One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West

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      “Out of the question.” He had to protect his child from the Bellamys, and the only way he could do that was by keeping her here, where he could watch her, or at least have her watched. “Your only job for the next six months is pampering yourself and my baby.”

      “I don’t need to be pampered,” she said, her eyes too wide. Too bright. “I’ll fight you every day that you keep me on the island against my will.”

      He smiled grimly, for there’d be no winner in this battle. “I expect no less from a Bellamy.”

      Kira gripped the table, barely able to breathe through her choking anguish. The headache that had plagued her all day pounded relentlessly, each drubbing in her veins taunting her challenge to André.

      He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t so much as blinked. Just watched her with a lethal intensity that sucked the moisture from her mouth. She licked her lips, but they burned, the skin too dry.

      Her throat felt parched. She reached for her glass, but her hand shook so badly she tipped it over.

      “Leave it,” he said, when she attempted to mop up the mess she’d made.

      She ran her tongue over her lips again—so very thirsty, so very tired. The carafe of water was so far from her. The room spun. Her world careened out of control.

      Kira had to get out of here—away from him and his heated glare. She couldn’t fight him now. Not with her strength depleted, with her heart breaking in two.

      She took a shaky breath, steadied herself, and stared at the intricately carved newel posts, hoping if she focused on the staircase the dizziness would be tolerable.

      “Where are you going?” he asked, grabbing her arm to stop her from walking past him.

      “Let me go.”

      His grip eased a fraction. “Answer me.”

      She closed her eyes, disgusted her body ached to lean into him. “To my room.”

      “You haven’t eaten.”

      She glared at him. “I lost my appetite.”

      His seductive lips flattened in a disagreeable line. “You need to eat. I’ll send Otillie up with a tray.”

      “Don’t bother. I won’t be able to keep anything down tonight.”

      He dropped his hand, only to punish her more by placing both hands on her shoulders. “You need food. The baby—”

      “How dare you think of my child’s welfare now?” She shoved away from him and headed toward the stairs, each step a challenge.

      Odd twinges ribboned across her belly. Her back ached so badly she thought it would break in two.

      She reached the stairs and grabbed the newel post, clinging to it for balance and drawing air into her lungs. But each breath only fanned the flames that felt like they were burning out of control within her heart, her soul.

      “My child. Mon enfant, ma chérie. Don’t forget that.”

      As if she could. She looked back at him, thinking he was still the most handsome man she’d ever met. And dangerous, leaning a hip against the table, a replenished champagne flute held casually in one elegant hand.

      “Go to hell, André.” She started up the stairs, each step slow, unsteady, her head throbbing, her vision blurring.

      “I am already there,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant.

      They both were, she thought.

      She made it to the third step when cramps sliced through her, far worse than the last time.

      The doctor’s admonition blared in her mind. Avoid the sun. Drink two liters of water a day.

      She hadn’t done either. But she would drink her fill as soon as she reached her room. As soon as she was away from André and his dark accusations.

      Her next step sent pain knifing across her middle, so sharp and piercing it took her breath away. She gasped and bent double, gripping the railing for dear life and cradling her belly with the other. But her world continued to spin away.

      “André!”

      She heard glass shatter. Then he was beside her, gathering her in his arms, his face ashen beneath his tan. But it was the stricken look in his eyes that terrified her, for it confirmed her worst fear.

      “Our baby,” she got out, as black pinpricks danced before her eyes to block out the light.

      She fell into the blackness, into his arms. Her last tormenting thought was that she was losing the baby.

      André paced the hospital corridor. The last hour had passed in a hellish nightmare, from the time Kira had collapsed in his arms until they’d arrived on Martinique. He’d never felt so helpless, so afraid for anyone in his life. He’d never been gripped with such crushing guilt—even after his parents’ deaths.

      For all his tough exterior and his vows to keep his heart removed from a woman, André wept silent tears in the velvety night, holding her close to his heart, his chest so tight he could barely breathe.

      Seeing Kira so helpless had stripped him of all pretense, all thought but moving heaven and earth to save her and his baby’s life. But as they’d raced across a moonlit sea fear had clung to him like the dense sea mist.

      She’d been too pale, too cold. She hadn’t roused, hadn’t done anything but lie in his arms like a rag doll.

      He hadn’t prayed in ages, but he had then, and he continued to now, in the hospital. Prayed and paced. He relived every tension-riddled moment between him and Kira that had led up to her collapse. He held himself to blame.

      Mon Dieu, he should have recognized something was wrong with her at dinner. But he’d been too intent on castigating her for being a Bellamy, for trying to ruin him, staunchly clinging to his pride, his vengeance.

      He’d attacked her with the same energy and ruthless bent as he would a corporate adversary. Perhaps worse, because his emotions were tangled in knots when it came to Kira.

      For once in his life he couldn’t separate his business and personal life. She was too much a part of both. He’d removed her from her job and placed her into the role of his mistress.

      But she didn’t fit that image well because she was carrying his child.

      A child whose life he’d endangered. A child who might die.

      Sacre bleu! If anything happened to either of them he’d never forgive himself. Never!

      The accusations he’d hurled at her played over and over in his mind. She denied authoring those emails. Still denied she’d conferred with Peter Bellamy.

      Yet the small fortune he’d paid for her shares had gone straight to Peter. He’d been sure she’d contact her half-brother when she was offered the chance on St. СКАЧАТЬ