The Wrong Sister (6 page)

Christian approached with two glasses of wine. He threw a greeting sideways to one of the other women and Fiona saw her straighten, raise her chin, and smile at him.
 

The late sun shot a golden sheen over his ebony hair and threw sharp shadows across his body. The white T-shirt molded to his torso. Her afternoon’s imaginings were accurate. The strength of his shoulders, the definition of his chest and the taper of his waist were all very evident. The snug black jeans showed off long taut thighs and a very cute butt. No wonder he’d drawn admiring glances from the woman. Now he was single again Fiona had to expect others would make a concerted play for him. He was seriously attractive, dynamic, wealthy—a real catch.
 

And forbidden to
her.

She reached for her wine at the same instant he handed it across. The glass tipped against her fingers. The wine cascaded over the rim, and on instinct she flipped her palm up to catch the liquid. Christian set both glasses down on the nearby railing and imprisoned her wrist in his big hand.
 

He lowered his face and Fiona’s senses jolted as his lips nuzzled her skin and sucked the wine into his mouth.
 

“Too good to waste,” he murmured, licking between each of her fingers as she stood frozen, mute, astounded.

He’d do that in front of his friends just days after his wife had died? How many of them had seen? She stared at him as he lifted his face from her hand. His eyes were dark, huge, haunted, and held hers unwaveringly.

“It’s a very nice Shiraz,” he said as though that made it permissible to run his sinful tongue over her skin, lighting the nerve-ends like sizzling fire-crackers.

She wrenched her gaze from his, reached across to the railing for her glass, and sipped as a diversion from the overwhelming sensations shooting up her arm. “Lovely,” she agreed. “Soft. Gorgeous.”

Christian picked up his own glass and tipped it in an ironic salute. “To soft gorgeous wine,” he said. “And soft gorgeous women.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Fiona flinched. Was the bastard already looking forward to life after Jan? To pursuing future partners? So soon?
 

Her hackles rose. She bit her bottom lip hard to stifle her all-too-ready reply. She’d thought better of him than that.
 

Her heart did a rapid flip-flop against her ribs. Regret on Jan’s behalf? Or disappointment for herself?

“I’ll check on Nicky and rinse my hand,” she muttered, moving away from him. Her niece was being looked after by their host’s nanny, but she needed to get away from Christian before she slapped his handsome face. Soft gorgeous women indeed.
 

Damn
he thought as she flounced off. He’d meant it as a compliment—light-hearted banter. But the moment his lips had made contact with her palm, a whole different set of emotions had swept over him.
 

Lust. Longing. Loneliness.
 

Any of those would explain his sudden descent into the intense and inappropriate mood that had caused him to grab her and darn near devour her.
 

And if the wine had tasted delicious, Fiona herself had been a million times better. The skin on the inside of her wrist had been silky-soft under his thumb, and gently fragrant with a subtle waft of pure femininity. It was nothing chemical, he was sure, unless they were her own body chemicals setting him on fire. There’d been no fierce blast of flowers or lemons or any of the other perfumes that hand-lotions contained. The delicate scent had been all
her—
warm, soft, seriously sexy. If she thought he was sipping Shiraz then let her believe that. He knew better—he’d been drinking in her pheromones, tasting her skin and storing away the intoxication of it in his memory banks for the cold dark days ahead.

The party continued. The waiter returned with a tray of succulent prawns in a sweet chili glaze. Steaks, cutlets and sausages began to sizzle and pop on the barbecue. Their savory scent hung in the air. The breeze had dropped away—it was a perfect evening.
 

Fiona watched the sun slide down behind the few ragged clouds on the far edge of Tinakori hill. They paled from fierce gold to pink to palest lavender. The city lights sparkled and trembled below them.
 

She talked about Italy with the bejeweled elderly woman who was their host Sam’s widowed mother...sounded out a couple of the well-heeled local wives about the availability of nannies...argued tongue-in-cheek with a university scientist on the likely effects of global warming...and found her eyes drawn again and again to Christian as he stood on the far side of the terrace—tall, affable, never without a glass of wine in his hand.
 

“Okay everyone, food’s ready,” Sam called, banging tongs against the huge hooded stainless steel barbecue to get their attention. A surge of bodies formed a disorderly cheerful queue, and people started to heap their plates.

“Enjoying yourself?”
 

Christian had positioned himself right behind her, and his breath puffed hot against her ear. Someone further back in the queue jostled him against her and she stumbled. This time there was no mistaking the press of his thighs against hers, the soft bulge at his groin, the incredible heat of his body. He clamped a large hand across her belly and held her close until she stood steady again. She struggled to step forward and break the contact between them.

“Having a lovely time thanks.” She turned her head only enough so he’d hear her amongst the throng of chattering people. She didn’t dare look at his face—he was too close, too tempting, and still had one hand resting on her hip.

“I like your trousers.” He rubbed his thumb over the slippery fabric at her waist.

“I bought them this afternoon. Thought I deserved a treat. Brought this top as well.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“It shows off your...charms...beautifully.”

Fiona knew quite well that he had a birds-eye view of her breasts from that angle. Let him look! There was very little she could do about it until she escaped with her food. She drew a frustrated breath.

“Oh yes...” he murmured. “Just beautifully.”

She could smell the wine on his breath and decided he must be slightly drunk to be talking to her like this. The best course was to take no notice.
 

Then she felt his fingers slip up off her waistband and begin a teasing little dance over her skin. Nothing too deliberate—he could almost have been keeping time with the music that flowed from the luxurious room next to the terrace.
 

Should she tear herself away from him? Or would that make it too obvious she’d put a different spin on his actions? She shuffled forward and he followed, his big hand curling a little more possessively around her waist.

His fingers started to run to and fro, up to the edge of her bra...down to her trousers...in an erotic tingling caress. Her body caught fire, reacting to the sensation of his skin rubbing against hers.

“Stop it!” she finally grated. “I’m not Jan. People will see.”
 

“They’re far too keen to grab their dinner,” he murmured. “But you’re right—you’re not Jan. Sorry.” He removed his hand and Fiona missed it immediately. Had he been flirting? Pretending she was Jan? Or just absent-mindedly relaxed by the wine? She had no idea at all.

 
She helped herself to a small steak from the barbecue, some slivers of chilled lobster from a platter on the big table, and a portion of crisp mixed salad. She felt far from hungry, but selecting food meant she could draw away from Christian.
 

“So when will you be in Italy next?” Sam’s mother enquired.

“About six weeks. I’m helping to look after my niece—and my brother-in-law, if only he’d let me.”

“Tragic, tragic,” the woman murmured. “Jan and Jenny were good friends. We were so pleased when Christian accepted the invitation for tonight. We thought he mightn’t, it being so recent...”

“Will people think it’s wrong he’s at a party so soon after his wife’s death?”
 

“Good heavens no, dear. He mustn’t molder away. That’ll do him no good. And it’s as if poor Jan’s been gone a lot longer in some ways—time in and out of the hospice, and so on.”
 

Fiona nodded, holding the other woman’s shrewd blue eyes with her own.

“They were very much in love, my sister and Christian. She’ll be hard to replace...but I hope he eventually finds someone else of course...”

Liar! Liar!
The words scraped in her throat like fish-bones.

Sam’s mother smiled sadly. “When I was first widowed I couldn’t quite believe it was real because I kept finding things like Harry’s gardening shoes out in his shed, and a lot of the mail still arrived addressed to him.”

Fiona wondered which of Jan’s possessions would most cut Christian’s heart to ribbons in the months to follow.

“It was ages before I came out the other side,” the woman continued. “But you do, you do. You simply have to get on with life.”

Easier said than done when the life you want is here, and the life you have to lead is half a world away,
Fiona thought.

Time slipped by until full darkness fell.

One of the older men unclipped the catches of a guitar case, took a Spanish guitar out, and leaned back against the terrace railing. A small cascade of notes danced on the air as he checked the tuning. Then he began to play.
 

The complicated rhythm of ‘Classical Gas’ floated out across the harbor, and the crowd fell silent, appreciating his deft finger-work.

Fiona listened with enjoyment. Her job as entertainments officer included searching out passengers with genuine talents and including them in the on-board concerts on her ship. She loved music, and was an accomplished jazz and folk singer. As the last notes died away, the guests applauded.
 

Then the guitarist began a slow rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’. Several of the crowd started to hum along with the lovely old melody.
 

Fiona moved closer and leaned on the railing beside him. She raised an eyebrow. He nodded his encouragement.
 

She began to sing in her distinctive husky voice. She sang for Jan. And for Nicky, who would never really know her mother. And for herself—to dispel some of the weight of sadness that clung around her.
 

And most of all she sang for solitary Christian who watched her from across the terrace.
 

His face was unreadable against the lights of the house. But his body had frozen in absolute attention as the hymn uncoiled in the soft air. For sure he had the looks and the money, but that didn’t make him immune to pain. She knew he’d loved Jan fondly and faithfully.
 

He was hurting—hiding it well perhaps—but he had to be wracked by demons all the same. She vowed to try and be kinder to him, even though he made it so strangely difficult.
 

One minute he pushed her away. The next he stood far too close. He had no business being so near, just as she had no right to enjoy his company so much.

She sighed with vexation after the song had finished and the applause had faded. Surely they could manage to strike some sort of happy medium? She was good with people...couldn’t do her job without that all-important skill. But Christian baffled her, wrong-footing her at every turn.

They started home again an hour or so later. This time she pushed the stroller with a sleeping Nicky. Christian had insisted on slinging an arm around her shoulders to warm her against the cooling evening air. He seemed to have drunk a little too much, presumably to soothe away his memories of Jan’s death. With that in mind, Fiona didn’t feel she could complain and prize him off.
 

She suffered the tantalizing sensation of his velvety upper arm rubbing over her skin as they negotiated the narrow pavement again. Their flesh chafed gently together, feeding private fantasies for them both.

Christian had run his fingers through the feathery hair on her newly-exposed neck before his hand had snaked around her, pulling her close. He’d gathered her into the crook of his arm, and his fingers wrapped around her bicep so her breast joggled against his hand.
 

Her imaginings from the hair salon now sprang vividly to life again. The slide of his flesh across hers as they enjoyed each other in a huge bed in a softly lit room. Her hands clasping his shoulders, his thigh parting hers, the warmth and strength of her sister’s husband poised above her, the musky scent of sex saturating the air...
 

She wished he’d remove his arm, but she wished even more strongly that he’d pull her close in a full-body embrace.

They entered Nicky’s bedroom together. Fiona laid her sleepy niece down, smoothed the cover over her small drowsy body, and straightened. Christian stepped close and dropped a tipsy kiss onto the top of her head.
 

“I like the hair now I’m used to it,” he said.
 

He sent her a sizzling grin and ambled from the room.
 

Fiona stayed frozen, not trusting herself to move in case it was straight into his arms. She breathed in his faint residual scent—freshly washed cotton, barbecue smoke, and the same soap-or-shampoo tang she’d noticed that morning. And temptation. He smelled like temptation.
 

She was still sniffing the air where he’d stood when a shattering explosion tore the quiet night into shreds. In the peculiar silence that followed there were yells from at least two male voices and the thrilling throaty note of the engine of a powerful, sharply accelerating car.

Christian raced through to the garage that housed his prized collection of vintage vehicles.
 

A pool of wine snaked its slow sticky way across the floor in the moonlight; many of the bottles in the wine cellar had been shattered. Broken glass crunched everywhere underneath his feet. He scrabbled in the dark for the torch from the recharging unit over his workbench, fumbled the switch on, and shone the beam around.