“I hate you.”

“I would expect no less from you.” His eyes blazed with dark emotion as his head lowered to hers.

Kira knew he intended to kiss her, and she knew it wouldn’t be gentle. She knew she should push him away—at the very least turn her head. And she knew she would do neither. For she wanted him to kiss her with a desperation that shocked her.

His mouth closed over hers with a hunger that devoured what remained of her will. She shuddered violently and held herself impassive for a heartbeat, knowing capitulation would signal her doom. Then the kiss changed, softened, and a different type of tremor swept through her, stripping her of fear and reason.

She splayed her free hand over his heart, marveling at the strong, rapid beat so in tandem with her own, kissing him in kind. He tasted of exotic spices and seduction, and she suddenly craved both so much she knew she’d die of want if he denied her.

For as long as Janette Kenny can remember, plots and characters have taken up residence in her head. Her parents, both voracious readers, read her the classics when she was a child. That gave birth to a deep love for literature, and allowed her to travel to exotic locales— those found between the covers of books.

Janette’s artist mother encouraged her yen to write. As an adolescent she began creating cartoons, featuring her dad as the hero, with plots that focused on the misadventures on their family farm, and she stuffed them in the nightly newspaper for him to find. To her frustration, her sketches paled in comparison to her captions.

Her first real writing began with fan fiction, taking favourite TV shows and writing the episodes and endings she loved—happily ever after, of course. In her junior year of high school she told her literature teacher she intended to write for a living one day. His advice? Pursue the dream, but don’t quit the day job.

Though she dabbled with articles, she didn’t fully embrace her dream to write novels until years later, when she was a busy cosmetologist making a name for herself in her own salon. That was when she decided to write the type of stories she’d been reading—romances.

Once the writing bug bit, the incurable passion consumed her to create stories and people them. Still, it was seven more years and that many novels before she saw her first historical romance published. Now that she’s also writing contemporary romances for Mills & Boon®, she finally knows that a full-time career in writing is closer to reality.

Janette shares her home and free time with a Chow- Shepherd mix pup she rescued from the pound, who aspires to be a lap-dog. She invites you to visit her website at www.jankenny.com. She loves to hear from readers—email her at janette@jankenny.com

Dear Reader

Ever since I was a young child, I have travelled the world through the pages of novels. Many were the classics that have stood the test of time, but the majority were modern romances—both category and single title lengths.

One of my early favourites of genre fiction was sea adventures. The fascination with swashbuckling pirates has stuck in my head for years. Though I’ve read many historical romances with pirate heroes, I toyed with the idea of a modern one with generational ties to the Caribbean—one who bested the enemy by kidnapping the heroine, and eventually lost his heart to her.

That spark gave birth to my debut romance for Harlequin Mills & Boon®, where a corporate pirate sweeps down on a heroine caught between loyalty and desire and spirits her away to his island hideaway for revenge. Ah, but true love always finds a way to bring out the best in anyone—even a ruthless pirate! I hope you enjoy André’s and Kira’s adventure to love as much as I enjoyed writing it!

I love hearing from readers, so feel free to drop me a line at janette@jankenny.com, or visit my home on the web at www.jankenny.com

From my heart to yours

Janette Kenny

PIRATE TYCOON, FORBIDDEN BABY

BY

JANETTE KENNY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

KIRA MONTGOMERY pressed her forehead against the massage table’s padded face cradle and shifted again to loosen the tension knotting her shoulders and neck. Impossible.

Her masseuse had “stepped out for a moment.” The term obviously meant something different to her than it did to Kira. Leaving a client waiting fifteen minutes was unsuitable.

Chateau Mystique couldn’t afford more bad press. The tragic deaths and ensuing scandals associated with the five-star hotel on the Las Vegas strip had hurt business. Hurt her in ways she’d never imagined.

To make her life more of a jumble, her doctor had confirmed the one thing she’d never anticipated. She was pregnant.

Her insides quivered and she took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Ever since she’d heeded her solicitor’s advice and traveled to the Caribbean island of Petit St. Marc for a closed meeting with André Gauthier, her life had tumbled into a chaotic nightmare. The devastatingly handsome billionaire had denied ever knowing of their meeting, and had refused to divulge how he’d gained stock in her hotel. Though she’d been frustrated and angry, she’d been captivated by the sheer power of his persona and his rapier-quick ability to debate an issue.

He’d mentally stimulated her and physically aroused her more than any man she’d ever met. But she wouldn’t be swayed by his staggering offer to buy out her shares. He owned minority stock, and that was all he’d ever have.

The Chateau was her home. Her dream. Her legacy. There’d been no reason to tarry on the island any longer.

No reason except desire. She hadn’t been able to deny the passion blazing between them and the raw hunger he stirred in her. And why should she?

She was an adult. Surely she could engage in a brief affair and walk away?

But thirteen weeks later she hadn’t been able to forget their stolen night of passion. Or the scandal that had erupted the following morning to rip them apart. Or André Gauthier, the father of her child, the man who’d recently made headlines with his ruthless attempt to break Bellamy Enterprises.

Would the shareholders force Peter Bellamy to sell his father’s empire? Would they decide to defy André and set the stage for a hostile takeover?

Perhaps they’d agree to a merger. Yes, a nice peaceful working arrangement, like the one she’d thought to forge with André before she learned of his perfidy.

How naïve she’d been. Where she’d only worried about dealing with André over the Chateau, she now fretted over the merger 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 snow-white shirt was a startling contrast against his darkly tanned skin, and his silvery tie complemented his platinum watchband that had probably cost more than what she earned in a year. His thick black hair was combed off his brow, his clothing meticulous, his bearing indomitable.

Her heart did a traitorous flutter as she remembered how much she’d savored having his powerful body molded to hers, those elegant hands bringing her to pleasure again and again. Drowning in the passion in his eyes as they’d made love.

It had been this way from the start. Less than two hours after she’d met him they’d had sex: hot, wild, urgent. There had been no love involved, only an overpowering attraction and an intense demanding need.

She’d never behaved so recklessly in her life. Never thought of the consequences of falling into André’s bed.

Tell him the result of the affair, her mind screamed. Get it out in the open now.

Hands trembling, she dug her cold fingers into the blanket and met his eyes, such an intense dark brown they gleamed black. A dizzying rush of emotions slammed into her, staggering her with their strength. No, now wasn’t the time.

“Get dressed,” he said.

Kira turned her back to him and slipped a blue silk sundress over her flushed body, hating the way her hands shook and how her body pulsed and quivered with awareness of him. Though the garment she donned was modest, she felt exposed under his knowing stare. Vulnerable.

“I assume you expect to buy my shares now?” she said.

“Oui.”

“They aren’t for sale.”

“You haven’t heard my offer.”

“I don’t need to.” She faced him, head high, her insides tangled in a riot of emotions. My God, he was an extraordinarily gorgeous man—tall, bronzed, strong, like a god come to life. And he was just as arrogant, just as domineering.

“I’m not selling,” she said.

One dark eyebrow lifted, as if challenging her statement. “Everyone has a price.”

“I don’t.”

“We shall see.” André nodded to the door. “After you.”

“I’ll say my goodbye to you here, and see you at the board meeting in two weeks.”

His smile was glacial. “You’re coming with me, ma chérie.”

Her skin pebbled as a cloying sensation settled over her. “In your dreams,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.

A muscle pulsed madly in his cheek. “I’ll carry you if I must, but we are returning to Petit St. Marc.”

The island? Her heart stuttered, then began racing. “Why?”

“To trump your lover, ma chérie.”

Had he gone mad? “Then you are wasting your time, because I don’t have a lover.”

“I know you’ve been doing Peter Bellamy’s bidding from the start. Now it stops.”

“Peter?” A hysterical laugh bubbled from her. “I assure you that I’m not his lover.”

“Spare me your lies. I know the truth.”

No, he couldn’t be more wrong. But she realized that if he didn’t believe her in this, he’d never believe he was the father of her child.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. Leave now or I’ll—”

He snapped his fingers and she jumped, slamming her back against the wall. “That’s all it would take to have this hotel razed. Your shares would be worthless. Is that what you want?”

This was blackmail. Kidnapping at the very least! But to balk would bring about the destruction of her hotel.

“No,” she said, knowing he wasn’t bluffing. “But I can’t leave the Chateau without making arrangements.”

“You can and you will.” His long fingers curled around her bare arm and he guided her out the door, his touch surprisingly gentle.

Yet she felt the underlying steel and rage in him and knew fighting was futile. And she was so weary already.

André was a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted. He’d proved that when he’d seduced her on Petit St. Marc. Proved it again when he’d swum in from the Caribbean like a great white shark and gobbled up control of the Chateau.

Yet she’d glimpsed another side of him on the island—a tenderness that had called to her heart, and a vulnerability she hadn’t understood.

Yes, for now she’d return to the island with him. Perhaps there she’d find the right time to tell him about their child. Perhaps there she’d be able to reason with him about the Chateau—convince him she’d been robbed of her birthright. Perhaps in time they’d be able to start over.

André Gauthier stared at the deceptive woman walking down the corridor before him, her rounded hips rocking in an invitation that any red-blooded man would accept. No wonder Bellamy had given her forty-nine percent of Chateau Mystique.

Kira Montgomery was sex personified. She had certainly beguiled him with the oldest trick in the book.

He’d prided himself on his cool control under duress, nurtured it until it was second nature. It had never let him down—until Kira had invaded his island three months ago.

André hadn’t been surprised when Bellamy had sent a female employee to Petit St. Marc to charm him after his last offer to buy the Chateau had been turned down. The excuse that she’d come for a prearranged meeting had been a lie.

The old man had banked on Kira’s charms and André’s moment of grief to alter his ultimate goal. Or so André had believed.

It had worked. For that one night. Kira had pleaded her case with passion, and André had found himself caught up in the most stimulating debate of his life.

He hadn’t realized the extend of her deceit until much later. The elder Bellamy hadn’t sent her—his son had. Peter. His most fierce rival. Peter—the man he now suspected had set in motion events that had brought about the accident that had killed Edouard’s mistress and landed Edouard in a hospital.

Kira was not only Peter’s mistress, she was his accomplice as well. Oui, she was the brains of the maneuver that had ultimately eliminated the old man—that had earned her control of Chateau Mystique.

But her treachery had robbed André of something far more valuable than property. She’d had a hand in destroying the last of his family.

Kira had deceived him in the worst possible way.

She deserved no less in return.

Retribution coursed through his blood like a molten river.

Peter Bellamy would chaff, knowing that André held Kira on Petit St. Marc. She in turn wouldn’t be able to contact her accomplice—her lover.

She’d be at his mercy when he launched the final takeover of Bellamy Enterprises.

His revenge wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d bested Bellamy’s conniving son at his own game—until he’d made Kira regret that she’d set out to destroy him.

André joined her in the lift and they rode up in silence to the fifth floor. He wondered if she’d entertained Peter Bellamy there while the old man had dominated his mistress in the penthouse.

The dark thought stayed with him as he followed Kira to a fifth-floor door. She slid a card key in the slot and stepped into a small but cozy suite. He noted the room bore quaint personal touches, typical of an English parlor, and carried her light floral fragrance. It seemed too benign. Too cozy.

“Pack light,” he said, annoyed by the thought of her entertaining Peter Bellamy here.

Her shoulders stiffened—proof the order had grated. Good. He wanted to keep her off balance, keep her wondering what he planned to do to her.

“Do you plan to keep me locked in a room?” she asked.

“If I must.”

The color leached from her face, only to return in a rosy flush that hinted of righteous anger. He ground his teeth, annoyed she could project such a quality.

“This is wrong of you to force me to leave here,” she said.

How dared she accuse him of wrongdoing? “You should have thought of that before you agreed to do Bellamy’s bidding.”

She stared at him, her expression guarded. “As I’ve said all along, I was told you’d agreed to meet me on your island to discuss the Chateau.”

“Save your lies,” he said. “I have proof of your part in his scheme.”

Her lovely mouth fell open, as if she was shocked by his claim. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re referring to.”

His smile was as tight as the tension bouncing off the jade brocade walls. “It amazes me that people shred the paper trail but forget the electronic one.”

“There is none,” she said.

“Don’t be too sure.”

“But I am certain.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

She flushed, but instead of continuing her defense she looked away from him. Guilt? It must be.

André smiled. He’d caught her. Her game was over, and his was just beginning.

“Enough wasting time,” he said, eager to leave this place that pulsed with bad memories.

She moved into her bedroom like someone walking to the guillotine. Soundlessly she rolled a case from the closet. The damned thing was half as tall as she.

When he realized her intent, he took it from her and hefted it onto the bed. “Take only the essentials.”

“I’ll pack what I wish to,” she said, her amber eyes too bright with moisture.

Her tears had no effect on him. He’d learned long ago from his mother and sister that women cried over everything and nothing just to get their way. He certainly wouldn’t allow Bellamy’s mistress to beguile him again.

His mobile phone chirped and he immediately answered it. The tone signaled it came from his guard. “What?”

“Peter Bellamy just arrived.”

André cut a sharp glance to Kira, who seemed preoccupied packing her bag. She’d not been out of his sight, so either Bellamy was making a surprise visit to the Chateau to see his lover, or someone on Kira’s staff had phoned him.

“Watch him.” André slipped his mobile in his pocket. “How much longer are you going to dawdle over what to take?”

“I only need a few more things, and my files.” She moved to a desk and secured a laptop. “Everything is here so I can keep abreast of the hotel.”

“You cannot mean to continue working?”

“I’m not one to sit around and while away my time.” She flicked him a defiant glare and slipped the laptop in a carryon. “And I don’t require your permission.”

“Do not be too sure of that.”

André had the satisfaction of watching her face drain of color before his mobile chirped again. He answered it curtly.

“Paparazzi just arrived,” his guard said. “They’re swarming around Peter Bellamy.”

Damn. The last thing André wanted to do was engage in another public confrontation with Kira and the media at the start of his takeover.

He met her questioning gaze. “We need to leave without the gossipmongers seeing us. Unless you prefer a repeat of our last encounter?”

She flushed crimson and shook her head. He feared she’d balk—that she’d court the media’s attention again. “The service entrance is our best choice.”

He repeated that to his guard. “Meet us in five minutes.”

“But I’m not ready yet,” she said.

He swore and checked his watch. “You have three minutes. Then we leave, no matter your state of dress.” He gaze slid over her body, openly appreciating her curves. “Or undress.”

She stiffened, as if ready to argue.

He fed on his annoyance and tapped a finger on his watch. “You’re down to two minutes and forty-five seconds.”

Mumbling an oath, she grabbed lacy undergarments from a drawer and ran to the walk-in closet. He made to follow.

“Don’t you dare come closer,” she said, making him wonder if she could read minds.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He strode to her suitcase, zipped it shut and heaved it from the bed.

With five seconds to spare, she stepped from the dressing room wearing a floral skirt that hugged her firm bottom and thighs and stopped above her knees to accentuate the curve of her calves and dainty ankles. A fashionable summer sweater in a clear turquoise molded the full bosom he knew filled his hands. She stepped into sling heels that were sexy as hell, and tossed a smaller bag into her carryon.

She zipped it shut with impatient finality. Her small hand closed around the reinforced handles, her intent clear.

“I’ll take that.” André slung the strap over his shoulder.

She grabbed her purse and slipped a mobile inside it. He took the bag from her and removed the phone, setting it high on a shelf. “So you managed to ring Peter after all?”

“I left a message for my solicitor.”

“I trust you bade him au revoir, for we leave now, Kira.” André held the door for her.

She glanced once at the shelf, then swept past him, her head high. He smiled and followed. She moved with a staccato click of heels and a beguiling sway of her hips down the corridor to the lifts.

Oui, enjoying her luscious body would assuage his rage.

She stepped inside the lift and he joined her, wrestling the baggage behind them and forcing her closer to him.

The doors started to shut. The ones on the car directly across from theirs opened in perfect synchronization.

In that split second, when each had a full view of the opposite lift, André locked gazes with Peter Bellamy. His rival fixed a black scowl on him, then looked sharply to André’s side, where Kira stood.

Bellamy stared, then his mouth dropped open as he realized his lover, his deceitful accomplice, was at his enemy’s side. His furious gaze snapped back to André.

André smiled, draped an arm around Kira’s slender shoulder, and gave his arch rival a smart salute.

CHAPTER TWO

KIRA wondered if this day would ever end as she exchanged André’s private jet for the limousine waiting for them at Aimé Césaire International Airport. And what had her solicitor made of the harried message she’d left him?

She had no way of knowing. At least the flight from Las Vegas to Martinique had gone smoothly, but nearly fourteen hours of travel had exhausted her.

André’s stony silence had drained the last of her energy. She’d hoped to talk with him rationally on the flight, but he’d closed himself off from her. Now she was in no mood to engage in heartfelt conversation with him.

Her summer-weight sweater smothered her, and the skirt she’d thought would be refined and comfortable hung like a limp rag. The island humidity, vastly different from the dry Nevada air, urged her heavy hair into the natural curl that she’d struggled to straighten all of her life. She was sure the make-up she’d applied before André dragged her from the Chateau was gone.

But she had the satisfaction of not being the only one wearied by the trip. Though André’s perfectly tailored suit retained the crisp lines that complemented the brooding intensity of his dark eyes and matched his arrogance, dark stubble delineated his arrogantly handsome face.

That rogue’s shadow emphasized the grim set of his mouth and gave him a dangerously sexy look. She caught herself remembering how those firm lips had felt moving against hers, tearing down her defenses and arresting her fears. How his hands and mouth and powerful body had brought her to her first shattering climax, and then continued to do so more times than she could recall, until she’d been deliciously sated and more happy than she’d ever been.

That had been the calm before the storm. What she couldn’t fathom was what tempest now brewed in André, as the limo raced past fields of sugar cane toward Fort-de-France.

Three months ago, on his island, they’d both expressed that they never wished to see the other again in the heat of anger. Yet she’d rung him, and he’d come for her. Or had he planned to come to the Chateau anyway, to steal her away?

She suspected that was the case, as he hadn’t even asked why she’d contacted him. And with his anger heating the very air she breathed, it was better she hold her secret a bit longer.

Too weary to make sense of this nightmare, she stretched her legs to ease the dull ache in her back. Like the other drivers racing down the boulevard in a hurry to get to their homes, she was anxious to get settled for the day.

This extended close proximity to André wreaked havoc on her senses. Every subtle shift of his powerful body, every heated glance, each casual touch, muddled her mind more and more.

A dozen times she’d nearly blurted out that she was pregnant with his child. Let him deal with that! But his brooding silence had stopped her.

He barely resembled the teasing rogue she’d met on Petit St. Marc. The man who’d baited and lured her into rousing debate, who’d flirted shamelessly with her. Who’d made love to her with unbridled passion and made her feel wanted, if only for a moment.

He’d withdrawn from her like a wounded animal. She debated scooting closer and taking him into her arms. Intuition told her he wouldn’t welcome her gesture of comfort and empathy.

Kira bit her lower lip, exhausted and pensive. She’d never been this undone by a man, and her lack of control over her emotions mortified her. But then, she’d never been plunked into the middle of a dark drama without a script either.

She shifted on her seat as traffic slowed and the sleek white limo crawled past La Savane. Palms towered over the public gardens, lush with greenery and a profusion of flowers. How sad she’d not had time to visit the gardens when she was here before. She certainly wouldn’t ask André for a tour now.

As they neared the harbor, quaint shops and houses were stacked against the hills like colorful children’s blocks in bright crayon colors. A reggae beat from the market area danced in the air, yet the silence in the limo throbbed to the weary cadence of her heart.

“How much longer?” she asked, glancing at the harbor, where the docked sailboats resembled a denuded forest.

André gave a terse shrug, drawing her attention from the impressive breadth of his shoulders to the fatigue lines etched under his eyes. His was an intense gaze that seemed to look right through her. “An hour and a half at the most.”

No rest or respite anytime soon, then. She took small consolation in the fact he looked as weary as she felt.

Not for the first time she suspected he’d left near midnight to arrive in Las Vegas early this morning. Perhaps, like she, he’d had a sleepless night.

But where he’d likely dwelled on blackmailing her to leave the Chateau, her mind had spun with the miracle of motherhood. For the first time in her life she’d no longer be alone.

Kira rested a hand on her stomach and smiled. Last night she hadn’t been concerned about the hours ticking by while she lay in bed in wonder, awed by the precious baby growing in her.

She’d tried to envision how her life was about to change—had debated how she should let André know. She’d naïvely believed impending fatherhood might mellow him, that what they’d shared once could grow into something meaningful.

Love? Yes, the possibility of that blooming between them had played over in her mind as well, teasing her with how good her future with him could be.

For the first time in ages she’d taken a peek at the schoolgirl imaginings she’d painted in the dark of night back in the days of her youth, when she’d dreamed her prince would ride in on a white horse and whisk her away to his castle, where they’d live happily ever after. When she’d fall in love forever, and not just for a stolen moment.

Not once had she thought André would sail back into her life this morning like a bloodthirsty pirate, with pillaging and revenge burning in his soul. That he’d accuse her of joining forces with Peter to ruin him. If he only knew the truth.

No, if only he’d believe the truth!

She shut her eyes against cold, hard reality. Instead of a white horse bearing her to a castle, a white limo raced her toward an uncertain future. Instead of her prince gazing at her with loving eyes, André barely spared her a glance.

What would he do when she told him she carried his child? Accept his responsibility with resigned indifference, as her father had done? Surely he wasn’t that cold, that callous?

“What’s wrong?” André asked, his warm breath fanning her face. “Are you ill?”

I’m pregnant. She looked up at him, prepared to tell him, but his eyes were as dark and turbulent as a winter storm. She was simply too weary to brave the gale now.

“I was just—” Caught in a fairytale. But they never come true. Never. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long journey.”

He stared at her for a tense moment, his expression shifting to the hard, indifferent mask she’d come to hate. “You can rest on the boat.”

Kira laughed to herself as he moved to his side of the limo again, though the space between them afforded her no comfort. The express ferry she’d taken to and from the island before had provided seating, but no place where she could put her feet up.

Right now her ankles felt hot and swollen. Strange, since she’d refrained from satisfying her thirst so she wouldn’t spend the whole flight in the tiny restroom.

She stared at the glistening expanse of Flamands Bay, where a cruise ship dwarfed the catamarans and yachts that bobbed lazily in a turquoise sea. A welcoming breeze sent the palm fronds swaying, and gentled the tide to a mesmerizing ripple touched with gold. But she feared she couldn’t tolerate much more travel without succumbing to motion sickness.

That certainly wasn’t the way she wished to alert André of her condition. In fact, she was totally lost on how to broach the subject in light of today’s shocking events and his aggressive mood.

André exited the limo the second it stopped, as if anxious to get away from her. Fine. She welcomed the reprieve. But it was short-lived again. Instead of the driver helping her out, the handsome billionaire, unyielding and resolute, opened her door.

He extended an exquisitely manicured hand to her. She stared at it, at the fingers long and graceful, the tanned skin smooth and dusted with black hair.

Memories of those hands skimming over her naked flesh and bringing her to pleasure time and again tormented her. There was nothing of her body he hadn’t touched. Including her heart?

“I won’t bite,” he said, the arrogant tilt to his mouth hinting the opposite.

Not that she needed to be reminded. “You did before.”

She saw her own burning need flickering in his eyes and gasped. A flush stole over her, and she chided herself for reminding him of their night together.

“I wasn’t the only one with teeth, ma chérie.” He took her hand, and the electricity that zinged from him staggered her.

Kira wanted to jerk away, but couldn’t. She wanted to lean into him, but didn’t dare.

The warmth of his skin and his steely power made her feel safe when she was anything but. How pathetic she must be.

Only a fool would fantasize about the man who’d accused her of bringing the paparazzi to his island. Who’d somehow acquired majority shares in her hotel. Who’d forced her to return to his island, where she’d experienced blazing passion. Where they’d created a child.

Kira forced her feet to move, grateful the setting sun had taken the heat out of the day. Yet a more dangerous warmth replaced it as she kept pace with André toward the waterfront, his hand firmly grasping hers, his narrowed gaze seeming to look beyond the people around them.

A few native workers near the boatyard glanced their way as they passed, speaking in a rich patois accented with French. She could only make out a word or two—greetings, mostly, interspersed with his name. Obviously the billionaire was known here, but no one attempted to engage him in talk.

Several express taxis were moored at the ferry terminal, their gangplanks crowded with a blend of tourists, transplanted islanders and native Caribs. The thought of joining that mass of humanity made her break her out in a nervous sweat.

At the dock, André guided her away from the larger craft. All she saw were small speedboats, bobbing wildly in the water. Her stomach lifted, then slammed down again as she scanned the jetty for a larger vessel.

None were moored along its length. None!

“Please tell me you don’t expect me to ride in one of those little boats?” she asked.

“Oui, a dinghy. It is the fastest way.”

She held back—not easy, considering his strength and the way her knees knocked. “No, I can’t.”

He stared down at her, his lean features resolute, his dark eyes intense. “You’ve no choice.”

She swallowed her panic and closed her eyes, struggling to calm the riotous beat of her heart. “Small boats terrify me.”

“You’ve nothing to fear.”

Was he joking? No, the taut line of his jaw shadowed with stubble told her he was dead serious.

Panic clawed at her throat. As a child, she’d nearly died in a boating accident on Lake Mead. That memory and its devas tating aftermath still haunted her.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, get in a small boat.

Kira jerked free, but before she could bolt up the pier he swept her into his arms. She squirmed, then went still as death as he stepped down into the rocking boat.

She flung her arms around his neck and clung like a sandbur, her heart beating so hard she knew he must feel it too. Each gasp for air drew the spicy scent of him deeper into her lungs, further muddling her senses.

A laugh rumbled from him, at odds with the ferocious temperament he’d shown thus far. “Relax, ma chérie. See that cruiser anchored in the bay?”

She reluctantly lifted her face from the shelter of his warm neck. A sleek white cabin cruiser gleamed like a pearl against the caramel-tinged sunset. But it was so far away.

“You’ll be perfectly safe on the Sans Doute.”

Her mouth formed a soundless “oh.”

André set her on her feet, his own braced wide as the boat rose and fell with the tide. He rattled off instructions in French to the boy manning the motor.

The engine powered up. André sat on the bench and pulled her down beside him. Her stomach pitched and her skin turned clammy, despite the refreshing seaspray.

She trembled with bone-deep fear. Her hand gripped the single handhold so tightly her fingers went numb.

He stared at her, his brows slammed together. “Mon Dieu, you are afraid.”

She gave a jerky nod.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, one hand making soothing circles on her arm. “Relax.”

If only she could. The dinghy raced away, the hull rising as they picked up speed. Her insides quivered and snapped like the nautical flags on nearby boats. She buried her face against his chest, her mind trapped in a nightmare.

“Look at me. Mon Dieu, look at me!”

She met his penetrating gaze, knowing hers was wide with fright, but uncaring what he thought of her. “I hate you.”

“I would expect no less from you.” His eyes blazed with dark emotion as his head lowered to hers.

Kira knew he intended to kiss her, and she knew it wouldn’t be gentle. She knew she should push him away—at the very least turn her head. And she knew she would do neither. For she wanted him to kiss her with a desperation that shocked her.

His mouth closed over hers with a hunger that devoured what remained of her will. She shuddered violently and held herself impassive for a heartbeat, knowing capitulation would signal her doom. Then the kiss changed, softened, and a different type of tremor swept through her, stripping her of reason.

She splayed her free hand over his heart, marveling at the strong rapid beat so in tandem with her own, kissing him in kind. He tasted of exotic spices and seduction, and she suddenly craved both so much she knew she’d die of want if he denied her.

As the boat cut across the waves, the rhythmic duel of their tongues and the ravenous glide of lips on skin consumed her with memories. She was lost. Adrift at sea with her corporate pirate. Enslaved to the sensations she’d only known with him.

His long strong fingers played an erotic melody on her back that made her heart sing and her body hum with need. Like a rosebud caressed by the sun, she blossomed in his arms, kissing him back with all the hunger she’d denied for so long.

He’d done nothing to earn her trust, yet she felt safe in his arms. Wanted. So she simply gave up rational thought and relished this moment.

Too soon he pulled away, when she would’ve begged him to touch her breasts, her sex.

“We’ve reached the Sans Doute, ma chérie, and you are safe.”

It was a lie. As long as she surrendered to his slightest touch she was in mortal danger of losing her heart and soul to this enigmatic man.

André prided himself on his rigid control in the boardroom and the bedroom, yet kissing Kira had been a mistake. He’d done it to take her mind off her crippling fear. But he’d come close to losing control of the situation.

She wasn’t an innocent, yet he’d felt hesitation ripple through her, felt her lips tremble against his, felt her fear of the sea. Then that whispered moan of surrender had sung through his blood and instinct had taken over.

She was an enchantress. A sea witch. Now she was his.

He helped her climb onto the aft deck of the Sans Doute, mindful of her shaky posture and her frantic hold on his hand, the nails digging in so deep they’d leave a mark. He was gripped with the sudden urge to hold her, protect her, make love to her until her fears dissipated.

Mon Dieu, he hated this raging desire that threatened to burn out of control for her. Hated the role she’d played in Bellamy’s life. Hated that he admired her pluck, that she hadn’t resorted to tears, threats or seduction once.

He escorted Kira up the circular stairs and propelled her through the main salon, dressed in the richest golden sateen and deepest burgundy velour, then up to the observation salon. His hand rested at the beguiling curve of her back—in part because he enjoyed touching her, and also because he knew it bothered her. He wanted her hot and bothered.

The bullet lights in the ceiling shot platinum and bronze streaks through her wealth of mahogany hair that his fingers itched to sift through. But she would not welcome his touch now. She was as flighty as a hummingbird, the pulse-point in her throat warbling to a frantic beat.

Still he ached to draw her close, to press his mouth over that spot, feel the beat of her heart match time with his. She’d not fight him. No, she’d melt in his arms—if only to take her mind off her fear.

That was reason enough to bide his time. It was imperative she crave his touch. That he earn her trust.

It shouldn’t be difficult to do, considering she’d been groomed to pleasure a man. Oui, before he was through she’d beg him to bed her.

It was inevitable—a fact Bellamy must be aware of. So why hadn’t his enemy contacted him yet?

“Make yourself comfortable.” He strode across the lounge to the bar. “Would you care for a drink before we get underway?”

“Water, please.”

He slipped behind the granite-topped bar and slid her a look. She’d taken a seat on the circular sofa, her legs curled beneath her and an overstuffed pillow hugged to her stomach. Her complexion was paler than before.

A spark of alarm hit him again. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just thirsty.” She flicked him an uncertain glance. “It’s been too long since I drank any water.” She shook her head as if dismissing the matter.

Another ploy to gather sympathy? To heap guilt on him for dragging her to the island against her will?

Of course. She’d only had to ask at any time and he would have made sure she was refreshed, that she was comfortable. He wasn’t an ogre, determined to make her suffer physically.

He poured sparkling water into a glass, added a twist of lime and took it to her. Annoyance burned his soul as he handed her the glass.

She took it, a telling gasp escaping her as their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” André said, which was far from the truth.

He stalked back to the bar and prepared a simple rum daiquiri with the barest squeeze of lime. Thoughts of Kira making love with Bellamy sped through his mind and left a white froth of rage in its wake.

Instead of savoring the heavy, rich swirl of rum, André tasted bitter revenge coating his tongue. Spending half a day with her had sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge.

Kira portrayed the ingénue when she was anything but innocent. Oui, he knew her for what she truly was, for he’d tasted her passion. One sip demanded more.

Every nuance of her was branded on his mind. The occasional tremor that rocked her, leaving her shaken. The pensive look he glimpsed in her eyes when she thought nobody was watching. Those odd moments when she rested a hand on her stomach and the most beauteous expression came over her.

It was as if she was sharing a secret with someone.

Well, he had secrets of his own. Dark, disturbing ones that robbed him of sleep.

“Do you have reliable internet on the island?” she asked.

“Oui. I have a private satellite connection in my office.” She would have limited access, at his discretion, and monitored. He prowled the carpeted salon and sipped his drink, her question spiking his suspicion. “Thinking of begging Peter to rescue you from the situation you’ve both created? Or do you need his instructions on how best to spy on me?”

Color streaked across her high cheekbones and her amber eyes snapped, her anger and defiance charging the air. “I intend to run my hotel from my prison.”

“You mean my hotel.”

“You are the majority stockholder now, but the Chateau will always be mine.”

His fingers tightened on his glass. She couldn’t be more wrong, but he’d let her hold her confidence for now. He took no pleasure in beating someone who was so near the edge.

The dark smudges beneath her eyes attested that she was close to exhaustion. Yet her narrow shoulders remained squared and her chin high, as if she was refusing to accept that she stood on thin ice regarding the Chateau—regarding him.

Her quiet strength intrigued him. He’d expected her to use her delectable body to court his favor, to deceive him more. But though she’d responded instantly to his touch, his kiss, she hadn’t attempted to take the initiative with him. Yet.

He tossed back his daiquiri as his anger burned anew. What was her game?

It didn’t matter. He’d have his revenge in the end. He had proof Peter had sent her to Petit St. Marc to seduce him, and alerted the paparazzi, and he now held documents proving her part in the deadly plot she and Peter had instigated.

The latter was enough to make him despise her. He hated that she’d acquired the Chateau with her deceit. Hated that she was Bellamy’s mistress. Hated that her solemn amber eyes had the power to make him question his plans.

He set his glass on the bar with a thunk and strode to her, his annoyance sparking like lightning when she lifted her chin and stared up at him, wide-eyed but unflinching. She was driving him mad, for he’d never wanted to intimidate a woman until now.

In one fluid movement he rested a knee on the cushions before her curled legs, braced one hand on the sofa’s arm and the other on its back. “I own Chateau Mystique and I own you. Never doubt you are both in my control.”

Her full lips thinned. “That is barbarous.”

“Perhaps you were unaware the blood of pirates courses through my veins?” He yanked away the pillow shielding her and splayed his fingers on her stomach, his thumb resting on her mons and his fingers grazing the swell of her breasts.

She gasped, eyes huge and dark, with awakening desire. The pulse in the ivory column of her neck throbbed to a savage tempo that mirrored his own erratic heartbeat.

Oui. She didn’t fear him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. In this they were equal. But not for long.

André affected a rapacious grin. “What? You have nothing to say?”

A tremor vibrated through her into him as she shoved his hand from her, but her eyes were still smoky with passion. “Nothing that you’d believe.”

“Save your professions of innocence.” He lurched from her and stared at her expressive eyes that challenged him. “Relax, ma chérie. I have no intention of ravishing you. At least not yet.”

She looked away, satisfying him that she understood his dismissal as well as his promise. The inevitability.

“Not ever,” she said, the words whispered, yet fierce.

The challenge hung between them—a cold, invisible wall that he longed to tear down.

André stalked across the salon and bounded up the stairs to the sundeck, knowing he was a hair’s breadth from toppling Kira back on the sumptuous sofa and showing her just how much she hungered for his touch. How easily she’d capitulate.

Now wasn’t the time. They were spent from the journey. In thirty minutes they’d land at Petit St. Marc. That wasn’t nearly enough time to enjoy her charms, and he fully intended to savor every inch of Kira at his leisure, for bedding her would enrage Peter Bellamy. Never mind that it would satisfy the savage beast within him as well.

For a moment he paused at the starboard side and simply soaked in the breathtaking view of the silvery disk of the sun as it slipped into the rippling mocha waters.

The horizon gleamed like buttered rum. Golden glimmers tinged with red skipped over the waves as if they were ablaze, glimmers of light that matched the highlights in Kira’s long luxurious hair.

Kira. Why did she bring out such poetic yearnings in him?

Out here was nothing but the sea, mistress to many of his ancestors. Mistress to him in many ways.

He shook his head at his own fanciful musings and took the stairs to the fly bridge. A stocky old sailor, wearing cutoff jeans and a tattered T-shirt, manned the helm.

“How’s she sail, Captain?”

The old salt flashed him a cunning grin. “I’d ask the same of you if I thought you’d tell me who that tempting gal is that you stowed on board.”

André scowled. “It’s a long story.”

The Captain chuckled. “Most interesting ones are.”

He shrugged. Though their friendship spanned a decade, he was loath to explain his association with Kira.

“Just keep it steady,” André said. “The lady isn’t accustomed to the sea.”

“Aye, aye, boss.”

André gave the horizon one last look, then hit the stairs. Annoyance bobbed within him like a storm-tossed buoy. Thanks to the scandal, every moment away from his desk cost him a fortune.

He hadn’t intended to make any changes at the Chateau as yet, for he wanted Kira to squirm, to wonder what he planned to do, to get comfortable in her role as his lover. Then he’d swoop in and exert his will over the hotel—and her.

Oui, he’d not soften toward Kira. He would not make the same mistakes his father had made. No woman would rule him.

André slammed into the master stateroom and dropped onto a tufted leather chair at his desk, even though he ached to pace the confines like a caged tiger scenting fresh meat. He grabbed the phone and put in a call to his private detective. The man answered on the second ring.

“Is Bellamy still at the Chateau?” André asked, dispensing with pleasantries.

“No. He left an hour after you did.”

“Back to Florida?”

“To California, to inaugurate a new hotel,” he said. “Do you want me to continue surveillance?”

“Oui. I want to know every damned thing he does. Who he talks to, who he does business with.”

“You got it,” the detective said.

André ended the connection and rocked back in his chair, his mind sifting through this startling news. Why was Bellamy carrying on as if nothing had happened instead of rushing back to his compound in Florida? It didn’t make sense, for Bellamy had seen André leave with Kira. The deception was over.

Had she simply been Bellamy’s pawn, used to publicly humiliate André? Used as needed and then discarded? Paid off with shares in the Chateau? It was a possibility he’d considered.

His fight with Edouard had been personal, rife with emotions André deemed crippling. Simple revenge. He was David going up against Goliath.

His feud with Peter was strictly business. One corporate raider battling another. But over the last six months Bellamy had turned vicious. Personal attacks on André that the media fed on.

Where Edouard had regarded him as a pest, Peter Bellamy set out to destroy him. And Kira had sided with the enemy to bring about his ruin.

Yet he desired her.

Mon Dieu! Sleep deprivation was warping his mind. He rubbed his gritty eyes and winced. His body screamed for rest, yet he couldn’t afford it yet.

André threw the pen on his desk and stormed from his stateroom. In moments he’d reached the main salon. His gaze sought and found the object of his scorn.

She lay curled on the sofa, napping, her hair spilling over a pillow in a waterfall of mahogany curls. He wasn’t sure how she managed to look innocent and provocative at the same time. Nor could he understand why he wanted her, knowing she was a calculating liar.

But his pulse quickened all the same. He longed to run his fingers through her hair as he covered her body with his. Would she welcome his caresses? Melt in his embrace? Sigh as he thrust inside her?

He undid the knot in his tie and gave it a savage jerk. The silver-gray silk whistled free in the quiet. He’d know soon.

CHAPTER THREE

KIRA stirred, awakened by the crushed-velvet voice of her dreams. She understood very little French, but her body recognized the sultry promise his tone evoked.

She frowned, annoyed. It was always this way—André’s voice rousing her from sleep as if to taunt her about the passion they’d shared once. Passion she’d never had with another man. Passion she missed with a soul-deep ache that never left her.

As always, she was helpless to stop the desire radiating in her belly, spreading low and leaving her hot and throbbing and so restless she couldn’t lie still. She thrashed and arched in mute supplication for his touch, his kiss.

His hand glided under her skirt and up her inner thigh, his fingers splaying over her skin, so close to where she wept for his touch. Sensations exploded in her in dizzying colors and she moaned as she was drawn into the kaleidoscope of desire.

A soft laugh shattered the dream. She froze, knowing before her eyes popped open that the intimate touch was as real as the man. André loomed over her, his eyes dark and his features unreadable, his fingers inches from the juncture of her thighs.

Her heart careened crazily, for in that second she wanted him to touch her there like he had before. Wanted him to see her as a woman with dreams and hopes, not just as a sexual partner. The knowledge that wouldn’t likely happen snapped her from her sensual haze.

She slammed her hands against his shoulders. Mistake. Electricity arced into her as his muscles bunched and quivered. Her hands shifted over his chest, and she marveled at the power pulsing beneath her palms that she ached to explore.

“Stop it,” she said, as much to herself as to him, shoving against him to scoot away, only to have the sofa’s marble-topped divider table stop her. “What do you think you are doing?”

His lips pulled into a predatory smile that made her shiver with sexual awareness. “That should be obvious.”

She shook her head, shocked he’d taken advantage of her while she was sleeping, stunned that she’d nearly begged him to take her. Hard. Fast. Deep.

“I’m not making that mistake again.”

Something akin to pain flashed in his eyes, a lightning strike of emotion she couldn’t read. “Yet you desire me, oui?”

“No.”

“I know when a woman is faking and when she is gripped by passion.”

One bold hot finger slipped beneath the lace trim of her silky panties and traced the sensitive crease of her leg. She couldn’t stop the tremor that bolted through her, leaving her quivering with need.

She drew on every ounce of courage she possessed to defy his potent masculinity and preserve what remained of her dignity. “You’re wrong. I don’t want you.”

André slid his finger from her, depriving her of his touch, giving her false security. He flashed a beautifully masculine smile and skimmed that same finger over the desire-dampened crotch of her panties.

Her body jerked of its own volition. She bit her lip to stifle a moan of raw pleasure, and her face flamed with embarrassment and anger for he’d proven his point.

She was putty in his hands. Helpless to resist him.

“I knew you were ready before I touched you,” he said.

“André, don’t,” she said, curling her fingers into fists so she couldn’t clutch him and draw him to her.

“Why? We have nothing to lose.”

“You’re wrong.” She was already in danger of losing her heart to him—which made no sense, considering how he’d taken over her hotel and was dragging her to his island lair.

“Is that a challenge?” His hand slid down her calf and lower, sending hot quivers of sensation spiraling up her leg.

“No.” She’d be a fool to square off against André when her defenses were so low, when she was so weary she could barely think straight.

He didn’t play fair, and she did. Even now, with her emotions stretched thin, she became lost in his touch. Her breath hitched and her heart raced, and she willed his hand to glide back up her leg, to—

His palm cupped her foot, the fingers curling beneath the arch to skim the ball of her foot. A burning pain shot up her leg and her pleasure popped like a child’s balloon.

“Don’t! That hurts.” An exaggeration. The skin burned hot all over.

He examined her foot, his frown darkening. His finger lightly traced the strap indentations cutting across her skin and she set her teeth against the fiery pinpricks that danced across her skin.

He spat out a torrent of French that she was sure were curses, yet his touch remained gentle. “You are a fool to sacrifice comfort for fashion. How long have your feet been like this?”

“They began hurting as we walked from the car to the dock.”

“You should have told me.”

She glared at him and tried pulling her foot free of his hold. “You were not exactly in a friendly mood.”

He moved faster than lightning, pressing her deeper into the sumptuous cushions, blanketing her with his powerful body. His arms bracketed beside her head kept some of his weight off her, but not his groin. She felt the steely length of his sex against her belly and bit back a moan, afraid he’d ravish her, and equally afraid she’d not find the will to stop him.

“Discovering I had been tricked by my fiercest rival’s mistress puts me in a bad mood,” he said, his mouth tantalizingly close to hers, his eyes dark and mercurial.

“I’m not Peter’s mistress,” she said, willing him to believe her this time.

His features changed, hardening more than she’d thought was possible. “Why do you persist in lying?”

“Why won’t you believe me?”

He snorted. “Because I know what you are.”

Hot color stained her cheeks, her anger mounting. “No, you only think you do.”

“Then tell me. How did you gain control of the Chateau?”

The truth was poised on her tongue, burning to be released. There was no reason to keep the promise she’d made Edouard. No reason except to weigh the danger in confiding in André. For if he hated her now, he’d despise her when he knew the rest.

“Having trouble sorting out your lies?” he asked.

No, the truth. “Nothing of the sort.”

Kira looked away from the anger flashing in André’s eyes. She was tired of working long hours to earn her rightful place at the Chateau, only to have a stranger step in and take it all away from her. Tired of living on the fringe of Edouard Bellamy’s life so his family would be spared the stigma of knowing that he’d sired and provided for his bastard. Tired of receiving only crumbs of Edouard’s affection. Tired of fighting this same argument with André.

“I’m simply an employee who invested wisely in Bellamy Enterprises,” she said at last, repeating the excuse Edouard had devised.

“Did you receive a bonus when you came to my island and seduced me?”

“Of course not. I came to talk with you,” she said.

“So you said. Yet you found your way into my bed.”

“It was a mutual seduction.”

“Oui, but I wasn’t the one who invited the world to witness our affair the next morning.”

Kira shook her head, having nothing to say in her defense. He wouldn’t believe her anyway. She wouldn’t rail at him, because he volleyed her barbs back with the ease of a tennis pro—only his shots drew blood.

“Neither did I.”

“Perhaps you didn’t issue the order,” he said. “But you were aware that was Peter’s intent before you came.”

“If I had known, I assure you I’d never have come,” she said, furious that he doubted her at every turn. “And, for the last time, my solicitor had assured me that you’d requested a meeting between us.”

“Bravo, Miss Montgomery, for sticking with your story. Perhaps later you can entertain me with the story of how a new employee managed to buy a forty-nine percent holding in a multimillion-dollar Las Vegas hotel.”

Before she could think how or if she should respond to that, a shrill whistle echoed in the salon.

He surged to his feet, his features rigid with anger. “We’ve arrived at Petit St. Marc.”

Kira intended to do little more than rest for the remainder of this day, and maybe the next as well. She’d deal with André and the baby that tied them together later.

She watched him shrug into his suit jacket and give the lapels a tug. Except for the shadow of a beard lending him a roguish look, he looked no worse for wear.

Kira was sure she looked as weary as she felt. She swung her legs off the sofa and tugged down the skirt he’d rucked to her thighs. Her checks burned hot with mortification.

In London she’d spent her days working in a hotel and her evenings devoted to night classes. Edouard Bellamy had paid for her hospitality degree, but he’d insisted that was all the education she needed. She was, as her father had reminded her often, only suited to be a hospitality manager. But she’d had higher aspirations.

She needed a business degree to run a hotel. Her hotel!

Kira picked up her sling heels, hooked her purse over her shoulder and started across the main salon. The carpet felt good underfoot, but the onyx floors were sheer heaven, cooling her feverish feet like nothing else had.

No matter what else she did when she settled into a cottage, she intended to soak her abused feet. She descended the steps with care and moved across the carpeted deck to the railing. Her first look at the island took her breath away.

The lush rainforest on Petit St. Marc covered the humped dome of an extinct volcano. The knot of trees was so lush and dense that the forest appeared black at its heart—much like André’s must surely be.

Palm trees close to the water swayed in the gentle southeasterly breeze that was refreshing her heated skin as it skipped over the expanse of sea, carrying with it the tang of salt and the intoxicating sweet scent of exotic flowers.

She tensed as his shadow fell over her, but as the island came into sharp focus her temper mellowed. “It’s breathtaking.”

“Oui,” he said.

She looked away from the men mooring the yacht with quiet efficiency to André. Instead of staring at the island he frowned at her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d seen beauty here. As if he couldn’t believe she was here again.

Not by choice. And not for long, if she had anything to say about it.

“Come. The hour grows late.” He motioned toward the short gangplank being secured to the aft deck.

Kira moved down it with care, and stepped onto the weathered boards of the dock. Heat burned the soles of her feet. She hissed in a breath and took a cautious step.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No. I just need to put on my shoes.”

She gripped the railing and tried to don her slings. Impossible. Her feet were too swollen to fit under the straps.

Strong arms swept her off her feet.

She grabbed André’s shoulders and felt a frisson of heat shoot through her. “You don’t have to carry me.”

“There is much I don’t have to do, ma chérie.” He carried her with effortless grace down the length of the dock.

Kira wanted to upbraid him for his Neanderthal ways, but she couldn’t bring herself to knock his kindness. The closeness to him was to her detriment, though, for resting against the stalwart wall of his chest not only teased her with erotic memories, but incited the desire to create new ones.

Dangerous thoughts. Hopefully when she was in her own quarters she’d be able to control this bizarre attraction to André. She wasn’t fool enough to believe she could remain indifferent to him.

André deposited her in the front seat of a canopied utility cart, his hands lingering on her bare skin for a charged fraction before deserting her. She tugged her skirt over her knees, annoyed that her body still throbbed with desire.

The utility cart dipped slightly as he eased his big frame behind the wheel, power and sensuality radiating off him in waves that rivaled the golden-tinged ones rolling toward the shore. He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle and sprinkled with black hair. The breeze flattened his fine shirt against the hard planes of his chest and upper arms.

He was all power and dominance, a king in his kingdom. But it was that sultry gleam in his eyes as they undressed her that took her breath away. For just one look had her forgetting about the tenuous position she was in.

Disgusted at her weakness for him, she turned her head to watch a young Carib jostle her luggage onto the rear deck of the cart. Unlike his decadently rich employer’s, his smile was kind and respectful.

Kira returned the gesture. Though the Caribs treated her like a guest, she suspected none of them would help her escape.

What unnerved her was that her captivity was two-fold. For the child growing within her bound her tighter to André than any lock or key.

The vehicle jolted forward, the electric hum of its engine fading as the peaceful sigh of the island took dominance. “Do you ever grow weary of it here?”

“Only during hurricane season.”

He maneuvered the utility cart up a winding path paved with crushed seashells, the fat tires crunching them into a finer roadbed. The smooth surface was a welcome surprise.

Kira scanned the area anew. The first time she’d come here she’d been too incensed to appreciate the resort. And now? Her gaze took in the red-tiled roofs of the cottages almost hidden in the forest, and moved down to the secluded white beach below.

She caught a glimpse of a couple strolling hand in hand, naked as the day they were born. “You have a nude beach here?”

“Four natural beaches, all private, and all reserved before-hand by the guests.” A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Tops are optional on the public beach. We are very European here.”

“I’m too British to appreciate it.”

“You’ll learn to enjoy it.”

Never. Unlike her mother, she didn’t flaunt her body.

Kira closed her eyes to the beauty around her as the ugliness of her past tried to intrude. No, she wasn’t like her mother at all. She slid a hand over her belly. The past was just that—past. This baby was her future.

The utility vehicle whirred past another lane leading to another cottage and sped up an incline beneath a canopy of trees alive with birds. Through the light flickering through the foliage Kira caught a glimpse of the big house, nestled into the hillside.

She gripped the handrail and swallowed the panic building in her chest. He couldn’t mean to move her into his dwelling.

But as the vehicle emerged from the trees into an area cleared behind the old plantation house, she was certain that was his intention. Living on his island would be taxing enough. But to stay in his home and endure his temper? Impossible.

“I’d prefer my own quarters.” Away from him and temptation.

“The cottages are for paying guests.” He stepped from the cart and pocketed the key.

“Fine. I’ll pay,” she said, craning her neck to see where he’d gone. “I won’t live with you.”

“You don’t have a choice, ma chérie.”

She whipped around to find him at her side. One arm rested on the top of the canopy and the other gripped the support pole.

At first glance his was a casual pose. But one look at his white knuckles, at the corded muscles in his arms and the grim set of his mouth, dispelled that thought.

“I won’t be your mistress,” she said.

“I didn’t offer you the position.”

It was true. He hadn’t said a word about her being his lover. She should feel relieved, not disappointed. What was wrong with her?

His enigmatic gaze held hers another long moment before he straightened and extended a hand to her. “It has been a taxing journey. Come. I’ll help you inside.”

“I can manage myself.” Kira swung her legs out and stood.

Her sensitive feet settled onto the crushed shells and her breath hitched, but she was determined to walk into his house under her own power.

“Mon Dieu!” André stepped forward and swept her up in his arms again. “Are you always this stubborn?”

She planted her hands on his shoulders to force a minute distance between their bodies. “Are you always this domineering?”

“Only with you.”

Kira didn’t believe that for a moment as he strode up the walk, his shoes crunching the walkway. She resisted the urge to rest her head against his shoulder, refused to relax against the comforting wall of his chest.

He climbed the two steps to the front terrace with ease. The temperature was refreshingly cooler beneath the roofed porch. His housekeeper stood at the open door, the white ruffle on her peasant blouse and the hem of her orange floral skirt fluttering in the breeze that filtered through the house.

A smile wreathed her face. “Bonjour, Monsieur Gauthier.”

“Bon après-midi, Otillie.” André shouldered through the door with Kira in his arms, speaking rapidly in the island patois which sailed right over Kira’s head.

Otillie volleyed back with what sounded like affronted questions, and stepped in front of André, bringing him up short.

After a few choice words from him, Otillie tossed her hands in the air and quit the living room, muttering under her breath.

“What was that about?” Kira asked.

“Otillie is annoyed with me for not telling her I was bringing a guest home.”

“You should have let me rent a cottage.”

“I should have kicked you off my island when you first came here to play out your vengeance.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked, refusing to be baited into the same argument about her reasons for coming here.

“Because you intrigued me.”

That feeling had been mutual. She’d never met a man like André. Never felt such a strong connection to another man. It had been more than sex to her, yet she suspected that was where their similarities ended.

He climbed the steps with apparent ease and continued down a hall swathed in shadows. Her blood heated and her heart quickened, for she knew there were only bedrooms on this level.

And she knew exactly which room was his.

Tingles of awareness streaked through her, sending her heart into a crazy rhythm. Was that where he was taking her? Would she be a prisoner in his bed?

Surely not? Even André couldn’t be that barbarous. Yet he’d taken her from the Chateau and brought her here. She was on his island. In his house. At his mercy.

Mercy? She gave in to a shiver. He had none.

He was a ruthless corporate pirate and a master of seduction. She might not be a match for him in business, but she’d proved she was his carnal equal. In that they were well suited.

That admission terrified her more than anything, for she was fatally attracted to him—like a moth to a flame. She’d been burned once by tumbling into his bed. The next time the flames of desire would consume her—if his quest for vengeance didn’t destroy her first.

He passed the door to his chamber without pause—the room where they’d made love, the room where the world had intruded on their ideal, the room she’d fled in anger and shame.

She shook off those memories as he shouldered open a louvered door midway down the hall, and pushed into a cool, dark room. A gorgeous canopied bed dominated the space, its mosquito netting rippling in the refreshing breeze that filtered through the room.

André headed straight toward the bed, his features so hard and unyielding they looked carved from stone. Yet he laid her on the bed gently, his touch lingering a telling moment.

Instead of pouncing on her, as she’d half expected he’d do, he stood back and stared at her with cold derision. She sensed he waged a war within himself, and a part of her commiserated, for she was fighting her own private battle to remain unmoved by him. It had been so good between them that one glorious night.

Though her heart pounded louder than the drums that had greeted them on their arrival, she sat up and faced him. And waited for him to break the tense silence.

“I’m a private man,” he said, pacing before the foot of the bed. “I guarded my business and my private life. But in one night you stripped me bare and invited the world as witness.”

“I had nothing to do with that swarm of paparazzi.”

He sliced a hand through the air. “Of course you would deny your part in that.”

“What about you?” she asked, having learned after Edouard’s death that André wasn’t a man to be crossed—or trusted. “You’re as much to blame for the dissolution of your engagement.”

He released a cold, hard laugh. “As much as I value privacy, my former fiancée cherished it more. You destroyed that and humiliated her.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” she said, in a burst of irritation.

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