by Karina Bliss
“I’m normally quite good at this.”
“I’ll add Casanova to the list—right after intimidating thug,” Kate shot back.
“Let me start again,” Jordan said quietly. “I trusted a woman I shouldn’t have. But it was a mistake and I’m gutted by the impact on her family, which is why I haven’t compounded their misery by publicly calling their mother a liar.” He stepped closer. “Anything else?”
Kate struggled to return some sanity to the conversation. “You hardly know me.”
“Not yet,” Jordan admitted generously. “But I want to know you. And know you very well.”
“You want to sleep with me you mean,” she said to disconcert him. The man was insufferable.
His gaze swept her curves like a blue searchlight. “Hell, yes.”
Dear Reader,
The idea for this book came years ago when six couples, including Trevor and me, did a four-day canoeing trip on the same stretch of Whanganui River that Kate and Jordan navigate in these pages.
Blithely we set out, unaware of the physical and mental stamina required for the trip. And boy, did every woman end up squabbling with her man. The hardest part was in trusting your honey to steer you safely through the rapids, because we’re not talking Jordan King here; we’re talking complete novices.
What a great situation for conflict, I thought, listening to the relationship-testing arguments.
Trevor and I were the only ones who didn’t have a fight, which confirmed for me that he was the One (convincing him took a year or two longer).
I hope you also enjoy meeting Kezia and Christian (Mr. Imperfect) again—and Luke, the last Lost Boy.
Karina Bliss
MR. IRRESISTIBLE
Karina Bliss
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karina Bliss figured she was meant to be a writer when at age twelve she began writing character sketches of her classmates. But a scary birthday milestone had to pass before she understood that achieving a childhood dream required more commitment than “when I grow up I’m going to be.” It took this New Zealand journalist—a Golden Heart and Clendon Award winner—five years of “seriously writing” to get a book contract, a process she says helped put childbirth into perspective.
She lives with her partner and their son north of Auckland. Visit her on the Web at www.karinabliss.com.
Books by Karina Bliss
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1373—MR. IMPERFECT
To Trevor,
The reason I believe in true love is you. And to our son, Jordan, who I thought would really like to have a hero named after him.
Acknowledgments
This book owes a lot to the support of Daphne Clair and Robyn Donald of Kara Writing School; Barbara and Peter Clendon and the readers of Barbara’s Books who encouraged me with the Clendon Award; Kathy Ombler for her help with Whanganui River research; my critique buddies, the incomparable Writegals; and Romance Writers of New Zealand and its founder, Jean Drew.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
SCANDAL.
The fashionable Auckland restaurant reeked of it, along with Chanel, the fruitiness of Chianti and mouthwatering stone-grilled meats so calorie-loaded Kate Brogan tried not to inhale too deeply. She was saving herself for the tiramisu.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that Lucy was late, as usual. Kate drained her water glass and caught the eye of the waiter hovering on the edge of the terraced courtyard, ostensibly enjoying the sunshine between duties, but plainly checking out his female patrons.
“Signorina?” Despite the fact that his taste clearly ran to full-breasted blondes, he was all politeness.
Kate smiled, her amusement growing as she watched him up her babe rating. “Antipasto for two and the dessert menu, please.” Lucy might have the afternoon to play, but Kate had a deadline to meet.
While she waited, she scanned the place for diversion. This overpriced restaurant, its patrons a self-conscious mix of chic wives and corporate raiders, had always been a good hunting ground for her weekly newspaper column.
Across the courtyard a jacaranda daubed the diners in patches of sunshine and shade, while bright-eyed sparrows perched in its branches, quicker than the waiters to clear an empty table.
To her left an overripe politician devoured a much younger woman with his eyes, while his fat, moist hands stroked her upturned palms. Recognizing Kate, he froze.
She raised her glass to him, and Diggory scowled. Eighteen months earlier he’d lost his ministerial portfolio after investigations proved his taxpayer-funded business trips had doubled as dalliances with his personal assistant. Investigations sparked by one of Kate’s newspaper columns, “More Bang(ing) for Your Tax Buck?”
To her surprise, he got up and came over. “You’re back.”
“And nothing’s changed,” she said dryly. “You can’t be faithful to your mistress, let alone your wife.”
“Margo left me,” he retorted. “I can date whom I like. Since you’ve been overseas, I presume you missed my good news.” He smiled, revealing smoker’s teeth. “I was reelected last week.” Kate sat back, stunned, and his smirk broadened. “Don’t you want to congratulate me?”
“How did you rig that?”
Diggory’s expression hardened but his tone remained pleasant. “A little breast-beating…public involvement with good causes…. People love a reformed sinner. I won by a landslide. What does that tell you?”
Her tone was equally pleasant. “That cockroaches have more lives than cats.”
Diggory stopped smiling. “Now who’s being a poor loser?” He leaned so close, she could smell the garlic on his breath. “It tells you, missy, that you don’t get the last word.”
“Your wife left you, didn’t she?”
For a moment Kate saw violence in his eyes, then Diggory shrugged and stepped back. “I recommend the humble pie.”
He left and, under the table, Kate unclenched her fists. Her hands trembled slightly and she frowned, not wanting to give him another victory. He’d still be sitting on the backbenches for the rest of his parliamentary career. But she drummed her fingers on her knees in frustration.
As she brooded, her gaze fell on a mismatched couple across the courtyard. The woman, whose iron-gray hair was cropped short, addressed her younger male companion in a manner as crisp as the white blouse under her navy power suit.
Jordan King. His size, looks and silky blond hair, which fell extravagantly past his very broad shoulders, would have distinguished him in any crowd. But in this conservative stronghold he looked like a peacock among pigeons. Sprawling on a chair that seemed too small to hold him, in his well-worn suede jacket and faded denim shirt, conspicuously in need of an iron.
His powerful fingers toyed with the delicate filigree ironwork of an adjacent chair, the softness of his hair at odds with his profile—all strong lines and clean angles. Despite the fair hair, his skin was tanned the translucent brown of wild honey.
By rights Jordan King should be gay.
The tabloids made it very plain he was not. He was also the only person in the history of Kate’s influ
ential column to turn down a personal profile. She could have accepted it if the tourism entrepreneur’s refusal hadn’t been so blunt. When she’d pressed, he’d said; “I wouldn’t be comfortable doing the touchy-feely stuff.”
Then he’d added insult to injury by asking her for a date.
“I wouldn’t be comfortable doing the touchy-feely stuff,” she’d retorted.
He’d laughed. “This is exactly why I don’t give interviews…my comments are always taken out of context.”
Six months later a bouquet of roses had arrived with Jordan’s number and a note: “If you change your mind.” As if.
Still, there was a slight smile on her lips when Jordan turned his head and recognized her. He smiled, too, eyes the blue of arctic ice sweeping over her, insolent in their frank appraisal. Kate frowned and crossed her arms, before realizing that only accentuated her cleavage under the open-necked green shirt.
His gaze lifted to meet hers and his message was direct, sexy and very explicit.
Hot color flooded her cheeks. He thought she’d been trying to pick him up, and his answer was definitely yes. She straightened and shot back a glacial look.
He shrugged, utterly arrogant, and turned back to his companion. The woman shook her head, said something.
Jordan responded with a wolfish grin, then glanced again at Kate, mouthing, “Coward.” Adjusting his chair, he turned away and casually resumed his conversation.
Her mouth fell open. Picking up a linen napkin, she crumpled it tightly. No one should be so…so raw. There was no other word for it. He was blatant in his looks, in his invitation and in his dismissal.
“Get a haircut,” she growled, and felt much better.
Tray in hand, her waiter approached, swerving sharply to avoid a collision with the slim brunette in a scarlet dress who was also intent on reaching the table.
Lucy sank into the chair opposite Kate. “Sorry I’m late.” She peeled tendrils of long dark hair back from her overheated face. “She ordered for me, didn’t she?” At the waiter’s nod, she turned to Kate. “I was stuck in another postproduction meeting.” A researcher for television news, Lucy often fed Kate leads the state broadcaster turned down as too hot.
“Don’t worry, I filled in the time people watching.” The waiter started unloading the tray and Kate reached for a sun-dried tomato. “Jordan King caught me staring and thought I was trying to pick him up.”
“He’s here? You’re kidding me.” Lucy swung around in her chair, then turned back, incredulous. “If I’d done what he’s done, I’d go bush for a few weeks—or wherever he hides out when he’s not empire building.”
Obviously intrigued, the waiter busied himself with removing the extra cutlery.
“What did I miss?” Kate offered Lucy the focaccia, then took a slice herself. Jordan King built Triton Holdings from a small river-rafting company started with two university friends into a huge tourism conglomerate. Kate’s boyfriend, Peter Walker, was contracted to develop accountancy software for Triton, but rarely mentioned King.
Lucy’s silver bracelets jingled as she leaned forward, and Kate looked pointedly at the waiter, who had dropped any pretense of table clearing. He left reluctantly.
“He was caught in bed with a married woman…by her husband,” Lucy said in a hushed voice. “Six months later, the couple is in the middle of a divorce and hubby has gone to the media, giving all the salacious details. He’s bent on revenge, I’m guessing because he lost out on full custody.”
The bread stuck in Kate’s throat. She washed it down with a sip of water, aware of a strange disappointment. She didn’t like King, after all. “Those poor kids,” she said.
The two friends ate in a thoughtful silence.
“Wait a minute.” Kate paused with an olive halfway to her mouth. “Isn’t Jordan involved in setting up a holiday camp for children from broken homes?”
“Yes, that’s what burns me up about it—the hypocrisy.” Lucy brightened as she looked at Kate. “What a perfect topic for your column.”
Kate ate the olive. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m writing light and frivolous this week. No more crusades.” And she avoided the subject of infidelity, because she didn’t trust herself to be dispassionate about it.
“Oh, my God.” Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth. “I just remembered we’re here to celebrate your new independence. How was Australia? Did your baby sister settle in okay? More importantly, how do you feel?”
“Courtney loves the Townsville campus, and we found her some great roommates.” Kate passed Lucy a dessert menu, and to her relief, her friend opened it. “And when I flew home on Sunday a postcard was waiting from Danny.” She grinned. “I suspect my new sister-in-law is behind that thoughtfulness. They’re having a wonderful honeymoon and—”
“I said how do you feel?” Lucy shut the menu.
Kate opened hers. “Great, absolutely fantastic.”
Lucy reached across the table for her hand. “Sweetie, you’ve played mum to your brother and sister for years. Of course you’re missing them.”
To Kate’s horror, she felt the prickle of tears. “I need to visit the bathroom. Order me the tiramisu, will you?”
In the ladies’ room, she locked the cubicle door, leaned against it and cried—short, sharp sobs she tried to smother with toilet tissue. She was twenty-eight years old, for the first time in her life she had no dependents, and she hated it.
Hated not making dinner for three, hated not buying washing powder in bulk, hated finding the apartment still tidy when she came home from work. Last night, when she’d got stuck on the cryptic crossword, she’d called out the clue…before remembering they’d gone.
She’d expected to be dancing for joy. Instead, she felt like she was missing her limbs.
Wiping her eyes with the damp tissue, Kate glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. She was taking too long. Blowing her nose, she washed her face at the basin and checked her appearance critically in the gilt-framed mirror.
Low heels, nondescript black pants, tailored shirt and a man’s watch. Clean and tidy. Early responsibility had given her a pragmatic approach to clothes, though she always wore labels. They lasted longer.
She touched up her nude lipstick and dragged a comb through her short wavy hair, frowning at how red it looked under the lights. She was a brunette, damn it.
A button had popped open on her shirt; Kate did up two for good measure. Satisfied, she stepped into the corridor.
A door had been left open to the tiny utility courtyard, where crates of empty wine bottles were stacked alongside big bins. Leaves flew in on a gust of wind, and Kate went to close it. A shadow stretched across the doorway and she stopped.
Jordan King came into view, a cell phone pressed to his ear. “I’m sure if I lie low, stick with ‘no comment,’ it’ll blow over…. Yes, Christian, I know how to lie low. Where am I?” He grinned. “Meg and I are having a quiet bite at Amici’s.” Jordan laughed and held the phone away for a moment. “Okay, okay, I’ll make more of an effort. But no denials. I’m not compounding my error of screwing a married woman by lying about it.”
Kate had heard enough. Returning to the table, she found Lucy stealing a spoonful of her dessert. Her friend’s eyes widened when she saw Kate’s expression. “It was only a mouthful,” she said feebly.
“It’s yours. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Listen, I was thinking…this is your opportunity to break out and have some fun.” Lucy frowned at Kate’s buttoned-up shirt. “I’ve got the afternoon off, you work flexible hours. Let’s go buy you some sexy clothes.”
Marking King’s return to his table, Kate shook her head. “I’ve got a column to write.” Women everywhere stopped talking to watch him. All Kate saw was a lowlife.
“Tonight then?”
She dragged her attention back to Lucy. “Pete’s taking me out.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “That wet blanket. Trade him in for a real man before he bores you to death.”
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Involuntarily, Kate’s gaze returned to Jordan. Diggory walked past with his date, and for a moment the prince and the frog were both in view. She narrowed her eyes and pulled a notebook and pen out of her bag.
“In medieval times you could pay to have your sins forgiven,” she wrote, holding up a finger at Lucy, who rolled her eyes and went back to eating Kate’s tiramisu. “The practice was called indulgences—possibly because you got to keep indulging your bad habits.
“These days the morally bankrupt buy a new image by making a hefty donation of time or money to charity.”
She stopped and chewed on her pen, then scrawled the headline. “Do You Want Absolution with That?”
CHAPTER TWO
“GOOD GOD.”
Kate grimaced at the shock on Peter’s face as he stood at the door. She turned back to the hall mirror. “Too much?”
In deference to the formality of the occasion—a dinner dance given by Peter’s software firm for clients—she’d reluctantly put on a skirt. Long, straight and black, its severity was offset by a halter-necked top of heavy white silk.
Looking at the expanse of bare skin and the generous cleavage the top revealed, she chewed her bottom lip. Lucy had insisted she borrow it. “I’m going to change.”
“You can’t, we’ll be late. But…have you got a coat or something?”
Grabbing a crimson silk shawl from an adjacent chair, she wrapped it firmly around her shoulders. “Remind me never to let Lucy loose on me again.”
“I’m surprised she talked you into wearing something like that,” Peter confessed as he watched her lock the front door. “It’s not your style at all.”
