Her Man with Iceberg Eyes

by Kris Pearson

  “Our inheritance,” Anton corrected, trying not to sound too sharp. “Old Lucy had the house for her lifetime. Now it comes to us jointly.”

  “Hah! According to you. Who are you, anyway?”

  He adjusted his balance; squatting on his heels wasn’t easy. “Anton Piers Scott Haviland if you want the whole mouthful. Some sort of relation? A distant cousin I suppose? Sounds like you’ve never heard of me.”

  Her pretty mouth fell open and her eyes expanded to huge black pools of disbelief. Her spare hand grasped at the air as though she was clutching for sanity. She lurched up from the old chair and stared down at him in horror. “I don’t have any cousins,” she insisted. “There was my mother Margaret, and that was all. She had no brothers or sisters, so I’ve no cousins. Dad had one brother, but he left New Zealand and he’s been in Canada a long time now. Since...um ...”

  She started to tremble again, and Anton rose to his feet, too, seeing her tiny silver tassel earrings shaking and catching the light. Was she going into shock? What the hell should he do?

  ***

  Taken by the Sheikh

  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.

  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. Palmfronds 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 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 quickly 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 backward 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.

  Fingers trailed from her wrists to her elbows and back to her useless hands. It was almost a caress. Her heart thudded even more rapidly as the implication sank in.

  “Be still,” he muttered again. “We do not mean to hurt you as long as you cooperate.”

  With her shoulders flattened down under his chest, Laurel’s breasts were squashed against the floor. The man’s hips were exactly above hers. His bony pelvis ground against her bottom as the vehicle swayed and braked. A long hard thigh clamped either side of her own, pinning her down, holding her captive.

  And between those impressive thighs the firm masculine bulge felt all too obvious. Desolation engulfed her then.

  “Lie still and it will go easier for you,” he growled, lifting his upper torso off her which at least gave her poor breasts some relief.

  But the shift in weight drove his hips even more firmly into hers, and there was no escaping the intimate press of his body. She willed her legs to weld together as shattering images exploded across her brain.

  What did they want from her? One minute she’d been wandering happily in the sun, thinking of the children she was caring for, and inventing a family of her own. In an instant, future imaginings had been ripped away and replaced with the desperate danger of the present moment, and this cruel man, and not nearly enough air.

  Blind and half deaf, she used the senses she had left to get some sort of fix on her situation. There was him—who was strong and muscular because he now had her firmly confined. There was the driver. And there seemed to be another hoarse voice in the front seat, too. Presumably that was the man who’d grabbed her in the street and pushed her in to be held down by this one?

  So three of them at least. Awful odds. She didn’t stand a chance.

  ***

  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.

  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.

  Kerri hiccupped with surprise and clapped a hand across her mouth. The addictions councilor bustled up with a big glass of water—surely for the coughing and not the newly arrived hiccups? And Monsieur Beaufort smiled and said in the voice that had Kerri all on edge, “Young lady, you ‘ave stolen my thunder.”

  ***

  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.

  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-glimpse
d 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…

  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. 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.