A loud thump suddenly echoed through the house. Fiona jumped under his hands. Another thump followed.
Christian silently blessed the diversion.
“Sounds as though the boys are onto it,” he said. “They were set to demolish the old side wall of the garage today.”
The thumping continued as he walked into the en suite and retrieved his white toweling robe. He belted it securely before facing her again. Not trusting himself to speak, he managed some sort of smile and let himself out of the room.
Fiona sat there for a long time, staring at her reflection and reviewing what had just happened. At least her hair looked better—Christian had done quite well. Her skin now had a much healthier flush to it, but the activity that had caused the glow was unlikely to be repeated. It felt a little easier to move after a further night’s sleep in the luxurious bed. Some of her injuries were itching, too—a sure sign of mending, her mother always said.
So her body was recovering, but her brain had been shot to pieces. Now her heart was a quivering mess as well. She castigated herself for reaching out to him as though she’d been losing her balance. She should have grabbed the chair-arms instead.
And she certainly shouldn’t have asked him if it was ‘her or just sex?’ Of course he’d gallantly answered it was her—what man would be stupid enough to say otherwise?
But after a little dalliance he’d made it plain he’d be leaving...putting a breathing space between them...‘cooling things down’.
She drew a deep regretful breath.
Christian planned to take her to the clinic next day before sending her parents an official progress report. Then he’d be gone from her life. At least she’d be able to fall apart in private. Kathy would keep Nicky occupied.
She decided to stay in the bedroom, resting and reading. Hopefully the books she’d bought a few days ago would stop her from dwelling too long on Christian’s hard-planed face, and sleepy black-coffee eyes, and silky hair.
And sexy scent, and deep voice, and strong hands, and sinful tongue and golden skin.
And long back, and muscular thighs, and taut belly with its enticing slim stripe of descending hair, and...
Get out of my thoughts!
This wasn’t going to be easy.
He’d demonstrated she was resistible. Given her a little treat and then abandoned her. Made it obvious he wanted no further involvement. Damn him!
She reached across and pulled out one of the drawers, retrieved a fresh nightgown and, trying not to gasp and grunt with pain, wriggled into it.
Suddenly the books held less appeal. She staggered back to bed and began scanning the blurbs on the back covers desperate for something—anything—to grab her imagination.
But nothing’s going to grab my imagination the way he does.
Christian dressed fast and high-tailed it out of the house only minutes later. After the enforced celibacy of Jan’s final decline, he felt wonderfully potent again. Never mind he’d not actually buried himself inside Fiona—he’d explored her beautiful body and brought her to full screaming orgasm. For now, that was enough.
More than enough.
Stupidly more than enough.
As he drove, he cursed his lack of restraint. However much he might want her, she was the wrong choice. The dangerous choice. He’d loved Jan and lost her. What if he lost Fiona the same way? Breast cancer ran in families; he’d not wanted to know the disgusting facts, but that one had sunk in and stuck.
You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself here Buddy. She’s not yours to lose. In no time she’ll be back on her fancy cruise-liner with plenty of other men sniffing around.
Snarling he snapped on the radio, found Metallica, and wound it up to warp speed. The music distracted him for a few minutes, but once he hit the long promenade of Oriental Parade he pulled over, turned off the radio, opened his laptop, and Googled breast cancer. What were her chances?
He read with growing unease that a woman at moderate risk had one chance in six of contracting it by the end of her life. Jesus! If Jan had died from it, surely that meant Fiona had at least a moderate risk. Maybe that made her high risk? He clamped a hand over his mouth and glared at the screen. One in six?
He skimmed on through the information, scowling at each unpleasant fact he uncovered. If she had the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene, the risk could be as high as 85%. He’d never heard of them. How common were they? Did she already have mutant cells lurking inside her gorgeous breasts? And what about Nicky in the future?
He raised his eyes from the screen and stared out across the harbor, seeing nothing of the sunlit water and the passing parade of runners and dog-walkers. Thick black dread settled over him like tar.