by Kris Pearson
“The ocean view,” Fiona said, making the only decision possible. She had to stay clear of him somehow. The downstairs bedroom opened out onto the huge terrace. Christian would be well out of her way upstairs in the master suite.
He sat Nicky on her bed while he retrieved her bags from the entrance lobby and hefted them onto the luggage shelf.
“I’ll unpack,” she said. “And see if I’ve anything smart enough for this lovely place.”
She was absorbed in doing this when he reappeared with a slippery chocolate-brown dress draped over his arm.
“Just in case.”
Fiona held it up by its jeweled straps and frowned.
“Jan bought this for your last wedding anniversary. I helped her choose it. I couldn’t possibly wear it.”
He shrugged his big shoulders.
“Whatever. Sadly, she won’t need it again. Have it anyway. Wear it on your ship. I’ll buy you a couple at the Lodge’s boutique if you like.”
She shot him a disbelieving look. “A boutique—way out in the country?”
“Absolutely. Antoine’s wife owns ‘Marielle’s’ in the city. She is Marielle. She set up a branch here as well. Our ladies like to have something beautiful to wear to dinner. Their gentlemen—not always their own husbands, I might add—are very generous spenders.”
His suggestive grin brought some joyful life to his face and turned him into a different man. Fiona tried to recall the last time she’d seen him looking so relaxed. Almost two years, she decided. Before Jan had been diagnosed with her cancer, and when six-month-old Nicky was giving them great happiness. How cruel life could be.
Instead of leaving as she’d expected, Christian threw himself down on the bed to tickle and tease Nic while Fiona hung her selection of casual garments in the roomy wardrobe.
“Only one skirt,” she said, holding up the short bright blue linen number she’d bought the day of the haircut.
“Not quite the thing for our dining room,” he agreed. “Come on, let’s get this little girl fed and we’ll see what’s good at Marielle’s.”
“It’ll be far too late,” she objected.
“Fiona, this is Pounamu Lodge. Our guests can have whatever they want, twenty-four hours a day.”
Thirty minutes later he opened the cottage door, beeped the car unlocked, then gathered up Nicky and the bag of baby supplies. Once Fiona was seated in the car, he lowered his daughter into her arms.
“Okay? Not too heavy for a couple of minutes?”
“You’re fine, aren’t you Nic?”
Nic rewarded her by cuddling close.
“Antoine’s young cousin is going to earn some pocket-money baby-sitting tonight.”
“Then you hardly need me here at all?”
“I need you, Blondie. You don’t know how much.” His dark eyes held hers. And slow drugging heat began to flood her belly as he closed the door.
“But you said you wanted to cool it,” she remonstrated, after he’d rounded the Mercedes and settled into the driver’s seat.
“I lied.” His eyes were fathomless pools. “I didn’t know I was lying at the time, but I knew it straight off once I saw you again.” He pulled his door to with a quiet ‘thunk’ and fired up the engine.
“No Christian,” she protested. “You’re not playing fair.”
“I’m not playing at all.”
She sat there, holding his child; wretchedly aware in every cell of her body that she wanted him almost more than life itself.
“Nor am I,” she managed. “I don’t play games. I can’t play games with you. You’re my brother-in-law, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced down to Nicky.
“Ex brother-in-law,” he said very softly. Fiona wondered if she was even meant to hear that. She bent and kissed Nicky’s fair hair, and cast about for anything that might distract her from the heat of being so close to him again.
*
Twenty minutes later, she stood in the elegant cabernet and gold fitting room of the boutique, inspecting herself in the long gilt-framed mirror. Christian had introduced her as ‘Jan’s sister’. Marielle’s assistant had not raised either of her carefully-plucked eyebrows.
“How’s it look?” His husky query surprised Fiona out of her reverie.
“Wonderful,” she called back.
“Come and show me.”
Skin prickling, she stepped out of the little room, smoothing her hands down over the silky turquoise fabric. There was nothing particularly outrageous in the shape of the narrow-strapped dress, but the bias-cut clung to her body, and the iridescent peacock feather embroidery over the bodice blazed under the lights like emeralds and sapphires.
Christian rose from the leather chair and surveyed her through sleepy half-closed eyes.
“Dynamite.” He rotated a finger to indicate she should turn and show him the back. Fiona swiveled.
“Yes, definitely that one,” he confirmed, eyes sliding with appreciation over her bare shoulders. “How’s the red?”
“Too brazen altogether,” she said with a nervous laugh. “It’s a dress for a really scarlet woman.”
“I’d still like to see you in it.” He held her gaze implacably and Fiona felt a little shiver run from her scalp to her toes, despite the warmth of the evening.
“No Christian—it’s not the sort of thing I’d ever wear.”
“Indulge me,” he suggested. She stood there hesitating, very much not wanting him to see her in the other dress.
“It makes me feel naked,” she murmured. Despite its long sleeves and high neckline, the red dress showed off every curve and hollow of her body. She’d felt as though she’d been sprayed with scarlet paint.
“Indulge me, Fiona,” he repeated.
Chapter Fourteen—Champagne Temptation
Sighing, she retreated, and emerged a couple of minutes later in the close-fitting metallic red sheath that screamed ‘look at me’ so loudly Christian’s groin jolted.
“Turn,” he growled, standing to give his rapidly growing erection comfort room.
Fiona turned.
The back fell in a long slippery cowl that left her spine exposed to below waist level. He stepped closer and traced a warm finger down the tempting ridge of bones, bumping softly from one vertebra to the next.
He felt the shudder of shock run through her, but she held her ground and let him progress the whole way—almost as though she was challenging him to continue.
“No, you can’t wear that one here.” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. If the boutique assistant hadn’t been present, he’d have followed his finger with a line of hot passionate kisses down her smooth back, despite any objections Fiona might have had.
His blood fizzed and prickled; his heart slammed in his chest.
“So the turquoise with the feather embroidery and that soft cinnamon one with the beaded bands?” She turned once again to face his ravenous eyes.
“Fine by me,” he said, nearly blind with lust. “Wear the turquoise tonight?”
“Okay,” she murmured and returned to the fitting room.
Christian thumped a fist softly and repeatedly against the top of the leather armchair. The blatant red dress had blasted his self-control half-way to Mars.
If she said she wasn’t interested, then right now she wasn’t interested. But opinions could be softened, minds could be changed, miracles could be caressed into being with patience and persistence. Christian had plenty of persistence. He hoped he’d have enough patience as well, because now he knew without doubt he had to have her.
And to have her, whatever the risk. He was in way too deep. He’d loved Jan and lost her. He might lose her sister the same damned way. But by God he’d take her if he had the chance—and let fate do its worst.
“Wrap the red one separately and I’ll collect it later,” he instructed the sales assistant, hoping Fiona was out of earshot.
*
They returned to the cottage with her purchases, and while she was unwrapp
ing and hanging her extravagant dresses, Christian searched out a bottle of chilled champagne and two flutes. Without Nicky’s chirpy presence, and with the sun starting to lower, the atmosphere was alive with danger.
Fiona walked back into the luxurious living area. Immediately Christian’s hungry gaze claimed her. His eyes never left as she wandered aimlessly—touching a piece of Jan’s pottery, stroking a finger along the back of the big leather sofa, peering at the titles of the books and glossy magazines available for guests to read.
Unnerved, she opened one of the wide glass sliders onto the terrace—anything to put some distance between them—and stepped outside.
A gentle breeze carried the fresh scent of the ocean up from the coast, but it was summer-warm. So why was she covered in shivery gooseflesh?
“What shall we drink to?” Christian asked a minute or two later, far too close behind her. He set the opened champagne bottle down on the outdoor table and started to pour the hissing wine.
“To the house renovations going well?” she suggested over her shoulder. She returned her eyes to the view, conscious of the hint of desperation in her voice.
Christian let out a small puff of mirth. “We can do better than that, surely? To an enjoyable dinner? A relaxing few days in the lap of luxury? Or...?” His breath was on her nape, and then his lips were there—and gone again. The soft aftershock of his kiss rippled right down her spine. To her dismay, a breathy little grunt of pleasure escaped from between her lips.
“Unfair,” she gasped.
He picked up both glasses and offered her one. She held it in front of her, an inadequate shield.
“Life is,” he agreed, lifting his glass and touching it to hers in an ironic toast.
“To an enjoyable dinner, then.” She sipped, barely registering the taste of the superb wine.
“And absent wives and sisters.”
“To Jan,” Fiona whispered, throat constricting.
To Jan, who is always with us, and is always going to be with us, however much I might want us to be alone.
She bit her bottom lip and sipped again. “I came here to be useful to you,” she reminded him. “To look after Nicky, not to get taken out to fancy dinners and so on.”
“And so on?”
She deliberately ignored him and lifted the hissing flute to her nose, inhaling the yeasty fruitiness.
“I suppose this is something special?” she asked, feigning interest in the rising bubbles.
“Only the best for you, Blondie. Only the best of everything, if I had my way.”
She stared up at him, lips wet from the wine. Desire crackled through her, swift as lightning.
“It’s lovely,” she croaked, turning away and making a dash for the wide-open doors. “I’m going to run a big hot bath and enjoy my drink there.”
His soft laugh followed her across the terrace.
Fiona ran the water very deep. The heavy glass shelf over the vanity unit displayed extravagant toiletries in Pounamu Lodge packaging. She stroked a thoughtful finger over the green and gold label of the bath gel. Pounamu—the Maori word for the precious dark green jade sometimes found in the fast-flowing mountain rivers of New Zealand.
She unscrewed the lid and inhaled the exotic fragrance, then tipped some into the rapidly filling bath. The bubbles started to foam up as she sipped her champagne, set the flute down, and began to undress.
“Decent?” Christian enquired, tapping on the door some time later. Fiona lay well-submerged, but uneasy at the prospect of him invading her privacy.
“Still in the bath,” she called back, hoping she’d achieved the right tone to keep him away.
He opened the door anyway, and a long tanned arm dangled the champagne bottle through the gap.
“Top-up?” he invited, waiting a few seconds before pushing the door any further ajar.
Fiona’s eyes blazed open. Christian had already showered. His hair was damp, his eyes possessive, and he’d wrapped a forest-green towel low around his hips. He’d tucked one end in to secure it. Fiona felt it could unravel at any second, and then wished it would so she could enjoy the sight of his whole long, taut, lean-hipped body again.
She held up her nearly empty flute.
“Just another half, thanks.” Could he hear the tremor in her voice? “I’d better leave some room for dinner.”
Christian sank down onto the marble bath surround. The towel parted enough to reveal a hard muscular thigh, but otherwise remained secure. He took the glass from her unsteady hand and set it beside him to pour the wine. Fiona sensed the bath water growing suddenly hotter around her very bothered body.
He hesitated, then moved the glass to the far end of the bath where it was safely out of the way. Very deliberately, he set his thumb onto the bottle opening so only a partial cascade could escape. And up-ended it to pour the pale wine in a fizzing stream over her half-exposed breasts and shoulders.
She surged up out of the water with surprise, gasping at the chill on her heated skin.
“Yes, sit up,” he urged her, voice husky and quiet in the secluded cottage.
Fiona glanced down. The wine washed away the bath-foam, exposing her breasts, shocking her nipples into tight dripping peaks. Christian’s eyes roved all over her, and then he lowered his head to her nearest breast.
“No!” she exclaimed as his hot tongue joined the cold wine in a sensual counterpoint. The sensation was extreme—the burning slippery caress of his mouth... the icy trickle of prickling wine. He lapped at her, eyes closed, savoring the taste of her warm flesh through the assault of chilled champagne, sucking her nipple so it lengthened and hardened even further.
Fiona trembled with extreme desire. She drew in a huge breath and leaned backwards in helpless invitation as the shafts of sweet intensity ricocheted chaotically from breast to brain to belly. She managed only a breathy moan of pleasure when he turned his attention to her other nipple and drew it deep into his mouth. The heavenly suction soon had her raising a dripping hand to cradle the back of his head and pull him even closer. Her fingernails scraped down over his neck, and out along a broad shoulder. Automatically her hand started to knead and stroke in time with his mouth.
The last of the wine drizzled away. He drew back, gazing at his handiwork.
“Look at you,” he whispered, setting the bottle aside so he could touch a fingertip to each throbbing nipple in turn. “So beautiful, so female, such a turn-on.” His dark eyes found hers and he shook his head slightly. “So dangerous,” he added.
Fiona had no idea what he meant, but she stared down, transfixed by her new appearance. He’d drawn her nipples out so they jutted swollen and rosy with the blood he’d sucked close to the surface. And she could see the marks of his passion on her—the rasp of his freshly-shaven face, the small pink blemishes where his teeth had nipped and worried at her. Her breasts felt huge and hot and super-sensitive. She looked up at him again, astounded and speechless.
“Ah, Blondie,” he breathed as he bent his mouth to hers for one small hard stinging kiss before he tore himself away. “Put your pretty dress on. Come to dinner with me.”
Fiona sat still as stone in the fragrant water and watched him leave. Several minutes crept by before she dared test if her legs were strong enough to support her.
*
It feels like a date, she thought. And she didn’t want it to feel like that.
But, as she blotted her skin with the huge towel, she could imagine his hands were tenderly caressing her as they had once before.
When she picked up her hair-drier she remembered him in the sunny bedroom as he stood naked, drying her newly washed hair. She’d watched the stretch and flex of his lithe body in the big mirror; enjoyed the play of smooth skin over long muscle; yearned to reach around and enfold that dark rod of flesh in her hand again... to cradle the weight of his heavy balls hanging below.
As she patted on moisturizer she could once again feel his gentle touch on her bruised face; see his brown eyes da
ncing as he joked about the make-up task she’d given him.
And all the time, Jan had watched, smiling from her wedding photo on the bedroom wall.
Fiona stretched to push away the vivid recollections. She drew a deep breath and turned to blast a stern stare at herself in the mirror of the cottage bedroom.
No Jan—he’s yours.
At least this room lacked a happy wedding photo to taunt her. She shook her head, swamped with guilt for allowing Christian to continue with his bathroom flirtation. She’d encouraged him! Almost passed out from the pleasure of it. How was she ever going to turn back the clock now?
She deliberately chose a pair of unremarkable up-to-the-waist thin white silk panties, knowing they’d leave no tell-tale line through the bias-cut cling of her dress. She was pleased they looked so un-sexy—a further deterrent to undressing for Christian. For she knew without doubt she’d need every tiny wisp of determination to resist him tonight.
She opted for no perfume, only her most neutral lipstick and the lightest of eye make-up.
But she could do nothing about her super-sensitive breasts as she stepped into the sophisticated turquoise dress. She drew it up past her hips, slid her arms under the shoulder straps, positioned the bodice with its cascade of vivid peacock feather embroidery, and pulled the zipper closed. She had no strapless bra with her. The soft glossy fabric clung to her curves, highlighting her engorged nipples—not just with shape but with shine. She folded her arms, willing the heat to soften and disguise them as she heard Christian jogging downstairs, jingling keys, calling “Ready, Blondie?”
She moaned with annoyance at her tell-tale condition, then snatched up her lipstick and a small mirror, flattened a forearm over each breast and walked to her half-open door as though just completing her make-up.
“With you in a minute, Christian. Meet you in the car.”
He lounged against the hand-wrought iron banisters.
“No hurry.” His eyes slid all over her, making her feel even more like a casual girlfriend being collected for an evening out.
Oh why wouldn’t her damned nipples subside? Why was a new and enraging sensitivity spreading deep in her belly?