André must be done soon. “I’ll never accept being a passing moment in my baby’s life.”
Some emotion flickered in his eyes—something beyond hate or lust or cold calculation. Something that gave her a thin thread of hope. She grabbed onto to it and held tight.
She trusted that André would never be so cruel as to rip her baby from her arms, from her heart. But if she was wrong…
André ran a hand over his hair, slicking the wet strands back off his tanned brow, his features unreadable as he motioned to the cave entrance. “It’s time we returned to Petit St. Marc.”
“How?”
She doubted she had the strength to paddle the kayak back to the island, even if she could find it. Most likely the small craft was lost to the sea.
“With luck, my Jet Ski rode out the squall.”
“And if it didn’t?” she asked.
He lifted one broad shoulder in a negligent shrug and left the cave. She took a deep breath, stretching her hands forward and then tightening her fingers into fists. Once. Twice.
But it did no good. Her hands still trembled, her stomach still pitched, and her heart still ached with old worries and new. For if she couldn’t reach his heart, she’d have to escape the island before her baby was born. She’d have to disappear. Start over. Hide the rest of her life. For a man like André would never let her best him.
Kira quit the cave and stepped onto the rain-soaked black sand beach. As she’d expected, there was no sign of the kayak.
Its burial at sea was fitting, since a pirate had seized control of her hotel. Her life. Her future.
Out with the old.
In with the new.
Her gaze flitted to André, knee-deep in the frothy surf, inspecting a long, sleek Jet Ski. His hair glistened blue-black in the now blinding sun, the thick mass waving in artful precision over the strong column of his neck.
He’d 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
