The Wrong Sister

by Kris Pearson

  He shrugged.

  “Exactly. Quite a number of women get it at the very end of their lives. By then their metabolism is very slow, the cells generally don’t mutate fast, and the disease is mostly controllable with medication. It’s something they live with, rather than die from.”

  She indicated they should turn again, and he steered the trolley around.

  “Anyway, Jan wasn’t even at moderate risk. She was young and healthy. She didn’t smoke. She breast-fed Nicky, which helps. She certainly didn’t have the BRCA1 or 2 gene. She just had the bad luck to contract some horrible invasive incurable variant of the disease.”

  Christian heard the tremor in her voice and gave her a few moments before he asked the question that was always on his mind; the question that really terrified him. “So where does that leave you and Fiona and Nicky?”

  Rebecca dredged up a shaky smile, and linked her arm awkwardly through his.

  “I’m fine. Fiona’s fine. We’ll make sure Nicky’s fine too, later on. You’re a dear boy to worry about us all.”

  He slumped down over the trolley handles and bowed his head with gratitude. Perhaps at last he could begin to hope again?

  They walked on in silence a little further and Rebecca surprised him with her next question. “How do you like my new toy?” she asked, beeping her remote at a smart yellow convertible with DOC BEC registration plates.

  “Bit racy for you, mother-in-in-law?” he suggested, finally unable to suppress the smile of joy that kept trying to spread itself over his face. He lifted his bags off the trolley and stowed them away.

  “Greg thought I needed a treat by way of consolation. Not that a car could ever replace a daughter...”

  Christian shook his head. “Never in a million years. His idea for the plates, I presume? I like it.”

  A faint blush stained Rebecca’s carefully made-up face.

  “People wave and toot at me now…”

  He laughed and enjoyed the mental picture it conjured up. Doctor Rebecca was a quiet and conservative woman. Having her bright yellow transport noticed and acknowledged amused him.

  “No exceeding the speed limit then,” he teased, knowing his broad grin was out of all proportion to the joke of the DOC BEC plates.

  “It’s easy to drive this too fast—the old one was much better behaved,” Rebecca admitted with a guilty smile.

  Her cheerful comment was almost lost on him. He was still processing the fact of Fiona not being at the horrendous risk he’d feared. Fiona was safe! Nicky was safe! His family dream was again a possibility.

  Fiona walked into his arms without stopping. Simply crashed against him, dropped her overnight bag with a soft thud, wrapped her arms around him, and tilted her mouth up to his. If anyone watched or commented, Fiona and Christian were so lost in each other they were unaware of it.

  His fingers ran through her hair. Her hands kneaded the dense muscles of his back. They drank in the taste and scent of each other as they stood pressed together in a dimension far away from the raucous arrivals lounge.

  “You’re thinner,” he said, once their lips finally parted and conversation was possible.

  “You’re harder,” she countered, tilting her pelvis and giving him a suggestive push.

  “Not wrong there,” he agreed, scooping her bag up and holding it across his body with a sizzling grin.

  “I’ve been pining away,” she teased, slipping an arm around his waist and turning to walk with him to the terminal exit. Joy sang through every fiber of her being.

  Venice was silver with springtime. Silver sky over silver water, with the silhouettes of the distant city strung golden across low-lying islands.

  They stood hand-in-hand as the sleek white water-taxi sped toward the shimmering outlines of domes and towers.

  “Why Venice?” she asked, wondering if maybe he’d brought Jan to this magic place. She couldn’t bear to think of her sister’s intrusion into a time she hoped would be solely theirs.

  “Because I want this to be special for us. I thought we should be in the most romantic place on earth.”

  Fiona sighed happily and laid her face against his shoulder, breathing in the beloved scent of his skin through clean cotton.

  “You’ve been here before, Chris?”

  “Haven’t managed it, for some reason. Always wanted to visit. It’s a treasure I’ve been saving—and now I know why.”

  He cupped her face up to his for a small sweet kiss.

  “I suppose you’ve seen it dozens of times?” he asked, a rough edge of jealousy obvious in his voice.

  “But never with you. And I’ve never stayed overnight on land here.”

  He stroked her cheek, apparently satisfied.

  The water-taxi entered one of the canals. They travelled along close to the ancient walls of the palazzos and emerged into the glistening lagoon. The imposing church of Santa Maria della Salute was dead ahead, domes soaking up the sun and reflecting it back in ravishing golds and pinks.

  “I can’t believe the lack of traffic,” Christian said, gazing around in fascination.

  “Incredible, isn’t it? Nothing but boats. No cars, no buses. Just the water-taxis and tourist gondolas and the vaporetto—which is their public transport—and all the other little boats.” She nestled closer to him. “Where are we staying?”

  “A very discreet hotel, ideal for lovers.”

  The water taxi deposited them at the private pier of one of the ancient palazzos. From the tiled entrance lobby Christian led her up a magnificent marble stairway, past dramatic old paintings in ornate frames, and to a heavy timber door. He produced an old-fashioned black key and handed it to her with a flourish.

  “Your key to paradise, I hope, Signorina?”

  She smiled and slid it into the lock. When the door swung open, she gasped with pleasure.

  The room was large, high-ceilinged, and appeared to be furnished in a style that was centuries old, although a quick inspection of the attached bathroom and the generously-sized bed soon assured her it was luxury all the way. The walls glowed dusky copper, the ceiling was darkly timbered. Lavishly embroidered cream curtains danced at the open doors to their private balcony.

  Christian pushed the fabric aside and beckoned her out into the sun. Together they leaned on the surround and watched the water-traffic in the canal below.

  “Another useful railing?” he suggested, raising a wicked eyebrow.

  “We might end up in the water,” she countered, thinking back to the night they’d embraced so passionately on the cottage terrace. “And even in the wee small hours, far too public, I suspect.”

  “Whereas,” Christian suggested, drawing her back into their room and pulling the doors closed, “this is both dry and private.” He settled her against him so their bodies notched together.

  “We’re made to fit,” she whispered as his lips started a leisurely exploration of her face. He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered shut, progressed over her cheekbone, and then outlined the bow of her sensitive top lip with the tip of his tongue.

  Fiona moaned with pleasure. The endless frustrating months without him had all been worth it if this was her reward. She’d ached for the warmth of his kiss and the scent of his body and the sound of his voice. Their five-day affair had been incandescent. This extra night of love was a precious unexpected gift.

  Her lips curved against his smile.

  “I want to take you slowly,” he said in a husky whisper. “I want to turn you on so thoroughly you’ll remember this for the rest of your life.”

  I’ll remember you forever, Christian.

  The butterfly brush of his mouth moved gently on her swollen sensitized lips. She tried to increase the pressure but he drew fractionally away, teasing her with tiny nips and nibbles as he slid his hands to the waistband of her denim skirt and released the fastenings.

  “Christian,” she breathed. “You’ll kill me. I’ve been waiting so long...”

  And still he proceeded w
ith the utmost restraint, holding her close as he worked her skirt down past her hips; not allowing her to hurry him.

  In desperation her fingers grabbed for the buttons of his shirt, fumbling them out of the buttonholes so she could run her fingers—and then her lips—through the soft mesh of hair that covered his chest.

  Christian groaned, cupped her face in both hands, and lifted it away from his flesh so he could dispense with his shirt. He toed off his shoes and turned aside to close the curtains. Fiona stepped out of her skirt and sandals. Dim seclusion shrouded them.

  “You’ve been in the sun,” she said, enjoying his darkly tanned chest and shoulders as she backed toward the bed, eyes intent on his.

  “It’s been a good hot summer. But so cold without you, Blondie. Take your top off for me. A sexy little strip-tease...?” One dark eyebrow winged up before he unzipped his jeans, pushed everything down, and kicked the bundle away. He stood there buck naked and beautiful, cock damn near vertical. Fiona’s mouth watered as she eyed the plump succulent tip. Her lips and tongue longed to close around it, and suck and slide until he surrendered. She grasped the hem of her T-shirt and began to peel it off, gathering the soft fabric up to reveal the flimsiest of bras.

  “Very nice.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Chosen specially...”

  “Take it off.”

  “You do it,” she challenged, tossing the T-shirt aside.

  Christian bent his dark head to her breast and slid his tongue under the edge of the lace to her barely-covered nipple. She sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Christian...”

  “My Blondie...” He eased the straps off her shoulders. “Hell—forget what I said about doing this slowly,” he added, tipping her backwards onto the big bed and dragging her tiny panties off as she wriggled and giggled beneath him.

  Much later, they enjoyed the sumptuous bathroom, hands running over skin, soap sliding, mouths meeting as they embraced together under the hot cascade of the shower.

  “Time to dress for dinner,” he finally said, turning off the water.

  “Where are we eating?”

  He smiled. “Right here in our room, Blondie. We have things to discuss. I want you all to myself.”

  He enfolded her in a thick towel and began the enjoyable task of rubbing her dry.

  “And I want you in this,” he added a few minutes later, reaching into the wardrobe and lifting out Marielle’s sexy red dress. “Be my scarlet woman? Just in private, for me?”

  Fiona’s spirits dimmed a little. His scarlet woman? Was that what he had in mind? She turned away with the dress. No underwear was necessary for the role he’d assigned her.

  Minutes later there came a discreet knock. Christian answered the door and ushered in two waiters with a wheeled serving trolley. With swift efficiency they plugged the trolley into a wall socket, laid a snowy cloth over an antique table, drew two chairs up to it, and produced plates and silverware from a credenza. With a final flourish, the waiters set out champagne flutes and an ice-bucket with a napkin-necked bottle.

  They made little secret of admiring Fiona’s flamboyant skin-tight dress, accepted their proffered tip, and left.

  “A tuxedo?” she gasped, only then registering what Christian wore.

  He stood by the table, easing the cork from the champagne, magnificent in his formal clothes.

  “You dressed for me. I dressed for you.” A faint smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I have something special to show you, Blondie. This is not an ordinary occasion.”

  He poured the wine and lifted both glasses. Fiona stepped closer to take hers.

  “To us—I hope.”

  “To us then,” she repeated, unsure of her ground. She sipped and swallowed the heavenly liquid.

  He reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out two envelopes, glanced at the name written on each and handed one to Fiona. Jan’s distinctive handwriting snared her total attention and set her heart hammering.

  “I finally cleared out the desk in her study,” he said as Fiona set her champagne aside.

  “And she left this for me?”

  The flap had been securely stuck down. Her fingers trembled as she prized it open.

  She was so fearful of what the envelope might contain it took far too long to extract the single stiff sheet of paper inside. It crackled loudly in the silence as she unfolded it.

  Very little was written there, and the shaky words were difficult to decipher.

  Dearest Fiona,

  Please read Christian’s. Brain still fine but body too weak now.

  Best sister ever.

  All my love,

  Jan.

  Fiona gave a huge sob of desolation. Jan had died almost four months earlier, but her loving presence suddenly surrounded them again.

  She dropped the letter on the table and hurled herself against Christian, burying her face against his chest. She wept without restraint, not caring that her careful make-up smudged against his shirt, that her eyes grew red and raw.

  His arms enfolded her and pulled her close. After the worst of her weeping subsided, she felt his warm hand stroking over and over down the long sweep of her back exposed by the glorious red dress. Slow soothing caresses, full of tender consolation.

  A short time later, he leaned sideways and raised her letter.

  “She was saying goodbye,” Fiona hiccupped, pulling away slightly and turning her ruined face up to his.

  “And more than that,” Christian murmured. “She wants you to read mine as well.”

  He continued to hold her close as he shook his own letter from its envelope and smoothed the two pages out, one-handed. He held them so she could see.

  Fiona read, and trembled, and gazed wet-eyed up at him.

  As suddenly as that, her whole world changed.

  The magic trolley held a selection of delicious Venetian specialties in its mini-fridge and warming-drawer. It should have been the best dinner of her life, but the food took second place to the taste of Christian’s satiny skin and the musky fragrance of his body, and the sensation of his hands and lips roaming over her in a thousand kisses and caresses.

  Next day she could remember with certainty only the huge out-of-season raspberries they’d dipped in sweet thick cream and hand-fed to each other in the tumbled bed.

  Fiona came awake to the pealing of bells. Sunshine slanted in between the embroidered curtains. She recalled how sometime after midnight they’d parted them to make love with the Venetian moonlight spilling over the bed. Slow drugging love that chased doubts and uncertainties into the furthest shadows.

  “Awake at last.” At the sound of Christian’s whisper, she smiled and turned toward him, stretching luxuriously.

  “Good morning, lovely man.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Have you been watching me?”

  “Not for long. Just a few minutes. I’ve been planning how we’ll spend our morning.”

  “And?”

  “You haven’t changed your mind?” he asked with sudden concern. “You’ll still marry me?”

  Fiona reached up and touched his mouth.

  “In the bright light of day, with no champagne and no amazing red dress, you still want me?” she teased.

  Christian nipped her fingers.

  “I love you. I want you. Always. Simple as that.”

  “I love you back,” she declared. Then she dropped her voice to an embarrassed murmur. “And I loved you first. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the instant I saw you I was jealous of Jan.”

  She saw his eyes widen with surprise.

  “And when you kissed me on the dance-floor...”

  “When did I kiss you?”

  “When we stopped dancing.”

  He shook his head slightly.

  “Just a little ‘hello’ kind of kiss,” she hastened to assure him. “But I fell for you a bit more then. And every time I saw you since, I fell harder.”

  “How could I forget kissing you?” he demanded.
>
  “Of course you would. You’d just married Jan. Like I said, it was only a ‘hello new sister’ kiss.”

  “Hello,” he said, and bent lower. “New fiancée.” He took her mouth in a kiss that would have scandalized every guest at the wedding.

  “New fiancée...” she murmured eventually. “I like the sound of that.”

  “New wife sounds even better to me,” he said, reversing their positions and pillowing her head on his chest.

  “As soon as my contract ends I’ll come home to you and Nicky. That’ll be seven months after Jan,” she added softly. “It feels like forever, but people will still talk.”

  “People can yell for all I care. If they’re so narrow-minded they’re no friends of mine.”

  “Or mine,” she agreed, turning her face to bite his dark nipple. She teased it with her tongue and felt the little peak rise up.

  “Stop that—I’m trying to be serious here,” he protested. “This morning we’ll go shopping for an engagement ring—yes? An emerald to match your eyes?”

  Fiona released his flesh with a small gasp of surprise.

  “Chris, that mightn’t be so easy. We could wait until I get back to New Zealand?”

  “All sorted, Blondie. The hotel manager assures me the arcades of Piazza San Marco have enough jewelry to kit out the entire A-list of Europe.”

  “A engagement ring from Venice. Really?”

  He found her other hand beneath the bedcovers and drew it out so he could kiss her palm. She traced the pad of her thumb across his dark morning stubble.

  “You have no idea how much I love you,” he added. “How you fascinate me. How I’ve had to try and stay away from you as the years went by.”

  She opened her mouth to protest at that but he laid a finger on her lips to silence her.

  “You must have known? Jan was the love of my life, the mother of my child, but you were the spark which ignited something else entirely. So yes—I stayed away from you.”

  “Until the cottage.”

  “Until the cottage,” he agreed. “And since then...”