“Okay?” His eyes were only inches from hers, his lips far too close to her mouth. He began to slide his arms from underneath her, desperately hoping he wasn’t pressing on bruises or dragging at dressings.
His whole body surged with wanting. His big heart thundered, his knees quivered against the floor. Blood pumped south to stiffen his unwelcome erection even further. Anguish and guilt ripped right through him as he eased his arms away. This was Jan’s room, Jan’s bed. No way should he be feeling this way about her sister, here of all places.
He looked up at the bank of family photos on the wall behind the bed and felt even worse. Jan and Nicky smiled down at him. There he stood with his arm around Jan. Nicky played with a Sesame Street toy. They’d been a family unit, safe and secure, his to protect, but now the unit was blown to pieces.
That was where his life was and where his heart had to stay. It was way too soon to be having the thoughts Fiona inspired, and she was the least suitable woman to have them about.
How could he push her out of his reach forever?
“Okay?” he repeated, daring to glance at her again. She looked pale and distressed. There were tiny beads of sweat on her brow. He watched her eyelids fluttering down over her green eyes.
“Yes!” she gasped, impossibly close.
Christian remained kneeling beside the bed. He’d hungered for the sight of her—three days without her in the house had seemed like a year. However much he’d tried not to think of her, she’d danced incessantly through his thoughts.
She was forbidden. His wife’s sister. His dead wife’s sister. His very recently dead wife’s sister. And she stirred feelings in him that even Jan hadn’t. He laid a hand on her forehead, avoiding the dressing over her eye. Fiona flinched and drew a sharp breath. Slowly, tenderly, he stroked her hair, unable to leave her alone.
“Should I stop?”
“No, it’s nice,” she conceded, eyes still clenched shut. “But my hair must be awful.”
“We could wash it tomorrow...”
He saw her brow wrinkle with enquiry.
“...if you want to,” he continued.
“I’d love to, but how?” Her eyes remained closed, and he was grateful because it meant he could stay right there watching her, his aroused body hidden against the side of the bed.
“You’re forgetting we had the whole en suite tiled,” he said. “It’s one huge shower, really. I’ll drag in an outdoor chair and you can sit down in there.”
“I can’t get my arms up, Christian. I’d never manage to wash it myself. I’m not great yet.”
“You’re not in any shape to go to a hairdresser to get it washed, either. I’ll help. We’ll manage somehow.”
Fiona nodded mutely, lashes still cast down.
“I’ll leave you to rest. Water? Orange juice? Lunch?”
“Water maybe.”
She must have sensed him moving, because she opened her eyes. Right in time to discover him bending low over her, his lips drawn together to settle a kiss on her brow.
She uttered a small cry—the tiniest noise of distress—and he drew back far enough to focus on her face.
“No,” she protested.
“What did you think I was going to do?”
“Leave me.”
“I’m just going,” he said, misunderstanding.
“No!” she repeated, eyes huge in her pale face. “I don’t want you to leave me.”
Total silence hung between them for a few seconds.
“Fiona?” His voice was barely audible.
“Stay. For a little bit. Please, Christian.” He saw she was trembling all over now, seemingly horrified at her plea, but with strange elation in her expression too.
He gazed down at her, only inches away. With a sigh of intense regret and resignation, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers. He intended only the merest of touches, a butterfly brush, a tantalizing light caress of flesh past flesh. But one pass became two, then three. And her lips parted under his so he sank into a much deeper, more intimate kiss than he’d planned.
He ripped his mouth away from hers with a groan, realizing what he’d done.
“Rest Fiona,” he grated. He rose and turned before she could notice the obscene bulge at his groin, then strode through the doorway and pounded up the half-flight of stairs to Nicky’s room. Pushing the doors to the terrace wide open he flung himself down onto one of the outdoor chairs, legs apart, shoulders tensed, head pressed back into his interlocked hands. He clenched his eyes shut against the glare of the sun and gulped in air.
Where the hell had his self-control disappeared to? Surely it ought to be possible for him to carry an injured woman into a bedroom without making a grab for her? Fiona must still be disoriented from her concussion. He couldn’t imagine she’d seriously wanted him to stay.