by Kris Pearson
She hurled herself against him, not caring who saw.
Lottie greeted her from the back seat of the SUV.
“Katie, is so good you’re back. He has been like the bear with the sore head,” she said, wagging a finger at Matthew.
Kate could well believe it—she’d been like the bear with the sore head herself.
They drove the few miles out to the house, everything sparkling under the low sun.
This time Matthew took pleasure in hefting her suitcases into the main bedroom.
And Kate stopped dead.
On the wall were his two big sketches, beautifully framed, looking wonderfully right. “Angels over both our beds,” he said.
“I looked everywhere for those,” she exclaimed. “If you’d seen some of the searching I did while you were out, you really would have had grounds for suspicion. Where on earth did you hide them?”
Matthew shook his head, smiling at her frustration.
Lottie took pity on her later over dinner.
“He told me when he brought them home,” she said. “Straight into the car and off to the picture framers. They were never here for you to find.”
“So the ‘spy from the north’ didn’t stand a chance?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why on earth didn’t you just talk to me?” she demanded. “I was the marketing assistant for a breakfast cereals company, for heaven’s sake. I can tell you heaps about oat-bran and dried apricots and the merits of foil over cardboard packaging. And all about yoghurt-covered raisins and how cornflakes get made. But I haven’t a clue about internet services or anything else to do with telecommunications.”
He looked ever so slightly abashed. “Well, why didn’t you ask me if Lottie was my wife?” he countered.
“I didn’t want to give you ideas.”
“I already had ideas.”
“Yes, I know. So did I.”
Lottie grinned at her brother and then patted Kate’s hand. “So my helper is back again. Plenty of work tomorrow Kate. I think I have an early night.”
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!
She wouldn’t shake his hand.
She wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.
“Didn’t you know?” He telescoped down to a squat—no point in making her even more nervous. She was younger than he’d expected. Looked a lot younger than Horrie Winters had said, and in tota
l denial.
“Know what?” Her words came out in an anguished croak. Her knuckles shone white with the death-grip she had around the old spade handle.
Anton shrugged. “That I even existed, by the look of things. That the house was left to the two of us, fifty-fifty?”
“The house was left to me,” she snapped. “Gran told me again and again it would be mine after she’d gone.”
“Your Gran,” he said, choosing the words with care, “was a long way from her original self. I gather she had dementia and didn’t know what was going on half the time.”
A variety of expressions flitted over the girl’s small dusty face. Disbelief. Outrage. Acceptance for her grandmother’s condition, but not yet for the shared ownership of the old timber bungalow.
“Gran worried about a lot of funny stuff,” she agreed with apparent reluctance. “I didn’t think she was too bad until a couple of months ago.”
“Your Grand-dad arranged for their solicitor, Horrie Winters, to have Power of Attorney,” Anton said. “Way back before he died, because he wanted her looked after. He didn’t want to burden you.”
“Five years ago?” Her eyes accused Anton of crimes he’d never committed. “So why didn’t this lawyer give Gran more money? Her clothes were in rags. I was shocked when I went through her wardrobe.”
Anton shrugged again, wanting to stand. “She should have been fine. She had her pension for food and clothing. Horrie had all the household bills direct-debited from a bank account. I know that much.”
Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “How do you know? She was my grandmother!”
He sighed. He was in no mood to be cross-examined by a girl he’d never met about an old lady he knew only the barest details of.
“Didn’t you keep in touch with Horrie?” He hoped his exasperation wasn’t too obvious.
“I’ve never heard of him. I thought now Gran was dead I’d get a letter from someone confirming the details of my inheritance. My inheritance,” she insisted. “My house I’m going to renovate and live in.”
