The Wrong Sister(71)

Bet he does lots of weight training.

“Second, I received a most important phone-call only seconds before I was to speak. Happily I can return to that in a few minutes.”

The crowd chuckled and nodded.

“And third, our proceedings were delayed by a charming young lady whose ticklish throat decided to misbehave at the wrong moment.”

You bastard! I’ve only just got myself together and you’re poking insults at me again.

She dropped her gaze to the floor as everyone’s eyes once more swiveled in her direction as though she’d just smashed a killer forehand on Wimbledon’s centre court.

So he’d picked her out to make fun of? She really didn’t need that. She was tired, horribly broke, unfed apart from that one fateful cracker-biscuit, and filling in for someone else anyway. The last thing she wanted was any more agro.

“But each of these is a small disruption indeed compared to the upheaval families suffer when gambling gets out of hand,” Alexandre continued. “Kiwis are willing to bet on anything. Slot machines whirr and jangle constantly in the gaming rooms of bars. Your casinos attract both international and local punters to their blackjack tables and roulette wheels. You can legally place bets on horses and greyhounds and the outcomes of any number of sports events. There are card-games and lotteries and various other activities that are dangerously addictive to many people.”

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 got 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...