The Wrong Sister
Authors: Kris Pearson
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction
‘Seduction on the Cards’—now available on Amazon
Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter…
THE WRONG SISTER
Kris Pearson
Kindle Edition
ISBN 978-0-473-20141-8
For more information about this author, visit:
Love and thanks to Philip for the covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling. And in memory of my mother, Glad—who once famously said “People don’t want to read about sex, darling.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Kris Pearson
Cover design © by Philip Pearson
Cover photograph dreamstimes.com
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
Free first chapter of Kris’s novel, ‘Seduction on the Cards’, at the end of this book.
CHAPTER ONE
“I don’t need you here,” Christian growled.
He moved close behind Fiona as she stood by the floor-to-ceiling sliders in the sunlit living area. She filled his senses. His eyes soaked up every strand of her shining hair, the stretch of her pale blue T-shirt over the curve of her shoulder, the just-glimpsed bra-strap through it. He heard her soft breathing, saw her breasts rising and falling, but she’d turned her face aside and he had no way of seeing if she bit her bottom lip in frustration or closed her eyes in annoyance. She wouldn’t be smiling, that was for sure. More like vibrating with fury.
“I don’t
want
you here,” he continued, knowing it was a huge lie.
He leaned an arm on the window-frame, partly imprisoning her, but touching her nowhere. Her subtle fresh perfume wafted across to taunt him. He ached to bridge that tiny distance between them. Sensed the magnetism pulling them together. And knew that of all the women in the world, this was one he wouldn’t dare take a chance on.
Worse—the one he wanted and absolutely couldn’t have.
Fiona felt the heat of his body radiating across the small space between them as she stared resolutely through the glass. The view of Wellington harbor might be fantastic, but right now her imagination was consumed by his long thighs in soft old blue jeans, right behind her. Hell, she could almost
feel
his thighs—it was just so easy to imagine them pressing lightly along the backs of hers.
There was a right-angled rip in the fabric above one of his knees, and she’d glimpsed brown skin and dark shining hairs through the enticing gap.
She swallowed.
Since she’d padded barefoot into the huge room five minutes earlier, her eyes had been constantly drawn to the off-centre rubbed-and-faded patch of fabric at his groin. The old jeans had seen a lot of wear. Each time she looked, a delicious tingle spread through her breasts because of the giveaway condition of the denim. If she touched him right there…
Stop it! Stop it! This is the last thing I need. I can’t give in or the whole deal becomes impossible
.
And now he’d trapped her. She knew they were in exact alignment. She longed to push back against his tall, lean, forbidden body. She found just enough willpower to hold still and deny herself the pleasure. She clenched her teeth, steeling herself to stay strong.
She flinched as Christian nudged his chin against her shoulder in the briefest of contacts, his early-morning-stubbled face now only millimeters away from her flaming cheek.
She smelled the shampoo from his newly washed dark hair. Or maybe it was the soap from his shower, wafting up from his warm body. Certainly not aftershave. He hadn’t shaved yet. Fiona loved the toughness it lent his face, and wished so much she didn’t.
Why was he making things so difficult for her?
“Christian, it’s not the ideal holiday for me, being stuck here with you.” She spoke out toward the sparkling harbor and cloudless sky because she didn’t dare turn toward him. That way lay danger. It would be just too easy to be snared by his sexy brown eyes and then lose her resolve and seek his lips with her own. What a fiasco that would be…
“Then go,” he challenged her.
“I
can’t
,” she ground out with frustrated anguish. “Mom and Dad have lost their other daughter. They want to know their only grand-daughter is well looked after and as settled as possible. I promised them I’d help you for a while. I can do that much for them. I
will
do that much for them, and for you.”
She longed to wrench herself away. Christian was grieving, not himself. Why else would he be standing here taunting her with his closeness? Her bare toes curled against the shining floor as though tensed to run. The invading sunshine flooded over her feet and up her shorts-clad legs.
She knew she needed to stay calm, although that was a joke. His hard tempting body stood so near to hers that all her nerves tingled and pulsed as though she was a gigantic Christmas tree full of shimmering lights.
She drew a deep breath and finally found the resolve to slide away sideways and put a couple of steps between them.
“I don’t want you here,” Christian said again. “You’ll only...remind me so much of Jan.”
She turned, raised her eyes, and plummeted into the dark depths of his. She hadn’t thought of it in those terms. She shook her head helplessly.
“I’ll keep right out of your way. You’ll hardly see me.”
“Yeah, right.” His tone was scathing. She heard him breathe out hard through his nose. It was almost a snort.
Okay, so it would be difficult, but she’d make it work somehow. If he didn’t want her looking so similar to Jan, then she’d endeavor to look totally different.
Like her sister, Fiona had thick honey-brown hair in a rich swathe well past her shoulders. That could go for starters. It would be a beginning, anyway.
Jan had always been a discreet and classy dresser. Fiona pictured bright funky clothes to go with a new hairstyle. Flamboyant earrings, lower necklines, shorter skirts—all the things alien to Jan would become part of her own new look. Little Nicola would enjoy the storybook colors, and hopefully Christian would be reminded a lot less of his recently dead wife.
She turned toward him, feeling safer now she’d increased the distance between them.
“What will you have for breakfast?” She hated the false brightness in her voice. “Bacon and eggs?
Toast?”
“Just coffee. But Nicky likes porridge.” Their eyes swiveled in unison to the determined two-year-old digging in the sandpit outside the huge doors. A fence of toughened glass and slender steel posts bordered the sunny lawn. They were high up in the Roseneath area of Wellington. Beyond this, the land dropped steeply down to the harbor. Beautiful houses, old and new, nestled on the most improbable building sites to capture views of sparkling water and the city centre against its backdrop of tree-clad Tinakori Hill.
Early summer in New Zealand, Christmas a bare two weeks away. Fiona’s eyes roved over the garden borders billowing with petunias, marigolds and lavender, thinking they were much more Jan’s sort of thing than the careful funeral flowers. She could still picture the perfect stiff formal roses decorating her casket in the hushed church. The church where just a few short years ago her sister had been married.
Jan would never see her garden again, but if her daughter wanted porridge, that at least Fiona could manage.
“You need more than just coffee,” she said too sharply to Christian as she spooned oatmeal into a saucepan. “I’ll make you some toast.”
His beautiful lips twisted. “I can do it myself.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I know you can! But I’m here to help. Let me. Go and get dressed for work.”
He shook his head, sulky as a mutinous school-boy.
Fiona found herself once again snared by his dark deliberate gaze. She’d always found her sister’s husband disturbingly sexy—not that she’d seen him very often because of her globe-trotting cruise-liner job—but now he looked exhausted as well. She had a sudden fierce urge to hold him and comfort him, to help him slide into a deep refreshing sleep.
She dropped her eyes from the heavy-lidded intensity of his. She knew the very best way to tire him out so he’d sleep deeply, and
that
wasn’t going to happen.
“I’m staying home for a few more days at least, so you may as well go,” he said.
Fiona turned aside, fuming that he’d taken no notice of her parents’ wishes. If only he knew what a nightmare assignment this was for her.
She threaded two slices of bread into the expensive four-slot toaster, and took her annoyance out on it, pushing the knob down with unnecessary force. There was a loud pinging noise and the mechanism failed to engage.
“You’ve broken it.”
Her nerves stretched a notch tighter. “I’ll toast it under the grill then.” She bit back her temper as she flicked the controls on and removed the bread to a rack.
Christian unplugged the chrome monster, shook the crumbs out into the sink, and laid it down on his opened newspaper. He left the room for a short time and returned with a handful of tools.
Fiona got the porridge under way and stood by the counter pretending not to watch as he turned the toaster over and poked about, his whole attention fixed on the task. She’d noticed he was always like this, immersed in whatever he was doing or whoever he was talking to. He gave himself totally to little Nicky when he played with her...had devoted himself without reserve to Jan when Fiona had dared stay with them in New Zealand on her trips back home from Europe. It was almost as if she hadn’t existed for him during those times—and it had been a shameful relief, because she’d found herself fascinated by him.
He’d made her feel super-aware, and edgy and uncomfortable.
Guilty with nothing to feel guilty about.
Far too alive and alert, when she’d been there to wind down and relax.
It had been wonderful seeing her sister, but there was always that extra edge of intensity when Christian was present.
“Toast’s burning.”
Fiona cringed as she smelled the smoke, and tore her eyes away from him. Flustered and annoyed, she reached for the grill-tray, forgetting how hot it would be by now.
“Damn!” she exclaimed, sucking her tender fingers.
He sprang up immediately, and his chair teetered off-balance before its front legs thudded down onto the floor again.
“Cold water,” he ordered, pulling her along to the sink to hold her hands under the flow with a steely grip.
“Is it bad?” He was far too close again; taller by almost a head. Her perfectly adequate five feet six felt curiously petite beside him.
“No, it was more a fright than anything.” She tried to wriggle away. “Let me go. I’ll be fine.”
She struggled free, trembling with annoyance at her incompetence, and teased by feathery flickers of desire. She closed her eyes, willing the sensation to go. Gorgeous he might be, but he was Jan’s.
“Keep it under the cold for five minutes,” he muttered, turning back to his tools. Fiona seethed, and stifled the sharp reply that had so nearly sprung from her lips.
The hot pain subsided quickly enough to a dull throb, but the sensation of wanting to press close to him took a lot longer to ebb away.
She let out a shaky sigh and turned to watch him working again as the water held her prisoner. He had beautiful hands with long, capable fingers. He flipped the toaster over, investigated the locking screws, and then removed the cover. A few seconds later Fiona saw the tendons in his wrist twitch into sharp relief as he exerted pressure on the spring to re-attach it. He grunted with satisfaction as it clicked home.
