One Night Of Consequences Collection. Annie West

and slipped her arm in the crook of his. The heat and power under her hand left her breathless, even more unsure of herself.

      She’d been affected by his potent sensuality from the first time she’d met him, but what she sensed in him now had nothing to do with carnal promises.

      The leashed anger in him was palpable, stripping away her shaky confidence and flooding her with renewed apprehension. She’d felt that same raging tension in him when he’d come to the Chateau, when he’d forced her to leave with him.

      “What’s wrong, André?”

      “Nothing. All is in order.”

      Yet a litany of doom pulsed in the air as she descended the stairs. He walked indecently close behind her, his hand on the small of her back, one finger resting in a dimple on her derrière.

      The heat of him burned her through her dress, branding her skin. But the touch blazed with power rather than affection.

      He seated her at a table dressed in stark white, and she finally filled her lungs with air when he strode to his chair. Crystal chandeliers held long white tapers, their golden flames casting a sultry aura over the table.

      He poured sparkling water for her, champagne for himself. The romance of it wasn’t lost on her. But there was no warmth in his eyes.

      She took a sip of water and her stomach pitched, rebelling again. She would not be able to manage food tonight. She’d not be able to tolerate this tension that made her head spin.

      A bead of sweat popped out on her temple, slowly streaking down her face. She dabbed at it with what she hoped was an offhand movement, hating that her hand shook, that his dark, expressionless eyes remained on her. Inquisitive. Or inquisitional?

      Was this how a mouse felt when cornered by a cat? Her stomach fluttered and her breath came short and shallow.

      Sweat gathered beneath her breasts. She licked lips that had gone dry. How could she possibly confess her secret when he was in this dark, dangerous mood?

      This moment was more unsettling than when he’d swept into the Chateau and forced her to leave with him. The eloquent hands that had brought her such pleasure held his glass too tightly. His admirable posture was too rigid, the broad shoulders held with military precision, his spine too unbending.

      He’d hated her then because he’d believed she was Peter’s mistress. The truth would be worse. She knew it. No matter that they’d shared exquisite passion in each other’s arms. No matter that she carried his child. No matter that she had somehow fallen in love with him.

      Her heart broke as she met his dark gaze. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever met, and she was painfully aware this could be the last time she shared anything but disdain with him. However could she begin?

      “I used your computer today,” she said, to break the horrid silence that roared in the room.

      He took a sip of champagne and regarded her over the lavish tulip glass with eyes that caught the light and threw its glare back at her. Like an inquisitor. Reserved. Controlling.

      “Did you email your brother again?” he asked.

      Kira nearly lost her grip on her glass—did lose her breath. He knew. My God, he already knew her secret! No wonder he stared at her so coldly.

      “No.” She set her glass down with care, her hand shaking so badly it took effort. She drew in a breath, then another, but neither seemed enough for her starving lungs. “I never have.”

      He snorted and tossed back his drink. When he looked at her this time, his gaze was openly hostile.

      A demoralizing dread seeped into her.

      His rage threatened to consume her. Burn her alive. The flames different than the passion, more powerful because of the dark emotion fueling the fire. This inferno would not just burn her. It would kill her.

      “How long have you known?” she asked, proud her voice remained calm despite the tempest whirling around her.

      “Since this morning.” He set his flute down and reached for the champagne bottle, his movements slow, precise.

      He poured champagne in his glass, his finesse obviously shaken for he spilled some on the table. His scowl conveyed his annoyance at the minuscule lack of control.

      She stared at the bubbles in his glass and thought ironically that they mirrored the riot going on in her stomach—a cold boil that popped around her, leaving her on shaky ground.

      Kira chanced a look at him and wished she hadn’t, for his rage was evident in the hard, unyielding lines of his face. She stared at her hands, the fingers bleached white from gripping the table linen as the awful truth weighed her down.

      She’d never been subjected to such cold scrutiny. Never been the recipient of such scathing wrath.

      Never wanted to right a wrong more than she did at this moment. “I—I intended to tell you tonight, after dinner.”

      His laugh was brittle and cold. “But of course you would say that now.”

      “It’s the truth. I’ve thought of little else today.”

      Except for those moments when she’d become lost in the memory of lying in André’s arms. Of those strong hands playing over her skin, making her senses sing with pleasure.

      “Interesting, as your deceit has been on my mind as well,” he said, his thumb idly stroking the tulip glass.

      She looked at those hands now, watching that slow glide, and flushed hot as her breasts grew heavier. She couldn’t still want him to touch her, to pleasure her? Yet she knew if he did she’d be lost in his arms again.

      Panic took root in her, for her body was betraying her. Her body wanted him any way she could get him. She was weak—exhausted by his relentless onslaught of her senses.

      She hated his power over her. Hated that he was playing the tyrant to perfection.

      That would stop now. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was his equal—his lover—whether he admitted it or not.

      “If you’d just allow me to explain?”

      He made a magnanimous gesture with his hand, the shadow of his movement caressing the wall much like that same hand had caressed her last night. “Please do.”

      Kira took another sip of water, hating that her hand trembled, that her breathing hitched, that her stomach remained queasy. She could barely force the much needed fluid down her throat, even though she was thirsty. It had been like that all day—nerves and tension and the unknown, all battling together in a gigantic knot within her.

      “You must understand,” she began. “I—I’ve never told anyone before, you see. Edouard insisted, and I never thought to disobey.”

      “Then I should feel honored to be the first to hear your story.” He saluted her with his glass and drank deeply. “Bravo to you and your father for launching this honeytrap. You planned it well—right down to getting pregnant.”

      “There was no conspiracy,” she said. “I just came here to meet with you about the Chateau. How dare you insinuate that I set out to trap you?”

      He smirked, the expression a barbed taunt that angered her more than any insult, any accusation. “How fitting that you should begin with a lie.”

      She closed her eyes a moment, knowing he’d read it as guilt but no longer caring, knowing he’d not listen to her denials again. He’d believe what he wished.

      He’d close his mind to the truth.

      The door to the kitchen opened, and a Carib bustled in to serve them. Kira stared at the exquisite meal and knew that she’d never get a morsel down her throat.

      She draped her napkin over the plate, hating that she’d offend the cook, and met André’s hooded glare. She read hatred in his eyes. All