One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West

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      Her conspiracy left him no choice—his only thought rested with the child. His child. When the baby was born, when tests had confirmed the child was his, he’d take sole custody.

      Kira was a Bellamy. Not his lover, not the mother of his child, but his enemy’s daughter. She was his enemy as well.

      He swiped a shaky hand over his mouth, shoving compassion and his passion for her from his mind. She’d baited him—now she’d pay the price.

      She’d give birth on Petit St. Marc and he’d see she had the best care money could provide. But she’d never know his child. Never!

      He’d employ every resource available to him as he waged this war against her. When he was done with her she’d regret that she’d agreed to deceive him.

      At midday, Kira went in search of André. He’d barely spoken to her on their early-morning return to Petit St. Marc, and she’d been too exhausted from their night of lovemaking to take offense. Back on the island, he’d insisted she take a nap.

      She hadn’t argued. But her rest had been fitful.

      Keeping her secret was twisting her stomach into knots. She had to tell him now.

      He was going out the door just as she descended the stairs. She quickened her steps. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

      His spine stiffened, his shoulders snapping back as he stopped abruptly in the doorway. He glanced at her, and his fierce expression burned holes in her courage.

      “Is it urgent?”

      She thought it was vital, but, considering his mood right now, she shook her head. She’d taken the coward’s way out this long. A few more hours wouldn’t make any difference.

      “No,” she said, forcing a smile. “It can wait.”

      “I will see you this evening, then.”

      And he was gone, without any explanation of where he was taking himself off to. Not that his business was hers. Even the Chateau was his now.

      Kira aimlessly strolled through the house, her mind too cluttered with worry to do anything else. She ended up at the door to André’s office, surprised Otillie hadn’t intercepted her yet. But the house was quiet, as if she was the only one there.

      She slipped inside with thoughts of scanning his bookshelf. But the glow on his desk changed her mind. He’d not only left his computer here, but it was on.

      In moments she’d accessed her mail. Her solicitor’s reply slammed into her so hard she dropped on the chair.

      She couldn’t believe he suggested she should hire investigators to look into her claim. He insisted he’d seen the document, with her signature, authorizing the sale of her shares of the Chateau, but that he’d couldn’t divulge where the money had gone.

      In short, because she’d divested herself of the shares, company counsel no longer represented her.

      She logged off and returned to her room, so sick at heart she could have retched. Edouard had told her Peter resented her. Told her not to contact him because he would not be receptive to her.

      Had her half-brother set out to destroy her the moment their father had drawn his last breath? How could she prove it?

      She was so deep into piecing together the irregular sections of this ugly puzzle that she didn’t realize Otillie had entered her room until she spoke.

      “You have not been drinking water, mademoiselle,” Otillie said.

      Kira glanced at her full pitcher of water and frowned. Her throat did suddenly seem parched. Her head ached from her efforts to make sense of this debacle she’d been thrust into, and she was growing more miserable.

      “I forgot,” she said, accepting a glass of water and drinking deeply.

      “Monsieur Gauthier will not be pleased,” the woman said.

      That was the least of her worries, considering what she had to tell him when he returned. She sat her empty glass on the table, her spirits low, her worries shooting into the impossibly blue sky. That was when she noticed the large box on her bed.

      She motioned to it. “What’s that?”

      “A gift for you from Monsieur Gauthier,” Otillie said.

      Her lips parted and her heart began racing. Two gifts in as many days? That was an extravagance she’d never experienced before.

      Was this another indulgence for his kept woman? Or an apology for his earlier abruptness? Don’t be a fool and look for a deeper meaning, she chided herself.

      She read the attached note—Dinner at seven. Wear this.

      No endearments. No explanations. Still she smiled as she stared at the strokes of his signature, as strong and demanding as the man.

      She tore into the package, unable to stay her excitement.

      The gift was a sarong, the fabric pure Carib. The soft greens, golds and browns seemed to be plucked straight from the heart of Petit St. Marc.

      Kira glanced at the clock. She had less than an hour to get ready. Less than an hour before she divulged the secret that might signal an end to her idyll with André.

      Forty minutes later, reality dimmed her enthusiasm. But the sarong was simply gorgeous and sexy, and she absolutely loved it.

      A narrow bandeau barely covered her breasts, which were fuller, more sensitive, and flushed a telling shade of pink. Her neck and shoulders were bare, covered only by her hair, which she’d let cascade in thick curls down her back.

      Three sharp raps sounded at her door. Her gaze fixed on the louvered panels, noting the tall shadow at her door.

      André. He’d come for her.

      She tamped down the nervous laugh that threatened to bubble up in her. This was a wretched time to be struck by a case of anxiety.

      Taking deep breaths did nothing to calm her. Her hands shook as she smoothed her palms down her skirt, her stomach heaved—muscles clutching. Her legs trembled, as if ready to give way.

      She forced herself to walk slowly toward the door, even managed to affect a welcoming smile as she opened the louvers.

      The sight of him robbed her of breath. He was dressed entirely in black. The silky shirt lay open at his neck, exposing whirls of thick black hair.

      The long sleeves were ruched up, yet full, lending him a rogue’s look. The trousers lay flat over his washboard belly and hugged the long muscular lines of his legs.

      Casual elegance, she thought.

      His face was a study in art itself, the brow strong, the nose straight and not too thin.

      His cheekbones were high, the jaw was firm and dusted with a rakish five o’clock shadow, making him look more daring. More resolute. More sexy. Her pirate.

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