The Wrong Sister by Kris Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

waste,” he murmured, licking between each of her fingers as she stood frozen, mute, astounded.
    He’d do that in front of his friends just days after his wife had died? How many of them had seen? She stared at him as he lifted his face from her hand. His eyes were dark, huge, haunted, and held hers unwaveringly.
    “It’s a very nice Shiraz,” he said as though that made it permissible to run his sinful tongue over her skin, lighting the nerve-ends like sizzling fire-crackers.
    She wrenched her gaze from his, reached across to the railing for her glass, and sipped as a diversion from the overwhelming sensations shooting up her arm. “Lovely,” she agreed. “Soft. Gorgeous.”
    Christian picked up his own glass and tipped it in an ironic salute. “To soft gorgeous wine,” he said. “And soft gorgeous women.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    Fiona flinched. Was the bastard already looking forward to life after Jan? To pursuing future partners? So soon?  
    Her hackles rose. She bit her bottom lip hard to stifle her all-too-ready reply. She’d thought better of him than that.  
    Her heart did a rapid flip-flop against her ribs. Regret on Jan’s behalf? Or disappointment for herself?
    “I’ll check on Nicky and rinse my hand,” she muttered, moving away from him. Her niece was being looked after by their host’s nanny, but she needed to get away from Christian before she slapped his handsome face. Soft gorgeous women indeed.  

    Damn he thought as she flounced off. He’d meant it as a compliment—light-hearted banter. But the moment his lips had made contact with her palm, a whole different set of emotions had swept over him.  
    Lust. Longing. Loneliness.  
    Any of those would explain his sudden descent into the intense and inappropriate mood that had caused him to grab her and darn near devour her.  
    And if the wine had tasted delicious, Fiona herself had been a million times better. The skin on the inside of her wrist had been silky-soft under his thumb, and gently fragrant with a subtle waft of pure femininity. It was nothing chemical, he was sure, unless they were her own body chemicals setting him on fire. There’d been no fierce blast of flowers or lemons or any of the other perfumes that hand-lotions contained. The delicate scent had been all her— warm, soft, seriously sexy. If she thought he was sipping Shiraz then let her believe that. He knew better—he’d been drinking in her pheromones, tasting her skin and storing away the intoxication of it in his memory banks for the cold dark days ahead.

    The party continued. The waiter returned with a tray of succulent prawns in a sweet chili glaze. Steaks, cutlets and sausages began to sizzle and pop on the barbecue. Their savory scent hung in the air. The breeze had dropped away—it was a perfect evening.  
    Fiona watched the sun slide down behind the few ragged clouds on the far edge of Tinakori hill. They paled from fierce gold to pink to palest lavender. The city lights sparkled and trembled below them.  
    She talked about Italy with the bejeweled elderly woman who was their host Sam’s widowed mother...sounded out a couple of the well-heeled local wives about the availability of nannies...argued tongue-in-cheek with a university scientist on the likely effects of global warming...and found her eyes drawn again and again to Christian as he stood on the far side of the terrace—tall, affable, never without a glass of wine in his hand.  
    “Okay everyone, food’s ready,” Sam called, banging tongs against the huge hooded stainless steel barbecue to get their attention. A surge of bodies formed a disorderly cheerful queue, and people started to heap their plates.
    “Enjoying yourself?”  
    Christian had positioned himself right behind her, and his breath puffed hot against her ear. Someone further back in the queue jostled him against her and she stumbled. This time there was no mistaking the press of his thighs against hers, the soft bulge at his