The Wrong Sister

by Kris Pearson

  There was no point in returning to Auckland to drift around her parents’ home for the rest of her leave. She drew in a deep breath of resolve. She’d have to make the current situation work somehow.

  While she waited for her hair coloring to be completed, she again imagined delicious Christian stretched out on the sand for Nicky. Or for her.

  His T-shirt had outlined broad shoulders, and the summer tan on his olive skin made a glorious contrast to his flashing white smile. But the rest was all guesswork.

  She pictured him again mending the toaster that morning. She’d been surprised he’d bothered. But he’d been competent. Assertive. Expecting to succeed. His hands belonged to a rich man, but a rich practical man. And his arms were beautiful—with strongly-defined muscles and soft dark hair.

  Would his chest be smooth or hairy. Dark-nippled anyway, because of his olive coloring. She shifted her hips in the chair, trying to relieve the insistent aching pressure in her lower body.

  He’d be long in the torso, she decided—probably with iron-hard abs and a smooth sweep of skin right down to where his swimsuit sat low on his narrow hips. Or would there be a fine trail of dark hair down to his navel and beyond?

  Get him out of your mind, half of her instructed.

  Imagine how beautiful he must be, the other half insisted.

  And remember you can’t possibly have him, her guilty conscience added.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Desire started to eat at her again, sharpening her appetite, blunting her resolve. He was Jan’s. Had always been Jan’s. And therefore couldn’t be hers. It was all very well deciding to make the best of the situation; carrying it off was something else again.

  Only for five and a half weeks though, her churning brain reminded. Until the third week of January. Surely I can manage that?

  A timer dinged and her stylist returned. He poked about in her sticky hair and nodded with satisfaction. Fiona relaxed as his strong hands kneaded her scalp and massaged the shampoo and conditioner through what was left. He might be whippet-thin, but he was certainly no weakling.

  “You’ll make me purr,” she said, smiling, hoping he’d continue for a little longer. Anything to take her mind off Christian.

  A few minutes later, a shorter-haired blond inspected her from the mirror. Her hair was attractively tousled and casual, feathery with lifting layers on top. She looked like she’d spent summer by the ocean, and the wind and sun had tossed and bleached and relaxed her.

  “Great!” she exclaimed. For it was. Even to herself she looked almost a stranger. She needed a little more eye make-up maybe, but with her brighter new clothes she’d now look so unlike Jan it must surely make things easier for Christian.

  “What the hell have you done to your hair?” he exploded as soon as she returned to the house. His hands came up as though to tangle in the thick mass that had hung past her shoulders only a couple of hours before. Then he grimaced and dropped them to his sides again.

  “I wanted a change,” she said, stung by his unflattering reaction. “I wanted to not feel like a copy of Jan.”

  “You’re no copy,” he muttered. “You’re the original. I always thought Jan took her lead from you.”

  This was news to Fiona. Jan was older. Jan set the standards, surely? Being two years younger, Fiona had loved and admired her sister, envying her, just a little, her handsome husband, her luxurious home, and her lively daughter.

  So had she reacted by forging off in her own direction? Creating a different style? Making the most of her independence and free-wheeling life? Christian seemed to think so.

  He raised his hands again and clamped them down onto her shoulders. He swung her from side to side, inspecting her with savage dark eyes. She glared back at him. This wasn’t fair—she’d done it for him, and now he was making it plain he didn’t like it. She huffed out an angry breath.

  “Sets off your cheekbones,” he said brusquely and released her as though she was red-hot. And in truth she was. Burning at the touch of his fingers. Melting under his eyes. Sparking along every nerve. When he was this close, she felt in danger of dissolving into a puddle at his feet.

  With a huge effort, Christian stepped back. The woman was magic. Totally transformed. He’d thought Fiona beautiful before, but now she was temptation itself. Her slender neck was barely covered. His fingertips itched to touch the tiny wisps of newly sun-kissed hair that lay close to her vulnerable nape...to continue the caress out over her shoulder. To lay his lips there and taste her skin, breathe in her fragrance.

  He wanted to frame her fine-boned face with his hands...emphasize her femininity with his dark masculine grip...tilt her mouth up to his for a hot passionate exploration until she breathed faster, grabbed at his arms to pull him closer, spiraled out of conscious control with him.

  But she was so far out of bounds that even imagining such a scene was absurd.

  Obscene.

  His shoulders tensed with the effort of not touching her again. His nails bit into his palms as he clenched his hands into hard fists.

  He thanked God for the loose black T-shirt hanging over his jeans. Hopefully it disguised the fact he was ramrod-stiff with lust...desperate to bury himself deep in her warm slick body and slide and plunge until they both tipped over the edge into ecstatic oblivion.

  His beloved wife had been dead eight days. The shame and shock of his inappropriate reaction ran through him like needles of super-sharp glass. And still his body twitched and pulsed, barely restrained.

  This woman...this woman...

  A jolt of self-disgust shot through him. Maybe every time he’d made love to his wonderful Jan, Fiona had been buried somewhere deep in his subconscious, intensifying the pleasure-waves?

  God, how sick!

  He found the strength from somewhere to step away. Being alone with her was the purest hell. He needed a diversion, fast.

  “Will you come to the barbecue this evening?” he demanded hoarsely. “There’ll be several families. I’ll be taking Nicky. Will you join us?”

  He watched as Fiona relaxed just a little. The atmosphere had been electric until that instant. He felt tense as a tiger. Ready to snarl and prowl and spring on any danger.

  And she was the greatest danger, far from welcome in his home and his life. She’d show him up for what he really was—weak-willed when he’d somehow stayed strong these last wrenching months. Predatory, because he could barely keep his hands off her now. Less than the man he’d always tried to be.

  “Fine,” she said. “Good. That would be nice. Should I get a salad together or something?”

  He nodded, hands still bunched into hard fists at his sides. “Yes. Great. I’ll grab some wine.”

  He escaped to the huge garage where his wine cellar was built into the underground side wall. He laid his forehead against the cool rock, closed his eyes, and tried to regain his shattered equilibrium. This was hopeless. He was hopeless. She was going to break down all his defenses.

  It had been bad enough waiting for Jan to slip slowly away. He’d thought the torment of those last few weeks unbearable. He’d been angry beyond belief that his darling wife was being stolen from him. But compared to this?

  He rolled his head wretchedly, eyes still closed. Compared to this, it had been bearable after all. There had been an end in sight—albeit a shattering end to life as he’d known it.

  But with Fiona? There was not even a beginning in sight. And no chance of one, the way things stood. It was too soon. She was Jan’s sister. She worked on the other side of the world. She’d showed no interest in him anyway, and never would, and that was just as well. Even if she wanted him, he might lose her the same way he’d lost Jan.

  He piled up the reasons in his feverish brain.

  And added one hopeful disturbing memory—their strange interaction right after she’d cut her finger and he’d grabbed for her.

  She’d been hurt. He’d comforted her. There was no more to it than that, surely? But she’d not
objected to him taking charge. And she’d suddenly pressed herself against him for those few intoxicating seconds.

  It would be all he had to enjoy, and endlessly re-run in his brain, through the long nights to follow.

  He was thankful there’d be plenty of other company tonight. Being confined in the house alone with Fiona would be absolute hell. Especially now she looked so different, so touchable, so casually attractive, so unlike Jan.

  She might appear to be a new woman, but all the underlying reasons why he couldn’t have her remained exactly the same.

  With a vicious curse, he snapped on the wine cellar’s light and started to run a hand along the bottles as he considered the labels.

  An hour later he stood waiting in the spacious marble-tiled entrance foyer as Fiona descended the half-flight of stairs from the top bedroom level of the house. She trod with care, holding Nicky in her arms. He’d got together all the baby paraphernalia they’d need.

  Fiona’s new feathery hairstyle still shocked him. And instead of her usual conservative clothes she wore lime-green trousers that outlined her body in sensuous supple folds. He watched with gnawing hunger as the fabric tightened and relaxed across her thighs and groin with each slow step.

  She bent to set Nicky in the stroller, revealing a slippery bright top, scooped low over her breasts. As she dipped, his eyes followed the creamy curves barely contained in black lace. His brain gave a kettledrum kick of wretchedness. She looked so desirable he was sure all the men at the barbecue would be eyeing her, wanting her, pursuing her if they were free to.

  As he most definitely was not.

  Dammit to hell—this wasn’t what he’d been expecting. So much for being grateful for extra company!

  They settled Nicky and set off for one of the other homes in the exclusive harbor enclave. It was a fine clear evening for walking, which meant he could relax with a few drinks and not worry about having to drive home.

  Relax? That was a laugh. With Fiona looking the way she did now, all his senses were super-tuned, razor-sharp.

  He watched as she stashed her salad on the storage rack below the stroller’s seat. Once again her breasts taunted him with their beauty and accessibility.

  “Will it be safe there?” she asked him.

  “Safe as houses. Can you carry the wine?”

  Fiona took the calico carry-bag from him and glanced at the bottle motifs stenciled on the fabric. It was no doubt one of Jan’s gallery finds; there were reminders of her everywhere. And the biggest reminder walked right beside her—now dressed in snug black jeans and an icy-white T-shirt that stretched over his impressive shoulders and chest like a second skin.

  They proceeded along the narrow pavement in awkward silence, walking close enough together to sometimes bump elbows or hips.

  Fiona kept her eyes on Christian’s tanned forearms and hands as he pushed the stroller.

  She knew quite well his eyes slid sideways every few seconds, drawn to the swell of her partly revealed breasts, no doubt quite visible from his superior height. A sudden chilly breeze swirled around the corner and her nipples tightened. A glance downwards showed the hard little nubs tenting her bright knitted top. She folded her arms, realizing too late that this made her breasts push together and rise even further into view.

  “Is it far?” she asked. “Maybe we should have brought sweatshirts.”

  He shook his head. “Just around the next curve. Very sheltered.”

  Nicola crooned in her stroller, oblivious to the emotions strung bowstring-tight behind her.

  Laughter and a babble of conversation greeted them as they arrived. Everyone had gathered on the covered terrace cantilevered out from the harbor side of the house. As they approached, Fiona glimpsed long leather sofas and a vast flat-screen TV through floor-to-ceiling glass doors folded wide to the evening air.

  Christian introduced her to his friends.

  “Jan’s sister Fiona. Just helping out for a few days.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Fiona,” their hostess Jennifer said, accepting the salad with a nod of thanks and turning aside to place it on the expansive outdoor table already studded with platters and bowls of food.

  “Glad you could join us,” her husband Sam added as he shook Fiona’s hand in greeting. “We’ve all lost a great friend in Jan. Christian’s lucky to have you.”

  Her heart did a regretful dive.

  He doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t want me anywhere near him or his gorgeous daughter.

  About twenty other adults were already there, all dressed casually but expensively. Fiona felt pleased enough with her new clothes.

  And her hair. It was hard to remember the hair, but she caught Christian yet again eyeing it and then looking away. Not to his taste. Tough.

  Two black-aproned waiters circulated, offering trays of nibbles to the guests. Fiona chose a couple of skewered grilled bacon-wrapped scallops and dipped them into the accompanying bowl of tangy sauce.

  She drifted across to the railing edging the terrace. Christian’s home sat across the abyss; between the two properties, the land dropped away in a breathtaking sweep.

  The harbor lay quiet, far below. She stood looking down for a few moments and then sighed with resignation, turned her back to the view and watched the other guests.

  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 momen
t 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.