The Wrong Sister

by Kris Pearson

  Fiona ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips, and flicked her eyes from side to side to absorb every glorious detail of him. He was close enough for her to see every one of his long black eyelashes, every dark whisker-stub, each thread in his dark blue shirt—and his deep golden hair-hazed chest where the shirt’s front gaped open as he bent over her.

  “Comfortable?” he asked as he withdrew his hands. The sides of her breasts burned as his fingers slid by.

  Mmmm,” was all she could manage.

  ‘Comfortable’ was the understatement of the year. She was so far from comfortable that torture would have been preferable.

  “I bought some fruit on my way to collect you from hospital.” He lowered the folding legs of the tray-table either side of her lap. She nodded, grateful at least to have more of her body concealed from his probing dark eyes. He’d set the tray with a linen placemat, a crystal jug of water clinking with ice-cubes, a matching tumbler, a silver fork and a big white bowl full of strawberries, raspberries, huge ruby grape-halves, and cubes of melon, pineapple and mango.

  “I’ll never manage all that,” she protested.

  “I cut up enough for two.”

  Fiona watched as he moved the jug and tumbler aside to the chest of drawers. Then tensed as he walked around the bed, lowered himself with care so he didn’t cause her any further pain, and reached for the fork.

  Her body surged with fire again. Flooded with heat and longing. Christian was now only inches from her, apparently perfectly at ease. Why couldn’t she relax as well?

  “It looks lovely,” she croaked, and cleared her throat.

  He positioned the fork above a melon cube and impaled it.

  “It was about all Jan felt like eating near the end. I got quite good at fruit.”

  Fiona blanched. Jan was gone but never far away from them. She was a silent loved presence who haunted every corner of the house. And her out-of-bounds husband was now propped up on one elbow, horribly terribly wonderfully close. She parted her lips.

  Christian willed his body to behave. He knew Fiona’s bruised and wrenched arm would still be able to lift a forkful of fruit. She wasn’t helpless, just slow and awkward, but he was testing his resistance to her, trying to prove to himself he could stay well clear. There’d be no kissing this time. No touching. No bodily contact at all.

  As Fiona opened her mouth, he inserted the melon cube, watching as her soft lips closed around the fork. Naked lips. Warm lips. Lips that he’d kissed not long ago and then castigated himself for with bitter curses.

  She flicked him a glance and gave a slight nod. He withdrew the fork. While Fiona bit into the juicy melon, he speared himself a strawberry and tore it off the fork-prongs, savoring the sweet red flesh as though it was her lips.

  “Christian,” she said, after she’d swallowed.

  His eyes met hers.

  “I’m sorry about before. About asking you not to leave. Of course I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded.”

  He watched her with total attention. It was as he’d feared. She’d been delirious, or drugged, or simply in pain. Any small surge of hope he’d felt was now firmly squashed.

  “It’s just...I needed to say thank-you for letting me stay here. I know it’s not what you wanted. You’d already made that more than clear.”

  Shame needled at him. He’d prayed to be rid of her, yet itched for her to stay. Fate had thrown her back into his arms when he’d least expected it.

  “You’re in no shape to travel yet.”

  “But still, it was kind of you.”

  His face burned, and a rapid pulse pounded in his throat.

  “I wouldn’t throw you out on the street in this condition.”

  What a cop-out! I’d move heaven and earth to keep you here...

  He turned his attention back to the bowl of fruit. This time he speared a chunk of pineapple and lifted it toward her. Obediently Fiona opened for him. He slid the fruit over her full bottom lip and a glistening drop of juice trembled from the edge before starting its slow progress down her chin.

  Christian withdrew the fork and ran the pad of his thumb over her flesh, gathering up the droplet.

  “Lick,” he said, knowing his voice had turned husky with frustration.

  Fiona’s pink tongue ran over him and withdrew.

  Forget it, Christian commanded his stirring body. He plunged the fork into the bowl again and came up with a raspberry and another chunk of pineapple. Transferred them to his mouth and chewed with deliberation. Didn’t dare to look at her face for a while.

  “May I have raspberries this time? We don’t often get them on the boat—they’re too perishable I suppose.”

  “Jan was fond of them too,” he said, poking about and pushing the prongs through two of them. He shook them so there’d be no more juice to wipe away, no reason to touch her again. He raised the fork. One of the soft berries slipped off the tines, tumbled onto Fiona’s collarbone, and rolled the small distance into her scooped neckline.

  “Oops,” she said over his muffled curse.

  She raised her face toward the fork and took the other raspberry. Christian watched as the first one rolled a little lower with the movement of her body.

  Great—how do I keep my hands off her now?

  “Stay still,” he growled, inspecting the front of her nightgown. A soft damned-near-transparent thing, which did little to hide her breasts. Thank God she’d rested her hands over herself so at least her nipples were hidden.

  “The buttons undo,” she muttered, looking embarrassed and vulnerable. “Let me try.”

  Christian shook his head. “Easier if I do it.” He slipped the first from its buttonhole. “Nearly.”

  He undid the second. The raspberry rested neatly between her breasts. He hesitated, then lowered his head and nuzzled it up with his tongue and lips against her warm flesh.

  “Christian!” she exclaimed.

  “No mess this way,” he murmured, licking over the spot where the berry had been, eyes averted from hers. The scent of her floated all around him; the softness of her skin and the flimsy fabric of the nightdress ate at his resolve.

  So far, he was doing a really good job of not touching, not kissing, and keeping well away from her! He allowed himself a brief exasperated grimace that Fiona had no chance of seeing, then drew back a little and inspected the extra bruises now exposed by the opened front of her nightdress. He whistled softly at the damage and shook his head. “God, Fee—I had no idea.”

  “Ugly,” she said. “Cover me up.”

  “Never ugly,” he countered. “But you took some big hits for sure. At least you’re fading from purple to olive-green and yellow.”

  “Lovely...”

  “Still very sore though, and I can see why.”

  He finally gained enough control to raise his eyes to hers and reached for the small pearl buttons again.

  “The bruises aren’t too bad now,” she assured him. “It’s more the aches where I got wrenched about. My shoulders. My left knee.”

  Christian nodded as he fumbled the buttons back through the holes. His pants were shrinking by the second.

  Down boy, he pleaded, knowing there was damn-all hope of obedience.

  He changed his position on the bed, trying to hide the evidence of his painfully aroused body, and dug into the fruit again. Their turn-about lunch continued.

  “I feel like a baby bird,” Fiona said. “Being fed goodies in my nest.”

  “Worms and beetles?”

  She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “Stale bread and toast crusts, maybe.”

  “Enjoying your lunch are you, birdie?”

  “I was always a sucker for worms and stale bread.”

  He laughed at that, grateful to feel the atmosphere lightening a little. Then he stabbed two more raspberries, ensuring they were securely on the fork before raising it. He watched her mouth fall open and couldn’t resist rubbing them over her bottom lip as he inserted them.

 
She opened a little wider for him and instantly Christian found it all too easy to imagine slanting his mouth across hers in a passionate open-mouthed kiss. All the air around him fogged thick with heat and desire again, and he hardened from clay to concrete as he pictured her sensual surrender.

  “Did you do this a lot for Jan?” she asked, with impeccably bad timing.

  He withdrew the fork and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then prodded at one of the rosy grape-halves and slid it into his mouth, crushing the fruit so the juice spurted tart and cool.

  “Yup. Quite often near the end.” He barely trusted himself to speak.

  “Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.”

  Christian shook his head. “We have to talk about her. My wife. Your sister. Nicky’s mother. She’s part of our lives.” He shrugged and drew a resigned breath. “Do you like mango?” He poked around in the bowl to find some for her, desperate to get his mind onto something else. Anything but Jan who was gone and Fiona who was way off limits. Anything at all.

  “Love it. I suppose it’s imported?”

  “Probably,” he agreed, concentration still shot to pieces.

  “You need to eat more than that,” Fiona said as he finally clattered the fork down into the empty bowl.

  “I’ll make a sandwich. One for you?”

  She shook her head slowly, grimacing at the pain it caused. “Just my pills and the water, thanks. I’m going to stagger to the bathroom in a minute and then see if I can get some sleep.”

  So now I have to leave her.

  He stayed watching her for a few moments, then uncoiled from the bed and lifted the tray away. Once again he was acutely aware of the darker shadow at her groin through the fine cotton.

  He turned to set the tray aside and find the pills. Fiona moved a hand down to cover her lap.

  “I’ll get rid of this old nightgown soon,” she added. “I usually sleep in long T-shirts. Not so pretty, but not so see-through, either.”

  Is she winding me up on purpose? She’s doing a fine job of it, whether it’s intentional or not.

  Suddenly he pictured her breasts snugly outlined by stretch-knit fabric, her nipples peaking against the softness. Which for some reason seemed even sexier than being able to half-see them through the folds of gauzy cotton she currently wore.

  Wordlessly he poured a tumbler of water and passed it to her, then loosened the top of the pill bottle and shook several of the painkillers into his palm. Fiona grunted as she reached toward his hand and picked out two.

  Christian’s pulse quickened as her pretty nails scraped over his skin. Again his imagination conjured up her fingers clutching his shoulders as she writhed in pleasure beneath him.

  Fiona and Jan. Jan and Fiona. My lovely sunflower and my exotic orchid. And dammit, I can’t have either of you.

  To escape his bitter reflections he turned away and walked across to the big windows to adjust the blinds against the sun.

  “I’ll give you ten minutes to get to the bathroom,” he said in a voice that felt rough and raw. “I’ll make sure you’re comfortably back in bed before I go and collect Nicky. Do you need a hand?”

  Fiona shook her head. “I’ll just take these,” she said, slowly pushing the pills into her mouth, raising the glass, and gulping at the icy water. She swallowed and handed the tumbler back.

  Christian watched the small movement of her throat, and a sudden fierce yearning to bite her just there struck him. To nuzzle at her soft skin and trail a line of slow kisses down to the warm valley between her breasts which might—just possibly—still hold a hint of raspberry fragrance.

  “Amy Houndsworth will be here soon if you need anything,” he said hoarsely, reaching to retrieve her robe from the foot of the bed. He held it up as a modesty shield as she levered herself up with several small gasps and moans. He clenched his teeth against her pain, eyes fixed out over the harbor, determined to avoid looking at her.

  At her body, which would no doubt be silhouetted against the glittering mid-day view. And at her various bruises and dressings, which tore at his conscience. Why wasn’t it him who’d been injured?

  My house...my cars...my responsibility.

  Instead it was lovely fragile Fiona who’d been so dangerously damaged.

  She smiled her thanks and twisted to slip her hands into the sleeves. He heard the slight catch of pain in her breath.

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  Christian lowered the silky garment, slid the sleeves over her wrists, and then smoothed it upwards in a light caress. He stood for a moment with his hands on her shoulders, feeling the burning imprint of every finger.

  “Belt?” he asked, right beside her ear. From this position, he could so easily lower his lips onto the back of her neck...could nip her, tease her, kiss her. She was totally at his mercy, and some age-old instinct goaded him to touch her...subdue her...take her. His big frame jangled with warring emotions. The civilized man and the cave-man were only millimeters apart. And no woman had ever tipped the balance as precariously as she had.

  “Thanks. Don’t worry.” She eyed the crutches with no pleasure. “I’ll be back in bed in a few minutes.”

  Remember Jan, remember Jan, he repeated to himself as Fiona limped toward the bathroom door.

  And remember how Jan died. Remember this is her sister, who might be in the same danger. If you ever won her, could you bear to lose her to breast cancer too?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fiona jerked awake in the big bed as a faint whirring noise reached her ears. She’d been lying drowsing in the dim golden room. Someone had pulled the blinds further closed as she slept. And the pills had helped her to sleep wonderfully, despite the heat, the hurt and the waves of searing sensuality that had earlier engulfed her.

  So what was the noise? She cocked an ear toward the doorway just as Christian appeared, wheeling a high-backed black leather office chair.

  “Goldilocks is awake?”

  “Who’s been sleeping in your bed, you mean? Sleeping well. I feel a lot better.” She yawned and tried to stretch, and was foiled by her injuries. “Ouch!” she gasped. “Better in some places, anyway.”

  “I was doing some work in the study this afternoon. And I realized although we don’t have a wheel-chair, we do have a wheeled chair. I could take you through to the living room on this until you’re more comfortable on those crutches? Do you want to get up for dinner?”

  She struggled onto her elbows and the traitorous sheet slid below her breasts. Lying down flat with him looming over her was unnerving—she felt far too vulnerable. Knowing he could see through the thin old nightgown had just made the sensation so much worse. Perhaps she should have insisted her parents took her back to Auckland, after all?

  “Dinner? I’m allowed up for that, am I?”

  “If you feel well enough.”

  He wrenched his gaze out over the harbor. The last thing she needed was him staring at her breasts like a schoolboy.

  Again he held up the silk robe until she was out of bed, then lowered it so she could slip her hands down the sleeves. The beautiful dip of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips were silhouetted against the lowering sun. He clenched his teeth, trying not to react.

  His hand had touched her right there on the evening of the barbecue. He remembered when they’d queued for their food that he’d been pushed against her by someone else in the line. He’d steadied himself by grabbing her waist—had enjoyed the contact—had pretended he’d had too much to drink to disguise the fact he couldn’t bear to let go of her.

  He drew the robe up her arms and settled it over her shoulders, then stepped around and sat on the bed so he could wrap first one side then the other over her body. Her dangerous breasts were only inches away from his lips. With every ounce of self-control he could find, he ignored them, smoothed the sash around her, and began to tie a careful bow.

  “I feel so responsible for your injuries,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.

  “My fault—
not yours at all,” she countered. “I shouldn’t have gone near the doorway.”

  “I should have pulled you back in time.”

  He emphasized the action by sliding his hands around her waist and giving her a gentle tug toward him.

  And Fiona stumbled forward one unexpected step so she stood right between his parted thighs, knees pressed against his groin.

  Reacting instinctively to the intimate contact, Christian snaked his arms around her, holding her captive so he could lay his cheek against her warmth and softness.

  He barely believed it when Fiona smoothed her palm down past the ridge of his cheekbone to stroke his face, laid her other hand on his shoulder, and then curled it around his back so she could draw him more tightly against her.

  “Poor Christian—you’ve had a lot to bear,” she murmured as she rocked him gently to and fro.

  Fiona’s pulse thundered. How many times had she imagined this? Against all the odds, her secret wish had been granted. Suddenly she had the perfect excuse to touch and caress Christian without him ever knowing how turned-on she was.

  She moved the hand cradling his face. Trailed down his neck and then raised it to touch his dark hair again. Ran her fingers through its clean softness and on to explore his cheekbone and jaw. Her fingertips registered the slight scratchiness of his late afternoon stubble, scraped lovingly upward again to intensify the sensation, then smoothed down and just held him.

  She hoped Christian thought she was offering sympathy and not sex. She knew her heart must be galloping at a giveaway rate right under his ear, and for sure he’d feel her fingers exploring and soothing him, but he hadn’t drawn away. He was in her arms, and for the moment that was enough.

  Then the air rushed out of her lungs as he turned his face and buried it between her silk-covered breasts like a small hurt boy.

  Fiona stroked down the back of his head again and again, giving him time to recover his composure. It must have been absolutely soul-destroying for him to lose Jan. To watch his lovely wife fading beyond recovery. To see her enduring the wretched chemotherapy with so little hope near the end. To lose her while she was young and beautiful and enjoying the daily discoveries of new motherhood. It had been bad enough for Fiona following her progress—or lack of progress—from the other side of the world, but to have to face it every day must have broken his heart.