to deny these.”
She stared at the heading, recognizing her corporate email address. Above it was an address she was unfamiliar with.
She skimmed the first note and paled. Then read another. And another.
This couldn’t be…
But it was.
This was the electronic proof he’d told her about. The evidence that she and Peter Bellamy had conspired to launch a smear campaign against André. Sickening details of every calculated move, right down to her agreeing to come here on the pretext of a meeting when her intent was to seduce André while Peter alerted the paparazzi.
Except she hadn’t carried on this dialogue with Peter. She hadn’t set out to seduce André and humiliate him publicly, so the large corporation he’d been trying to solidify a deal with would pull out because he lacked family values. And she certainly hadn’t tried to become pregnant.
She hadn’t been aware of Peter’s calculating plans until now. Hadn’t written one word of this correspondence. But it had been sent from her email address, using her electronic signature. How could she prove she’d had no part in this? She couldn’t.
Still, she lifted her chin and said simply, “I didn’t write any of these.”
ANDRÉ had expected her denial. But when the lie spilled from her sweet mouth the cynical curl to his lips eased a fraction. His blood slowed, his chest growing warm, his heart hesitating. For he almost believed her. Almost.
His weakness for her disgusted him.
Kira stood up and took a step toward him, stopped, her throat working, her face as white and delicate as the lace tablecloth. Her gaze lifted to his, her expression open, vulnerable.
He fisted his hands at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach for her, pull her close. Kiss her. Caress her. Sweep the servings from the table and take her here. Now.
Tell her all would be fine. Tell her that he forgave her.
That he loved her.
He’d vowed never to say those words. He’d thought it a simple promise to keep, for he believed himself incapable of such a crippling, all-consuming emotion.
“Someone else wrote these emails,” she said.
He laughed, thinking that for someone possessing such guile she was quite naïve. “Using your email server? Your electronic signature?”
“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
