and nothing else. Make yourself at home.
Doing just that, she sent a quick missive to her solicitor, demanding to know who’d forged her signature for the sale of her stock.
Time inched by as she waited on pins and needles for his reply. Alert, wary, and plagued with new guilt.
Her hands fisted. My God, how deeply André had woven her into his web if she felt guilty for contacting her solicitor about the takeover of the Chateau.
A soft tone issued from the computer as the “new mail” icon flashed on, seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness. She frowned as she read the reply from her solicitor.
He’d been forthright with her from the beginning, a loyal employee of Edouard’s. She’d trusted him without question.
But his cryptic reply worried her. Instead of answering her questions, he asked what game she was playing now?
She’d never played any game—that had been her father’s forte. Not hers. She’d been taken to Petit St. Marc against her will. She’d been robbed of her shares!
A ding below stairs alerted her that the lift had come up. She typed a quick response to her solicitor, telling him to explain in detail what he meant. She reiterated again that she was the injured party here. She’d never authorized the sale of her stock. Never. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.
She’d find a way to read his reply later. And if she couldn’t…?
Kira logged off just as the tap of shoes on tile echoed up from below. André had returned sooner than she’d expected.
She ran into the bedroom, then hesitated, knowing if she rushed down the steps that she’d either look guilty or eager to see him. She latched on to the latter, but when she got to the top of the stairs she froze.
It wasn’t André at all, but a woman. Her uniform was clearly that of a domestic. She set a box held tight with a crimson bow on the table and turned to leave, then stopped and looked up at Kira, as if sensing her there watching.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the woman said, and smiled. “A gift for you. Monsieur apologizes for being detained.”
“André sent me a gift?”
“Oui.” The maid walked back toward the lift.
Curiosity carried Kira down the stairs. The maid was gone before she reached the salon. She read the note attached to the box.
Instead of returning to Petit St. Marc this evening they would enjoy a dinner at the celebrated La del’ Impératrice Chambre.
The fact her casual clothes were unsuitable for the elite restaurant barely registered. All she could think of was spending the night in that massive bed with André, loving him.
Heat spread across her middle, fanning out in delicious shivers. They’d enjoy dinner out, like a real date, then spend the night here.
Kira’s hands shook as she tore open the box and swept ivory tissue aside. Her gaze lit on a silky blue fabric that caught the light and shimmered like sunrays skipping over the Caribbean waters.
She held it up, as excited as a child at Christmas. It was indecent. Seductive. Daring. She’d never worn anything like this—had never even tried on risqué clothes.
But André had chosen this for her. The reason was clear.
She was his mistress. He wanted to show her off—boast to other men that she was his possession, his kept woman. She was his conquest over Peter Bellamy.
Her excitement dimmed as that fact stole away the glow she’d been basking in. It would end soon, for she couldn’t go on avoiding the inevitable much longer.
Kira dropped her gaze to the designer gown clutched in her hands. She couldn’t wear it and keep her self-respect. But she couldn’t resist trying it on either. Just once.
She was about to retreat upstairs when a scrap of color in the box caught her eye. No, he hadn’t—
But he had.
She picked up the flesh-hued scrap of silk that was panties. They felt like heaven in her hand but were surely devilish in design, for the cloth was transparent.
She might as well be wearing none at all! No doubt André had thought the same when he’d bought them.
The square box that accompanied the larger one had to be shoes. Curious to see what he’d chosen, she slipped the ribbon free and flung off the lid.
Her hand trembled as she lifted one beautiful mermaid sandal from the box. Shoes were her passion. Her weakness. And these sexy stilettoes called to her.
What would it hurt to try the entire outfit on, as he’d intended her to do? Nothing. André wouldn’t return for hours. Nobody would know. Nobody but her.
Flushed and excited at the prospect of being that audacious—even in private!—she rushed upstairs to don the daring dress. The second it slid over her body she felt wicked and sensual. And horribly self-conscious.
The design was pure seduction. Thin strips of fabric covered her breasts and tied behind the neck, leaving her back bare nearly to the swell of her buttocks.
The silk caressed her with each step, each breath, the glide over her nipples teasing them erect, the whisper of cloth over her hips and thighs keeping her senses tuned to a high pitch.
Just like André’s hands and mouth would do.
She swallowed hard, near panting with desire. She’d never felt this sexually attractive in her life. Never been so aware of herself as a woman.
Kira allowed herself one last look in the mirror, scarce believing that temptress was her. But her bare feet ruined the effect. Damn, she’d left the sandals downstairs.
She glanced at the clock, sure she had time to try on the shoes. She hurried down the stairs and did just that. The fit was perfect, like a fairy tale.
Another ding rang through the apartment. She froze, her gaze locked on the lift door. Her stomach quivered; her pulse hammered. She knew André had arrived even before the door whispered open and he stepped from the lift.
She had no idea where he’d acquired the elegantly cut black tuxedo, or where he’d shaved, but he looked like a page torn from a designer magazine. He looked like the fantasy in every erotic dream she’d ever had. The essence of savoir-faire.
It was one of the few French phrases that had stuck with her. Oddly appropriate as André possessed social grace and aplomb. And a sensuality that seduced her across the room, robbing her of all thoughts save one—making love with him.
He strode into the salon and stopped, freezing in place like a mannequin, with a hand poised to smooth back his dark hair. His gaze locked on hers, hot and hungry.
Her stomach flip-flopped, tightening. Her thighs clenched. Her breasts felt full, the sensation of her nipples peaking against the silk almost too much to bear.
Her heart quivered, overflowing with love. Love?
