The Wrong Sister by Kris Pearson Page A

his masculine hardness and strength, his warmth, his smoothness, his roughness.  
    She had a too-fast glimpse of his taut golden belly and long thighs before she subsided into the chair. Christian put her crutches aside and stepped behind her to turn on the water. She sat there overcome with embarrassment and longing.
    “This might have been a very stupid idea,” she heard him say. She heard the small soft curse as well. What was he really thinking? That they’d be close, wet, and far too private? That was exactly her take on it.  
    He moved about, whistling softly to himself as he adjusted the temperature of the water. She kept her eyes resolutely turned away. Then she caught sight of him in the big mirror on the side wall. His wet black shorts clung close against his hips, emphasizing the long line of his back and the tight curve of his butt. The increasing weight of the water in the fabric made the shorts sag a little lower. They hung across his hipbones in a gentle arc.  
    Fiona itched to touch him. His thighs shone as the water streamed over them, flattening his body hair, defining the shape of the strong muscles that flexed under his golden skin. Higher, his chest-hair seemed sprinkled with glittering diamonds as the overhead lights caught the water droplets.
    If she stretched a little, she could see herself as well. She looked totally ridiculous. His huge green waterproof coat dwarfed her. Her unwashed hair sat flat against her head. She’d rarely felt so unattractive. What was she thinking of—spinning daydreams about a man as gorgeous as Christian when she looked such a pathetic frump?
    This is Jan’s husband. You cannot have him.  
    “Tip your head back,” he instructed, cupping her jaw in his hand and tilting her until she rested against something warm and resilient. She turned her eyes upward and found her head pillowed against his belly with a view of his body in reverse...up to his impressive chest and shoulders and hungry handsome face.
    “Close your eyes.” He raised the spray-nozzle to wet her hair. “Keep very still. I’ll try and avoid the dressing over your eye.”
    The warm water trickled over her scalp and down over his big body. Fiona sighed as the fingers of his other hand smoothed through her hair, directing the water, shielding her face. He turned the nozzle off and reached for the shampoo.
    “Tropical Creme”, he murmured, reading the label as though to fill the sudden silence.
    “It’s something the salon recommended.” She kept her eyes resolutely closed.

    Christian drizzled shampoo over her hair and started to massage it in, kneading sensuously but softly, careful to avoid her injuries. The fruity fragrance surrounded them both. He bent a little lower, enjoying the closer view of her face. One side was entirely undamaged. Her skin was smooth and so much paler than his hands. Her dark lashes lay golden-tipped against her high cheekbones. Her lips were full and soft.  
    You are my wife, yet not my wife...  
    He supported Fiona’s head in one big palm and massaged behind her ears, down to her nape, then up to her crown.
    “That’s heaven,” she murmured, giving him the excuse he needed to keep touching her. He continued running his fingers over her scalp, working the lather into every strand of her hair. The slippery soapy sensations coursed through his big body, finding their mark all too easily. He gritted his teeth.  
    Down boy...  
    It shouldn’t be possible for this drowned-rat of a woman, totally concealed in his old waterproof coat, to have such an outrageous effect on him. And yet, whenever he’d been in her company through all the years of his perfectly happy marriage, she’d lit sparks that smoldered and refused to be extinguished.  
    Even the one swift kiss he’d given her as a ‘welcome home’ from hospital had got way out of hand.
    This was so wrong. Nothing could ever come of it. No matter how much Fiona invaded his dreams—and his daydreams—she