of them as parents. How did one tell a chance lover that he’d soon be a father—a chance lover she’d parted with on hostile terms?
The nausea that had been her constant companion the past few weeks threatened to return. She concentrated on the doctor’s instructions instead of dwelling on ringing up André again to relay her news.
One dragon at a time. That was the only way she’d come out of this debacle intact. She’d left a message for him to contact her. And if he didn’t. If he chose to ignore her…
The door opened behind Kira, and she quickly pushed her worries about André to the back of her mind to confront the tardy masseuse. “I trust you have a good excuse for leaving me here waiting for so long?”
Silence answered her.
Kira frowned at the floor, willing away the dark premonition that crept into the room like a cold London fog roiling off the Thames. But her trepidation only grew, because she knew someone stood in the doorway, watching her.
Someone, she sensed, who shouldn’t be here.
She stilled, her breath catching in her throat as a wedge of light arrowed across the plush carpet and darted beneath the table to inch up the wall.
A chill born of anxiety hopscotched up her spine, and she shivered despite the luxurious blanket draped over her bare body. “Who’s there?”
“Bonjour, ma chérie,” he said, his deep, rough-edged voice causing her heart to race so fast her head spun.
André Gauthier! Instead of returning her call, he’d come to her. Her first impulse was to scramble off the table and launch herself into his arms, just to assure herself this wasn’t a dream. Just to touch him, kiss him.
“I suggest we wait to talk until later, when I’m presentable,” she said, in an effort to gain control of her rioting emotions.
“I didn’t come here to chat.”
A pair of obscenely expensive men’s loafers stepped into the view afforded her through the face cradle, the hem of his charcoal trousers breaking perfectly on his vamps.
He splayed a hand on the small of her back, the heat of his palm sensuously electric, branding her, reminding her that the last time he’d touched her thusly she’d been awash with passion. Not that she needed a reminder.
But where she’d sensed his ardor before, she perceived his antagonism now. All directed at her.
His anger didn’t bode well for what she must tell him.
“Then why are you here?” The tremor in her voice conveyed her trepidation and confusion.
“To claim what is mine.”
She dug her fingernails into the armrest, likely scoring the butter-soft leather. Of course. He was here to haggle with her over the Chateau again.
Kira had expected this quarrel. Yet in her imaginings she’d been dressed and in control of her emotions, at the board meeting scheduled two weeks from now, not naked and quivering with apprehension and need. Surely she didn’t wish to feel sexually receptive to him? But his presence commanded all her senses.
He glided a hand up her spine, sliding the blanket over her sensitized skin slowly, and the desire churning to life within her silenced the protests in her head. She gritted her teeth, fighting the feelings erupting in her: annoyance, desire, need.
It was a losing battle.
From the very first time they’d met she’d been in tune to his every breath, to the way he filled a room with his intensity. To the way his unique scent of spice tempered with the tang of the sea called to her, stripping her inhibitions bare.
His long fingers danced over her bared back in a silken caress, flooding her with unbidden memories of the intoxicating kisses that she’d craved, of masterful hands that had brought her to the pinnacle of pleasure and beyond, and lovemaking that had been more intense, more consuming than anything she’d experienced in her life.
That firm, yet gentle caress muddled her thinking. Her body reacted to him with shocking welcome, her breasts growing heavy, the sensitive nipples peaking.
She bit back a sigh of pleasure, her emotions roiling in utter turmoil. A heavy ache of want converged at the apex of her thighs, spreading upward, making her quake with desire. Damn him!
One caress had reduced her to a quivering wanton, sweeping her away on a wave of raw need. She detested his power over her. Hated the magnetism that drew her to the powerful throb of his touch.
Kira forced her voice to remain steady when her emotions were anything but. “This isn’t the place to discuss business.”
“I disagree.”
The crackle of paper echoed in the tense stillness. A pristine white sheet was thrust beneath the face cradle.
She huffed out an annoyed breath, expecting another decadently outlandish offer for the Chateau. Her gaze skimmed the header, and her stomach plummeted as her world tipped on its axis.
No! This couldn’t be! She read each damning word, her racing heart nearly stopping as the meaning sank into her soul. How could she have believed her future was safe from his power, from his dominance?
“What trickery is this?” she asked.
“No tricks, ma chérie. I own majority shares in Chateau Mystique.”
Impossible! Edouard’s shares were to pass into her hands after his will was read in two weeks. He’d promised she’d have majority control of the hotel then.
Yet the document proved Edouard’s shares had fallen into this arrogant billionaire’s hands. She doubted its validity, even though her solicitor’s signature was there, a signature she’d seen countless times. This couldn’t have happened, yet it had.
She felt betrayed. Used. Abandoned all over again.
André controlled her hotel. Her home. And he’d control her if she let him.
His hand glided over her shoulders in a mock caress, the fingers playing her skin like a fine instrument. Only the dirge sang her doom. She trembled, her mind reeling, more furious than she’d ever been in her life.
He laughed, no doubt gloating over his conquest and her reaction to him, and her humiliation was absolute. “Get up.”
Kira sprang up so fast the room spun. She clasped the blanket around her heaving chest and shook her head to toss her heavy hair away from her face, too gripped with shock and anger to feel satisfaction when his eyes flared with sensual awareness, with masculine appreciation.
At least they were alone. She’d read that whenever André left his island compound his trusted guard accompanied him. The brute was undoubtedly in the hall, making sure nobody interrupted his decadently wealthy employer.
Her gaze climbed André’s tall, muscular form, clad in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that shimmered in the artificial light. French, of course, the cut emphasizing his long powerful legs, lean hips and broad shoulders.
His
