The Wrong Sister

by Kris Pearson

  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.”

  She turned away so she could swipe at her face covertly, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was trying to hide her desolation. “Then you can spend as much time with Nicola as you want,” she added. “Organize the damn nanny yourself if you’d rather. Whatever—it’s fine by me.” She cut his sandwich swiftly in two and felt the clean sharp pain as the knife sliced the side of her thumb.

  She gasped, snatching her hand away from the food to assess the damage, and releasing the knife with a clatter. A drop of bright blood seeped out and hit the table-top. She stared at the crimson spot. Another landed beside it.

  Christian lurched from his chair, raised her hand to his mouth, and sealed his lips around her thumb. He closed his eyes and they stood pressed together for a few frozen seconds as he ran his hot tongue over her flesh and sucked softly.

  Acting on long-suppressed instinct, Fiona cupped her hand around his jaw, smoothed her fingers against his cheek and caressed the spiky bristles of his beard. She’d imagined touching him for years. And now, under the most unlikely circumstances, her wish had been granted.

  Everything about her jolted into a different context. She sagged against him, absorbing his warmth, imprinting her body on his, wanting to stay like that forever.

  Somehow, she wrenched herself away.

  He raised a napkin to blot at the blood as she slid her thumb from between his lips. “It’s only a tiny nick—I can feel it,” he muttered, still avoiding her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  This is crazy. He licked me. He sucked my blood. I touched his face. I threw myself at him. Oh, Jan—I didn’t mean to.

  Waves of remorse and embarrassment rolled over her as she dropped down onto her chair again.

  “We always keep the first-aid kit in the drawer over here.” Christian heard the strangled tone of his voice, and cursed under his breath. “Mostly for Nicky,” he added as he walked across to the long polished-granite counter.

  He rummaged in the box and found what he needed. Blew out a slow soft sigh of frustration before he tore the protective wrapper off the dressing. Why the hell had he grabbed her like that? He’d found yet another excuse to touch her, and once again it was because she’d been injured.

  This time, dangerously, she’d responded to him. If she hadn’t peeled herself away at that very instant he would have clasped her closer...hauled her hard against him and held her there despite any protests she might have made. The game would have been up then. How could he have explained his behavior in any way that would make sense to her?

  “That’s not the one you burnt this morning, is it?” he asked, trying for casual.

  “No, that was this one.” She extended a forefinger. They both stared at it rather than look at each other.

  He drew the napkin away from her thumb. The cut was barely oozing now. With none of his normal deftness, he covered it with the dressing.

  “What a klutz,” she said.

  “Me?”

  “No—me! Twice in a day. I’m not normally so clumsy.”

  “This is not a normal situation, Fee.”

  “Right,” she agreed, at last lifting her eyes to his.

  “Kiss better,” Nicola squealed, breaking the spell. They both jumped.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Fiona asked, amused.


  “Kiss better, Daddy?”

  “That’s what Mummy always says when she fixes you up, isn’t it, Nic?” He reached across to wipe some banana off her cheek and kissed her flossy hair. “Fixed you up,” he corrected himself under his breath. “Fiona’s all better now.”

  Fiona sat there trembling, far from ‘better’. Her heart fluttered, jittered, jumped behind her ribs as though a rock drummer pounded out a savage solo. Her blood rushed through her veins at double speed. And deep inside she throbbed with a dark insistent yearning, awakening, unfurling, threatening to take over her whole body and brain.

  If it gets worse than this I’ll have to leave. I’ll have to run. I’ll never be able to keep my hands off him.

  She sat and picked up one half of his sandwich. “I’ll eat this one if you like.”

  “Go you halves.” He took the other portion.

  “At least there’s no blood on it,” she said, desperate for anything to fill the dangerous space between them.

  “You didn’t start bleeding until you were well out of the way. It was only on the table-cloth.”

  And on your tongue, she thought, recalling again the hot slide of his mouth and the hard exciting masculine stubble her hand had caressed.

  “I’ll put it to soak after lunch,” she said, pushing a white plate onto the stain to hide it.

  If only my feelings could be so easily covered up

  Christian watched her hands as she moved the plate over the spots of blood. Long slim fingers, nicely kept. Nails smooth and pretty with glossy pale polish. He supposed she had to be well groomed for her job on the cruise liner.

  Jan had always looked the part too, with one exception. She was a keen gardener, an ardent potter, and her hands had always been a little rough, with nails cut sensibly short and often unvarnished.

  What would Fiona’s soft smooth hands feel like sliding over his back? How pleasurably would those nails hurt, digging into his shoulders as she writhed under him?

  The picture was far too vivid. He could see her, and feel her and smell her trapped beneath his body.

  Could imagine, all too easily, her soft lips parted, naked of lipstick from his kisses.

  Could hear her panting and moaning as she stared up at him until her gorgeous green eyes glazed over and her body started to clench around him. God—it was altogether too real!

  He bit savagely into his half of the sandwich and chewed with deliberation. Fiona sat across the table from him, nibbling at hers and hardly looking ravenous. They stayed unspeaking as they ate.

  Christian needed every sip of his wine to wash down his lunch. The fresh bread seemed dry as sawdust... the ham resilient as rubber.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  “I miss her more than you can imagine,” he finally rasped, trying to build the barrier back between them again.

  “I know you do. You must. She was so lovely, and you were exactly right together.”

  He bowed his head at that. “She fought it. God how she fought. I thought she’d win.”

  Fiona shook her head sadly. “It’s a disgusting disease.”

  “Some people escape. Why not her?” He glared across the table at the woman who looked so like the one he’d just lost.

  Maybe if he pretended she was ‘Jan returned’ he wouldn’t see her as the tempting other sister sitting there?

  But Jan, in her illness, hadn’t looked this good in a long time. Not as smooth-faced and soft-skinned and touchable.

  And Jan had never sparkled like Fiona did. Christian had castigated himself for years for thinking that. For allowing this other woman to steal even a fraction of his attention from the affectionate wife he’d loved so dearly.

  “She lives on in Nicky,” Fiona murmured.

  She lives on in you. But I can’t have you just to reclaim some of her—and that’s not why I want you anyway. I want you for you, not her.

  As soon as they’d finished, Fiona loaded the dishwasher—rather too fast in her unease—clashing the plates together, stowing the cutlery into its basket with no care.

  “Leave it for the housekeeper,” Christian said.

  “It’s only dishes. I’ll certainly do this much.” She secured the door and selected the wash-cycle. The sooner she was out of the house and out of his sight, the better. The strange atmosphere between them felt too disturbing. “I’ll be gone quite a lot of the afternoon.”

  “Stay out as long as you want. We’ve been invited to a barbecue down the road this evening. Want to go? It’s not until much later.”

  She nodded and turned away, grateful they wouldn’t be alone in the big house. Having other people present should be a wonderful buffer.

  It might get us through one more day without me grabbing for you again.

  She drove with caution down the steep and winding hill roads until she felt more confident in the car. Once she was on the flat surface at Oriental Bay, she sighed with relief.

  Tall Norfolk Pines lined the broad harbor promenade. Blocks of exclusive apartments now rose where grand old timber mansions had formerly stood. The well-heeled and much-moneyed lived here, within walking distance of Wellington’s business district if they felt like leaving their expensive cars garaged.

  On the crescents of golden beach, the young and beautiful displayed themselves to each other. You didn’t need money to share the sand, Fiona thought with amusement—a brief swimsuit and a one-section bus-fare was all it took.

  She drove on into the city proper. She’d shopped with Jan about a year earlier. There’d been a nice store on a corner somewhere. She navigated through the busy streets—yes, there it was. She found a parking space not too far distant and was soon browsing the racks.

  “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  Fiona grinned at the hopeful sales-lady. “Something colorful and casual. Not cream, not black, not beige. I really want a change of image.”

  The woman eyed Fiona’s tailored black trousers and camel-colored tunic-top. “Your current colors suit you very well, but...let’s think. We had some very different silk-mix summer knitwear arrive this morning. Not even priced yet. I’ll see what I can show you.” She bustled off to the stockroom to search.

  Fiona unhooked a short electric-blue linen skirt and tossed it over her arm. And some lime-green loose-legged trousers in a sensuous shiny fabric. Not her usual look at all...her workmates on the ship would do a double-take for sure. And Christian would no longer be reminded quite so achingly of his lovely lost Jan.

  By the time her hair was due for restyling, she was the owner of the skirt, the trousers, two vivid sleeveless tops, two outrageous pairs of earrings, and some darling multi-colored plaited sandals.

  She enjoyed a latte in the sun and bought three hefty paperbacks that promised plenty of distraction from her current situation. Suddenly she wasn’t the least bit worried about losing most of her hair. She’d had it long for years. It was time to have it short. Big pieces of her current life had changed—her hair could follow.

  “Really short?” the young stylist asked, hefting a handful of Fiona’s thick mane.

  She smiled at the boy’s doubtful expression. “Spiky, maybe. Totally different from what it is now. Let’s have some fun.”

  She watched him in the big mirror as he let her hair slide down through his fingers. He inspected her intently as he turned her head from side to side, studying the angles of her face, pushing at her hair with his fingers.

  How young he seemed. She hoped she wasn’t making a huge mistake. Perhaps she should have waited a day or two until one of the senior staff was available?

  Too late now, she thought, flinching as the glittering scissors started to shear away long strands.

  “Is it for a special occasion? Like—are you going to the big vineyard concert this weekend?” the snake-hipped boy enquired.

  Fiona shook her head. “No—I just want a new look so...someone else sees me differently.”

  The stylist nodded. “Image is ever
ything,” he said with huge conviction. Fiona cast her eyes down and tried not to grin. He couldn’t be more than eighteen. At that age image probably was everything.

  “I’m just doing a rough cut,” he added, possibly misconstruing her expression. “I’m not taking it too short to start with. You’ve got some natural wave, and all this weight is pulling it out. I want to see what it does. Once I’ve got the color through it I’ll complete the final shaping. I thought…a lot of pale highlights and some about mid-way between that and your current shade?” He waited for her reaction.

  “Great. As long as I don’t look like me any more.”

  And as long as Christian doesn’t remember Jan every time he sees me.

  She wondered where her desirable brother-in-law was. Still at the beach with Nicola? Maybe he’d stretched his long body out in the sun so his little daughter could play at shoveling sand over his legs and no-doubt impressive torso until he was half-buried...she found it easy to picture the scene, and imagined it with detached enjoyment as her hair cascaded to the floor.

  It was easy to think about him rationally from a distance, but when they were face-to-face, it was hopeless. Even a room or two apart was difficult—his long legs ate up the distance between them in just a few strides, and she was then reduced yet again to an accident-prone, incompetent clown.

  Perhaps she should move out of the house? But she’d promised her parents she’d help, and Nicky was in desperate need of mothering. It was achingly hard to provide the toddler with answers about where Jan had gone. An unfamiliar aunt was no substitute for a devoted mother, but surely better than no other permanent female in her life?

  Every day she stayed, Nicky trusted her a little more. This morning’s cuddle in the sun had been magic. No doubt the days of confusion and suspicion would run on for ages yet, but Fiona hoped her tiny niece would gradually accept the new status quo.

  For Christian’s sake. Because how hard must it be to have a daughter forever asking for the wife he’d loved so dearly? The wife who would never come home again.