by Kris Pearson
“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 li
ke 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.
Fiona dashed through.
“Stop for God’s sake!” he yelled. “Get some proper shoes on. Your feet’ll be cut to ribbons.” Relief shot through him when she skidded to a halt in time.
The huge garage door was bent and buckled. Part of it remained, hanging askew, creaking in the slight breeze. Suddenly it, too, fell with a squealing metallic thump. Dust and concrete fragments flew everywhere in a blinding cloud. Christian cursed foully, and Fiona buried her face in her arms to protect her eyes.
“Bastards took the Jag,” he snapped. “Call the cops for me, eh?”
There was no sign now of him being anything but totally alert.
She wondered about that as she pulled out her phone, dialed the emergency number, and relayed the details she was sure about.
“Just a moment,” she said, handing the phone over to Christian.
She checked on Nicky who was half-awake but so drowsy she was easily soothed. Then she hurried into her own bedroom and rummaged through her shoes. She laced on a pair of white trainers, hoping their thick soles would be protection enough from all the glass.
Christian talked on, giving the registration number and other details of his beloved E-type.
“Thank God I keep the Rolls way at the back,” he said as he disconnected. “The garage lights have blown. I can’t see what the damage really is. That explosion will have flung shards of metal and concrete all over the place. The other cars could be mincemeat.”
Neighbors started to appear— curious, startled, and concerned. Fiona picked her way to the entrance and peered upwards. The pressed-steel garage door lay buckled and crumpled on the forecourt like a couple of huge dead animals. A handful of concrete chips pattered down beside her.
“Get back, Fee!” Christian yelled as part of the main support beam gave way and crashed down. She leapt sideways, tripped on some of the debris, felt a huge surge of pain, and blacked out. She never knew how feverishly he worked to clear the heaviest pieces away from her crumpled body, or how tenderly he covered her with a blanket and watched over her until the paramedics arrived.
She regained proper consciousness the next evening. Christian sat close by her hospital bed, staring blankly ahead, but his gaze ricocheted across as she uttered a soft moan of complaint.
There were flowers everywhere, and her whole body ached like fury.
He instantly pressed the Call button and reached for her hand. His over-firm grip was far from steady. His fingers shook as he laced them through hers.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said in a hoarse and weary voice, eyes so intense and hopeful she’d have sprung from the bed undamaged, had it been possible. “Hell that was stupid thing to do, Fee. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
So much for a tender welcome back to the land of the living…
She moved her other arm and gasped with pain, but knowing he’d kept watch sent a wash of warmth through her and almost made up for his rough words. How long had he been there?
A nurse bustled through the door a moment later and Fiona tried to lift her head before subsiding back into the pillows with a groan. Christian rose from the chair, wincing as he stretched from the vigil at her bedside.
“Long wait?” Fiona murmured.
He shook his head as though the answer didn’t matter. “I’ll call Greg and Rebecca back,” he said, digging his mobile from a pocket. He stood looking down at her, dark face unreadable, while the nurse fussed and checked. Then he disappeared into the corridor and she heard jubilation in his voice as he made the call.
He returned, sat again, and retrieved her hand. Slowly he recounted the whole story until she had it straight in her slightly addled brain. She was severely bruised, somewhat concussed, but against all odds unbroken.
She decided woozily that he must have employed magic to get her parents there so fast—Auckland was almost a day’s drive from Wellington. But twenty hours had slid by, and they’d flown down early that morning and only recently left the hospital to find dinner. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the rapid tattoo of her mother’s heels. Her parents burst in, tired, concerned, and thankful.
“Oh my darling girl,” Rebecca faltered, bending over to caress her brow and kiss her cheek. “The thought of losing both my daughters...”
She left the words hanging and turned aside to hide tears of relief.
“Awful scare. Awful,” Greg Delaporte said in a gruff voice, reaching out to clasp a cautious hand over hers.
After a few moments, her mother checked the chart at the end of her bed, drew a deep breath and nodded. Fiona imagined she’d done it dozens of times already
“I’m sure they’re looking after you as well as possible,” Rebecca said. “But there’s one thing hospitals provide that’ll do you no good at all—these awful gowns.” She gave the sleeve of Fiona’s a disparaging twitch. “I brought a couple of my old button-through nightdresses with me. Nice and soft, and just as accessible for the staff if they want to change your dressings.” She bent to retrieve one from the bedside locker and shook out its folds.
Fiona managed a half-hearted smile. Trust her practical mother to think of something like that!
“Thanks Mom. These lumpy back fastenings are horrible to lie on—yours’ll be great to have.”
“And how are feeling, really?”
“Lucky to be alive I suppose. It could have been worse.”
“Much worse,” her father agreed.
“I’ve spoiled your dinner.”
“I’d choose a daughter over a dinner any day,” he said.
She tried to push herself up a little on the pillows.
“Ow…” she growled.
Christian’s sleepy eyes snapped alert.
“Stop trying to move,” he insisted. “One thing’s for sure—you’re in no shape to travel. You won’t be going back with Greg and Rebecca. You need to stay in Wellington for a while yet.”
“You need to stay in hospital for a while yet,” her father corrected.
Being the daughter of two doctors assured her of A-grade treatment anyway. But really, there was nothing much anyone could do—she needed rest, but little else.
However keen her parents were that she returned to Auckland with them, Christian was equally persuasive about her remaining with him so he could look after her.
“I’m off work for a while yet to care for Nicola,” he insisted. “Amy Houndsworth is coming in daily to clean and to cook the evening meal. There’s no point in taking either of you two away from important jobs.” He raised his voice as her father started to object. “I’ll make sure Fiona eats and has her check-ups. It’ll save her traveling while she’s so sore. What more will she need?”
Not much, it seemed. But as she lay uncomfortably in the hospital bed her thoughts returned again and again to the prospect of being cared for by the man she needed to stay away from. How would she manage? She could barely move yet. He’d be uncomfortably close. Tempt
ingly close.
Although she knew what mustn’t happen between them, it was tempered by warm and guilty thankfulness she didn’t have to leave him yet...that maybe...no, it wasn’t possible. Of course it wasn’t. He was Jan’s, not hers.
Still, her brain whirled with private fantasies. Then she castigated herself for thinking such things and apologized silently to her beloved sister.
She made enough progress to be released from hospital two days later. Her parents flew home. And Christian arrived to take her back to recuperate in the huge house on the Roseneath cliff-top. The tables had been very neatly turned.
How strange. A few days ago he came up with every possible reason to get rid of me. Now it seems he’s moved heaven and earth to ensure I stay.
Her battered brain wasn’t up to solving conundrums like that.
Climbing from the hospital wheelchair into the plush leather-upholstered back seat of his Mercedes was hugely more difficult than she’d expected. The crutches they’d supplied put too much strain on her injured shoulders. Everything hurt—and in the end, Christian gritted his teeth and took over. He picked her up in his arms, and, apologizing for the pain he must be causing, set her down gently in the car.
Fiona didn’t feel a lot of pain.
Heat, yes. She felt she was somewhere as tropically hot and humid as Singapore instead of temperate breezy Wellington.
She felt his incredible strength for sure. Long strong arms, and shoulders bunched with hard muscle had lifted her and lowered her without effort.
She felt too close—definitely way too close!
She also felt she’d like to sneak a little kiss onto his beautiful stern mouth while it was so near to her own.
It’s the drugs. It must be the drugs.
She was on drugs, wasn’t she?
Painkillers, of course. But they didn’t usually affect her like this. So it had to be the anesthetic. People sometimes had very funny reactions to anesthetics, didn’t they? But had she been anesthetized? Well no, perhaps not. She’d knocked herself out cold with no need for chemical intervention.