The Wrong Sister(43)
“Life goes on.”
She could picture his chin lifting as he said it...heard both his quiet resignation and his determination to move forward as he clipped the words out.
“How’s my Nicky?” she asked.
“One moment an angel, the next a little devil. Basically fine.”
“And Kathy’s working out okay?”
“Terrible taste in music, but good with Nic.”
Another small silence hung between them.
“Miss you, Blondie.”
Her heart contracted. “Don’t Christian. Please don’t.”
“Just stating the obvious.”
Her breath hitched. “Where are you?”
“Leaning over the fence. Watching the harbor. Enjoying the peace. Builders have got the garage secure again, although far from finished.”
Fiona closed her eyes and there he was. Hair ruffling in the breeze. Early light slanting low along his cheekbones. Long body lounging against the steel and glass barrier above the gnarled cliff-top bushes and clumps of tough rustling flax.
“I’ll pass your greetings on to Mom and Dad.”
“It wasn’t them I rang. I rang the girl in the photo.”
“I had no business leaving it for you.”
“No business? Blondie—we have unfinished business. Surely you know that?”
Every hair on her body lifted. Even at this distance, he disturbed and aroused her.
“I guess it’s going to have to stay unfinished then.”
“Because you’re escaping to the far side of the world?”
“Late January. It’s where I work.”
“I wish you didn’t.” His dark drawl curled around her consciousness, caressing...abrading. Fiona stood ankle-deep in the summer sea, heedless of the larger-than-usual wave rushing for the shore. Suddenly it smacked her shins and splashed up over her knees to the hems of her shorts.
She gave a sharp exclamation of surprise and annoyance.
“Are you okay, Blondie?”
“Fine, Christian, fine. Wet. A wave bounced up.”
“Wet,” he murmured. The word hung there, stirring memories of his hands in her hair, slippery with shampoo... his hot questing mouth sliding down her thigh... his clever wet tongue licking, probing...
Fiona pressed her thighs together.
“Don’t,” she implored.
“Why not? I’m just picturing you. Wet.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?” There was a curl of amusement in his voice. A silky suggestion he knew she was thinking of more than sea-water on her skin, too. That they were back in his bed together, guilt-ridden, thrilled, out of control despite all their good intentions.
“Not—together,” she muttered.
He gave a short hard bark of a laugh. “Blondie, I think of us together a lot. It’s all that’s getting me through.”
Something ripped inside her ribcage, sending a shower of sparkling regret to drench every corner of her body.
“Don’t, Christian.”
“Just my little game. A small consolation for losing my two lovely ladies. I’ll never have Jan again, but at least I can still remember giving you pleasure...and imagine how it would be if things were different.”
“But they’re not.”
She injected as much flat finality into her voice as she could. Although she squeezed her eyes closed, tears still welled up and escaped.
Two weeks ground by. Christian phoned several more times, frustrating them both. Fiona lived to hear his voice, however much it hurt. And refused to be the one to phone him.
“So we’re moving out to Pounamu Lodge tomorrow,” he said, half way through January. “The work on the house started today. Chaos. We’re getting out until they’re finished.”
“You and Nicky and Kathy?”
Can he hear the suspicion in my voice?
“Me and Nicky and Kathy. We’ll have dinners at the Lodge, but stay in the cottage. The Lodge is no place for children.
“A bit too fancy?”
“Way up-market. How much did Jan tell you about it?”
“Only that you put money into it with a friend.”
“Antoine. Genius with food and people, but hopeless with finance. We’ve got it fine-tuned now and things are great. She told you about the cottage though?”
“Your bolt-hole. Yes—she loved it there.”
“Three bedrooms. Big outdoor terrace. Huge views over the hills, right out to the coast.”
Fiona pictured something rustic, timbered and casual. She’d never been there with Jan, even though it was only an hour’s drive north from their home in Wellington.
“Hope the security work goes well.”
“I’ll phone you, Blondie.”
“And lots of fish are biting for you. Bye, Christian.”