The Wrong Sister by Kris Pearson

the older men unclipped the catches of a guitar case, took a Spanish guitar out, and leaned back against the terrace railing. A small cascade of notes danced on the air as he checked the tuning. Then he began to play.  
    The complicated rhythm of ‘Classical Gas’ floated out across the harbor, and the crowd fell silent, appreciating his deft finger-work.
    Fiona listened with enjoyment. Her job as entertainments officer included searching out passengers with genuine talents and including them in the on-board concerts on her ship. She loved music, and was an accomplished jazz and folk singer. As the last notes died away, the guests applauded.  
    Then the guitarist began a slow rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’. Several of the crowd started to hum along with the lovely old melody.  
    Fiona moved closer and leaned on the railing beside him. She raised an eyebrow. He nodded his encouragement.  
    She began to sing in her distinctive husky voice. She sang for Jan. And for Nicky, who would never really know her mother. And for herself—to dispel some of the weight of sadness that clung around her.  
    And most of all she sang for solitary Christian who watched her from across the terrace.  
    His face was unreadable against the lights of the house. But his body had frozen in absolute attention as the hymn uncoiled in the soft air. For sure he had the looks and the money, but that didn’t make him immune to pain. She knew he’d loved Jan fondly and faithfully.  
    He was hurting—hiding it well perhaps—but he had to be wracked by demons all the same. She vowed to try and be kinder to him, even though he made it so strangely difficult.  
    One minute he pushed her away. The next he stood far too close. He had no business being so near, just as she had no right to enjoy his company so much.
    She sighed with vexation after the song had finished and the applause had faded. Surely they could manage to strike some sort of happy medium? She was good with people...couldn’t do her job without that all-important skill. But Christian baffled her, wrong-footing her at every turn.

    They started home again an hour or so later. This time she pushed the stroller with a sleeping Nicky. Christian had insisted on slinging an arm around her shoulders to warm her against the cooling evening air. He seemed to have drunk a little too much, presumably to soothe away his memories of Jan’s death. With that in mind, Fiona didn’t feel she could complain and prize him off.  
    She suffered the tantalizing sensation of his velvety upper arm rubbing over her skin as they negotiated the narrow pavement again. Their flesh chafed gently together, feeding private fantasies for them both.
    Christian had run his fingers through the feathery hair on her newly-exposed neck before his hand had snaked around her, pulling her close. He’d gathered her into the crook of his arm, and his fingers wrapped around her bicep so her breast joggled against his hand.  
    Her imaginings from the hair salon now sprang vividly to life again. The slide of his flesh across hers as they enjoyed each other in a huge bed in a softly lit room. Her hands clasping his shoulders, his thigh parting hers, the warmth and strength of her sister’s husband poised above her, the musky scent of sex saturating the air...  
    She wished he’d remove his arm, but she wished even more strongly that he’d pull her close in a full-body embrace.

    They entered Nicky’s bedroom together. Fiona laid her sleepy niece down, smoothed the cover over her small drowsy body, and straightened. Christian stepped close and dropped a tipsy kiss onto the top of her head.  
    “I like the hair now I’m used to it,” he said.  
    He sent her a sizzling grin and ambled from the room.  
    Fiona stayed frozen, not trusting herself to move in case it was straight into his arms. She breathed in his faint residual scent—freshly washed cotton, barbecue smoke, and the same soap-or-shampoo tang she’d