The Wrong Sister(70)

If she could have sunk through her patch of wine-spotted carpet, she would have. This not being an option, she took a grateful sip of water, swallowed, cleared her throat in the deafening silence, and gave another huge hiccup.

“Some more?” Lydia Herbert suggested.

Kerri obeyed.

“Sorry!” she gasped in Alexandre Beaufort’s direction. “Please ignore me if you can. Perhaps I’d better leave?”

“Good heavens, no,” Lydia Herbert murmured, placing a restraining hand on Kerri’s arm. “You’re here to interview Monsieur. Do stay.”

Kerri nodded, and hiccupped again, managing to hold the sound inside her rather better this time.

“I bet my mascara’s running,” she whispered.

“Hardly at all,” Lydia soothed.

“How much?” Kerri enquired, emitting an ear-splitting hiccup on the ‘how’.

Some of the audience had now given in to helpless laughter, and Alexandre Beaufort had still not started his speech. Indeed, he’d left the podium to stride toward her like a darkly dangerous road warrior, all sneer and scowl and quietly creaking leather.

Merde! she muttered. It was the only French curse she knew, and it summed up his disturbing effect on her perfectly.

The nearer he prowled, the taller he seemed. Way taller than her five foot three. Way more impressive than any other man in the room, despite his casual clothing.

She looked up into his heavy-lidded dark blue eyes and felt a delicious shimmer of danger thread itself through her embarrassment. Those eyes seemed to be suggesting all sorts of very private things they could do together.

Private things she’d never had much interest in until now. Private things that would require her to undo those sexy silver zippers in the black leather until she’d stripped him down to his no-doubt beautifully-tanned skin...

“My grandmere had a foolproof cure for hiccups,” he said, taking the glass of water from her and dragging her back to reality. “You drink it—like this.” He bent over and demonstrated.

“I’ll spill it,” she objected, as her skin-and-zippers fantasy went up in smoke.

“No more than the wine,” he suggested, placing a large hand on her nape and pressing so she was obliged to bend double. Being too out of breath to battle his insistence, Kerri found herself almost buried in his snug leather trousers. Hastily she began to drink the water.

“Swallow hard,” Alexandre Beaufort ordered.

Kerri didn’t see how she could swallow any other way with her head upside-down. Anyhow, her brain seemed to have gone on holiday, and she sensed that meek compliance was probably all that would get her through such a ridiculous situation. She managed half a dozen strangled gulps, which emptied the glass.

His hand slid to her shoulder and patted, in a way she found totally condescending. He allowed her to stand up again, and swept those all-seeing eyes over her hot and bothered face.

She seethed at being made to appear even more of a fool, and held her breath. The hiccups did not return.

“Good old Granny. Thank-you,” she finally snapped. Their eyes remained locked for a few extra electric seconds.

Bet it would feel good kissing that curly French-looking mouth...

A smattering of applause erupted from the rest of the room as the road warrior swept back to his microphone.

Kerri stared with resentment at his broad shoulders and very long legs as he walked away from her. The soft leather flexed around a powerful body that escaped being bulky because of his height.

God—those shoulders...that accent...those eyes...

She trembled all over but had no idea if it was from anger or suddenly wakened lust.

Kerri didn’t do lust. Had never met a man who affected her like this one so inconveniently did.

She tried to cut him down to size in her fevered brain. He was only someone she’d been sent to interview. Full of himself, obviously. Arrogant enough to make her teeth curl.

What kind of man attended a formal occasion dressed this way? How did he expect anyone to take him seriously in head-to-toe biker gear?

But as Alexandre Beaufort turned to his audience Kerri saw he was deadly serious. His sapphire eyes roved around the room until he had total attention. The silence became absolute.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “We have now had three examples of how easily life can be disrupted. First, the Wellington arrival of your inter-island ferry was unexpectedly delayed. I’ve been touring your beautiful South Island by motor-cycle, and have had no time to change my clothing for this auspicious occasion. I am literally ‘off the boat’.”

He ripped the long front zipper of his jacket open and spread his arms wide to indicate his embarrassment. There was a murmur of understanding and forgiveness from his audience. As the leather swung apart, Kerri’s eyes zeroed in on the white T-shirt stretched over his beautifully defined chest.