The Wrong Sister(61)

“Am I too heavy for you on this hard ground?” he demanded, sliding a hand under her and tilting her up against him so she gasped at the deep penetration.

To Fiona he felt wonderful—possessive and male and territorial. This was serious claiming, total domination.

“I like your weight on me.”

“But am I too heavy?”

“No, you’re fine.” She gasped and panted as heat rushed everywhere, and her deep muscles started to clench and twitch in a wild trembling dance. An exultant cry burst from her throat.

Christian stifled the sound of her ecstasy with a fierce kiss, and held her and rocked her until she was quiet again. Only then did he move faster, hauling her so close as his own climax hit that Fiona felt the violent hot pulses of his release deep inside her.





Their next few days slipped by in sunshine and passion, tilting crazily from the colorful innocence of story-books to the dark intensity of sensual love-making. Jan bound them together and held them apart. And Tuesday arrived far too fast, despite their private prayers that somehow a miracle was possible.





Christian grimaced as he lifted Fiona’s luggage into the car. They’d tried to ignore the fact of her imminent departure all morning—both deliberately not mentioning it in case it blighted the last of their time together.

Now it was past noon; time had run out.

He turned and fixed his most concentrated gaze on her. Begging wasn’t something which came easily to him. For her he found he was willing to beg.

“Change your mind, Blondie,” he urged. “Stay.”

All his considerable persuasion was packed into those five short words. And his hope died as Fiona blinked back tears and resolutely shook her head.

“I have to go back to the boat, Chris. For all sorts of reasons. The company has been really good to me, letting me take all this time off for Jan. My contract has another six months to run.”

“Stay,” he repeated. “Contracts can be broken. I could swing it somehow for you.” He hated the desperation in his voice. The ice-cold businessman would never show his feelings this way, but it seemed the passionate lover had no choice. “What we have...what we’ve finally found...”

Fiona shook her head again. “Chris, what we have is not acceptable to anyone but us. Think about it. How could we face your friends in Wellington? They’d treat us like lepers. They’d assume you’d just been waiting for Jan to die before you hooked up with me.”

Christian gave a short frustrated curse, knowing she was seeing the complications more clearly than he was. But how could he let her go without fighting for her?

“Or even worse,” she pressed. “That we’d been together while she was sick. I couldn’t stand that.”

“Six months,” he said bleakly. “You’ll be so busy with your job on the liner and all your shipboard friends that what you feel for me will fade away.”

“And you’ll be fair game for the women who hunt wealthy, good-looking men,” she countered.

“We’ll see about that,” he needled.





But Fiona couldn’t help wondering what chance she’d stand against the ambitious divorcees and well-off widows and single career-women who’d be right in his face. She held her ground, dying slowly as the seconds ticked by, knowing she’d never felt worse in her life.

Her attempt at an early lunch was a roiling ball in her stomach. Her head pounded with blinding pain; her eyes ached with the effort of not giving in to her desolate tears.

“Call me if you absolutely have to,” she quavered. “My mobile is set up for global roaming. I’d love to hear your voice now and again, even though it’ll kill me.”

“I won’t be able to smell you or taste you or feel the softness of your skin through the phone.” His voice was flat with resignation.

“You won’t be able to do that even if I stay,” she countered. “We can’t possibly be together so soon after Jan. Amy Houndsworth and the next nanny will know. My parents will twig what’s going on. And your friends... We’d offend them all.”

She wrenched the car door open and sagged into the passenger seat. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on the seat-belt, and she sat with her head bowed, not daring to say any more in case she finally broke down.

“I could email,” he said, once they were on the road and he’d slowed at a suitable vantage point so she could take a last longing glance back to Pounamu Lodge and its matching cottage.

She shook her head. “No. Please Christian—I don’t want a day-by-day rundown of your life. The life I can’t share with you.”