I want to give you both my blessing. She’s my sister, my blood, my best friend. She would love Nicky as though she was her own. When I’m gone, you must build a new life. If Fiona is your choice, that will be perfect.
Show the people who need to see this.
Show Fiona.
All my love always,
Your Jan.
THE END
‘Seduction on the Cards’—now available on Amazon.
http://amzn.com/B006FEABQS
CHAPTER ONE
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.”