LITMIR.BIZ

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Edouard couldn’t defend her. “Peter obviously resented that his father had acknowledged his by-blow so richly.”

      “Oui. But it was your solicitor who took umbrage.”

      Had she heard him correctly? “Claude? But why?”

      “You really don’t know?” He faced her, and she shook her head in answer. “Claude Deveaux is Edouard’s brother-in-law.”

      More family. More hatred. She blinked back angry tears, sick of being manipulated by powerful men with hidden agendas.

      “I trusted him,” she said.

      “You made it easy for them both.”

      She reached for her glass of water and drank, waiting for him to expound, forcing more than a sip down her emotion-clogged throat. But he simply watched her, his expression unreadable.

      “How long have you known all this?” she asked.

      He shrugged, a careless gesture she loathed and loved in turn, for she was never sure if he was the uncaring rake or the troubled man she’d lost her heart to. “I suspected something was amiss when your shares went public. But I didn’t begin to believe you were a pawn until our jaunt to St. Barthélemy, when you emailed your solicitor demanding answers.”

      When had he had the time to check his computer? Or had he charged someone else to search it?

      The Windward Islands were his domain. His world. She was merely a puppet in it, dancing to the melody he’d arranged.

      “You set me up—knowing I was desperate to get word out,” she said.

      That emotionless mask she detested stared back at her, giving nothing away. “I was certain you’d contact Peter, that I’d catch you devising a new plot to ruin me. But you didn’t.”

      She called herself a fool for not suspecting the trap. For trusting him. Trust. As he’d said, she had made it easy for his enemies—and him—to deceive her.

      Her chin came up, and she damned its tremor. “You knew that I didn’t email Peter, yet you still believed I’d conspired with him?”

      He shrugged. “You are a Bellamy.”

      “And you could never trust a Bellamy. You certainly could never love one.” Not her. Not even their child.

      His jaw clenched so tight she feared he’d crack the bone, but his eyes gave nothing away. “I will provide for you. Nothing more.”

      Kira set her glass down carefully, when her anger goaded her to lob the whole thing at him. That night on St. Barth, when he’d held her close to his heart and called her his love, his darling, she’d believed him. She’d thought that they would have a chance for a lifetime of happiness in each other’s arms. She’d hoped they could surmount any obstacle, though she’d known it wouldn’t be easy for him to accept her parentage.

      She hadn’t totally given up hope. She’d foolishly trusted that love would conquer all.

      But in the morning he’d treated her with biting indifference, as if he was furious with her again, and she’d feared the wondrous night had been a dream.

      She’d never guessed it was because he’d discovered she was Edouard’s daughter. That he’d intended to lay a trap for her on Petit St. Marc instead of coming to her and talking it out.

      Something in her changed, twisted, died. He’d used her so well—in bed and out. Would continue doing so if she let him.

      And, sadly, she wanted him with every breath she took. Her weakness toward him shamed her.

      Unabashedly, Kira knew she’d never meet another man she loved with the same intensity as she did André. She’d never even try, for she’d never trust another man that much again.

      It wasn’t worth the heartache.

      She’d found her one great love. And she’d lost him.

      “Do you feel any guilt for your part in this?” she asked, her voice cracking as she felt the rift between them grow wider.

      “I did what I had to.”

      And so would she. She’d take the only course left to her.

      The men in her life had used her. None of them had cared for her, respected her. Not her father, who’d seen her as an obligation. Not her half-brother or his uncle, who viewed her as a usurper they must eliminate at all costs. And certainly not André, who’d used her in the worst way, by capturing her heart completely just to satisfy his quest for vengeance.

      “I hope Peter’s face looks as battered as yours. I hope you’re both in pain.” She stared at his beautifully masculine features, her tears unable to put out her fiery heartache. “I hope never to see you again.”

      His body jolted, so slightly she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him. Or maybe it was just a mirage caused by her tears.

      She’d meant to shock him. But she’d shocked herself as well. For her love for this man was so great that she already grieved over having André in her life.

      “Is that your wish?” he asked.

      She forced the lie past her dry lips. “Yes. It’s the only way. For you have no room in your heart for a Bellamy.”

      A muscle in his cheek throbbed to the wild beat of her heart as he pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the foot of the bed. The battering to his pride was evident in his bleak gaze that touched hers briefly, like a fleeting kiss, bittersweet.

      “Au revoir, mon amour.”

      He walked from her room, and she bit her tongue to keep from calling him back. Her breath hitched, her tears fell in a scalding waterfall, but they couldn’t wash away the hurt.

      This pain was too great to ignore. She needed time to deal with all that had happened—time to heal, time to sort it out in her mind. She had to search her heart for what she should do.

      So in the quiet of her room she curled into a ball and cried for her loss. And thanked God that through her child she’d always be tied to André. She’d always have a part of him to love.

      Long hours later, Kira opened the envelope with trembling fingers, suspecting André had made provision for her as he would a mistress. She wouldn’t take it, of course. For that would sully the love they’d had.

      She unfolded the paper and read, the chill that had gripped her fading as she read the document. Once. Twice.

      Her gaze fell on the accompanying bank draft and her heart raced. She could scarce draw a decent breath as the enormity of what he’d done sank in.

      All the shares of Chateau Mystique had been transferred to her. The hotel was solely hers—as was the bank draft for four million dollars. A fortune. All hers.

      She’d gotten more than she’d wanted—would never have to depend on a man’s charity or whim again. But without André in her life having it all meant nothing.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      KIRA had been back at the Chateau for an entire month—enough time to reevaluate her staff and replace those untrustworthy sorts. The number was few, and those who had stayed exhibited the loyalty she’d always hoped to inspire.

      Work filled her days, and the wonder of going into her second trimester warmed her lonely nights.

      But her heart bled for André, for the loss of what they’d held in their grasp and for the crippling pain of letting it go. She’d been too afraid of following in her mother’s footsteps to fight harder for their love. For believing that they could surmount any odds.

      So she dreamed he’d stride into the Chateau as before, and take her back to his

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