Her Man with Iceberg Eyes (27 page)

Finally, she took a deep breath, tossed her
dark hair, clenched her fingers around her briefcase handle, and
stepped out.

Bet I get right across before that taxi draws
level.

Bet Alexander Beaufort will be about
seventy-five with a bristling white mustache and a comb-over.

She flashed her press ID at the
forty-something receptionist. “Kerri Lush, to interview Alexander
Beaufort about his very impressive gift.”

Her pulse lurched to a hectic rhythm as she
caught sight of the ‘Gambling wrecks lives’ poster on the wall.
Could the woman see Kerri’s own life was a mess?

She climbed the half-flight of stairs to
where glasses clinked and voices brayed in animated conversation. A
local TV crew had set up their gear. Other familiar media faces
were in evidence. Maybe this was a bigger deal than she’d
thought?

She lifted a white wine from a passing tray
and sipped with caution

in case it was Chateau Cardboard. To her
surprise, it tasted crisp and dry and delicious. More
brownie-points to Alexander Beaufort.

And was there food? She’d missed lunch
because of a tight deadline and the sudden re-assignment of this
job. A little something to nibble would be wise in view of the
wine’s attractions.

She sauntered to a serving table and found
the other guests had already made fast and loose with the
goodies.

One lonely cracker with a sliver of avocado
and a couple of shrimps sat amongst a tide of parsley sprigs, empty
kebab sticks, and crumbs. Kerri grabbed it before anyone else
could, swallowed her remaining half-glass of wine, and claimed a
refill.

Seconds later the woman at the reception desk
approached the podium and the noise-level ebbed away.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she
began. “I’m Addictions Councilor Lydia Herbert, and I’d like to
welcome you all here today to view our wonderful new facility. A
safe financial future for Gamblers Anonymous New Zealand is
possible because of the generosity and far-sightedness of one man.
Please welcome Monsieur Alexandre Beaufort.”

Enthusiastic applause broke out.

Kerri’s eyes roamed over the assembled males,
seeking a suitable old johnnie with a big moustache and a gleaming
pate. Alexandre? Not Alexander then—so much for her boss’s
haphazard keyboard skills.

And he was French? She took an appreciative
swig from her second glass of wine and washed a lingering
cracker-crumb down the wrong way.

Spluttering, bent double, furiously
embarrassed, she missed the tall dark man who strode in from a rear
doorway brandishing a mobile phone.

But she heard him.

“Apologies,
mes amis
, technology is
taking over our lives, no?” he said in a voice so husky it caressed
her skin like a fine sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts settling over
ice-cream.

Despite his sexy accent raising every hair on
Kerri’s body she continued to cough and snort. Wine slopped over
the edge of her lurching glass and onto the new taupe carpet.
God—this was all she needed on an already-bad day!

So far out of breath that her face almost
matched her scarlet shoes, and half-blinded by the sting of running
mascara, she registered faces staring in her direction, wondering
who the unfortunate fool was.

She prayed for a distraction.

Nothing happened.

No-one spoke.

His speech did not begin.

When she regained her composure, she found
herself being inspected by a riveting pair of dark blue eyes.
Alexandre Beaufort was not in his dotage as she’d assumed. Not
bald. Not mustached, although he did have a most attractive dusting
of dark stubble on his determined chin and top lip. Neither was he
in a suit like most of the assembled men. He wore motor-cycle
leathers.

Kerri hiccupped with surprise and clapped a
hand across her mouth. The addictions councilor bustled up with a
big glass of water—surely for the coughing and not the newly
arrived hiccups? And Monsieur Beaufort smiled and said in the voice
that had Kerri all on edge, “Young lady, you ‘ave stolen my
thunder.”

***

The Wrong
Sister

Fiona Delaporte has an impossible assignment—to care
for her newly widowed brother-in-law and his tiny daughter. (The
newly widowed tall, dark and delicious brother-in-law she’s
secretly wanted for five long, frustrating years.)

Christian Hartley would rather spend time with
anyone except the tempting woman who reminds him so much of his
cherished wife. But she has six weeks leave from her cruise-liner
job on the other side of the world, and seems determined to do her
family duty. How can craving the wrong sister feel so right?

WARNING:Contains one hot man who always gets what he
wants—in bed and out.

Excerpt

“I don’t need you here,” Christian
growled.

He moved close behind Fiona as she stood by
the floor to ceiling sliders in the sunlit living area. She filled
his senses. His eyes soaked up every strand of her shining hair,
the stretch of her pale blue T-shirt over the curve of her
shoulder, the just-glimpsed bra-strap through it. He heard her soft
breathing, saw her breasts rising and falling, but she’d turned her
face aside and he had no way of seeing if she’d bitten her bottom
lip in frustration or closed her eyes in annoyance. She wouldn’t be
smiling, that was for sure. More like vibrating with fury.

“I don’t
want
you here,” he continued,
knowing it was a huge lie.

He leaned an arm on the window frame, partly
imprisoning her, but touching her nowhere. Her subtle fresh perfume
wafted across to taunt him. He ached to bridge that tiny distance
between them. Sensed the magnetism pulling them together. And knew
that of all the women in the world, this was one he wouldn’t dare
take a chance on.

Worse—the one he wanted and absolutely
couldn’t have.

The heat of his body radiated across the
small space between them as Fiona stared resolutely through the
glass. The view of Wellington harbor might be fantastic, but right
now her imagination was consumed by his long thighs in soft old
blue jeans, right behind her. Hell, she could almost
feel
his thighs—it was just so easy to imagine them pressing lightly
along the backs of hers.

There was a right-angled rip in the fabric
above one of his knees, and she’d glimpsed brown skin and dark
shining hairs through the enticing gap.

She swallowed.

Since she’d padded barefoot into the huge
room five minutes earlier, her eyes had been constantly drawn to
the off-centre rubbed-and-faded patch of fabric at his groin. The
old jeans had seen a lot of wear. Each time she looked, a delicious
tingle spread through her breasts because of the giveaway condition
of the denim. If she touched him right there…

Stop it! Stop it! This is the last thing I
need. I can’t give in or the whole deal becomes impossible
.

And now he’d trapped her. They were in exact
alignment. She longed to push back against his tall, lean,
forbidden body. She found just enough willpower to hold still and
deny herself the pleasure. She clenched her teeth, steeling herself
to stay strong.

She flinched as Christian nudged his chin
against her shoulder in the briefest of contacts, his early-morning
stubbled face now only millimeters away from her flaming cheek.

She smelled the shampoo from his newly washed
dark hair. Or maybe it was the soap from his shower, wafting up
from his warm body? Certainly not aftershave. He hadn’t shaved yet.
Fiona loved the toughness it lent his face, and wished so much she
didn’t.

Why was he making things so difficult for
her?

“Christian, it’s not the ideal holiday for
me, being stuck here with you.” She spoke out toward the sparkling
harbor and cloudless sky because she didn’t dare turn toward him.
That way lay danger. It would be just too easy to be snared by his
sexy brown eyes and then lose her resolve and seek his lips with
her own. What a fiasco that would be…

“Then go,” he challenged her.

“I
can’t
,” she ground out with
frustrated anguish. “Mom and Dad have lost their other daughter.
They want to know their only grand-daughter is well looked after
and as settled as possible. I promised them I’d help you for a
while. I can do that much for them. I
will
do that much for
them, and for you.”

***

Something different – a romantic comedy.

The Bonk
Squad

Kiwi romance-writers plot hot juicy novels – and
their real lives sizzle right along with their storylines. They’re
seeking publication and love with equal intensity. Some get luckier
than they dreamed. Some…don’t.

The Bonk Squad is a quirky romp with three
‘real-life’ romances spanning the length of the book. There are
also many shorter imaginary ones – all paying affectionate homage
to the many faces of romance-writing.

You’ll meet hopeful Meg – librarian by day, writer
by night – and her seventeen year old son Ben, who provides the
inspiration for nubile Tigger’s self-published sexcapades. There’s
quiet garden center owner Ian, glamorous and bitchy divorcee Liz,
handsome Al who wants a playmate, elderly Vi who certainly doesn’t,
and Nurse Mandy who has the medical jargon but very little more.
Actress Eloise tries to write historical novels like her published
friend Romy, and vegetarian virgin Bobbie has heard there’s money
in erotica... Step inside the characters’ fertile minds and you’ll
spot the authors who are never going to sell. Come on – laugh
yourself silly!

***

And a naughty shortie
–
Ravishing Rose

One shy girl is about to start living!

Francesca Ellison is swept off to an A-list party in
a concealing mask, a decadent costume and sex-shop panties. There
she meets the pirate, Captain Cool. Frankie tells him her name is
Rose because for once she intends behaving very badly. The Captain
outdoes her at every turn.

As sky-rockets scream skyward and guests start to
demolish the party venue, Frankie loses her panties and her
inhibitions. ‘Rose’ is thoroughly ravished, and the Captain gets
more (and less) than he hoped for.

This naughty shortie is around fifty pages long -
just right for a quick bedtime read.

***

If you enjoyed the first of my
Heartland
Heroines
series, you’ll enjoy my friend Diana Fraser’s
The
Marriage Trap
which is also set in New Zealand’s beautiful
South Island.

The Marriage
Trap

Diana Fraser

“
A shepherd’s hut, twenty-four hours, a
stranger…” It’s not the perfect start to Gemma Winters’ new
life—another man is the last thing she needs after the suffocating
control of her ex. But, when she finds herself isolated with a
ruggedly handsome stranger, the demands of her body take
over.

Since his wife died, Callum Mackenzie’s
relationships have been strictly practical, with his only real love
affair being with his land. But his family wants him to re-marry
and he wants heirs. When Gemma turns up, he begins to think
marriage might be a possibility after all.

Their twenty-four hours of passion has shattering
consequences—marriage and two people who are forced to face their
worst fears…

Excerpt

“So, how long will this last—the storm, that
is?”

“Hard to tell. Twelve to twenty-four hours.
We’ll be here for a night at least.”

“Right.” She eyed the lone double bed
warily.

He’d followed her gaze. “Uncomfortable with
that?”

“Well, I just wondered... what the sleeping
arrangements were going to be. Where should I sleep?”

He nodded to the bed. “In there.”

“But…what about you? Where will you
sleep?”

“In there—with you.”

“Well, hang on a minute. I don’t know what
you take me for but I’m not in the habit of sleeping with
strangers.”

A smile flickered on his lips. “Perhaps you
mistook my meaning. It wasn’t an invitation for sex, just
sleep.”

“Er, right. Of course.” She guessed it wasn’t
too late to learn that there were men out there
not
like
Paul, men who saved her from disaster and who didn’t expect sex in
return.

“You go ahead and strip while I make the
bed.” Again the little tweak at the corner of his mouth. “I promise
not to look.”

Perhaps he didn’t expect sex, but he was
certainly enjoying the situation. She watched him closely as she
pulled the huge towel loosely around her, clutching it with one
hand while she peeled off the soaking jeans with the other.

Just the sight of him making the bed was
enough to divert her mind from her predicament. His shirtsleeves
were rolled up now the cottage was warm, revealing a haze of golden
hairs on his tanned arms, covering the contours of his bunched
muscles. And then there were his hands, large, strong and, she knew
from experience, capable.

Somehow she managed to slip off her t-shirt
and keep the towel in place. She threw it on top of her wet jeans.
Then she looked down at her soaking underwear and across at Callum
who’d found some pillows from a cupboard and had tossed them on the
bed. Should she leave her underwear on? Soaking wet, she felt the
chill of them in contrast to the warmth of her exposed skin. No
choice.

She didn’t let her gaze leave Callum. She
couldn’t—it was the only way she could make sure he didn’t watch
her. But her eyes dropped from his face, noticing the way his shirt
hung from broad shoulders and fell over his faded jeans, which were
soaked where his coat had failed to cover them.

She kicked away her bra and panties, hiding
them under the rest of her sodden clothes. She was naked now under
the towel.