The Wrong Sister by Kris Pearson Page B

levered herself up with several small gasps and moans. He clenched his teeth against her pain, eyes fixed out over the harbor, determined to avoid looking at her.  
    At her body, which would no doubt be silhouetted against the glittering mid-day view. And at her various bruises and dressings, which tore at his conscience. Why wasn’t it him who’d been injured?  
    My house...my cars...my responsibility.  
    Instead it was lovely fragile Fiona who’d been so dangerously damaged.
    She smiled her thanks and twisted to slip her hands into the sleeves. He heard the slight catch of pain in her breath.
    “Damn,” she muttered.
    Christian lowered the silky garment, slid the sleeves over her wrists, and then smoothed it upwards in a light caress. He stood for a moment with his hands on her shoulders, feeling the burning imprint of every finger.
    “Belt?” he asked, right beside her ear. From this position, he could so easily lower his lips onto the back of her neck...could nip her, tease her, kiss her. She was totally at his mercy, and some age-old instinct goaded him to touch her...subdue her...take her. His big frame jangled with warring emotions. The civilized man and the cave-man were only millimeters apart. And no woman had ever tipped the balance as precariously as she had.
    “Thanks. Don’t worry.” She eyed the crutches with no pleasure. “I’ll be back in bed in a few minutes.”  
    Remember Jan, remember Jan , he repeated to himself as Fiona limped toward the bathroom door.
    And remember how Jan died. Remember this is her sister, who might be in the same danger. If you ever won her, could you bear to lose her to breast cancer too?

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Fiona jerked awake in the big bed as a faint whirring noise reached her ears. She’d been lying drowsing in the dim golden room. Someone had pulled the blinds further closed as she slept. And the pills had helped her to sleep wonderfully, despite the heat, the hurt and the waves of searing sensuality that had earlier engulfed her.
    So what was the noise? She cocked an ear toward the doorway just as Christian appeared, wheeling a high-backed black leather office chair.
    “Goldilocks is awake?”  
    “Who’s been sleeping in your bed, you mean? Sleeping well. I feel a lot better.” She yawned and tried to stretch, and was foiled by her injuries. “Ouch!” she gasped. “Better in some places, anyway.”
    “I was doing some work in the study this afternoon. And I realized although we don’t have a wheel-chair, we do have a wheeled chair. I could take you through to the living room on this until you’re more comfortable on those crutches? Do you want to get up for dinner?”
    She struggled onto her elbows and the traitorous sheet slid below her breasts. Lying down flat with him looming over her was unnerving—she felt far too vulnerable. Knowing he could see through the thin old nightgown had just made the sensation so much worse. Perhaps she should have insisted her parents took her back to Auckland, after all?
    “Dinner? I’m allowed up for that, am I?”
    “If you feel well enough.”

    He wrenched his gaze out over the harbor. The last thing she needed was him staring at her breasts like a schoolboy.
    Again he held up the silk robe until she was out of bed, then lowered it so she could slip her hands down the sleeves. The beautiful dip of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips were silhouetted against the lowering sun. He clenched his teeth, trying not to react.  
    His hand had touched her right there on the evening of the barbecue. He remembered when they’d queued for their food that he’d been pushed against her by someone else in the line. He’d steadied himself by grabbing her waist—had enjoyed the contact—had pretended he’d had too much to drink to disguise the fact he couldn’t bear to let go of her.  
    He drew the robe up her arms and settled it over her shoulders, then stepped around and sat on the bed so he could wrap first one