The Wrong Sister by Kris Pearson Page A

noticed that morning. And temptation. He smelled like temptation.  
    She was still sniffing the air where he’d stood when a shattering explosion tore the quiet night into shreds. In the peculiar silence that followed there were yells from at least two male voices and the thrilling throaty note of the engine of a powerful, sharply accelerating car.

    Christian raced through to the garage that housed his prized collection of vintage vehicles.  
    A pool of wine snaked its slow sticky way across the floor in the moonlight; many of the bottles in the wine cellar had been shattered. Broken glass crunched everywhere underneath his feet. He scrabbled in the dark for the torch from the recharging unit over his workbench, fumbled the switch on, and shone the beam around.
    Fiona dashed through.
    “Stop for God’s sake!” he yelled. “Get some proper shoes on. Your feet’ll be cut to ribbons.” Relief shot through him when she skidded to a halt in time.  
    The huge garage door was bent and buckled. Part of it remained, hanging askew, creaking in the slight breeze. Suddenly it, too, fell with a squealing metallic thump. Dust and concrete fragments flew everywhere in a blinding cloud. Christian cursed foully, and Fiona buried her face in her arms to protect her eyes.
    “Bastards took the Jag,” he snapped. “Call the cops for me, eh?”  
    There was no sign now of him being anything but totally alert.  

    She wondered about that as she pulled out her phone, dialed the emergency number, and relayed the details she was sure about.  
    “Just a moment,” she said, handing the phone over to Christian.  
    She checked on Nicky who was half-awake but so drowsy she was easily soothed. Then she hurried into her own bedroom and rummaged through her shoes. She laced on a pair of white trainers, hoping their thick soles would be protection enough from all the glass.
    Christian talked on, giving the registration number and other details of his beloved E-type.  
    “Thank God I keep the Rolls way at the back,” he said as he disconnected. “The garage lights have blown. I can’t see what the damage really is. That explosion will have flung shards of metal and concrete all over the place. The other cars could be mincemeat.”  
    Neighbors started to appear— curious, startled, and concerned. Fiona picked her way to the entrance and peered upwards. The pressed-steel garage door lay buckled and crumpled on the forecourt like a couple of huge dead animals. A handful of concrete chips pattered down beside her.
    “Get back, Fee!” Christian yelled as part of the main support beam gave way and crashed down. She leapt sideways, tripped on some of the debris, felt a huge surge of pain, and blacked out. She never knew how feverishly he worked to clear the heaviest pieces away from her crumpled body, or how tenderly he covered her with a blanket and watched over her until the paramedics arrived.

    She regained proper consciousness the next evening. Christian sat close by her hospital bed, staring blankly ahead, but his gaze ricocheted across as she uttered a soft moan of complaint.
    There were flowers everywhere, and her whole body ached like fury.
    He instantly pressed the Call button and reached for her hand. His over-firm grip was far from steady. His fingers shook as he laced them through hers.  
    “I thought I’d lost you,” he said in a hoarse and weary voice, eyes so intense and hopeful she’d have sprung from the bed undamaged, had it been possible. “Hell that was stupid thing to do, Fee. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
    So much for a tender welcome back to the land of the living…  
    She moved her other arm and gasped with pain, but knowing he’d kept watch sent a wash of warmth through her and almost made up for his rough words. How long had he been there?  
    A nurse bustled through the door a moment later and Fiona tried to lift her head before subsiding back into the pillows with a groan. Christian rose