Her Man with Iceberg Eyes (25 page)

After coffee, Kate walked with Lottie to the
private elevator and waved her in with a smile.

She drifted back to Matthew. “Shall we have
an early night too?” he asked.

“Goodness yes—I’m exhausted.”

She saw his beautiful mouth quirk.

“I’ve got just the cure for that,” he
said.

They walked hand in hand through the huge
house, and slowly the lights dimmed when they detected no further
movement.

Matthew drew the curtains closed in the main
bedroom.

Kate picked up the photo of Lottie and her
son from the low table. “Carlo,” she said. “Nice name. Lottie told
me a little about him the last morning I was here.”

Matthew stood close beside her. “She called
him after herself. Carlo for Charlotte. There was never a father
mentioned. Which is a pity, because children flourish better with
both parents.”

“Mine stuck together for a long time, but dad
should have left much sooner. It was easier once they parted—until
my mother got sick of course.”

Matthew slid an arm around her waist. “Things
were bad after my mother died,” he said. “Dad didn’t come alive
again for us until he remarried. Even though Cornelia stayed only a
few years, they were good years. She was so ‘European’—and dad was
such a rough diamond. But we loved having a little sister.” He ran
a finger along the photo frame. “Carlo was a real character. Such a
fighter. So bright and sparky. One day, maybe...”

Kate turned toward him as she set the photo
back on the table. “One day you’d like your own Carlo?”

“Or a little Katie. Or both.” He held his
breath, cursing his runaway tongue. It was much too fast to be
discussing such things. He would panic her; turn her away; lose her
again for sure. He couldn’t imagine being without her again.

Kate sent him a long, intent, wondering gaze.
“You’re serious?” she asked.

He nodded, wordlessly, trying to gauge her
reaction.

“Is this...do you want me to stay...and live
here?”

“Forever,” he said. “With our children, if
we’re so lucky. Kate and Matthew McLeod—and the famous Auntie
Lottie, who will want to be a bridesmaid I imagine.” He drew her
close.

“Matron of Honour,” Kate corrected. “My
little cousin Alfie can be bridesmaid.” The full importance of what
he’d said started to hit her. “This is far too fast,” she
murmured.

“I love you beyond anything I ever expected
to feel, Kate.” His voice was husky. “You’ve brought me back to
life, and it’s you I want to share that life with. Yes—it’s fast.
But not too fast for me. Do you have doubts?”

He watched as her eyes widened with sudden
amusement.

“Only one, but it’s a big one. What about the
father of the bride? He might be a huge problem?”

Matthew dropped a kiss on the end of her
nose. “The only problem, my darling, will be if you turn me down. I
can always keep
him
away from the computers,” he said with
absolute assurance.

“When he visits his grandchildren?” Kate
asked.

“Is that a ‘yes’, Miss Pleasance?”

“Totally, Mr McLeod.”

“So when will you marry me?

“Double wedding on Waiheke Island in
September?” she suggested with a gleeful giggle, reminding him of
her father’s forthcoming high-profile celebration.

“I’m not sharing our wedding with anybody,”
Matthew said, picking her up and dumping her on his huge bed.

Kate’s eyes sparkled with joy and desire, far
eclipsing those of the woman on the wall above. He lowered himself
beside her and began to make up for their fortnight apart.

The End

Kris loves to hear from her readers. Keep up with
her latest news at

http://www.krispearson.com

***

Her next book will be ‘Unwanted Husband, Unwilling
Wife’ – Alfie’s story

—or another in her Sheikhs of Al Sounam series.

All of the following are now available for you to
enjoy.

***

Resisting
Nick

Nick Sharpe owns a chain of fitness centers. He has
money, ambition, and a body honed to perfection, but he’s just
discovered he was adopted and never told. To make matters worse,
his P.A. has walked out at short notice. His business and personal
lives are suddenly in disarray—and then fate hands him Sammie.

Sammie Sherbourne only needs a temporary job until
her passport arrives, then she’s off to see the world. The last
thing she wants is to become one of Nick’s many conquests. But
Nick’s hot and he’s hurting, and Sammie knows she might hold the
key to his identity. That’s a lot of temptation for a girl with a
tender heart.

WARNING: Contains sexy games in beds, bathrooms, and
on balconies.

Excerpt

Sammie Sherbourne took the stairs at a
half-run, hoping jeans with a polo shirt and Nikes were appropriate
for the sporty atmosphere of the fitness center. She bounced up
into a deserted reception area and slowed to watch through the long
glass wall as clients stretched, pedaled, and grunted at the
various machines. One dark-haired man finished his workout on a
cross-trainer, slung a towel around his neck, and moved toward her
with a loose-limbed stride.

She tried not to stare, but his dampened
shorts and tank showed off a tall, sculpted body that appeared
hard-disciplined and a great advertisement for the place. The
nearer he got the better he looked. A month here, before she
escaped from New Zealand, might be no hardship at all!

She dragged her attention away from his
powerful thighs and up past the sweaty tank that showcased his
gleaming chest and shoulders. Then found bristling stubble, an
impatient scowl, and snapping black eyes.

“You’re the replacement temp?”

She nodded. “Samantha.”

“Nick. You made it on time. Good.”

He scrubbed the towel over his hair, and
Sammie darted another glance downward. So this was the boss?

He got as far as saying, “If you can—” and
his cell phone rang. He wrestled it from his shorts pocket, which
pulled the thin fabric mouthwateringly tight, and waved a hand at
the desk.

Sammie took this as in invitation to sit, and
watched from the swivel chair as he stalked off sounding far from
pleased about something.

She waited. And she waited. Ten minutes
passed before he reappeared.

In that time, she’d checked the desk drawers
and stowed her bag in the bottom one which was empty apart from a
box of staples.

She’d answered the ever-ringing phone. Yes
they were open; no, Nick wasn’t available right now but she’d take
a message; yes, their special $299 package ran until the end of the
month (because she’d read the poster on the glass wall); no, Nick
wasn’t available right now but she’d make sure he phoned back as
soon as possible; no, she wasn’t Julie. Or Tyler.

Where the hell had he got to?

He came back still barking into his phone,
but now smelling sexy as sin and wearing a black suit, charcoal
shirt open at the neck, and beautiful shoes. He leaned over the
desk while he continued his phone conversation, raised an
exasperated eyebrow at her, rummaged amongst some papers, and
produced a list that he thrust in her direction.

“Okay?” he mouthed silently.

She shrugged, nodded, and handed him the
phone-message slips. He jammed them in a pocket, took the stairs at
a lithe run, and disappeared.

And thank you too
, she muttered to
herself.

Sammie found the list only partially helpful.
In slashing black writing it bullet-pointed ‘clear mail box’,
(where?) ‘accept no calls from Gaynor or Brian Sharpe’, ‘April
promo’, and a number of other items which looked well within her
scope but lacked useful details.

As she answered the phone for about the
twentieth time— ‘BodyWork Fitness, Samantha speaking’—a very
pregnant dark-haired woman appeared at the top of the stairs and
lowered herself gingerly onto the reception-area sofa.

“Sorry,” she said once Sammie had concluded
the call. “Meant to be earlier, but…” she patted her belly in
explanation. “I’m Tyler, Nick’s old assistant.”

Sammie sent her a doubtful smile. Did this
mean she no longer had a job?

“I thought you’d left.”

“Yes, I did—three weeks ago. I’m ready to
pop. I’m not Julie.” She pulled an exasperated face. “She replaced
me and then walked out, leaving Nick totally in the crap.”

Sammie nodded, only partially enlightened.
She took the sheet of paper across to Tyler. “He gave me a list of
duties but it hasn’t been much help so far.”

“Riiiight...” Tyler’s lips twitched. “He
meant well, but a few more details would have helped you. Second
drawer down has the mailbox key. The box number’s on the tag, and
it’s the big Marion Street depot a couple of blocks away.”

“If you’re here now should I go and clear
it?”

“Closer to lunchtime’s better. First
up—coffee machine lessons. If Nick doesn’t get his coffee he’s not
nice to know.” She heaved herself off the sofa.

“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been too
welcoming yet…”

“Too much on his mind. He’s launching another
fitness center in Auckland next week. Sussing out Sydney for
possible expansion, too. There are family things he’s trying to
sort with his brothers. And Julie leaving of course. God knows what
else by now.”

The phone intruded again.

“BodyWork Fitness, Samantha speaking.” She
listened a few seconds. “Personal trainers, yes. Hold just a moment
please.”

Tyler took over with the ease of long
experience, and Sammie learned what she could. “Got a bag?” Tyler
asked as she disconnected. “Follow me and I’ll find you a
locker.”

She led the way along a carpeted corridor and
waved a hand toward the rear of the building. “That’s Nick’s
office—big, but no great view.”

Sammie saw the name Nick Sharpe on the door.
Nick Sharpe? Something prickled in her brain.

***

Out of
Bounds

Jetta Rivers has inherited half a house. Big
problem: she has to share it with co-owner Anton Haviland, and her
past has left her terrified of men.

Gorgeous Anton is a confident sexy architect, and he
might be exactly who Jetta needs to put her crippling fear to rest.
But can she allow him near enough? And would he even want to
try?

A midnight disaster leaves her no option when he
drags her off to the only bed left in the now-damaged house. She’s
appalled to find how much she craves the man who plans to smash her
inheritance to pieces. Anton is equally shocked when his
sharp-tempered housemate attempts to seduce him.

WARNING: Contains one ambitious man with a tender
heart and a body to die for. And one unlikely temptress with an
ancient copy of The Joy of Sex.

Excerpt

Prologue

Jetta Rivers despised herself for snooping on
him over the old fence, but with her face hidden safely in the
foliage of Gran’s jasmine vine, her eyes still followed his every
move.

He was sex on legs. Sex on very long legs.
Maybe thirty—with strong arms, and a smooth tanned back flexing in
the bright Kiwi sun as he polished the silver flanks of an
impeccable old Porsche.

She imagined running her hands over his taut
muscular body as sensuously as his were caressing the car.

Then, quick as a wink, her naughty brain
stripped the jeans off his very cute butt.

‘
Stop it Jetta!’
she snapped at
herself, adding a couple of frustrated curses as hot little ripples
of pleasure pulsed between her thighs. Why did she feel like this
when she couldn’t do anything about it? Her body might be bursting
with lust but her brain always put the brakes on. In twenty-six
years, she’d had exactly one night of sex.

And it had been terrible.

Chapter One

A week later Jetta swiped at a trickle of
tears and drew a deep determined breath. The house she’d just
inherited was far from beautiful—Grandma’s loving welcomes had
somehow disguised the awful details and softened the
scruffiness.

But it was hers now, and chipping up the old
kitchen floor with Grandpa’s spade was only the first of dozens of
jobs she had planned.

Wincing at her new blisters, she gathered up
some of the larger pieces of linoleum, carried them along the
hallway, and threw her armful of rubbish onto the growing heap
beside the path. Then she took a few gulps of fresh summer air
before retreating to the dusty kitchen.

“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!