by Kris Pearson
“Oh Dad!” Fiona scoffed as she turned to start the trek to the baggage claim. “Rest and sunshine—that’s all I need.”
And Christian out of my reach and out of my brain.
“How’s Christian coping?”
Thanks Mom...
“Sad of course, but managing,” she said, tucking a hand into each parent’s arm. “He had to go to Japan urgently, but he’s due back today.” They fell into slow step together behind the rest of the passengers. Christmas music blared from the speakers. Tinsel decorations glittered from high vantage points. Fiona barely noticed.
“And Nicky?”
“Poor wee Nic. How do you explain something so huge to a two-year-old? She’s still looking for Jan everywhere. Maybe a bit less some days than others. It’s hard to tell.”
“Should you have stayed on longer?”
Fiona shook her head and unlinked arms as they came to the escalator. She concentrated for a moment until she’d stepped onto it safely.
“No,” she said over her shoulder as it carried her downwards. “Christian found a really good nanny through an agency. He wanted me there while he was in Japan. To be his eyes and ears. But she’s great with Nic, so I had no worries about leaving.” She stepped off the escalator and positioned herself between her parents again. “It’ll be lovely having Christmas with you at the beach,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “You’re both okay?” she asked.
“No mother is ever okay after losing her child,” Rebecca said, glancing at her remaining daughter with suspiciously moist eyes. “But poor Jan had such a nasty time with the chemo—well, I can’t be sad she doesn’t have to face that any more.”
“And she wasn’t going to beat it, was she? I was never quite sure from what you told me over the phone, but it was aggressive?”
Rebecca remained silent, and it was Greg who cleared his throat and said, “You have to try. You have to believe. I’ve seen things I wouldn’t have thought possible.”
They walked on in silence until they reached the throng around the baggage carousel.
“It’s a blue case,” Fiona reminded her father. “There’s a red tag on the handle to make it easier to spot.”
“I’ll get a trolley,” Rebecca said.
“No need, no need,” Greg said testily, as though it was a reflection on his manhood.
“I’d like one to lean on—it’ll make walking out to the car easier.”
“Of course it will.” Her mother bustled away.
Fiona watched her, admiring her trim figure and smooth blonde bob. Even on the way north for a beach holiday she wore a smart caramel skirt and an ivory blouse. Jan’s colors.
And her Dad? His face was impassive and his silvering hair gleamed under the lights when he loaded the bags onto the trolley. How badly must they both be hurting?
Christmas morning dawned picture-postcard fine. Fiona lay in bed in the clear blue light, watching the curtains sigh at her open window. A hungry restlessness ate at her. She felt she’d barely slept all night, yet was acutely awake and alive.
The soft, regular swoosh of the waves enticed her out. Although it was only six-thirty she threw back the sheet, dressed quietly and let herself out of the house. After just a few paces, she reached the sand.
Another two days of rest had helped the pain in her knee subside to a dull ache. She strolled along, feet in the frothing edge of the water. In the distance, two people and an energetic black dog also enjoyed the spectacular morning. A small yacht made very slow headway in the light air. There were no other signs of life.
Her mobile gave a polite trill. Frowning, she dug it from the pocket of her white shorts and checked the screen. Name withheld.
“Fiona Delaporte.”
“Christian Hartley.”
She froze mid-pace, savoring his dark growl, picturing his beautiful mouth and hungry eyes. Drew a quiet breath, unable to speak for a few seconds.
“How ya doing, Blondie?” It was asked so softly she could almost have imagined it.
“Better thanks, Christian. Much better.”
Although not now I’ve heard your voice again.
“So you’re up and about?”
“Going for a slow wander on the beach.”
“I thought you might be.”
“Um...?”
“You suddenly flashed into my mind, and I felt you were awake. So I’ve rung to say Merry Christmas.”
“Thank-you,” she murmured. “I wish it could be merry for you, too, but I guess that would be too much to hope for...”
“Life goes on.”
She could picture his chin lifting as he said it...heard both his quiet resignation and his determination to move forward as he clipped the words out.
“How’s my Nicky?” she asked.
“One moment an angel, the next a little devil. Basically fine.”
“And Kathy’s working out okay?”
“Terrible taste in music, but good with Nic.”
Another small silence hung between them.
“Miss you, Blondie.”
Her heart contracted. “Don’t Christian. Please don’t.”
“Just stating the obvious.”
Her breath hitched. “Where are you?”
“Leaning over the fence. Watching the harbor. Enjoying the peace. Builders have got the garage secure again, although far from finished.”
Fiona closed her eyes and there he was. Hair ruffling in the breeze. Early light slanting low along his cheekbones. Long body lounging against the steel and glass barrier above the gnarled cliff-top bushes and clumps of tough rustling flax.
“I’ll pass your greetings on to Mom and Dad.”
“It wasn’t them I rang. I rang the girl in the photo.”
“I had no business leaving it for you.”
“No business? Blondie—we have unfinished business. Surely you know that?”
Every hair on her body lifted. Even at this distance, he disturbed and aroused her.
“I guess it’s going to have to stay unfinished then.”
“Because you’re escaping to the far side of the world?”
“Late January. It’s where I work.”
“I wish you didn’t.” His dark drawl curled around her consciousness, caressing...abrading. Fiona stood ankle-deep in the summer sea, heedless of the larger-than-usual wave rushing for the shore. Suddenly it smacked her shins and splashed up over her knees to the hems of her shorts.
She gave a sharp exclamation of surprise and annoyance.
“Are you okay, Blondie?”
“Fine, Christian, fine. Wet. A wave bounced up.”
“Wet,” he murmured. The word hung there, stirring memories of his hands in her hair, slippery with shampoo... his hot questing mouth sliding down her thigh... his clever wet tongue licking, probing...
Fiona pressed her thighs together.
“Don’t,” she implored.
“Why not? I’m just picturing you. Wet.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?” There was a curl of amusement in his voice. A silky suggestion he knew she was thinking of more than sea-water on her skin, too. That they were back in his bed together, guilt-ridden, thrilled, out of control despite all their good intentions.
“Not—together,” she muttered.
He gave a short hard bark of a laugh. “Blondie, I think of us together a lot. It’s all that’s getting me through.”
Something ripped inside her ribcage, sending a shower of sparkling regret to drench every corner of her body.
“Don’t, Christian.”
“Just my little game. A small consolation for losing my two lovely ladies. I’ll never have Jan again, but at least I can still remember giving you pleasure...and imagine how it would be if things were different.”
“But they’re not.”
She injected as much flat finality into her voice as she could. Although she squeezed her eyes closed, tears still welled up and escaped.
Two we
eks ground by. Christian phoned several more times, frustrating them both. Fiona lived to hear his voice, however much it hurt. And refused to be the one to phone him.
“So we’re moving out to Pounamu Lodge tomorrow,” he said, half way through January. “The work on the house started today. Chaos. We’re getting out until they’re finished.”
“You and Nicky and Kathy?”
Can he hear the suspicion in my voice?
“Me and Nicky and Kathy. We’ll have dinners at the Lodge, but stay in the cottage. The Lodge is no place for children.
“A bit too fancy?”
“Way up-market. How much did Jan tell you about it?”
“Only that you put money into it with a friend.”
“Antoine. Genius with food and people, but hopeless with finance. We’ve got it fine-tuned now and things are great. She told you about the cottage though?”
“Your bolt-hole. Yes—she loved it there.”
“Three bedrooms. Big outdoor terrace. Huge views over the hills, right out to the coast.”
Fiona pictured something rustic, timbered and casual. She’d never been there with Jan, even though it was only an hour’s drive north from their home in Wellington.
“Hope the security work goes well.”
“I’ll phone you, Blondie.”
“And lots of fish are biting for you. Bye, Christian.”
Later that evening her phone trilled again. Her pulse quickened. Name with-held on the screen—it had to be him.
“Hi,” she said, hoping she was right.
“Hi yourself,” he growled. And then added, “I need a big favor, Blondie. Can you get down here tomorrow? Kathy’s gone.”
Fiona grabbed for a nearby armchair and leaned on it, literally knocked off her feet by his sudden and unexpected request. She regained her balance, and sat, swallowing in confusion. “What? Gone where?”
“Madrid. Her last family decided they needed her after all. One day’s notice. I can’t blame the kid—it’d be hard to resist an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe at her age.”
The tightly-coiled spring that vibrated in Fiona’s heart every time she heard his voice, wound up another couple of turns. Kathy was out of the way. And Christian needed a replacement. Should she be offended, or pleased or wary?
“Can you do it?” he asked while she agonized.
“Yes.”
“Will you do it? Just for a few days until I get something sorted?”
“Only on that basis, Christian. I’m due back on the boat pretty soon. You said you wanted to cool things down. That’s fine with me—I don’t want...to start anything again.”
A small silence strained between them.
“Understood.” His voice was careful and neutral.
“I’ll book a flight, then.”
“Already done—just in case.”
Fiona’s hackles rose. Was she so predictable?
He must have heard her indrawn breath. “Just in case,” he repeated. “I’m not taking you for granted, Fee. Can you be at the airport for three-thirty? I’ll forward your e-ticket and meet you at this end.”
“Fine,” she said and snapped her phone shut.
Oh God, this wasn’t fair! She’d ripped herself away from him when she’d wanted desperately to stay. Had never contacted him in case her good intentions crumbled after that first tiny concession. Had only needed to keep her heart hard and her resolve high for another few days and she’d have been home safe on the other side of the world.
She speared her fingers through her hair as the big jet settled lower at the end of the journey. Was she mad to take this on?
If I had a seat on the other side of the plane, I could see the house.
The harbor winked brightly in the sun. Homes crowded the surrounding hills. Only minutes away, Christian waited for her.
She massaged her scalp, trying to push the jittery anticipation out of her brain. Attempted to relax her tense shoulders. Unclasped her clenched hands and laid one on each thigh. And found upon landing she’d scrunched up a handful of fabric in each. Sighing with annoyance she attempted to smooth it flat again while the plane taxied toward their arrival gate.
He was only a man, for heaven’s sake. And a man she was having no more to do with. At all.
“Arty Fee! Arty Fee!” Nicky squealed.
Fiona grinned at the flailing fists and adoring smile of her only niece. She had to force herself to look at Christian. He ducked his head, eyes holding hers.
“Welcome back, Blondie,” he said, handing Nicky over for a cuddle. “I hope you’ve got a couple of slinky dresses packed?”
“Yeah, I take slinky dresses on every beach holiday,” she said, looking away from him, down to Nicky. Thank heavens for Nic! If she’d been meeting Christian alone, she’d have thrown herself into his arms instantly. She prayed he couldn’t see the desire in her eyes, hadn’t noticed her helpless soft gasp as she first caught sight of him.
This is such a bad idea.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Christian reached to take Nicky back, wondering how the hell he was going to make the situation work. It had taken only a glimpse of Fiona to send his blood racing south again.
“She’ll be way too heavy for you to carry unless that shoulder’s a lot better by now,” he said, attempting to reclaim his wriggling daughter, and finding he needed to slide an arm against Fiona’s breasts to do so.
“Hold still, Nic!” he ordered. Nicky immediately grabbed for the scooped neckline of Fiona’s red T-shirt and clung like a limpet. He disengaged her after a short tussle and a generous eyeful of pale flesh, which did nothing to deflate him.
“Sorry,” he grated.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
She’s as chilly as a glacier.
As he walked uncomfortably toward the baggage claim area, he cursed his stupidity. He could have managed Nicky on his own for a few days. God knows, once Jan was in the hospice for the final time they’d got by. Some help from just-returned Amy Houndsworth, an hour or two each day with Jen’s nanny, Nicky napping in her special safety-seat as he drove briefly to work to keep a handle on things...
At the Lodge it would be way easier than that.
If he was honest with himself, this was all about Fiona, not Nicky. He’d been desperate to see her just once more before she was out of his reach in the Mediterranean—and in case some slight attraction for him might still linger in her heart.
“Anyway—slinky dresses—I grabbed one of Jan’s, just in case.”
“Er... oh, for dinner? He watched her clear green eyes widen in surprise. “It’s that classy?”
“Pounamu Lodge expects a certain standard...”
“Does it indeed?”
“Dinner’s the high point of the day. A genuine degustation meal—eight entree-size courses. Wines specially chosen to match. No menu. Different every day of the year.”
“Your idea?”
“Antoine’s. But I select a lot of the wines.”
“So talented.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Is it to be open warfare then?” he asked.
“No. Of course not, Christian. But you rub me up the wrong way sometimes.”
“By being interested in wine? Oh, come on now Blondie, New Zealand produces some of the world’s best these days. It’s an exciting thing to be part of.”
“Not the wine. Of course not the wine.” She ignored him and smiled across at Nicky as they walked along the bright impersonal terminal concourse. “Just by being you,” she muttered.
His lips twitched. Presumably she’d not intended him to hear that.
He heard her draw a deep breath, and saw her breasts rise under the soft scarlet fabric.
“And what,” she asked, making an apparent effort to be more sociable, “is there to do at this place?”
He ripped his eyes back up to hers.
“Horse-trekking. Quad-biking. It’s an angler’s paradise not far up the river. Nine-hole golf c
ourse—we’ll be extending that in a year or so. Swimming pools, indoor and outdoor. A couple of nice tennis courts. Sauna. Gym. Enough for you?”
“I brought some books to read while I watch Nic.”
His brow furrowed with displeasure. “I’m not expecting you ‘on duty’ every hour of the day, Fee. We’re there to relax...to wind down a bit. After losing Jan, we both deserve a break.”
She bowed her head in silent acknowledgement.
“I was already having a break,” she muttered.
“You call that a cottage?” she asked as the big silver-grey Mercedes coasted slowly to a halt.
Her imagined rustic timber effort was a miniature French-style masonry chateau. It sat creamily in the sun, backed by tall Pohutukawa trees, still with tufts of their feathery firecracker flowers in bloom. Black forged-iron railings edged the upstairs balconies. An expansive tiled terrace dotted with outdoor furniture faced the spectacular view.
“We had it built to match the Lodge.” Christian pointed through a gap in the trees to a magnificent building partially visible in the distance. “It’s rented out a lot of the time. Ideal for honeymooners or small private groups. The Lodge administers it.”
“At an interesting price, I dare say.”
He grinned at that. His tanned skin showed off dangerously good teeth. Fiona’s pulse increased its tempo.
“It sleeps six. There’s a daily rate, dinners included.”
“You wouldn’t want six on a honeymoon,” she objected.
“Total privacy for two—and a choice of three huge beds.”
Why were there sudden butterflies in her stomach?
Christian unloaded her bags from the luxurious car.
“The ocean view or the morning sun?” he asked, waving her in once he’d opened the door. He picked a protesting Nicky up to stop her wandering away.
Fiona prowled, peering into each of the rooms, acutely conscious of his tall quiet presence. Hand-loomed rugs softened the tiled floors, and exquisite quilts dressed each bed. She ran her fingers over the intricate patchwork surface of one.