by Kris Pearson
“Yes, business,” she snapped. “This is scheduled to appear in the Saturday morning paper. We run a lift-out called ‘People’—feel-good stories and so on.”
“And I’m a feel-good story?”
“Well, you’ve donated a whole building to a very worthy cause. I presume you didn’t do it only because there’d be tax advantages to the deal?”
Alex tucked his tongue into his cheek at such candor.
“Are there?” he asked, with the most innocent expression he could manage.
Kerri sent him a look of disbelief.
“Well, perhaps there are, but it was more to honor my mother’s memory.”
“The Isabelle Beaufort Centre—I’m sure she’d be pleased. You said she was a compulsive gambler, so I presume you didn’t have much money to start with?”
He nodded, and waited for her next question.
“So how did you get it?” She bit her lip and managed to look curiously contrite. “I’m sorry—that sounds terrible. I’m afraid I don’t know much about you yet.”
Alex wondered how he could deflect her interest. That was the question he had no intention of answering. But the prickle of unease shimmied away as she added, “The journalist who was supposed to be doing this interview went into premature labor at lunchtime and your story was re-assigned to me in a hurry. I’ll bet she’s not having a great time of it right now.”
“You’re making bets again, Ms Kerrigan Lush.”
“For heaven’s sake, it’s only a figure of speech!”
“Touchy,” he teased. “Positively defensive.” Relieved the initial source of his wealth had been glossed-over, he hoped it would stay that way.
“I’m not trying to hide the fact I gamble a little. Everyone gambles on something. I don’t gamble on stupid stuff.”
“So what odds do you consider acceptable?”
She narrowed her eyes, and Alexandre could have sworn he felt them cutting right into his flesh. He was enjoying their sharp exchange more than he’d enjoyed anything in months. Something about her was so alive.
“Not Russian Roulette—six to one is beyond a joke.”
“Ten to one?”
“Getting better. Still not good.”
“For example?” He leaned further forward in the chair, pleased with the excuse to watch her animated face a little longer before they got back to the interview.
“Well...” She pushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed upwards for a moment, thinking apparently of her friend who’d just been rushed to hospital. “The chances of getting a woman pregnant are about ten to one, I suppose. She’s only really fertile for about three days in every month. That’s one instance.”
“On those days the chances are a lot higher.”
“Right into Russian Roulette territory,” Kerri agreed. “Much more than that. But there are other factors—her age, her fertility, his fertility... And you have to know when those dangerous days are. She might not tell you. Could be you’d waste all that effort with huge odds against you.”
“I’ve never considered making love a wasted effort.”
“Maybe your ‘odds’ aren’t all that huge, either,” she said with a naughty grin.
Alexandre exploded with laughter. “My ‘odds’ have never been found wanting,” he shot back.
“So you claim.”
He watched as the expression of mischief faded from her lively face.
“Dammit,” she said, and took a deep breath. “This is terrible. We need to get back to the interview. I can’t write about your huge—er—odds, although our readers might be absolutely fascinated.”
His laughter escaped again. Somehow, he felt freer on this far side of the world, away from the ever-increasing weight of his responsibilities in Europe.
“Dinner, Ms Lush? I sense the conversation could be great fun. Are you free tonight, by any miracle?”
“What do you think the chances are?”
“About a hundred to one, but I’m asking anyway.”
She smiled, and kept him waiting a little longer.
“That could be very pleasant, Monsieur Beaufort. As long as you don’t keep grilling me about my bad habits, of course. They’re not so very bad, you know.”
“And as long as I don’t try to get you pregnant, I suppose?”
———
THE PA’S REVENGE
By Diana Fraser
http://amzn.com/B007KTEF9Q
Cassandra Lee doesn't do emotion. Why would you want to feel anything when your son and father have died in horrific circumstances? Why would you want to do anything other than exact revenge on the man you hold responsible for the tragedy? Revenge is her only focus so she studies his business and revamps her image with the aim of becoming his PA and sabotaging his fortune.
And Dallas Mackenzie's wealth is important to him. He's restored his family's fortunes after his father nearly lost everything through drink, violence and deceit. He believes he's inherited his father's violent temper and alcoholism and is determined not to succumb to them. He values honesty above all else and focuses on working hard and avoiding emotional attachment at any cost, even an empty life.
But empty lives can be filled—at least for a short while—and Dallas sets out to seduce Cassandra. Unfortunately seduction—and her body's responses to this arrogant, powerful and sexy man—wasn't something Cassandra could prepare for. She just hopes that his interest—and her resistance—will hold out long enough to ruin him...
— Excerpt —
…“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes quite as dark a blue as yours before. They’re very… inviting, especially when you’re all fired up.”
Was there no limit to his arrogance? He didn’t even have the decency to pretend he was listening to her. “You haven’t seen me anywhere near fired up.”
“I look forward to it. But tell me,” he continued, raising his finger to her cheek. “How come we haven’t met before? Wellington is a small city.”
She took a deep breath, the sudden change in tack taking her unawares. She turned away from him sharply and began to walk away.
His hand on her arm stopped her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I like to keep a low profile.”
She tried to ignore the strength contained in the touch of his hand, tried to ignore the heat that ignited a trail of fire through her veins. Long-forgotten sensations shot through her body, heating her skin and melting her resistance. She felt disoriented and suddenly found her face was closer to his. Whether she’d moved closer to him, or he’d moved closer to her, she couldn’t tell.
“Not any longer though. You’ve decided to raise the stakes in your life for some reason. With me. I wonder why?”
She swallowed. “The timing’s right. I’m ready.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He looked down briefly at her breasts. She could feel them harden under his gaze.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“It might not be what you mean, but it’s what you feel. Are you prepared to over-rule your feelings with your head, Cassandra?”
“I’m focused on the job. Nothing will get in the way.”
“Good. Because this is a job. There will be no love affair, whatever you may want.”
“I don’t want a love affair,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth, reining in her irritation at his arrogance.
“Really? Then you’d be unusual.”
“I’m not like most women.”
“What is it you want then?”
“Success.”
“I hope you enjoy it when you get it, that it doesn’t prove illusory.” His voice was lower, softer.
Cassandra hid her confusion instantly. “I intend to.”
“Come along then, your future awaits.” He plucked a single white rose and tucked it behind her ear, smoothing and pinning the recalcitrant curl into place.
He’d noticed. A hair out of place and he’d noticed. What else had he noticed? “A romantic ge
sture?”
“Never. I don’t do romantic gestures.” He leaned in towards her. “This is as romantic as I get. Tonight, a one-time only offer. A bargain—a kiss in exchange for a rose.”
He brushed his lips gently against hers in a whisper of seduction, designed to tantalize. His breath quickened against her cheek as he hesitated for one long moment before pulling away.
It was as if she’d been awoken from a long trance. The feel of his mouth against hers—a mere promise, a suggestion of the passion that they could have—awoke within her a heat and desire that she’d long forgotten.
But even as her trembling hand began to reach for his body, as her breathing quickened and her body’s responses threatened to take over, she felt a wave of icy control flow over her. She was not here for this. This had nothing to do with her plans.
She pulled away, coolly and deliberately. She would look him in the eye and he would see what she felt—nothing.
She managed it, for moments only, before turning away from him. She couldn’t risk him seeing the truth, how affected she was by his touch. She heard him step away from her quickly and walk up the flight of wooden steps to the verandah and then wait.
She followed him up to the front door, having managed to recapture a few shreds of her self possession. He stood watching her, holding open the door, while she took one last look around the garden.
It wasn’t meant to have been like this. She had never intended, never imagined, that she would feel such things. Something deep within her stirred and shifted. It was going to be a lot harder than she’d ever thought.
With her back to him she gently pulled the rose from behind her ear and fingered the velvety petals as she looked out across the white flowers that glowed in the dusk. She could have wept.
It was the garden of her old dreams in the days when she was truly alive, when she lived for the present, when she lived with and through her heart. It was abundant, sensual and magical, with an ethereal, dream-like quality: an other-worldliness that caught at her heart and threatened to destroy her sense of purpose.
But surely it wasn’t too late? Could she really avenge her father’s and Danny’s death by destroying this man’s wealth? She could tell him everything. She could just turn around and go back to her old life.
She turned to face him gripping another petal, too hard, and it tugged, momentarily at its base, destroying the bloom altogether before falling softly to the path in front of him.
Lights suddenly flooded out of the French windows robbing his eyes of color and exaggerating the harsh set of his lips.
“An iceberg rose destroyed by an ice-maiden, whom even a kiss could not warm.”
In that instant all uncertainty vanished. She would live up to his assessment of her and she would destroy him, just as his actions had led to the deaths of those people she’d loved most in the world. She dropped the rose, white petals of innocence scattering on the brick path and walked up into the hall of the homestead, feeling the pain of her son’s death with every step. It would never go away. She didn't want it to ever leave her.
The doors closed with a bang as a freak gust of wind caught it and she turned, meeting his gaze, drawing once more on the pain to give her the strength she needed to continue.
———
TAKEN BY THE SHEIKH
By Kris Pearson
http://amzn.com/B006V58FU0
Chapter One
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 between the tumbled stones, 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.
Yasmina re-read the note with close attention, all the while chattering in her own language, and drew Laurel along the path and in through the doorway of a turreted old house with thick stone walls. The blinding light outside made the interior seem dim and restful, and the relative coolness washed over her skin like a blessing.
After progressing through a long hallway, they arrived in a high-ceilinged bedroom. Yasmina threw open a further door, and Laurel stood amazed as the servant started water gushing into a marble bath from an ornate gold spout. She must look desperately hot and dirty if this was how she was welcomed!
The little woman emerged—smiling and gesturing that Laurel was to treat the room as her own. She trotted off, and Laurel sank down on the bed before her legs gave way under her. What on earth would happen next?
The bath looked blissful once she managed to rise to her weary feet again. Yasmina had thrown a handful of fresh rose-petals into it. Laurel assumed she’d been tidying up full-blown blooms as they proceeded up the path together, but plainly the flowers had been intended for this. Fragrant foam grew ever deeper in the water as the bath filled. A selection of French soaps spilled from a basket at one end of the huge tub. It all seemed way over the top for a semi-deserted relic so far from civilization.
She stripped and bathed, shampooing the gritty sand from her long fair hair and letting the delicious warm scented water soothe away her aches. When she returned to the bedroom she found all her clothes had disappeared and a gauzy mauve robe had been laid on the bed. She slipped it on, admired its bands of amazing gold embroidery, stretched out on the bed to consider the strange turn her life had taken, and plummeted into an exhausted asleep.
At once the nightmare hit again. The wind from the desert moaned eerily. Palm-fronds clattered, but otherwise very little moved as the small seaside resort of Kalal drowsed in the afternoon heat.
A solitary vehicle coasted to a halt just behind her.
Laurel half-turned when she heard the door creak open, but she had only a split second to register the fast-moving dark shape of a man before brutal hands dragged a bag down over her face. As fast as that, she’d
been trapped.
A scalding cascade of horrendous possibilities flooded her brain. Terrified, she screamed at top volume, dropped her sketching pad, and kicked backwards with every ounce of her considerable determination. The heel of her shoe connected with what she hoped was her captor’s shin.
It caused a guttural male voice to let loose a vicious curse in the local language and she enjoyed a fleeting flash of triumph. But then an iron-hard hand closed over her face, pressing her lips painfully back against her teeth. And a steely arm wrapped around her waist and heaved her forward and face-down.
Her scrabbling fingers told her she’d landed on a slab of foam rubber on a hard floor.
Doors banged, a motor revved, and she jerked backward as the vehicle took off at high speed.
Shudders of panic took over then. Huge fluttery tremors ran up and down her spine.
She was blind. Cruel hands had yanked a drawstring tightly around her neck so the bag was closed, and cut off any vestige of light...any hope of seeing where she was being taken.
She struggled and kicked in the swaying vehicle, and suffered the further insult of a warm weight moving to pin her down to the no-doubt filthy mattress.
“Be still!” a man’s deep voice growled close against her ear.
She was so astounded to hear accented but obvious English she momentarily froze before resuming her frenzied bucking and struggling. But she had no hope of escaping from under his strong body.
Hard hands grabbed her wrists, and she heard the snick of handcuffs and felt the smooth hard metal against her skin. Her whirling brain registered she was now one step more helpless.