The Wrong Sister (13 page)

Cool things down.
 

She thought about the words as dispassionately as she could as she lowered herself onto Jan’s bedroom stool.
 

Had he just been feeling sorry for her? Decided a sexy little thrill would cheer her up? Started to make love to her and then changed his mind because his conscience had got the better of him? Found her less than desirable after all? None of those options consoled her in the least.
 

Christian stood close behind her, brandishing the drier as though it was a large pistol.
 

“Oh, just do it,” she snapped, irritated, still imagining him charming his fellow travelers...smarting from his rejection of her. “Wave it around anywhere. It doesn’t much matter. No-one will see me except Nicky.”

He played the warm air over her head, ruffling his fingers through her hair and running them over her scalp. His touch still felt magical, however hard she tried to ignore the sensation. And his reflection behind her was a total turn-on. She could see he was still at least half-way aroused. He wore his nakedness easily. But then, Fiona thought, this was his bedroom—he was used to being naked here. Naked with her sister.
 

Get those pictures out of your frustrated
brain!
 

“Now some of this,” she muttered, indicating a pot of styling product. Christian unscrewed the lid and poked a finger into it.

“How much?”

She shrugged.

He rubbed a dab between his palms and smoothed them over her hair, tweaking to fluff and tumble it. Fiona tried hard not to enjoy his touch.

“First I paint your face. Now I style your hair,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “What’s the next step?”

Then you leave me.

She dredged up a slight smile from her very small reserve of composure. “Then you unlock the door and go and see how Kathy and Nicky are getting on.”

He shot her a long considering gaze in the mirror. She’d pulled back from him…already regretting their impulsive and passionate exploration of each other’s bodies.
 

Fiona had started it. Now she was ending it.
 

Don’t kid yourself, Christian Hartley—you were hard as hell and you let her know it. It wasn’t one-sided.
 

A loud thump suddenly echoed through the house. Fiona jumped under his hands. Another thump followed.

Christian silently blessed the diversion.

“Sounds as though the boys are onto it,” he said. “They were set to demolish the old side wall of the garage today.”
 

The thumping continued as he walked into the
en suite
and retrieved his white toweling robe. He belted it securely before facing her again. Not trusting himself to speak, he managed some sort of smile and let himself out of the room.

Fiona sat there for a long time, staring at her reflection and reviewing what had just happened. At least her hair looked better—Christian had done quite well. Her skin now had a much healthier flush to it, but the activity that had caused the glow was unlikely to be repeated. It felt a little easier to move after a further night’s sleep in the luxurious bed. Some of her injuries were itching, too—a sure sign of mending, her mother always said.
 

So her body was recovering, but her brain had been shot to pieces. Now her heart was a quivering mess as well. She castigated herself for reaching out to him as though she’d been losing her balance. She should have grabbed the chair-arms instead.
 

And she certainly shouldn’t have asked him if it was ‘her or just sex?’ Of course he’d gallantly answered it was her—what man would be stupid enough to say otherwise?
 

But after a little dalliance he’d made it plain he’d be leaving...putting a breathing space between them...‘cooling things down’.

She drew a deep regretful breath.

Christian planned to take her to the clinic next day before sending her parents an official progress report. Then he’d be gone from her life. At least she’d be able to fall apart in private. Kathy would keep Nicky occupied.
 

She decided to stay in the bedroom, resting and reading. Hopefully the books she’d bought a few days ago would stop her from dwelling too long on Christian’s hard-planed face, and sleepy black-coffee eyes, and silky hair.
 

And sexy scent, and deep voice, and strong hands, and sinful tongue and golden skin.

And long back, and muscular thighs, and taut belly with its enticing slim stripe of descending hair, and...

Get out of my thoughts!

This wasn’t going to be easy.
 

He’d demonstrated she was resistible. Given her a little treat and then abandoned her. Made it obvious he wanted no further involvement. Damn him!

She reached across and pulled out one of the drawers, retrieved a fresh nightgown and, trying not to gasp and grunt with pain, wriggled into it.

Suddenly the books held less appeal. She staggered back to bed and began scanning the blurbs on the back covers desperate for something—anything—to grab her imagination.

But nothing’s going to grab my imagination the way he does.

Christian dressed fast and high-tailed it out of the house only minutes later. After the enforced celibacy of Jan’s final decline, he felt wonderfully potent again. Never mind he’d not actually buried himself inside Fiona—he’d explored her beautiful body and brought her to full screaming orgasm. For now, that was enough.
 

More than enough.

Stupidly more than enough.

As he drove, he cursed his lack of restraint. However much he might want her, she was the wrong choice. The dangerous choice. He’d loved Jan and lost her. What if he lost Fiona the same way? Breast cancer ran in families; he’d not wanted to know the disgusting facts, but that one had sunk in and stuck.

You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself here Buddy. She’s not yours to lose. In no time she’ll be back on her fancy cruise-liner with plenty of other men sniffing around.

Snarling he snapped on the radio, found Metallica, and wound it up to warp speed. The music distracted him for a few minutes, but once he hit the long promenade of Oriental Parade he pulled over, turned off the radio, opened his laptop, and Googled breast cancer. What were her chances?

He read with growing unease that a woman at moderate risk had one chance in six of contracting it by the end of her life. Jesus! If Jan had died from it, surely that meant Fiona had at least a moderate risk. Maybe that made her
high
risk? He clamped a hand over his mouth and glared at the screen. One in six?

He skimmed on through the information, scowling at each unpleasant fact he uncovered. If she had the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene, the risk could be as high as 85%. He’d never heard of them. How common were they? Did she already have mutant cells lurking inside her gorgeous breasts? And what about Nicky in the future?

He raised his eyes from the screen and stared out across the harbor, seeing nothing of the sunlit water and the passing parade of runners and dog-walkers. Thick black dread settled over him like tar.

Soon after Fiona climbed back into bed there was a knock on her bedroom door. Kathy’s bright red hair and nonchalant face appeared.

“Christian—er—Mr Hartley said to bring you coffee,” she said, carrying a steaming mug across to the bed. Fiona noticed the easy use of his first name. Kathy seemed right at home. “And to let you know he’s decided to go to work for the rest of the day, seeing I’m here.”

Getting as far away from me as possible
.
 

She couldn’t blame him. They could hardly indulge in polite chit-chat after what had happened.

“I’ll get up and bring my book through to the big window-seat in a while then. Thanks for the coffee.”

For the rest of the day she lazed in the shifting sun, trying hard to lose herself in a murder mystery set in Venice and New York.

Kathy kept Nicola well occupied or napping. Amy Houndsworth mopped the floor and produced a delicious chicken pie for dinner, commenting on Fiona’s new hairstyle, and mentioning her own forthcoming visit to a sister in Australia when she noticed the book had been laid down. Construction noises drifted through from the workmen in the garage. And Christian stayed away, and away.

It was six-thirty before he re-appeared.

“I’ve bought Dad back for dinner”, he said, introducing his tall silver-haired father to Kathy.

Fiona blanched. The only time she’d met Christian Hartley Senior was at Jan’s wedding. She’d felt beautiful that day, but now she was slouched in her old robe, blotched with bruises, and without so much as a lick of lip-gloss.
 

She sat up straighter to shake his hand.

“You’ve been very lucky, I hear?”

“I’m indestructible,” she joked.
 

“That I doubt.” His brown eyes surveyed her keenly. Christian’s gaze exactly.

“I’m feeling very glad to be alive,” she conceded.

“I remember you looking more like Jan—almost her twin.” He released her hand.

“Different hairstyle,” she murmured.
 

“Very easy-care,” Christian contributed, tongue-in-cheek.

“You could almost do this yourself,” she shot back at him.

“Could be fun.” He sent her a slight wink—the merest twitch of an eyelid over a dark eye—and Fiona felt a sudden little spasm of pleasure bloom low in her belly. The man was far too desirable. Her body knew it for certain, even as her brain fought to put some distance between them.

“Ganda!”

“Is that my Nicky?” Christian Senior asked, turning aside to play peek-a-boo with Nicky around the corner of the couch.

Seeing the chance to escape, Fiona levered herself to her feet and grabbed for her crutches. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes,” she said, “I’ll just get changed for dinner, seeing we have company.”

“Not on Dad’s account, I hope?”

Fiona smiled vaguely and shook her head. “On
my
account, Christian. It’ll make me feel much better.”

“Shall I get the chair?”

“I’ll be fine.” She started to limp across the room, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Wait a few seconds, Fee. That’s all it’ll take.” He came back wheeling his office chair almost instantly. Sighing, she sat. He pushed her along the wide hallway.

“Stop trying to look after me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m very happy looking after you.”

“I’m not yours to look after.”

“You are for the next day or two.”
 

But that’s all
, she felt like adding.
 

They reached the bedroom.

“I’ll come back for you in a few minutes.”

“There’s no need.”

But by the time he returned, Fiona had curled up on the bed, sobbing in frustration.
 

“I can’t get my bra done up,” she hiccupped, feeling ridiculous to be upset by such a small thing.

She saw Christian trying to suppress a smile.
 

“I’m good at bras.”

She snorted, and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll just bet you are.”
 

She turned her back on him.

He smoothed his hands down her spine and grasped the fastenings of the flimsy scrap of lace. He might have had every intention of helpfully hooking the ends together, but somehow his lips settled onto the back of her neck and wandered along her shoulder. And his fingers let go of the lace and slid around her ribcage to cover her breasts and caress her nipples. She felt them harden under his thumbs, and she gave a baffled moan.

“That wasn’t an invitation.”

He urged her around to face him, looking down at her bruised and tear-streaked face.
 

“I know. I do know that, Fiona. But...God...” He kissed her brow, and the tip of her nose, and then relief flooded through her and she raised her mouth to his, all her good intentions abandoned, too.
 

He nipped at her tenderly, teasing her with small honeyed bites. She pressed herself against him.

“You’re hard...to resist...yourself,” she murmured between kisses, rubbing her hips against his, chafing along his burgeoning length. Their tongues slid together, and the kiss became deeper and more intense.
 

Time drifted by. At last they drew apart.

“I’ve spent all day trying not to think about you,” she groaned. “This is really not going to help...”

“Why do you think I escaped to work?” He twitched her bra into place, taking more care than was strictly necessary to ensure her breasts were snuggled into the lacy half-cups before he reached around to secure it.
   

“Can you help me with this, too?” she asked, holding out a stretchy multi-colored top. Christian slipped it over her head and carefully drew her hands through the armholes.
 

“I need things with buttons down the front.”

“So I can unbutton them?” His husky query flooded her brain with explicit scenes. She saw his long fingers exposing her breasts, his lips wandering hot and damp over her skin, his hands exploring and delighting her...
 

“So
I
can button them
up
,” she replied, avoiding his dark gaze. She sighed and then drew a courageous breath. “Don’t kiss me again Christian. I couldn’t bear it if you did.”
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Christian hacked Amy Houndsworth’s chicken pie to pieces and dumped wedges on the dinner plates. The vegetables followed with about as much finesse. Dinner was enjoyed very much by Kathy, and by Christian’s widowed father.
 

To Christian it was something to take out his frustration on. He bit savagely at the crisp pie-crust...reduced the vegetables to pulp without tasting them. His mind returned constantly to Fiona’s tart request that he not kiss her again. He was in so deep, so fast, that his heart and brain were still at war with each other. He glanced across the table at her every now and again. From her expression, she wasn’t enjoying herself either.