The Wrong Sister(50)

Fiona bowed her head and fought for a better explanation.

“No, I didn’t mean that exactly. Just—it feels weird to be all dressed up and dining out alone with my brother-in-law. Like a date,” she finished lamely. Her cheeks started to flame with unease and embarrassment. Why ever had she said those last three words?





“Some date,” he scoffed. “My wife’s been dead barely a month, we’ll have a couple of dozen other diners keeping an eye on us, and my daughter in the house.” Then he couldn’t resist adding, “And we’ll be in separate bedrooms. I’d manage something better if I was setting up a seduction.”

“Good,” she muttered. “If you’re not thinking of it that way, I mean.”

Christian felt his mouth quirking. So she thought it felt almost like a date? He hadn’t imagined it as such, yet was perversely pleased she had. It was years since he’d dated, but he still remembered the anticipation, the jubilation when things turned out well. Fiona, he thought somewhat bitterly, must be well used to the company of a variety of men. Did she flirt with the passengers? The officers? Did she have shipboard romances? On-shore liaisons he knew nothing about?

The amusement died away and the slight smile faded from his lips as he eased the big car around a bend and onto the crunching gravel that fronted Pounamu Lodge.

He drew up level with the impressive entrance and braked.

“Go on in—I’ll park,” he said, watching as she scooted out and walked slowly up the shallow marble steps in the only pair of really smart shoes he’d seen her in—the high-heeled black Italian pumps she’d worn to Jan’s funeral.

His speculative gaze followed the graceful sway of her hips under the shining fabric...her long slim legs above the tall heels. She entered the glittering reception area, still visible through the long windows. The chandeliers blazed down, highlighting her pale hair and the vivid turquoise dress moving fluidly with her body.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled away. He knew he’d lost the long-fought battle with his conscience and his caution. Jan had gone forever. Fiona was here, and almost receptive. However apprehensive he was she might carry the same seeds of disease as Jan, she was now more beautiful and desirable than ever to him. His body burned. Even sitting in the darkened parking lot, he had no control over the heated pumping of his blood and the hardening of his flesh.





Fiona tried to lose herself in the foyer’s works of art while she waited for him. The atmosphere in the car had turned so strange in the last few minutes.

I shouldn’t have mentioned dates, she thought as she inspected a huge brooding landscape. Of course we’re not on a date; I’m being made use of as a surrogate nanny. End of story. I’ll be gone in a very few days and that’ll be the finish of things between us.

Not that anything’s begun, she reminded herself severely.

She moved on to a trio of small exquisite watercolors of native birds. Their feathers look so soft and touchable...as soft as Nicky’s skin...as touchable as Christian’s hair.

She shook that thought away and turned to the next piece—a sculpture of gleaming silvery fish amongst strands of waving titanium seaweed. They’re safe in their watery haven. So much safer than me.

She’d somehow found the strength to walk away from him a month ago when he’d reached out in his grief and loneliness. She could do it again. Would have to do it again.

At least now, it should be easier. They’d had a little more time to accustom themselves to losing Jan, time to blunt the sharp and appalling pain her death had caused them both, time to start living without her.

Except—the champagne thing in the bathroom...

Sure, he’d started it, but had she slapped him away with indignation? Had she acted outraged?

No, she’d gone right along with it, tilted herself up toward him and practically begged for more. Some way to behave when you were trying to get rid of someone!

She moved on to the next set of treasures—hand-blown glass bowls in wall-niches. A shadow appeared on the shining surface of one, then stopped. All her reactions screamed ‘Christian’. How could she become so acutely aware of him when he was still only at the door? She knew it had to be him the moment he re-entered the Lodge. A shadow was enough. Her skin prickled, the fine golden hairs on her arms rose up, her lips parted on a gasp.

He strode up behind her and pressed a possessive hand against the small of her back to guide her toward the dining room.

‘Stop touching me,’ her conscience pleaded as she turned toward him and smiled.

“Hungry?”

‘Hungry for you,’ her brain instantly supplied.