Seduction on the Cards (2 page)

He paused a second or two. And then with consummate effect added, “My New Zealand-born mother, Isabelle, was among those unfortunate souls.” 

There were some gasps at this, and Kerri’s wide brown eyes raced back to lock with his dark blue ones. That was quite an admission he’d just made—and an excellent angle for the article she’d been so hurriedly assigned to write.

“You can have no idea,” he continued, “how difficult it was being the son of a compulsive gambler. Sometimes there was money for dinner, and sometimes not. When her luck was in, my mother was the happiest woman in the world. When her luck ran out, and the money ran out, she was among the most desolate.” 

With those few devastating words he’d snared the sympathy of the whole room. Kerri tried to imagine such a big confident man as a scared and hungry little boy. It was impossible.  

Her attention drifted away from his message. As he continued to speak all she noticed was the movement of his throat, the gleam of his dark hair, the fervor in his eyes and the proud angle of his head. Even though she was still furious at being singled out as a target, she had to concede he was beautiful. She could have watched him for hours.

She jerked from her daydream as a camera flashed. Apparently his speech had ended because everyone was applauding. She clapped along with the others, hoping she could slip off somewhere to repair her makeup before it was time to interview hunky, bossy Monsieur Beaufort with the know-it-all granny. For sure she wasn’t going to let him see her up close again looking like this. 

Lydia seemed a helpful sort. Kerri tracked her down and was directed to the ladies powder-room. And yes, darn it, the damage was considerable.

She tidied her long dark hair and splashed cold water onto her flushed face, then got rid of the worst of the mascara smudges with a paper towel and a dribble of liquid soap. 

Bet this isn’t doing my skin any good.

Sighing, she resorted to the old mineral-powder compact in her briefcase to calm down the hectic color that remained stubbornly in her face even after the cold-water treatment. 

Lip-gloss and another coat of mascara helped, but she still felt as though she’d been through the wringer—and worse, looked as though she had.

As her hand reached for the door knob, another trickle of unease rippled all the way down to her toes.

Get a grip, Kerri,
she snapped at herself.
It’s only a building. You’re here to work. After this you’ll never have to see him again.

She took three deep breaths, sensed no hint of returning hiccups, and went out to face the Frenchman.

Alexandre leaned back in the swivel chair and hiked an ankle up over his opposite knee. He swung the chair back and forth. Where had his hiccupping journalist gone to?

Lydia had been adamant about keeping to a tight schedule. Time for drinks, time for speeches, time for photographs, time for interviews. If the ferry had docked on schedule things would have run perfectly. That he’d had to appear in his travelling clothes was a minor glitch in the bigger scheme of things. His invited guests had still listened, the TV crew had still recorded, and the building had still been admired.  

Indeed, perhaps the road-trip could be turned to his advantage? Maybe people would like to know that he’d enjoyed exploring the amazing New Zealand countryside up close and personal? He certainly didn’t want to be seen as a moneyed fat-cat ensconced in limousined luxury. Yes, Miss Hiccups might be persuaded to mention his trip...

Someone knocked on the half-open door.

“Oiu?” Alexandre stopped his swiveling and placed both booted feet on the floor. 

Miss Hiccups walked towards him in her seductive scarlet stilettos. She thrust out her hand. He noticed it was a very small and delicate hand; the shoes transformed her into a much taller woman than she really was.

Deciding a dash of French charm was called for he stood and enclosed her little hand in his own much larger one, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers.

“I bet you do that to all the women,” she said.

“Not the very ugly ones.” He arched a dark eyebrow for good measure.

Miss Hiccups grabbed her hand back, produced her business card and took a deep breath. Alexandre’s eyes zeroed in on the pale upper slopes of her breasts, framed by the lapels of her black suit jacket. His groin buzzed.

No blouse. A silky camisole maybe? A lacy scrap of a bra? Anything at all? 

He cleared his throat, averted his gaze, and eased the little card from her outstretched fingers.

“I’m very pleased to see you’ve made a full recovery, Miss...Kerrigan Lush.”

“It takes more than a coughing fit to wipe me out,” she said, dredging up a business-interview smile.

“And those extraordinary hiccups? Quite the most impressive I’ve ever seen or heard.”

“Are you trying to wind me up?” she demanded, smile waning. “I’m here to write a nice flattering story about you, but if you want a nasty one I can always oblige.”  

Alexandre suppressed his answering grin and waved her into the other chair.

“As fierce as a tiger,” he said, shaking his head.

She drew another sharp breath, which gave him the pleasure of her breasts rising between the black lapels again. Then she slapped the mini-recorder down just a little too hard on his desktop.

“Please, not until I’ve finished complimenting you,” he said, eyeing the small machine.

“If that’s your idea of being polite, you’re on the wrong track.”

“You look more a tiger than a meek little pussy cat.”  

“Damn right! You’re a control-freak. I don’t like being bossed around in front of other people. Who said you could grab my neck and force my head down when I had the hiccups? I almost overbalanced.” 

“In shoes like those, I imagine it would be easy...” He cast an admiring glance down to her ankles.

“Try being five-foot-three. I bet you wouldn’t like it,” she said, running her scorching gaze down his very long legs in return.  

Alexandre imagined he felt the leather burn and crisp around his thighs, his knees, his calves, and ankles in turn. Did those gorgeous big brown eyes have built-in lasers?  

“Miss Lush,” he began.

“Ms.”

“Ms Lush. I was perhaps hoping you were single?”

She rolled her eyes at that. “I just bet you were.” 

“You do a lot of betting, Ms Lush. In less than sixty seconds you’ve bet I kiss the hand of every woman I meet...that I wouldn’t like being five-foot-three, and that I was hoping you were single.”

Another sharp breath. Another delightful lift of her outraged breasts.

“No, I wasn’t betting you hoped I was single. I was being...facetious.”

He hid a further smile. “But you’re still a betting woman?”

“I like a little flutter,” she allowed. “A few dollars each way on the horses, a lottery ticket now and then. Normal Kiwi stuff.”

“And that’s where the danger lies,” he couldn’t help inserting. “So many people get swept up in the excitement of gambling they take ever more unwise chances. You’re not one of these unwise people, Ms Lush?”

“Oh for God’s sake, call me Kerri. Ms Lush sounds like an old-fashioned school-teacher.”

Alex leaned back in his chair and finally allowed his grin to show. “A very curvaceous one, possibly. So you prefer Kerri to Kerrigan? And yet Kerrigan is pretty and most unusual.”

“My mother’s maiden name. Her surname. I was supposed to be a boy.”

“Which would have robbed the world of a beautiful woman.”

“Oh puh-
lease..
.” She reached out and clicked the little recorder on.

“So the flirting really is done and now it’s on to business?” he asked, enjoying the faint flush staining her cheeks. Enjoying more than that, if he was honest. Kerri Lush looked like a firecracker about to explode. Small but delightfully dangerous. Her eyes sparkled with intense tawny fire. Her hair swirled around her head in a bouncing dark cloud. It appeared to have very fine bright streaks running through it at least as red as her sexy shoes.  

“Yes, business,” she snapped. “This is scheduled to appear in the Saturday morning paper. We run a lift-out called ‘People’—feel-good stories and so on.”

“And I’m a feel-good story?”

“Well, you’ve donated a whole building to a very worthy cause. I presume you didn’t do it only because there’d be tax advantages to the deal?”

Alex tucked his tongue into his cheek at such candor.

“Are there?” he asked, with the most innocent expression he could manage.

Kerri sent him a look of disbelief.

“Well, perhaps there are, but it was more to honor my mother’s memory.”

“The Isabelle Beaufort Centre—I’m sure she’d be pleased. You said she was a compulsive gambler, so I presume you didn’t have much money to start with?”

He nodded, and waited for her next question.

“So how did you get it?” She bit her lip and managed to look curiously contrite. “I’m sorry—that sounds terrible. I’m afraid I don’t know much about you yet.”

Alex wondered how he could deflect her interest. That was the question he had no intention of answering. But the prickle of unease shimmied away as she added, “The journalist who was supposed to be doing this interview went into premature labor at lunchtime and your story was re-assigned to me in a hurry. I’ll bet she’s not having a great time of it right now.”

“You’re making bets again, Ms Kerrigan Lush.”

“For heaven’s sake, it’s only a figure of speech!” 

“Touchy,” he teased. “Positively defensive.” Relieved the initial source of his wealth had been glossed-over, he hoped it would stay that way.

“I’m not trying to hide the fact I gamble a little. Everyone gambles on something. I don’t gamble on stupid stuff.”

“So what odds do you consider acceptable?”

She narrowed her eyes, and Alexandre could have sworn he felt them cutting right into his flesh. He was enjoying their sharp exchange more than he’d enjoyed anything in months. Something about her was so
alive.

“Not Russian Roulette—six to one is beyond a joke.”

“Ten to one?”

“Getting better. Still not good.”

“For example?” He leaned further forward in the chair, pleased with the excuse to watch her animated face a little longer before they got back to the interview.

“Well...” She pushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed upwards for a moment, thinking apparently of her friend who’d just been rushed to hospital. “The chances of getting a woman pregnant are about ten to one, I suppose. She’s only really fertile for about three days in every month. That’s one instance.”

“On those days the chances are a lot higher.”

“Right into Russian Roulette territory,” Kerri agreed. “Much more than that. But there are other factors—her age, her fertility, his fertility... And you have to know when those dangerous days are. She might not tell you. Could be you’d waste all that effort with huge odds against you.”

“I’ve never considered making love a wasted effort.”  

“Maybe your ‘odds’ aren’t all that huge, either,” she said with a naughty grin.

Alexandre exploded with laughter. “My ‘odds’ have never been found wanting,” he shot back.

“So you claim.”  

He watched as the expression of mischief faded from her lively face.

“Dammit,” she said, and took a deep breath. “This is terrible. We need to get back to the interview. I can’t write about your huge—er—odds, although our readers might be absolutely fascinated.” 

His laughter escaped again. Somehow, he felt freer on this far side of the world, away from the ever-increasing weight of his responsibilities in Europe. 

“Dinner, Ms Lush? I sense the conversation could be great fun. Are you free tonight, by any miracle?”

“What do you think the chances are?”

“About a hundred to one, but I’m asking anyway.”

She smiled, and kept him waiting a little longer. 

“That could be very pleasant, Monsieur Beaufort. As long as you don’t keep grilling me about my bad habits, of course. They’re not so
very
bad, you know.”

“And as long as I don’t try to get you pregnant, I suppose?” 

CHAPTER TWO

Alex bit the inside of his cheek at her outraged expression, and watched with enjoyment as she struggled to control her sassy tongue.  

She finally managed a cool “Not a hope in hell.” 

He sat there, strangely exhilarated. He considered himself a serious and responsible man. He was well-known in France, with an important position to guard, and he conducted his social life with rigid control. It felt amazing to be flirting with such ease and crossing the boundaries of decency without the restraining ropes of caution that usually held him back. Get her pregnant? Where had that come from?

Well,
not
get her pregnant. But that was really no better because it still conjured up visions of lips moving sensuously over aroused flesh...pleasure delayed or deflected, and therefore all the more delicious.

Something primal urged him on.

“You think?” he asked, pushing down with one foot so his chair rolled closer to hers until they were knee to knee. Their warm flesh pressed together, but she didn’t flinch away.

“You’re not much of a threat,” she taunted.

He wondered if this was her natural sass or a dare. The air thickened around them, and he sucked in a suddenly necessary breath. 

“I wasn’t planning to threaten you,” he murmured. “Just take you out to dinner.”

Her mouth curled at the corners as she stared him down, nodding slowly.

Then, unbelievably, she parted her thighs and pushed her own chair just a little closer. He heard the scratch of sheer stockings against leather—a small suggestive whisper—and felt her knee slide a few snug inches past his. He clamped his legs together, holding her there. Brown eyes flared to lock with blue.

Kerri registered what she’d just done and found undoing it was impossible. The grip of his long, strong, leather-clad thighs allowed no escape.