The Wrong Sister(26)

So what was the noise? She cocked an ear toward the doorway just as Christian appeared, wheeling a high-backed black leather office chair.

“Goldilocks is awake?”

“Who’s been sleeping in your bed, you mean? Sleeping well. I feel a lot better.” She yawned and tried to stretch, and was foiled by her injuries. “Ouch!” she gasped. “Better in some places, anyway.”

“I was doing some work in the study this afternoon. And I realized although we don’t have a wheel-chair, we do have a wheeled chair. I could take you through to the living room on this until you’re more comfortable on those crutches? Do you want to get up for dinner?”

She struggled onto her elbows and the traitorous sheet slid below her breasts. Lying down flat with him looming over her was unnerving—she felt far too vulnerable. Knowing he could see through the thin old nightgown had just made the sensation so much worse. Perhaps she should have insisted her parents took her back to Auckland, after all?

“Dinner? I’m allowed up for that, am I?”

“If you feel well enough.”





He wrenched his gaze out over the harbor. The last thing she needed was him staring at her breasts like a schoolboy.

Again he held up the silk robe until she was out of bed, then lowered it so she could slip her hands down the sleeves. The beautiful dip of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips were silhouetted against the lowering sun. He clenched his teeth, trying not to react.

His hand had touched her right there on the evening of the barbecue. He remembered when they’d queued for their food that he’d been pushed against her by someone else in the line. He’d steadied himself by grabbing her waist—had enjoyed the contact—had pretended he’d had too much to drink to disguise the fact he couldn’t bear to let go of her.

He drew the robe up her arms and settled it over her shoulders, then stepped around and sat on the bed so he could wrap first one side then the other over her body. Her dangerous breasts were only inches away from his lips. With every ounce of self-control he could find, he ignored them, smoothed the sash around her, and began to tie a careful bow.

“I feel so responsible for your injuries,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.

“My fault—not yours at all,” she countered. “I shouldn’t have gone near the doorway.”

“I should have pulled you back in time.”

He emphasized the action by sliding his hands around her waist and giving her a gentle tug toward him.

And Fiona stumbled forward one unexpected step so she stood right between his parted thighs, knees pressed against his groin.

Reacting instinctively to the intimate contact, Christian snaked his arms around her, holding her captive so he could lay his cheek against her warmth and softness.

He barely believed it when Fiona smoothed her palm down past the ridge of his cheekbone to stroke his face, laid her other hand on his shoulder, and then curled it around his back so she could draw him more tightly against her.

“Poor Christian—you’ve had a lot to bear,” she murmured as she rocked him gently to and fro.





Fiona’s pulse thundered. How many times had she imagined this? Against all the odds, her secret wish had been granted. Suddenly she had the perfect excuse to touch and caress Christian without him ever knowing how turned-on she was.

She moved the hand cradling his face. Trailed down his neck and then raised it to touch his dark hair again. Ran her fingers through its clean softness and on to explore his cheekbone and jaw. Her fingertips registered the slight scratchiness of his late afternoon stubble, scraped lovingly upward again to intensify the sensation, then smoothed down and just held him.

She hoped Christian thought she was offering sympathy and not sex. She knew her heart must be galloping at a giveaway rate right under his ear, and for sure he’d feel her fingers exploring and soothing him, but he hadn’t drawn away. He was in her arms, and for the moment that was enough.

Then the air rushed out of her lungs as he turned his face and buried it between her silk-covered breasts like a small hurt boy.

Fiona stroked down the back of his head again and again, giving him time to recover his composure. It must have been absolutely soul-destroying for him to lose Jan. To watch his lovely wife fading beyond recovery. To see her enduring the wretched chemotherapy with so little hope near the end. To lose her while she was young and beautiful and enjoying the daily discoveries of new motherhood. It had been bad enough for Fiona following her progress—or lack of progress—from the other side of the world, but to have to face it every day must have broken his heart.





Christian remained sitting on the side of the bed for several more minutes, holding Fiona wrapped in his arms. Finally, hating to do it, he relaxed his grip a little and raised his guilty eyes to hers.