Wellington Series 2 Read online

  Wellington Series 2

  Kris Pearson

  ISBN 978-0-9941416-9-9

  Book 1: The Wrong Sister

  Can Christian and Fiona resist each other for six weeks? A brother-in-law romance where their mutual love for his dead wife holds them apart.

  Book 2: Hot for You

  Mel’s made him an offer he can’t refuse – or can he? Cody has been planning a hot little love affair with his best friend’s widow, and finds outrageous conditions are attached.

  Book 3: Ravishing Rose

  A naughty novella. Shy Francesca is swept off to an A-list party in a concealing mask, a decadent costume, and sex-shop panties. There she meets the pirate, Captain Cool.

  Book 4: Out of Bounds

  Jetta has inherited half a house. Big problem: she has to share it with co-owner Anton, and her past has left her terrified of men. Might he be who she needs to put her fears to rest?

  For more information about me and my books, visit http://www.krispearson.com

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  Love and thanks to Philip for the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling.

  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 © 2017 by Kris Pearson

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.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.

  The Wrong Sister

  (Wellington, Book 4)

  Kris Pearson

  Chapter One—Trapped Together

  “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, nestle
d 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 in a saucepan, 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.

  “Porridge has probably had it.”

  She whirled aside to check, scattering cold water everywhere, and making the hot stove-top hiss and steam. Why hadn’t she used the microwave oven? Sure enough, the gluey mixture had stuck fast to the bottom of the saucepan. She scraped at it with the spoon, closing her eyes in fury. Oh, wouldn’t it just!

  “So really,” Christian continued with maddening calm, “You’re no help at all. You’ve broken the toaster, burnt the toast, wrecked the porridge and hurt yourself. We’re much better off without you.”

  Fiona held his triumphant brown eyes with her own snapping green ones... embarrassed, maddened, but not quite defeated.

  “How can you sleep at night, you sanctimonious pig?” she heard herself snarl.

  He clicked his tongue. “An honest reaction at last.” He regarded her with something like amusement. “Right now, I don’t sleep too well, thanks, but the doctor says time will help take care of that.”

  The awful reality of what she’d just said hit her. “Sorry—so sorry, Christian.” The tell-tale heat of embarrassment rushed through her again. “That wasn’t what I meant, of course.”

  The half-grin faded from his face. “No, I know that.” His voice was bleak. “You must be hurting too.”

  “My only sister.”

  “But it’s difficult having you here.”

  “Because I remind you too much of Jan?”

  He shrugged. “Just difficult. We truly don’t need your help. Amy Houndsworth agreed to continue as part-time housekeeper. She’s been preparing an evening meal for us ever since Jan got really sick. A great fill-in, but I’ll be getting a proper nanny for Nicky now that Jan’s... gone.”

  Fiona heard the hurt and hesitation in his voice.

  Yes, Jan was gone for always, and it was so hard to say it.

  “A nanny is something I could arrange for you, perhaps?”

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “There are several agencies in the city. I thought I’d start with those. I’d prefer to choose someone myself, Fee. She’s my daughter.”

  “And my only niece. Fifty/fifty then? How about I contact the agencies and you do the interviewing of anyone suitable?”

  He shot her an assessing look, nodded and turned away. “So you’ll only be here another few days with any luck,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “Five and a half more weeks,” she managed to return with equal firmness.

  He stopped and swung back to her, bristling like an animal protecting its territory. “Five and a half weeks? That’s pretty precise. What are you up to exactly?”

  Fiona raised her chin. “Not ‘up to’ anything, Christian. But that’s how much more leave I’ve got. That’s how long the ship’s replaced me for. We all hoped Jan would be with us for longer than this.” She poked at the sticky porridge pot to escape his accusing eyes. “I’ve nowhere else to go until then. I want to see more of Nicky, and help if I can. It’s here or a hotel—and that would be pretty silly. It gives you time to do proper nanny interviews and find someone really suitable anyway.�
�

  He glared at her, outmanoeuvred for the moment. “Use the microwave oven for your next attempt at porridge,” he said with unkind directness. “You might manage not to burn it second time around.”

  I knew that...

  “What about your toast?” she countered, trying not to react to the sting in his microwave dig.

  “I said I didn’t want the damn stuff in the first place. Just let it go—okay? I don’t need looking after, whatever you or your mother may think.”

  Fiona compressed her lips and turned aside to scrape the porridge from the saucepan. Seriously stuck. Sighing, she ran some hot water into it, added a squirt of dish-wash liquid, and set it to soak before starting a second batch.

  Why was he being like this? Yes, he’d lost Jan. But so had she. They should be pulling together to help one another through this appalling time. Instead, he seemed hell-bent on getting her out of the house. So far he’d tried reason, rudeness, the excuse she looked too much like her sister, assurances he could manage without her, the acquisition of a nanny, and strangest of all, the teasing physical closeness.

  Earlier, by the window, when he’d come to stand directly behind her, almost rubbing himself against her, she’d wondered if he was trying to drive her away with sexual aggression.

  Her brother-in-law? Surely not.

  Chapter Two—Burned Breakfast

  Fiona had long ago resigned herself to Christian’s electric presence and devised coping strategies. She prayed they were still adequate, because this was proving a much more difficult assignment than she’d imagined.

  Evenings in the house should be bearable. Her guest bedroom on a lower level than the master suite meant she could escape there to read or watch TV the instant Nicky was down for the night. Caring for Nick should be easy enough with Christian not around, but it seemed he planned to remain home for a while. Fiona had expected, and hoped, he’d be at work, well out of her way.