to bar anyone except their guests from the island. He’d set men to patrol the shoreline as well, for the same reason.
New game. New rules. One winner—him.
Kira pressed one hand to the en suite bathroom door while the other tightened around the knob, her pulse racing with a sense of dread and anticipation. She’d just decided she might as well take a shower to cool her anger when she’d heard the lock on her door click. But she hadn’t heard the door open.
She strained to hear, but the only sound she detected was the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the pounding of her own heart. André must have returned.
Good. She was ready to confront him, for the longer she put this off the worse it would be. Or was it already too late?
She pressed a hand over her still-flat belly, her emotions more tangled than before, her anger cooling. André believed she was Peter’s mistress. Believed she’d come to the island before to ruin him. Believed she was his enemy.
Kira could produce a document to debunk that claim. But, short of a DNA test, she feared she’d never convince André of his paternity. Not unless she earned his trust first.
Taking a resigned breath, she opened the bathroom door and stepped into the room. A glance proved she was the only one in residence. She eased to the entrance door and peeked through the louvers.
Her brow creased. No masculine shadow in the hall.
Yet someone had thrown open the heavy curtains in the hall and opened the windows to let the refreshing ocean breeze riffle in. She strained to hear sounds of life, and caught a faint murmur of voices echoing from below stairs.
Kira closed her door and paced the luxurious bedroom. Why had he locked her in, only to set her free soon afterward? Why had he left her in peace?
Peace? That was a laugh.
There’d be no peace until she and André came to amiable terms regarding their child. Though, considering who she was, it was likely he’d regard her with hate. And what of their child?
Surely the island tycoon who’d loved her to distraction wasn’t as cold as her own father? André would insist on playing a vital role in their child’s life. And hers as well?
If she was honest with herself, she wanted the fairy tale dream of a loving husband and family.
She wanted André.
This dangerous fascination she had with him made no sense to her. He was all wrong for her. She detested his infidelity. His arrogance. His ruthless intention to take what he wanted without a care for her feelings.
He believed she was Peter’s mistress—his enemy. What did he intend to do with her? What would he do when he learned the whole truth?
Restless energy pulsed within her, leaving her thoughts scrambled and her stomach alive with butterflies.
