by Kris Pearson
“Hello...?” a man yelled through the open door a few seconds later.
As Jetta turned to investigate, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror on the back of the kitchen door. Under Grandpa’s ancient painting hat, her face was dirty, tear-streaked and bare of make-up. She looked about sixteen, and really didn’t need a visitor.
“Hello?” His voice was softer now and very close.
She whirled further around, heart racing, grabbed for the spade handle, and clutched it tightly. There was only him and her. No one else to save her.
“What the hell are you doing to the house?” he asked.
She stood there trembling as the man she’d nicknamed ‘Mr Porsche’ gazed about with very obvious amusement on his far too gorgeous face. She’d never seen him up close before. Never expected his eyes would be so disturbingly blue or that he’d have that little sprinkling of dark hair showing at the open neck of his polo shirt. “It’s my house—I’ll do what I like with it,” she managed.
“It’s our house, and I’ll be demolishing it,” he replied. “Anton,” he said, thrusting out a big hand. “Anton Haviland. And you must be Jetta Rivers.”
Already way on edge, Jetta sagged onto one of the 1950’s chrome and leatherette chairs in case his outrageous suggestion was for real. Demolish her house? Never!
She wouldn’t shake his hand.
She wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.
***
Taken by the Sheikh (Sheikhs of Al Sounam 1)
Abducted. Seduced. Purring.
Laurel de Courcey is captured by terrorists, chained up in a disgusting bunker, and videoed for a ransom demand which is shown worldwide.
Ooops—wrong hostage! Who’d expect a shy Kiwi nanny to be worth anything?
Laurel’s soon tied up in Sheikh Rafiq’s bed instead, because he rescues her and appoints himself her personal bodyguard. Very personal. But she has good reason to distrust men.
Imprisoned in his old royal hunting lodge deep in the desert ‘for her own protection’, Laurel rebels. Spectacular fireworks, dangerous escape attempts, and an impossible love affair follow.
WARNING: contains one red-hot Sheikh with a wicked tongue and unlimited stamina.
Excerpt
Laurel de Courcey stared at the cliff in dismay. After her exhausting trek through the desert she had to climb that?
The unexpected barrier at the end of the gully rose up steep and crumbling. The tiny stream she’d been following seeped out from under the daunting rock face. What was on the other side? Rafiq hadn’t warned her about this—simply ordered her to walk, and said she’d find ‘a house’.
Well, there was no house in sight. And did she trust him anyway? He might be all taut muscles and flashing eyes, but she had to remember he was only the lesser of two evils. The other men in his group? Her body convulsed in a sudden shudder just thinking about them.
She tried to banish the hideous memory and gulped the last of her water, refilled the bottle from the life-saving trickle, clenched her teeth, and attempted the hazardous scramble up out of her temporary hiding place. How she wished she had his strength and endurance!
Long minutes later she hauled herself over the top and lay panting. Black spots whirled across her vision. She squeezed her eyes closed, and still the spots flickered and jumped. Finally she raised her head.
Indeed there was a house—or some sort of half concealed building anyway. A high plastered wall hid much of it, but an arched gateway, softened by cascades of pink blossom from a gnarled tree, looked inviting.
She rose wearily and staggered onward. Palm fronds and other lush greenery came into focus as she limped nearer, and she feared the unexpected oasis might be a mirage after the endless inhospitable miles of sand and rock.
But no—the gate was real. She stood in the dancing shade of the blossoms and tugged the bell-rope. Within seconds a small wrinkled woman appeared, bustling toward her with colorful long skirts fluttering around her legs.
Laurel pulled Rafiq’s note from her jeans pocket and smoothed it out. Would this be the woman she was supposed to give it to? She held it forward.
The impassive dark face lit up. The gate swung open. The little woman whisked the note from her fingers and became extremely animated, urging her in and rattling away with great enthusiasm.
“Laurel,” Laurel said, tapping her chest with a finger.
“Yasmina,” the woman replied, thumping her own.
“Yasmina,” Laurel tried. This brought nods and smiles.
“Rafiq?” she asked. More nods and smiles, but also an unmistakable gesture of ‘not here now’.
Oh darn.
***
Seduction on the Cards (Wicked in Wellington)
When journalist Kerri is assigned to interview a seriously rich anti-gambling crusader, she imagines a grandfatherly tycoon with a comb-over. But hunky Alex Beaufort has plenty of hair—and enough of everything else to make her mouth water.
Irrepressible Kerri decides to find out exactly how much, and a sizzling game of strip-poker soon has them both peeling off their layers of self-protection.
Seduction is definitely on the cards—but who’s seducing who? And what are the odds? Good enough to take a chance on?
Warning: Contains sexy Frenchman, tropical heat, and enthusiastic outdoor fun and games.
Excerpt
Kerrigan Lush felt the ripple of unease start on her scalp, tingle down her neck, trickle along her spine...and then slide down each leg until her toes curled in her scarlet stilettos.
Get a grip, Kerri, she snapped at herself. It’s only a building. You’re here to interview the man who donated it to Gamblers Anonymous—not because you’ve a little gambling problem yourself.
She patted her pocket. Yes, the mini-recorder was safely there. She checked her watch. Jiggled her keys. And still those scarlet shoes weren’t willing to cross the street.
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.
***
The Wrong Sister (Wicked in Wellington)
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…
***
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’re enjoying 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.
She watched as he flung the large duvet onto the bed. There was a control and restraint about his movements, made all the more impressive by his obvious strength. He didn’t look like the kind of man you’d want to get on the wrong side of. She knew his name now but he was still a stranger. She just hoped that by morning he would still be a stranger.
***
Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter.
Kris loves to hear from her readers. Sign up for her newsletter and she’ll let you know when her next book is due to be launched.
http://www.krispearson.com
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPT ER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Prologue
Chapter One