Wellington Series 2 Page 6

  Chapter Six—In Christian’s Care

  To her dismay, she had to concede a couple of days had weakened her resolve rather than strengthening it. Sitting behind him, propped on pillows and covered with a soft mohair blanket, she watched Christian in the rear-view mirror until his eyes meshed with hers. She flicked her gaze away, embarrassed to be caught inspecting him.

  He drove his big silver Mercedes at an uncharacteristic crawl, being careful not to jar her bruised body.

  “Okay?” he asked, gliding slowly around a corner.

  “Fine.” She sneaked another peek at his mouth. A wide mouth with sharply defined edges. Just below a long straight nose. Just above a very determined chin.

  A mouth that needed rescuing from its recent rather grim and sorrowful expression. She had plenty of ideas on how to do that but she wasn’t the right person to do it, no matter how much she might yearn to be.

  “I’ve never been so well looked after in my life,” she added, feeling something else was called for.

  He grunted, and she stifled a smile.

  “You’re going straight to bed,” he added, catching her eye in the mirror again.

  “I’ve had enough bed lately. Couldn’t I lie down on the window-seat with lots of cushions? Enjoy the view? Feel like part of the real world again?”

  “I’m putting you to bed,” he said implacably. He gave her the fierce dark-eyed ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ stare he’d tried a few days ago when he was insisting she left. It hadn’t worked then, but Fiona didn’t have the energy to fight him now. She supposed she’d have to concede defeat, at least for today.

  He was putting her to bed?

  The words crackled through her hazy brain as he drew up outside the house. She had a sudden vivid picture of him lifting her in his arms and laying her on cool sheets before he sank down beside her, black-coffee eyes holding hers.

  More muscles... more heat... more ‘way too close’.

  If only!

  She saw the security gates were once-again functioning as their arrival activated the sensor. But the garage front remained a mess, and tradesmen had started on the huge clean-up job.

  Christian parked as close to the house entrance as possible. She gazed in dismay at the destruction.

  “How bad were your cars?”

  “Better than I feared. Some new windscreens. Broken windows. There’s panel and paint damage to those in the front row. The ones right at the back fared better. We got them all out before the roof came down. I’ve already had my best men do a rush-job on the Merc. Could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Did they catch anyone yet?”

  She saw his mouth flatten. “Two stupid country kids. With explosives intended for some rock-blasting on a river-bluff. One of them used to work for me. God knows what they thought they were playing at—or how they expected to end up with a car worth driving after blowing the garage door off.”

  Fiona bit her lip.

  “They were damned lucky they didn’t kill themselves,” he added. “They must have broken the side window of the garage and had things ready to go right before we got home. Maybe we panicked them. I’d be interested to know who told them the garage door couldn’t be opened from the inside, though.”

  Her blood ran cold at how much worse things could have been. “What if they’d set it off when you and I were wheeling Nicola to the front door?”

  Christian shook his head. “Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Just be glad it didn’t happen.”

  “Oh Christian,” she murmured. “Thank God, thank God.”

  She heard him expel all his breath in a gusty sigh. “Anyway the Police recovered the Jag. But the kids had given it hell. Misjudged a bend and went over a steep bank.”

  “Not pretty?”

  “Break your heart.”

  “Joy-riders, I suppose?”

  He nodded, mouth again a tight line. “They won’t get much joy if I get hold of them. Although I gather they’re banged-up worse than you are.”

  “Justice of a kind, then?”

  He shrugged, and pushed the driver’s door open. “Wait,” he said, in a tone that brooked no dispute.

  Fiona bristled, but sat helplessly as he went to unlock the house. Even though there was access from the garage wing, it would be impossible to get through that way until the builders had finished.

  “Where’s Nicky?” she asked when he returned to open the door of the Mercedes and help her out.

  “At Jenny and Rob’s, where the barbecue was. I’m taking advantage of their nanny for the odd hour or two.” He nudged a long arm in behind her shoulders to gather her up.

  “I can do it.” She felt far too close to his big strong body again. Much too near to his mouth.

  “Don’t even think about it!” he snapped as she wriggled against him.

  A burst of heat enveloped her. Had he seen how much she wanted him? How she’d imagined his kiss? She lowered her eyes in shame and confusion.

  “You can’t walk to save yourself, Fiona. I’m carrying you. We should have got a wheelchair for a few days.”

  “We still could,” she muttered, relieved he thought she wanted to walk, and didn’t after all know her brain had summoned up delicious hot scenes with him as the star.

  She shuffled painfully to the edge of the seat. He bent lower and slid an arm under her knees, easing her sideways until he had her fully in his arms.

  “Sorry if I’m hurting you.” His voice was a husky growl. “I’ll try not to.”

  He lifted her up and held her against his chest. Their mouths became exactly aligned. Panicked that she might carry through on her fantasies, Fiona ducked her head and buried her face against his neck.

  She breathed him in, her nose right beside his warm skin and freshly laundered shirt. The muscles and tendons flexed in his hard shoulder and chest as he moved.

  “You smell nicer than the hospital,” she blurted, the words muffled against him. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I’d do anything for clean hair. They washed me, but not my hair—not with the big dressing over my eyebrow.”

  *

  Christian navigated a corner into the hallway, careful not to bump her legs against the stair banister. Her hair smelled fantastic as far as he was concerned. The salon must have put some sort of fruity mousse or gel on it. He detected oranges, strawberries maybe—warm sexy woman. He sighed, then inhaled again and cursed his body’s unmistakable reaction to her scent.

  “I’m used to engine oil and auto-paint,” he countered, hoping to keep things neutral. He felt Fiona’s faint laugh against his ribs, and then her groan of pain. Her hair feathered against his lips as he walked slowly and carefully into the airy marble-tiled entrance lobby. Fierce waves of desire rolled through his body, and the softness of her warm braless breast pressed against his chest.

  The huge swell of protectiveness rising in his heart almost demolished him.

  “Where are you taking me?” A note of caution entered her voice.

  “To my bedroom.” He continued walking steadily, still holding her across his body.

  She muttered a small protest.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Big comfortable bed. En suite bathroom right there. No stairs.” He turned sideways, directed her feet through the doorway, and stepped from the glossy sand-colored marble onto the bedroom carpet. He proceeded across the vast space with its floor-to-ceiling windows, bent over as he laid her down, then sank to his knees beside the bed. Finally, he loosened his grasp.

  “Okay?” His eyes were only inches from hers, his lips far too close to her mouth. He began to slide his arms from underneath her, desperately hoping he wasn’t pressing on bruises or dragging at dressings.

  His whole body surged with wanting. His big heart thundered, his knees quivered against the floor. Blood pumped south to stiffen his unwelcome erection even further. Anguish and guilt ripped right through him as he
eased his arms away. This was Jan’s room, Jan’s bed. No way should he be feeling this way about her sister, here of all places.

  He looked up at the bank of family photos on the wall behind the bed and felt even worse. Jan and Nicky smiled down at him. There he stood with his arm around Jan. Nicky played with a Sesame Street toy. They’d been a family unit, safe and secure, his to protect, but now the unit was blown to pieces.

  That was where his life was and where his heart had to stay. It was way too soon to be having the thoughts Fiona inspired, and she was the least suitable woman to have them about.

  How could he push her out of his reach forever?

  “Okay?” he repeated, daring to glance at her again. She looked pale and distressed. There were tiny beads of sweat on her brow. He watched her eyelids fluttering down over her green eyes.

  “Yes!” she gasped, impossibly close.

  Christian remained kneeling beside the bed. He’d hungered for the sight of her—three days without her in the house had seemed like a year. However much he’d tried not to think of her, she’d danced incessantly through his thoughts.

  She was forbidden. His wife’s sister. His dead wife’s sister. His very recently dead wife’s sister. And she stirred feelings in him that even Jan hadn’t. He laid a hand on her forehead, avoiding the dressing over her eye. Fiona flinched and drew a sharp breath. Slowly, tenderly, he stroked her hair, unable to leave her alone.

  “Should I stop?”

  “No, it’s nice,” she conceded, eyes still clenched shut. “But my hair must be awful.”

  “We could wash it tomorrow...”

  He saw her brow wrinkle with enquiry.

  “...if you want to,” he continued.

  “I’d love to, but how?” Her eyes remained closed, and he was grateful because it meant he could stay right there watching her, his aroused body hidden against the side of the bed.

  “You’re forgetting we had the whole en suite tiled,” he said. “It’s one huge shower, really. I’ll drag in an outdoor chair and you can sit down in there.”

  “I can’t get my arms up, Christian. I’d never manage to wash it myself. I’m not great yet.”

  “You’re not in any shape to go to a hairdresser to get it washed, either. I’ll help. We’ll manage somehow.”

  Fiona nodded mutely, lashes still cast down.

  “I’ll leave you to rest. Water? Orange juice? Lunch?”

  “Water maybe.”

  She must have sensed him moving, because she opened her eyes. Right in time to discover him bending low over her, his lips drawn together to settle a kiss on her brow.

  She uttered a small cry—the tiniest noise of distress—and he drew back far enough to focus on her face.

  “No,” she protested.

  “What did you think I was going to do?”

  “Leave me.”

  “I’m just going,” he said, misunderstanding.

  “No!” she repeated, eyes huge in her pale face. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

  Total silence hung between them for a few seconds.

  “Fiona?” His voice was barely audible.

  “Stay. For a little bit. Please, Christian.” He saw she was trembling all over now, seemingly horrified at her plea, but with strange elation in her expression too.

  He gazed down at her, only inches away. With a sigh of intense regret and resignation, he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his lips to hers. He intended only the merest of touches, a butterfly brush, a tantalizing light caress of flesh past flesh. But one pass became two, then three. And her lips parted under his so he sank into a much deeper, more intimate kiss than he’d planned.

  He ripped his mouth away from hers with a groan, realizing what he’d done.

  “Rest Fiona,” he grated. He rose and turned before she could notice the obscene bulge at his groin, then strode through the doorway and pounded up the half-flight of stairs to Nicky’s room. Pushing the doors to the terrace wide open he flung himself down onto one of the outdoor chairs, legs apart, shoulders tensed, head pressed back into his interlocked hands. He clenched his eyes shut against the glare of the sun and gulped in air.

  Where the hell had his self-control disappeared to? Surely it ought to be possible for him to carry an injured woman into a bedroom without making a grab for her? Fiona must still be disoriented from her concussion. He couldn’t imagine she’d seriously wanted him to stay.

  He blew out a frustrated breath and then swore savagely, rocking on the balls of his feet so his heels bounced again and again on the hard paved surface. His long calf and thigh muscles slowly relaxed, but the hard swollen ache in his groin remained.

  Chapter Seven—Fruit Salad in Bed

  Fiona lay still as stone on her sister’s bed. The feel of Christian’s hands caressing her face... the warmth of his breath... the taste of his lips on hers... each sensation burned into her memory.

  Thank heavens he’d turned away, although why he’d been kissing her in the first place, she couldn’t imagine.

  Well she could, of course. Christian would only have intended a little ‘welcome home from hospital’ kiss. Or a ‘sorry you’re hurting’ kiss. An innocent quick nothing peck.

  To Fiona’s fevered brain it hadn’t felt like nothing. It had felt full of delicious possibilities, drenched with desire, wicked and wonderful.

  And of course impossible to take further.

  Now embarrassment swamped her. Why had she responded like that, forcing him to turn it into a proper kiss? Her wistful dreams had morphed into reality for those few seconds. But how could she not react when the man she’d secretly wanted for years was finally so close?

  The shame of what she’d done washed over her in hot waves of regret.

  I need to somehow jam the brakes on my imagination so it doesn’t keep running away like this. I’m stuck here now and I have to make the best of it.

  She cast a guilty sideways glance at her sister’s photo above the chest of drawers; a head and shoulders shot of Jan on her wedding day. She glowed with health and happiness in her exquisite ivory dress, hair upswept and scattered with tiny flowers, and smiled not quite at the camera. Fiona thought it much more likely she smiled at Christian as he stood waiting to join her for the group shots.

  She dragged her eyes back to the harbor view.

  I’m not trying to steal him Jan, honest. He wouldn’t want me anyway. He wanted you. Why can’t you come back to us? I miss you so much.

  Sighing, she smoothed her hands over her belly, flinching with the discomfort it caused her arms as she eased the sash of her silk robe undone. She pushed it open so the summer air flowed over her mother’s thin cotton nightdress. Christian hadn’t attempted to draw the bedcover up and she was grateful. After reacting to his kiss the way she had, she felt hot enough to fry eggs on.

  She laid her palms high on her thighs, massaging unconsciously up to her navel, down to her groin, up to her navel, down to her groin in a sensuous dreamy rhythm. Deep inside she yearned and burned.

  Twenty minutes later she decided no matter how comfortable the huge bed, no matter how luxurious the room, sleep was probably going to elude her. She’d inched her way restlessly over the sheets, seeking a cool place, a position where nothing ached or hurt. She’d managed to wriggle out of her silk robe and drop it onto the floor beside the bed. But just as she felt she might at last be able to relax, Christian returned.

  She jerked alert with a gasp of pain as his tall figure appeared in the doorway carrying her crutches. He propped them beside the bed, left briefly, and returned to lower a tray onto the chest of drawers at her bedside. Then he bent to retrieve her robe from the floor. He shook it out, raising his expressive eyebrows at the dramatic golden Chinese dragon decorating the black silk.

  “Not very feminine, maybe,” Fiona murmured. “But I love it. Got it at Stanley Market in Hong Kong.”

  “On one of your cruises?”

  “My very first. Years ago. I was so easily impre
ssed then.” She managed to position her aching arms to hide her breasts—her mother’s old fine cotton nightgown was almost transparent. “I’ll never forget the mad double-decker bus trip out to the market. The road had even more bends than the ones up the hill here.”

  “Looks more my size than yours.” Christian continued to inspect the robe. He thrust his hands into the sleeves and turned to survey himself in the full-length mirror. Fiona’s breath caught in her throat. He looked magnificent, and the fact that it was her robe added an extra dimension to the moment. The shining embroidered dragon writhed over his shoulders and long back.

  “The emperor’s new clothes...” she suggested.

  “The emperor’s new clothes were his birthday suit as I recall.”

  Fiona bit her lip and nodded. “So they were,” she agreed, trying very hard not to imagine Christian tall, dark and naked. His image drifted across her inventive brain. Gorgeous. Desirable.

  A small nervous giggle escaped her. She was in no state to do anything about him should he suddenly appear like that.

  He turned at the sound of her laughter, raised a sleeve to his nose, and breathed in her scent.

  Fiona pulled a face. “Does it need a wash?”

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. It simply smells of woman.”

  Something turned over, deep inside her.

  “You’re right,” she faltered. “It’s probably supposed to smell of man. It’s huge on me, but I loved it. I couldn’t understand the size label.”

  He pulled the robe off and checked. “Too faded to tell,” he said, laying it across the end of the bed. “I’ve bought you the water you wanted, and a token lunch.”

  He bent over her and slipped his hands either side of her ribcage as though she was Nicky’s age. “Hold your breath,” he said. There was no need for the instruction—Fiona had already gasped at his touch. Christian lifted her with gentle care and tucked another pillow behind her shoulders.

  Fiona ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips, and flicked her eyes from side to side to absorb every glorious detail of him. He was close enough for her to see every one of his long black eyelashes, every dark whisker-stub, each thread in his dark blue shirt—and his deep golden hair-hazed chest where the shirt’s front gaped open as he bent over her.