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.