Wellington Series 2 Page 2

  Anyway, he was Jan’s, first and always, she reminded herself sternly as she removed the much more successful porridge from the microwave oven and added milk to cool it.

  “Open wide, Nicola Jane Hartley.” She brought the teaspoon down with a flourish to her niece’s rosebud mouth, playing jet-planes—copying those that dropped steadily lower over the sparkling water to land at the international airport not far away.

  Nicola opened her mouth like a baby bird and Fiona zoomed the spoon in. Nicky liked to feed herself, but that was a slow and messy process. The jet-plane game sped things up wonderfully, and she could do without more mishaps today.

  She knew Christian still leaned against the doorframe behind her. He’d been there for several long, tense minutes. Fiona kept her full attention on Nicky rather than risk another confrontation.

  He also said nothing, then finally turned and left them to it. She heard the soles of his trainers squeaking slightly on the marble-tiled floor as he departed, and her spine sagged at last and all the muscles across her shoulders and down her back relaxed in a grateful slump.

  He’d made her really uneasy with his unrelenting suggestions she should leave. She couldn’t—partly because of the promise she’d made to her parents. They were hundreds of miles away in Auckland now. Both were busy doctors and had opted to return to their duties. She suspected their absorbing work would be the best distraction for them, anyway.

  Once she’d known her beautiful sister would be irrevocably lost, Fiona had arranged tentative bereavement leave with her employers. As the entertainments officer on the ‘Mediterranean Queen’, she could be replaced for a number of cruises. Jan’s condition grew critical; Fiona returned to New Zealand for a last precious time. And far sooner than anyone expected, Jan had slipped away.

  Now, Fiona’s luxury liner plowed through the sunny blue ocean without her, disgorging toasted passengers to admire the scenery in Spain, the south of France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, and North Africa. Until her appointed time to rejoin it, she was literally homeless.

  Another five and a half weeks stuck in a hotel or rattling around her parent’s Auckland apartment didn’t appeal in the least. Nicola was desperately in need of mothering—by turns truculent and clingy, confused and sorrowful. She wanted MommaJan, and no explanation sufficed to placate her.

  Her big blue eyes fastened again and again on Fiona’s, as though Auntie Fee could suddenly produce her missing mother. Fiona felt guilty and helpless. She barely had Nicola’s trust yet, and she ached to bring the little girl whatever comfort was possible. Her visits home had been so sporadic she’d seen her only three times.

  And why is that, Ms Delaporte? Because you knew you had to stay away from Christian?

  She sighed as she lined up the next spoonful of porridge, acknowledging the truth of it. Christian made her heart spark and flutter. Made her skin burn. Made her yearn. She had only to be close to him and she was lost—just like she’d been lost the first time she’d met him—on his wedding day.

  *

  The rest of the morning passed peacefully enough. Christian had holed up in the cavernous garage, tinkering with one of his vintage cars. Leaving Nicky in the sandpit again, Fiona intruded with a mug of coffee for him and was amazed to find he had part of an engine in pieces. She’d assumed he’d had washing or waxing in mind.

  “So you don’t just do toasters?”

  He laughed at that, more relaxed than he had been earlier. “A methodical man can take anything apart.”

  “And put it back together again?”

  “Unless it’s broken beyond repair. These old girls are a good deal easier to play with than modern cars.”

  Among other things, Christian and his father owned a highly profitable business creating reproduction vintage motor vehicles, and repairing genuine old models, too. Fiona knew their main market was Japan, which seemed incongruous to her. Surely the bustling streets of Tokyo and Osaka hardly needed these big beauties adding to the traffic congestion? But maybe the cars were kept garaged as precious treasures and rarely saw the road?

  “So these are real?”

  Christian squatted to reach in behind a wheel. The old jeans strained around his narrow hips and long thighs so the waistband dipped to reveal a wedge of his lower back below his T-shirt hem.

  Fiona had the sudden devastating sensation of her mouth moving across that strip of smooth golden skin. She could taste him on her tongue, imagine his scent, feel the tingle in her lips. She knew she should squash the outrageous scene right out of her imagination but it was so vivid and enjoyable.

  After a few seconds, he rose to his feet, affording her feverish mind a little relief, but still the image burned her brain. Still the guilty pleasure hung in the air.

  He shook her out of her daydream when he waved an arm and said “The crème de la crème. 1905...1913...the old Rolls is late twenties...that’s a 1929 Alfa Zagato...a ‘36 Buick. The E-type Jag is ‘64. Not as old as the others, but a classic for sure.”

  “Is there a chance I could borrow a car—not one of these of course—to go down into the city?”

  The memory of his almost-revealed body still taunted and teased her. Her lucky sister had been able to touch him any time she wanted to.

  Or maybe her not-so-lucky sister...

  “Take Jan’s.” He shot her a glance that looked almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry I lost it earlier. It’s just so damned hard coming to terms with everything right now.” He wrestled a key off his own bunch and held it toward her. “The Audi. I couldn’t bear to sell it while she was still alive. Good thing I didn’t maybe? We’ll have to move my Merc first though.”

  Fiona reached for the key and he drew a line on her palm with it. Her fingers closed over his as her hand reacted to the stimulus.

  “Sorry,” she gasped.

  He grinned—wonderful white teeth against his dark stubble.

  He still hasn’t shaved. God...

  “Flirting with me, sister-in-law?”

  “Stop it, Christian,” she snapped, ripping the key from his long fingers.

  “You blush superbly,” he added, raising an eyebrow. Fiona turned and fled, unnerved by his suddenly sexy suggestion. If he had any idea what he was doing to her blood pressure, surely he’d stop it right away? Her face and neck burned, and she knew the blush would flood down through her breasts and make them feel hot and heavy.

  She’d always blushed easily—although whether that qualified as ‘superbly’ she had no idea.

  Damn the man. Double damn! But at least she now had a car to use, so she could escape when being close to him became unbearable. It would make it easier to track down an obliging hairdresser as the first step in her ‘not-like-Jan’ makeover, too.

  She slowed, turned back, took a deep breath, and poked her head around the garage door. “If I’m so unnecessary to you, can you spare me this afternoon?”

  “Fine by me. I was planning to take Nicky down to the beach at Oriental Bay for a while anyway.”

  She nodded at his dismissal, located the telephone book, and took it outside before Nicky came toddling in to search for MommaJan yet again.

  She was still occupied in the sandpit, poor little girl. Fiona’s heart ached as she watched Nic trying to make a sandcastle. What must it be like when the most important person in your life had disappeared with no explanation you could understand?

  Predictably, Nic’s attempts to remove the red plastic bucket collapsed the sandy sides and led to tears of annoyance. Fiona hurried back into the kitchen and grabbed a wide-rimmed stainless steel basin.

  “This one, Nic,” she encouraged as she returned. She sat back on her heels and watched her niece’s dimpled hands patting the sand into the new container. Together they made a rather breast-like ‘castle’ with the more easily removed basin. Nicky was full of giggles again only seconds later.

  “Me do, me do,” she squealed, keen to make another all by herself.

  Fiona smiled sadly. If only it were
possible to distract her from her absent mother as easily.

  She riffled through the listings for hair salons, chose one at random, and reached for her mobile.

  “Hi, this is Fiona Delaporte. Is there any chance one of your stylists would have time to cut and color my hair this afternoon? I know it’s not much notice, but...”

  She waited a few moments for the girl to check.

  “Great! Past my shoulders but I want it shorter. And streaks or foils maybe? A whole new look.”

  She wrinkled her nose as she disconnected. If they had an appointment free at such short notice, would they be any good?

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, got juice for Nicky, and lazed in one of the comfortable loungers, enjoying the sun. Nicola soon clambered onto her lap and Fiona cuddled her close, thrilled the little girl was starting to trust her. They dozed together, unaware of the passing time.

  *

  Close to midday, Christian ran a cautious finger down Fiona’s thigh, past her knee, and trailed it along the side of her calf. She stirred.

  He froze, ready to snatch his hand away in case she woke. He’d always thought she had sensational legs. Long, and smoothly muscled like a dancer’s. Lightly tanned. Presumably she got plenty of sun on her glitzy ship?

  He indulged himself by repeating the soft caress...starting just below her white cotton shorts and running down until his fingers half-encircled her slim ankle.

  He yearned to explore her all over...to sift her hair through his hands...to be so close he could smell her own intensely personal perfume. He needed to drink her in through every pore. Dammit to hell but the passing years hadn’t lessened her effect on him by the tiniest fraction.

  Of all the women in the world, she was the one he couldn’t have—his wife’s sister. And with Jan so recently dead that made it even less possible.

  If he put any sort of move on Fiona, she’d surely misconstrue his motives. Presume he was a womanizer and that any woman would do. Or pathetic and sad and lonely. Or simply over-pumped with testosterone after the enforced celibacy of Jan’s decline.

  But the truth was simple—she fascinated him. She burned with a brighter flame than anyone he’d ever met. Attracted him intensely.

  He’d managed, with considerable willpower and careful planning, to avoid her for most of his marriage, but the next few weeks were going to be the toughest test of his self-control—and Jan was no longer even here to be faithful to.

  He stood looking down, not touching Fiona again in case she woke. To be able to watch her openly when she was relaxed and vulnerable set his imagination into overdrive. And she cradled his child—a potent combination.

  He wanted her but couldn’t have her. Sometimes life sucked. Worse than that, sometimes life dealt you an absolute double-whammy. Jan had died of breast cancer, so what were Fiona’s chances of avoiding it? And Nicky’s? He’d heard the gene, the genome, the DNA—whatever the hell it was—could thread its way through the female members of a family and wreak havoc for generations. Jan and her doctor mother had been into that stuff endlessly. He really hadn’t wanted to know…simply prayed it would go away. Her Mom had insisted everything possible had been done for Jan, but still it had got her.

  He sighed with resignation, slid his fingers around Fiona’s warm ankle, and shook her leg.

  “Lunch-time. Wake up sleepyheads.”

  *

  She started. She yawned. And found he’d set up a colorful sun umbrella to protect them both. Nicola blinked her bright eyes and wriggled to the ground.

  “Hug Daddy,” she demanded, reaching her small soft arms toward him. He swept her up.

  “Thank-you,” Fiona said, indicating the shelter.

  “You’d have burnt to a crisp, both of you. Did you put any more sunscreen on her?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t expect we’d doze off.”

  “You’re a great help, aren’t you… Lunch is ready.”

  “What?” She lurched to her feet. The blood left her brain with the sudden movement and she almost fell, dizzy and hot and unsteady. Christian slung an arm around her for support and pulled her in close so the three of them swayed together. Fiona found herself held against his broad chest, only inches from his taunting grin, paradise and hell in the same instant.

  His hipbone pressed against her groin, and she sent up a silent ‘thank-you’ she’d not stumbled against him front-on. It was bad enough feeling the pressure right there and knowing he was the source.

  Nicola reached across and grabbed a handful of Fiona’s hair.

  “Don’t, darling,” she said, flinching and unable to escape from the surprisingly firm grasp.

  “I’ll fix it,” Christian said, moving his arm up over her shoulders and sliding his fingers along her neck to her jawbone. “Let go, Nicky—you’re hurting Auntie Fee.”

  Nicky gave a naughty giggle.

  He tipped his head back to focus on Fiona’s face. His dark eyes held hers for too long. Unable to bear such close scrutiny, she squeezed hers shut.

  No, this can’t be happening again.

  Waves of wanting swept over her, followed swiftly by a great wash of guilt. He was beautiful, dangerous, and she had to remember he was totally out of bounds.

  Finally his hand moved in her hair...tangling with Nicola’s tiny fingers and loosening her playful grip. Fiona felt both relief and regret flood through her as they pulled apart and he walked back into the kitchen with his daughter.

  This was wrong. Terribly wrong. She shouldn’t find her dead sister’s husband so desirable.

  Okay, she’d always thought him a handsome man. But he and Jan were the perfect couple. He was her sister’s, pure and simple, and that’s how it had to stay.

  She’d not met him before their wedding day. Had barely arrived in time because of a sudden airline strike. Her first real view of him had been standing at the altar in his wedding finery.

  She’d known he was tall from Jan’s emails, and he stood to his full height—no slouching while he waited for his bride. His hair was dark, crisp, newly cut... the line at his neck precise where it met his skin. Olive skin. It was mid-winter, so wouldn’t be a local suntan. She’d willed him to turn around so she could really see his face.

  His shoulders were broad, although he didn’t appear chunkily built. From the back of the shadowy, darkly timbered church it was difficult to see more—the fancy hats of the wedding guests cut across his body, obscuring him.

  Sweetly scented festoons of carnations and ivy garlanded each pew-end, spicy as Christmas pudding; their perfume still floated through her memory.

  She’d stood just inside the church doors for a minute or so with her cousin, Louise, the other bridesmaid; the magnificent vintage car with Jan and her Dad had stopped for traffic lights and fallen a little behind.

  “Can you see them yet?” she’d asked.

  Louise had peered out for a couple of seconds and then shaken her head. “They won’t be long. Let’s hope this wind doesn’t yank her veil off!”

  The day was clear but bitingly cold. Wellington’s famed southerly wind swirled and tugged and whistled, and Fiona’s rustling shot-taffeta dress afforded her no warmth at all.

  She and Louise had gone out to greet Jan and her Dad when the big car arrived, and hung onto the pesky veil until the bride was safely in the church.

  And as their little procession started up the aisle, Christian had finally swung around to watch his wife-to-be walking toward him.

  Fiona’s breath had caught in her throat. Lucky Jan!

  Christian’s dark eyes fastened avidly on his bride. His smile of welcome lit up half the church. It was a love-match for sure, and he was as gorgeous in the flesh as he’d appeared in the emailed photos.

  Her beautiful sister deserved a hunky husband. Fiona thought they looked perfect together as they strolled back down the aisle after the service. She’d found it hard not to feel just a little jealous of Jan’s good fortune. Christian was more than handsome, mo
re than attentive, and already much more than a millionaire. The other men simply weren’t noticeable beside him.

  “Smile!” the photographer had called as they reached the church steps. The winter sun poured down its blessing and they’d all laughed and played to the camera. The later shots made much of the fantastic old cars—Jan’s foot coquettishly posed on a running board as she displayed the lacy garter on her thigh... Fiona and Louise leaning out through the windows, showing far too much cleavage... Christian and his groomsmen ‘driving’ with the top down as Jan and Fiona and Louise pretended to hitch a ride, skirts fluttering in the wind.

  All the while, Christian had been perfectly polite, and just a little distant. Understandable, Fiona supposed. She’d never set eyes on him before that day, and he was being careful not to put a foot wrong with his new sister-in-law. He had eyes only for Jan, and that was what mattered, after all.

  They’d had their one obligatory groom-and-bridesmaid dance at the reception and Fiona had walked into his arms relaxed with champagne and happiness. He was a dream to dance with. They moved together so fluidly she felt she’d known him for years. Her hand on his shoulder easily established there was a big strong man under the fabric of his jacket and not merely shoulder-pads. Her other hand, gripped warmly in his, tingled as he rubbed his thumb up and down hers in time to the music. She remembered watching that thumb and enjoying the tiny unexpected caress.

  At the end of the dance, he’d twirled her around in a circle and stopped her with his body. They’d bumped together and stayed frozen for a magic second or two, breast to chest, hip to hip. Then he’d dipped his head and kissed her softly on the lips.

  Chapter Three—Whole New Look

  “Nice to meet you, sister,” he’d said.

  And devoted all the rest of his evening to Jan.

  The memory of that teasing kiss had stayed with Fiona ever since. As they stood on the sunny lawn together, Nicola clutching her hair, she recalled the moment his lips had touched hers. He’d tasted like champagne and smelled like heaven. It had taken all her willpower not to kiss him back. She’d been both relieved and disappointed when he hadn’t danced with her again.