Resisting Nick (Wicked in Wellington) (26 page)

He sucked in a deep breath and tried to drag his brain onto something else.

His eyes drifted to the legs of a high-heeled blonde as she edged through a nearby doorway with a sign-board. The wind tugged at the long tendrils of her hair, concealing part of her face with a sexy golden veil, but still something about her seemed familiar.
 

Then the hem of her filmy blue skirt flipped up and Rafe sharpened his attention.
 

To the girl’s obvious consternation the sign-board started to collapse, and he easily lip-read her short sharp curse. His mouth quirked at her frustration, and he watched as she batted at her flying hair with one hand and clutched the sign with the other.

Recognition streaked through him then—an assistant of Faye’s. Josie or Susie, something like that. Maybe his ambitious ex-wife had new premises he didn’t know about? Was she going up in the world or down?

A combination of curiosity and his grandmother’s long-ingrained code of chivalry made him turn the big car into a vacant space and kill the engine and the music. At that instant a more vigorous gust of wind wrenched the sign right out of the girl’s hands and flung it onto the sidewalk. The two halves parted company and she jumped onto one to hold it down, for all the world like a child playing hopscotch. The other flew up and hit the front of his car.
 

There was a bang. A crunch. A sound that could only mean bad news. Rafe added his own curse to hers and swung his long body out. He closed the door with a savage ‘thunk’ and strode around to assess the damage.

The girl stayed frozen, all legs and flying skirt and hair, as though she was perched on her own little surfboard.

Once she’d gathered the gleaming strands up in both hands her mouth became a perfect ‘o’ of horror and her eyes grew almost as round.
 

Rafe’s quick inspection confirmed his corner light needed repairing in a hurry. He shot her a glacial glare. “Nice work.”
 

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a crushed voice.

Not trusting himself to speak further, he dug out his mobile and started running through the pre-sets to find the Jaguar dealer.

“So,
so
sorry,” she repeated. “I’ll pay for it somehow.”

“Of course you will.”

“It was a total accident,” she added with a hint of defensiveness.
 

Rafe held up a hand to silence her as the dealership answered. He turned away to conduct his conversation and concluded it with, “Around two? Thanks buddy—I owe you.”

He returned his gaze to the girl. She stood very straight now, clutching her half of the sign with an absolute death-grip and looking as though she expected the guillotine blade to fall any second.
 

Christ man, lighten up! It wasn’t her fault and they can fix the car this afternoon.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, softening his manner as he took in her obvious panic. “No-one’s fault. It was only the thought of not being able to use the car tonight.”

“Bad things seem to happen in threes,” she said. “At least that’s the whole three out of the way. First your light. Then not being able to use your car. And third, my broken sign. I really need that sign.”

***

Seduction on the Cards

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.

Praise for
Seduction on the Cards

Seduction on the Cards
is a
fast-paced, steamy read
that had me totally engrossed from beginning to end. I enjoyed the sprinkling of humour and the Alex is simply the sexiest French hero ever. Loved it—can’t wait for this author’s next book, I’m hooked. (Amazon)

I enjoyed this from first to last. It is
entertaining, sexy and at times very funny
. Kris Pearson has a wonderful way with words. (Amazon)

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.

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.
 

***

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.

Praise for
The Wrong Sister

I am not really the romance reading type of person, but
this book was fantastic
. Loved every minute of it and even though I was pretty sure how it was going to end it still caught me off guard. I will be adding Kris Pearson to my favorite author list! Can’t wait to read more!
(Amazon)

…conflict abounds in this
heartwarming romance
crafted by Kris Pearson. I found myself alternately cheering and then wiping away tears and at times I couldn’t see how this story could end happily. Timing and circumstance were stacked against these lovers
(Amazon)

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 bit 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.

Fiona felt the heat of his body radiating across the small space between them as she 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. She knew 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?

***

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.