The Wrong Sister (3 page)

Close to midday, Christian ran a cautious finger down Fiona’s thigh, past her knee, and trailed it along the side of her calf. She stirred.

He froze, ready to snatch his hand away in case she woke. He’d always thought she had sensational legs. Long, and smoothly muscled like a dancer’s. Lightly tanned. Presumably she got plenty of sun on her glitzy ship?

He indulged himself by repeating the soft caress...starting just below her white cotton shorts and running down until his fingers half-encircled her slim ankle.
 

He yearned to explore her all over...to sift her hair through his hands...to be so close he could smell her own intensely personal perfume. He needed to drink her in through every pore. Dammit to hell but the passing years hadn’t lessened her effect on him by the tiniest fraction.
 

Of all the women in the world, she was the one he couldn’t have—his wife’s sister. And with Jan so recently dead that made it even less possible.

If he put any sort of move on Fiona, she’d surely misconstrue his motives. Presume he was a womanizer and that any woman would do. Or pathetic and sad and lonely. Or simply over-pumped with testosterone after the enforced celibacy of Jan’s decline.
 

But the truth was simple—she fascinated him. She burned with a brighter flame than anyone he’d ever met. Attracted him intensely.
 

He’d managed, with considerable willpower and careful planning, to avoid her for most of his marriage, but the next few weeks were going to be the toughest test of his self-control—and Jan was no longer even here to be faithful to.

He stood looking down, not touching Fiona again in case she woke. To be able to watch her openly when she was relaxed and vulnerable set his imagination into overdrive. And she cradled his child—a potent combination.
 

He wanted her but couldn’t have her. Sometimes life sucked. Worse than that, sometimes life dealt you an absolute double-whammy. Jan had died of breast cancer, so what were Fiona’s chances of avoiding it? And Nicky’s? He’d heard the gene, the genome, the DNA—whatever the hell it was—could thread its way through the female members of a family and wreak havoc for generations. Jan and her doctor mother had been into that stuff endlessly. He really hadn’t wanted to know…simply prayed it would go away. Her Mom had insisted everything possible had been done for Jan, but still it had got her.
 

He sighed with resignation, slid his fingers around Fiona’s warm ankle, and shook her leg.
 

“Lunch-time. Wake up sleepyheads.”

She started. She yawned. And found he’d set up a colorful sun umbrella to protect them both. Nicola blinked her bright eyes and wriggled to the ground.

“Hug Daddy,” she demanded, reaching her small soft arms toward him. He swept her up.

“Thank-you,” Fiona said, indicating the shelter.

“You’d have burnt to a crisp, both of you. Did you put any more sunscreen on her?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t expect we’d doze off.”

“You’re a great help, aren’t you… Lunch is ready.”

“
What?
” She lurched to her feet. The blood left her brain with the sudden movement and she almost fell, dizzy and hot and unsteady. Christian slung an arm around her for support and pulled her in close so the three of them swayed together. Fiona found herself held against his broad chest, only inches from his taunting grin, paradise and hell in the same instant.
 

His hipbone pressed against her groin, and she sent up a silent ‘thank-you’ she’d not stumbled against him front-on. It was bad enough feeling the pressure right there and knowing he was the source.

Nicola reached across and grabbed a handful of Fiona’s hair.

“Don’t, darling,” she said, flinching and unable to escape from the surprisingly firm grasp.

“I’ll fix it,” Christian said, moving his arm up over her shoulders and sliding his fingers along her neck to her jawbone. “Let go, Nicky—you’re hurting Auntie Fee.”
 

Nicky gave a naughty giggle.

He tipped his head back to focus on Fiona’s face. His dark eyes held hers for too long. Unable to bear such close scrutiny, she squeezed hers shut.

No, this can’t be happening again.
 

Waves of wanting swept over her, followed swiftly by a great wash of guilt. He was beautiful, dangerous, and she had to remember he was totally out of bounds.
 

Finally his hand moved in her hair...tangling with Nicola’s tiny fingers and loosening her playful grip. Fiona felt both relief and regret flood through her as they pulled apart and he walked back into the kitchen with his daughter.

This was wrong. Terribly wrong. She shouldn’t find her dead sister’s husband so desirable.
 

Okay, she’d always thought him a handsome man. But he and Jan were the perfect couple. He was her sister’s, pure and simple, and that’s how it had to stay.

She’d not met him before their wedding day. Had barely arrived in time because of a sudden airline strike. Her first real view of him had been standing at the altar in his wedding finery.
 

She’d known he was tall from Jan’s emails, and he stood to his full height—no slouching while he waited for his bride. His hair was dark, crisp, newly cut...the line at his neck precise where it met his skin. Olive skin. It was mid-winter, so wouldn’t be a local suntan. She’d willed him to turn around so she could really see his face.

His shoulders were broad, although he didn’t appear chunkily built. From the back of the shadowy, darkly timbered church it was difficult to see more—the fancy hats of the wedding guests cut across his body, obscuring him.
 

Sweetly scented festoons of carnations and ivy garlanded each pew-end, spicy as Christmas pudding; their perfume still floated through her memory.

She’d stood just inside the church doors for a minute or so with her cousin, Louise, the other bridesmaid; the magnificent vintage car with Jan and her Dad had stopped for traffic lights and fallen a little behind.
 

“Can you see them yet?” she’d asked.

Louise had peered out for a couple of seconds and then shaken her head. “They won’t be long. Let’s hope this wind doesn’t yank her veil off!”
 

The day was clear but bitingly cold. Wellington’s famed southerly wind swirled and tugged and whistled, and Fiona’s rustling shot-taffeta dress afforded her no warmth at all.
 

She and Louise had gone out to greet Jan and her Dad when the big car arrived, and hung onto the pesky veil until the bride was safely in the church.
 

And as their little procession started up the aisle, Christian had finally swung around to watch his wife-to-be walking toward him.
 

Fiona’s breath had caught in her throat. Lucky Jan!
 

Christian’s dark eyes fastened avidly on his bride. His smile of welcome lit up half the church. It was a love-match for sure, and he was as gorgeous in the flesh as he’d appeared in the emailed photos.

Her beautiful sister deserved a hunky husband. Fiona thought they looked perfect together as they strolled back down the aisle after the service. She’d found it hard not to feel just a little jealous of Jan’s good fortune. Christian was more than handsome, more than attentive, and already much more than a millionaire. The other men simply weren’t noticeable beside him.

“Smile!” the photographer had called as they reached the church steps. The winter sun poured down its blessing and they’d all laughed and played to the camera. The later shots made much of the fantastic old cars—Jan’s foot coquettishly posed on a running board as she displayed the lacy garter on her thigh...Fiona and Louise leaning out through the windows, showing far too much cleavage...Christian and his groomsmen ‘driving’ with the top down as Jan and Fiona and Louise pretended to hitch a ride, skirts fluttering in the wind.

All the while, Christian had been perfectly polite, and just a little distant. Understandable, Fiona supposed. She’d never set eyes on him before that day, and he was being careful not to put a foot wrong with his new sister-in-law. He had eyes only for Jan, and that was what mattered, after all.

They’d had their one obligatory groom-and-bridesmaid dance at the reception and Fiona had walked into his arms relaxed with champagne and happiness. He was a dream to dance with. They moved together so fluidly she felt she’d known him for years. Her hand on his shoulder easily established there was a big strong man under the fabric of his jacket and not merely shoulder-pads. Her other hand, gripped warmly in his, tingled as he rubbed his thumb up and down hers in time to the music. She remembered watching that thumb and enjoying the tiny unexpected caress.

At the end of the dance, he’d twirled her around in a circle and stopped her with his body. They’d bumped together and stayed frozen for a magic second or two, breast to chest, hip to hip. Then he’d dipped his head and kissed her softly on the lips.

CHAPTER THREE

“Nice to meet you, sister,” he’d said.
 

And devoted all the rest of his evening to Jan.

The memory of that teasing kiss had stayed with Fiona ever since. As they stood on the sunny lawn together, Nicola clutching her hair, she recalled the moment his lips had touched hers. He’d tasted like champagne and smelled like heaven. It had taken all her willpower not to kiss him back. She’d been both relieved and disappointed when he hadn’t danced with her again.
 

Jan and Christian had departed for their honeymoon that night, so she’d not seen them for a further six months. In late December she made a short, rushed Christmas visit home to her family. But who can get into deep conversation when everyone’s wearing paper hats, and the dog is being slipped slivers of turkey under the table, and old deaf aunties need to be chatted to over a huge hot dinner on a scorching southern hemisphere day?
 

Fiona felt she saw little enough of her sister, and Christian disappeared to go fishing or boating at every opportunity, so he was all but invisible. Each time she came home, it had been the same.

 
Three years went by, and Nicola was expected. Fiona and Jan managed a break at their parents’ beach-house on the Hibiscus Coast north of Auckland a few weeks before Jan was due to give birth.
 

Christian had flown to Asia to meet with clients—something financial this time, not cars. Fiona was gratified to have her sister all to herself for a few days as they strolled along the sand, and lazed for hours, reading and chatting.

And that was the pattern of all her visits. He managed not to be there.

She pushed her fingers through her hair to tidy it after Nicola’s attention, pulled her slightly damp T-shirt away from her too-warm back, and followed him inside to see what he’d produced for lunch. If it was anything halfway decent, she might as well admit defeat right now, and leave.

“I’ve moved the Merc for you.” His eyes were down on a banana as he cut it into small sections for Nicola.
 

Fiona murmured her thanks, relieved to find lunch was simply a collection of sliced ham, cheese, salad vegetables, and a crusty brown loaf.

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” she offered. She went to the fridge for mustard and mayonnaise.

“Grab some wine, too.”
 

She chose a Pinot Gris. Christian had two glasses ready on the table, and reached across to take the bottle from her. He opened it, poured, and set a glass beside her plate while she sliced the bread.
     

“Thanks for the car. I’ll be careful with it.”

He shrugged. He had so many absolute classics that one small modern sedan was apparently of no huge importance.
 

No wonder he can afford a house like this.

“It’s a brilliant view,” she said, gazing out over the sun-dappled harbor to avoid his eyes. She could still feel his big hands in her hair. Warm and gentle.
 

And his body pressed against her. Hot and hard.

“Jan liked it.”

She nodded, but could think of nothing more to say after that. She knew Christian had bought the spectacular house on the high Roseneath site as a surprise for his bride. Much of the surrounding land was steep and left to the wild natural vegetation of the Wellington district. Only the level areas close to the house had been cleared and laid down in lawn and paving and bright aromatic flowers.
   

Inside, Jan’s touches were everywhere—in the elegant shades of the furnishings that complimented the panoramic views...in the diverse and fascinating works of art she’d found in the city’s myriad galleries and studios. Fiona had enjoyed visiting here last time. Because it had been Jan’s home, she’d felt wonderfully comfortable.
 

But now it was Christian’s, and imbued with whole new significance.

She watched him covertly across the table as she buttered the bread. His eyes were fixed far away over the water. Black-coffee eyes—lethal eyes when they needed to be. He’d already trained his fierce ‘get out of my territory’ gaze on her.
 

“How long will you be at the beach?” she asked as she concentrated on slicing a tomato.

“Planning on joining us?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m going to be busy all afternoon.” She laid a slice of ham on the bread.

“Suits me.”

“You made that perfectly obvious earlier.”

“Don’t mess me around, Fiona.”

“
Me
mess
you
around?” She bit her tongue and cast her eyes down to the table-top, knowing he had a lot to cope with and that she mustn’t annoy him.

“Sorry,” he said, seeming to regret his brusqueness. “I’d programmed myself to be a twosome and now I find I have to juggle you into the equation as well.”

“Don’t,” she begged as to her mortification sudden tears threatened. She was an absolute mess of nerves. “Don’t worry about me. Ignore me. I’ll keep right out of your way if that’s what you want. But why not let me do the cooking at least? Give Mrs Houndsworth a rest. I’d enjoy it—I get no chance on the boat.” She flicked him a quick cautious glance. “That’s probably why I didn’t think to use the microwave oven for the porridge this morning. I’m out of practice. I need some.”