And now he’d trapped her. They were in exact alignment. She longed to push back against his tall, lean, forbidden body. She found just enough willpower to hold still and deny herself the pleasure. She clenched her teeth, steeling herself to stay strong.
She flinched as Christian nudged his chin against her shoulder in the briefest of contacts, his early-morning stubbled face now only millimeters away from her flaming cheek.
She smelled the shampoo from his newly washed dark hair. Or maybe it was the soap from his shower, wafting up from his warm body? Certainly not aftershave. He hadn’t shaved yet. Fiona loved the toughness it lent his face, and wished so much she didn’t.
Why was he making things so difficult for her?
“Christian, it’s not the ideal holiday for me, being stuck here with you.” She spoke out toward the sparkling harbor and cloudless sky because she didn’t dare turn toward him. That way lay danger. It would be just too easy to be snared by his sexy brown eyes and then lose her resolve and seek his lips with her own. What a fiasco that would be…
“Then go,” he challenged her.
“I can’t,” she ground out with frustrated anguish. “Mom and Dad have lost their other daughter. They want to know their only grand-daughter is well looked after and as settled as possible. I promised them I’d help you for a while. I can do that much for them. I will do that much for them, and for you.”
She longed to wrench herself away. Christian was grieving, not himself. Why else would he be standing here taunting her with his closeness? Her bare toes curled against the shining floor as though tensed to run. The invading sunshine flooded over her feet and up her shorts-clad legs.
She needed to stay calm, although that was a joke. His hard tempting body stood so near to hers that all her nerves tingled and pulsed as though she was a gigantic Christmas tree full of shimmering lights.
She drew a deep breath and finally found the resolve to slide away sideways and put a couple of steps between them.
“I don’t want you here,” Christian said again. “You’ll only...remind me so much of Jan.”
She turned, raised her eyes, and plummeted into the dark depths of his. She hadn’t thought of it in those terms. She shook her head helplessly.
“I’ll keep right out of your way. You’ll hardly see me.”
“Yeah, right.” His tone was scathing. She heard him breathe out hard through his nose. It was almost a snort.
Okay, so it would be difficult, but she’d make it work somehow. If he didn’t want her looking so similar to Jan, then she’d endeavor to look totally different.
Like her sister, Fiona had thick honey-brown hair in a rich swathe well past her shoulders. That could go for starters. It would be a beginning, anyway.
Jan had always been a discreet and classy dresser. Fiona pictured bright funky clothes to go with a new hairstyle. Flamboyant earrings, lower necklines, shorter skirts—all the things alien to Jan would become part of her own new look. Little Nicola would enjoy the storybook colors, and hopefully Christian would be reminded a lot less of his recently dead wife.
She turned toward him, feeling safer now she’d increased the distance between them.
“What will you have for breakfast?” She hated the false brightness in her voice. “Bacon and eggs? Toast?”
“Just coffee. But Nicky likes porridge.” Their eyes swiveled in unison to the determined two-year-old digging in the sandpit outside the huge doors. A fence of toughened glass and slender steel posts bordered the sunny lawn. They were high up in the Roseneath area of Wellington. Beyond this, the land dropped steeply down to the harbor. Beautiful houses, old and new, nestled on the most improbable building sites to capture views of sparkling water and the city centre against its backdrop of tree clad Tinakori Hill.
Early summer in New Zealand, Christmas a bare two weeks away. Fiona’s eyes roved over the garden borders billowing with petunias, marigolds and lavender, thinking they were much more Jan’s sort of thing than the careful funeral flowers. She could still picture the perfect stiff formal roses decorating her casket in the hushed church. The church where just a few short years ago her sister had been married.
Jan would never see her garden again, but if her daughter wanted porridge, that at least Fiona could manage.
“You need more than just coffee,” she said too sharply to Christian as she spooned oatmeal into a saucepan. “I’ll make you some toast.”
His beautiful lips twisted. “I can do it myself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I know you can! But I’m here to help. Let me. Go and get dressed for work.”
He shook his head, sulky as a mutinous school-boy.
Fiona found herself once again snared by his dark deliberate gaze. She’d always found her sister’s husband disturbingly sexy—not that she’d seen him very often because of her globetrotting cruise liner job—but now he looked exhausted as well. She had a sudden fierce urge to hold him and comfort him, to help him slide into a deep refreshing sleep.
She dropped her eyes from the heavy-lidded intensity of his. She knew the very best way to tire him out so he’d sleep deeply, and that wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m staying home for a few more days at least, so you may as well go,” he said.
Fiona turned aside, fuming that he’d taken no notice of her parents’ wishes. If only he knew what a nightmare assignment this was for her.
She threaded two slices of bread into the expensive four-slot toaster, and took her annoyance out on it, pushing the knob down with unnecessary force. There was a loud pinging noise and the mechanism failed to engage.
“You’ve broken it.”
Her nerves stretched a notch tighter. “I’ll toast it under the grill then.” She bit back her temper as she flicked the stove controls on and removed the bread to a rack.
Christian unplugged the chrome monster, shook the crumbs out into the sink, and laid it down on his opened newspaper. He left the room for a short time and returned with a handful of tools.
Fiona got the porridge under way, and stood by the counter pretending not to watch as he turned the toaster over and poked about, his whole attention fixed on the task. She’d noticed he was always like this, immersed in whatever he was doing or whoever he was talking to. He gave himself totally to little Nicky when he played with her...had devoted himself without reserve to Jan when Fiona had dared stay with them in New Zealand on her trips back home from Europe. It was almost as if she hadn’t existed for him during those times—and it had been a shameful relief, because she’d found herself fascinated by him.
He’d made her feel super-aware, and edgy and uncomfortable.
Guilty with nothing to feel guilty about.
Far too alive and alert, when she’d been there to wind down and relax.
It had been wonderful seeing her sister, but there was always that extra edge of intensity when Christian was present.
“Toast’s burning.”
Fiona cringed as she smelled the smoke, and tore her eyes away from him. Flustered and annoyed, she reached for the grill tray, forgetting how hot it would be by now.
“Damn!” she exclaimed, sucking her tender fingers.
He sprang up immediately, and his chair teetered off-balance before its front legs thudded down onto the floor again.
“Cold water,” he ordered, pulling her along to the sink to hold her hands under the flow with a steely grip. “Is it bad?” He was far too close again; taller by almost a head. Her perfectly adequate five feet six felt curiously petite beside him.
“No, it was more a fright than anything.” She tried to wriggle away. “Let me go. I’ll be fine.”
She struggled free, trembling with annoyance at her incompetence, and teased by feathery flickers of desire. She closed her eyes, willing the sensation to go. Gorgeous he might be, but he was Jan’s.
“Keep it under the cold for five minutes,” he muttered, turning back to his tools. Fiona seethed, and stifled the sharp reply that h
ad so nearly sprung from her lips.
The hot pain subsided quickly enough to a dull throb, but the sensation of wanting to press close to him took a lot longer to ebb away.
She let out a shaky sigh and turned to watch him working again as the water held her prisoner. He had beautiful hands with long, capable fingers. He flipped the toaster over, investigated the locking screws, and then removed the cover. A few seconds later Fiona saw the tendons in his wrist twitch into sharp relief as he exerted pressure on the spring to re-attach it. He grunted with satisfaction as it clicked home.
“Porridge has probably had it.”
She whirled aside to check, scattering cold water everywhere, and making the hot stove-top hiss and steam. Why hadn’t she used the microwave oven? Sure enough, the gluey mixture had stuck fast to the bottom of the saucepan. She scraped at it with the spoon, closing her eyes in fury. Oh, wouldn’t it just!
“So really,” Christian continued with maddening calm, “You’re no help at all. You’ve broken the toaster, burnt the toast, wrecked the porridge, and hurt yourself. We’re much better off without you.”
Fiona held his triumphant brown eyes with her own snapping green ones... embarrassed, maddened, but not quite defeated. “How can you sleep at night, you sanctimonious pig?” she heard herself snarl.
He clicked his tongue. “An honest reaction at last.” He regarded her with something like amusement. “Right now, I don’t sleep too well, thanks, but the doctor says time will help take care of that.”
The awful reality of what she’d just said hit her. “Sorry—so sorry, Christian.” The tell-tale heat of embarrassment rushed through her again. “That wasn’t what I meant, of course.”
The half-grin faded from his face. “No, I know that.” His voice was bleak. “You must be hurting too.”
“My only sister.”
“But it’s difficult having you here.”
“Because I remind you too much of Jan?”
He shrugged. “Just difficult. We truly don’t need your help. Amy Houndsworth agreed to continue as part time housekeeper. She’s been preparing an evening meal for us ever since Jan got really sick. A great fill-in, but I’ll be getting a proper nanny for Nicky now that Jan’s... gone.”
Fiona heard the hurt and hesitation in his voice.
Yes, Jan was gone for always, and it was so hard to say it. “A nanny is something I could arrange for you, perhaps?”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “There are several agencies in the city. I thought I’d start with those. I’d prefer to choose someone myself, Fee. She’s my daughter.”
“And my only niece. Fifty/fifty then? How about I contact the agencies and you do the interviewing of anyone suitable?”
He shot her an assessing look, nodded and turned away. “So you’ll only be here another few days with any luck,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Five and a half more weeks,” she managed to return with equal firmness.
He stopped and swung back to her, bristling like an animal protecting its territory. “Five and a half weeks? That’s pretty precise. What are you up to exactly?”
Fiona raised her chin. “Not ‘up to’ anything, Christian. But that’s how much more leave I’ve got. That’s how long the ship’s replaced me for. We all hoped Jan would be with us for longer than this.” She poked at the sticky porridge pot to escape his accusing eyes. “I’ve nowhere else to go until then. I want to see more of Nicky, and help if I can. It’s here or a hotel—and that would be pretty silly. It gives you time to do proper nanny interviews and find someone really suitable anyway.”
He glared at her, outmanoeuvred for the moment. “Use the microwave oven for your next attempt at porridge,” he said with unkind directness. “You might manage not to burn it second time around.”
I knew that...
“What about your toast?” she countered, trying not to react to the sting in his microwave dig.
“I said I didn’t want the damn stuff in the first place. Just let it go—okay? I don’t need looking after, whatever you or your mother may think.”
Fiona compressed her lips and turned aside to scrape the porridge from the saucepan. Seriously stuck. Sighing, she ran some hot water into it, added a squirt of dish-wash liquid, and set it to soak before starting a second batch.
Why was he being like this? Yes, he’d lost Jan. But so had she. They should be pulling together to help one another through this appalling time. Instead, he seemed hell bent on getting her out of the house. So far he’d tried reason, rudeness, the excuse she looked too much like her sister, assurances he could manage without her, the acquisition of a nanny, and strangest of all, the teasing physical closeness.
Earlier, by the window, when he’d come to stand directly behind her, almost rubbing himself against her, she’d wondered if he was trying to drive her away with sexual aggression.
Her brother-in-law? Surely not.
Chapter Two
Fiona had long ago resigned herself to Christian’s electric presence and devised coping strategies. She prayed they were still adequate, because this was proving a much more difficult assignment than she’d imagined.
Evenings in the house should be bearable. Her guest bedroom on a lower level than the master suite meant she could escape there to read or watch TV the instant Nicky was down for the night. Caring for Nick should be easy enough with Christian not around, but it seemed he planned to remain home for a while. Fiona had expected, and hoped, he’d be at work, well out of her way.
Anyway, he was Jan’s, first and always, she reminded herself sternly as she removed the much more successful porridge from the microwave oven and added milk to cool it.
“Open wide, Nicola Jane Hartley.” She brought the teaspoon down with a flourish to her niece’s rosebud mouth, playing jet-planes—copying those that dropped steadily lower over the sparkling water to land at the international airport not far away.
Nicola opened her mouth like a baby bird and Fiona zoomed the spoon in. Nicky liked to feed herself, but that was a slow and messy process. The jet-plane game sped things up wonderfully, and Fiona could do without more mishaps today.
Christian still leaned against the doorframe behind her. He’d been there for several long, tense minutes. Fiona kept her full attention on Nicky rather than risk another confrontation.
He also said nothing, then finally turned and left them to it. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked slightly on the marble tiled floor as he departed, and at last her spine sagged, and all the muscles across her shoulders and down her back relaxed in a grateful slump.
He’d made her really uneasy with his unrelenting suggestions she should leave. She couldn’t—partly because of the promise she’d made to her parents. They were hundreds of miles away in Auckland now. Both were busy doctors and had opted to return to their duties. She suspected their absorbing work would be the best distraction for them, anyway.
Once she’d known her beautiful sister would be irrevocably lost, Fiona had arranged tentative bereavement leave with her employers. As the entertainments officer on the ‘Mediterranean Queen’, she could be replaced for a number of cruises. Jan’s condition grew critical; Fiona returned to New Zealand for a last precious time. And far sooner than anyone expected, Jan had slipped away.
Now, Fiona’s luxury liner plowed through the sunny blue ocean without her, disgorging toasted passengers to admire the scenery in Spain, the south of France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and North Africa. Until her appointed time to rejoin it, she was literally homeless.
Another five and a half weeks stuck in a hotel or rattling around her parent’s Auckland apartment didn’t appeal in the least. Nicola was desperately in need of mothering—by turns truculent and clingy, confused and sorrowful. She wanted MommaJan, and no explanation sufficed to placate her.
Her big blue eyes fastened again and again on Fiona’s, as though Auntie Fee could suddenly produce her missing mother. Fiona felt guilty and helpless. She barely had Nicol
a’s trust yet, and she ached to bring the little girl whatever comfort was possible. Her visits home had been so sporadic she’d seen her only three times.
And why is that, Ms Delaporte? Because you knew you had to stay away from Christian?
She sighed as she lined up the next spoonful of porridge, acknowledging the truth of it. Christian made her heart spark and flutter. Made her skin burn. Made her yearn. She had only to be close to him and she was lost—just like she’d been lost the first time she’d met him—on his wedding day.
The rest of the morning passed peacefully enough. Christian had holed up in the cavernous garage, tinkering with one of his vintage cars. Leaving Nicky in the sandpit again, Fiona intruded with a mug of coffee for him and was amazed to find he had part of an engine in pieces. She’d assumed he’d had washing or waxing in mind.
“So you don’t just do toasters?”
He laughed at that, more relaxed than he had been earlier. “A methodical man can take anything apart.”
“And put it back together again?”
“Unless it’s broken beyond repair. These old girls are a good deal easier to play with than modern cars.”
Among other things, Christian and his father owned a highly profitable business creating reproduction vintage motor vehicles, and repairing genuine old models, too. Fiona knew their main market was Japan, which seemed incongruous to her. Surely the bustling streets of Tokyo and Osaka hardly needed these big beauties adding to the traffic congestion? But maybe the cars were kept garaged as precious treasures and rarely saw the road?
“So these are real?”
Christian squatted to reach in behind a wheel. The old jeans strained around his narrow hips and long thighs so the waistband dipped to reveal a wedge of his lower back below his T-shirt hem.
Fiona had the sudden devastating sensation of her mouth moving across that strip of smooth golden skin. She could taste him on her tongue, imagine his scent, feel the tingle in her lips. She knew she should squash the outrageous scene right out of her imagination but it was so vivid and enjoyable.
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