Midnight Enemy (The Midnight Club Billionaires #1)

Chapter One

Scarlett

“You’d better get going,” Anahera says. “You don’t want to be late.”

It’s a beautiful, warm March morning. Summer is hanging on by its fingertips, and the trees haven’t yet donned their autumn coats. Bathed in buttery yellow sunshine, Waiheke Island off the coast of Auckland, New Zealand, is a paradise like no other. Seriously, there can’t be anywhere in the world more amazing than this place, with its emerald hills and dark-green forests surrounded by the sparkling blue Pacific Ocean. I’d rather be here than anywhere else on Earth.

Which is why the absolute last thing I want to do is take the ferry to Auckland and spend the morning in the city.

“I honestly don’t mind driving in with you,” my sister says, passing me the last plate after washing it in the sink.

I take it from her, dry it with a tea towel, and place it in the cupboard. “No, it’s okay. I’m looking forward to a bike ride.”

“Go on,” she says, “I’ll finish up here. I don’t want you to be late.”

I hang the tea towel on the hook, lean a hip against the worktop, and look out of the window. A single mum and her thirteen-year-old daughter have recently arrived at the commune to stay in the retreat, and one of our members is giving them the tour, showing them the vegetable gardens and the chickens.

The Women’s Refuge in Auckland referred them here, as they’ve just escaped an abusive husband and father. It’s clear they’ve both suffered physically and emotionally, and they need serious healing. The woman has one arm in a sling, and I watch her put the other around the girl as they walk across the central lawn we call The Green, pausing to watch the ducks on the pond. The girl looks haunted, although she smiles as she gives the ducks some of the grapes we grow in the vineyard. I hope we can help her smile more often.

Well, that’s why I’m going to the law firm, right?

“Okay.” I hug Ana and kiss her cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. You go and have fun.” Ana is a classroom assistant in the commune’s tiny school, and she’s taking the little ones on a nature walk this morning.

“Take care in the city,” she says.

“I will. See you soon.”

I go out of the refectory, walk the short distance to our cottage, and let myself in. Ana’s right; I don’t want to be late. It’s warm and I’m going to be cycling, so I change into my jumpsuit—it’s navy from the ribs down, and the top is white with red stripes. I’m not going to be able to shower and change when I get there, but I roll up a summer dress and put it in a bag—I can slip that on over the top of my cycling gear, and with a pair of sandals instead of trainers I should look presentable enough.

After braiding my hair into a long plait, I spot the red roses that Ana picked this morning in a pot on my dresser. Smiling, I choose one of the buds, break off the thorns, and slide it into my hair just above my ear. Mum planted the bushes, and we always try to have a few indoors to remind us of her. It makes me feel as if she’ll be with me today, which gives me confidence.

I grab my money purse and a notebook and pen and put them in the bag, don my sunglasses, then go outside and over to the bike stand. I choose my favorite bicycle, which has a scarlet frame and a basket on the front, put my bag into the basket, then set off for the passenger ferry.

It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the marina. It’s a beautiful journey through the luscious countryside, with the Pacific Ocean sparkling in front of me like a huge sapphire. Tui birds call from the trees, and I see several rabbits on the grassy borders before they bolt into the bush .

Luckily I’ve timed it just right, so I only have five minutes to wait before I board the ferry. I push my bike on, find a seat at the front of the boat, and lean the bike against the railings beside me. Before long, we’re moving through the water heading west for Auckland.

I haven’t been to the city in months. I don’t enjoy going. The journey is pleasant enough, weaving past Rangitoto Island with its volcanic peak, past all the boats in the City of Sails, to the Downtown Ferry Terminal near Mechanics Bay. But soon I’ll be confronted with the noise and smells and energies of the 1.7 million people who live here. I find it overwhelming, to be honest. So as the ferry docks and everyone starts disembarking, I pop my earphones in and start playing some music on my MP3 player.

Singing to Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi , I set off for Carter Wright Lawyers, which is at the edge of the Central Business District, not far from Auckland Domain—the oldest park in the city. I have a map, and I stop a couple of times to take it out and make sure I’m going in the right direction. It takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It’s hot here in the city, and humid, and by the time I pull up outside, I’m sweating and starting to wish I’d come by car.

I also realize I’ve forgotten to bring a bicycle lock. We don’t need them in the commune, but I should have picked one up from the office. I don’t really want to leave the bike outside because I’ve heard stories of people stealing them, crazy as it sounds. After resting it on the front window of the law firm, I go through the door.

The reception area is large and open plan, with light wooden floors and a curving front desk. The name Carter Wright Lawyers is carved into the front of the desk and surrounded by swirling Māori patterns. Elegant green plants stand in pots, and near the receptionist is a vase of white roses, soft pink Lisianthus, and green hydrangeas. It’s cool in here, and I can’t see a fan, so they must have air conditioning.

To the right is a visitor section with a water cooler, a coffee machine, and a row of cream chairs. A guy in a suit sits at one end of the row. He looks up as I cross the room, but I don’t make eye contact and instead smile at the young woman behind the desk.

“Good morning,” she says. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here for a meeting at ten o’clock with Mr. Carter,” I reply. “Um… I’ve forgotten a bicycle lock, and I don’t really want to leave my bike outside. Would it be okay if I brought it in and left it here?”

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll let Mr. Carter know you’re here. ”

“Thank you.” I go back outside, collect my bike, and return to the door. It opens outward, and it’s either ridiculously heavy or the spring on it is super strong, because I struggle for a moment to hold it open and get the bike in, afraid of scratching the glass.

“Here.” The guy in the suit gets up and strides across the floor to help me. He presses a hand against the door, somehow managing with super-human strength to both keep it open at an angle and move back to let me pass.

I lift the bike over the small step, positioning myself between him and the bike, because I don’t want it to touch his suit. There’s not a lot of room, and my back brushes against his chest as I squeeze past. He’s a lot taller than me—I almost fit under his arm. His suit is beautiful, navy blue and fitting snugly to his body, very elegant. He’s wearing a white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. His tie pin bears a silver eagle. I can smell his cologne, something vastly different from the natural scents the men tend to wear on the commune. It’s sensual and spicy. It makes my mouth water.

I glance up at him. He’s clean shaven and extremely handsome, with dark hair that has unusual white flashes at his temples, even though he’s only young. He has a large graze on his right temple, amongst his hair, that looks maybe a few weeks old and has nearly healed. He looks down at me, and his eyes are a breathtaking, startling blue, the color of the Pacific in the morning sun.

Dropping my gaze, I make it past him unscathed, say, “Thank you,” over my shoulder, wheel the bike over to the wall, and lean it there. Keeping my back to him, I unzip my bag, take out my dress, quickly pull it over my head, and let it slide down my body. Then I slip off my trainers and socks and replace them with the sandals.

Finally, I stuff everything back in the bag, zip it up, then go over to the waiting area. As I sit on a seat in the middle of the row, the guy in the suit, who’s been at the water cooler, comes over with a cup and passes it to me. “Thought you might be thirsty after your bike ride,” he says.

“Oh, thank you. That was very thoughtful.” I take it from him and drink it as he takes his chair, two seats away. When I’m done, he holds out a hand. I put the cup in it, and he tosses it in the bin next to him. I smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t smile back. But he does stare at me with those intense blue eyes, and for a second I can’t look away. Wow, he’s so handsome. His eyes bore into me, and I’m conscious of my heartbeat speeding up, and my pulse racing in my throat. I get a funny feeling in my stomach too, a flutter, the kind I get at home when I’m about to jump off the waterfall into the Waiora—our healing pool.

With difficulty, I tear my gaze away and study my hands where they sit in my lap. He doesn’t say anything, but he shifts on his seat, lifting an ankle to rest on the opposite knee.

We sit there in silence for about twenty seconds. I can feel him watching me. He inhales and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but at that moment he turns his head as footsteps echo along the corridor. I look up and see an older, gray-haired man approaching. He looks at the guy, then at me, and says, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Jack Carter.” He holds a hand out to me. “You must be Mahuika.”

I get to my feet and shake his hand. “Everyone calls me Scarlett,” I say, conscious of the guy next to me getting to his feet too. Why’s he standing?

“Then I’m pleased to meet you, Scarlett,” Jack says. To my surprise, he then turns to the guy in the navy suit and says, “And you must be Orson.”

“Good to meet you,” the guy says, shaking his hand. His deep voice brings goosebumps out on my skin.

“And have the two of you been introduced?” Jack asks.

The guy, who appears to be called Orson, turns to me and says, “No, not yet.”

“Oh, sorry,” Jack says. “Scarlett, this is Orson Cavendish. Orson, this is Scarlett Stone.”

Orson holds out his hand and looks me in the eyes. He still doesn’t smile, but something tells me he’s amused. He knew who I was. “Ms. Stone,” he says, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

I don’t lift my hand. I stand frozen to the spot and just stare at him. “Orson Cavendish? You’re Spencer Cavendish’s son?”

He nods, lowering his hand slowly.

Fury spreads through my veins like lava. I turn to Jack and snap, “What’s he doing here?”

Jack looks from Orson to me, clearly confused. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Orson was the one who arranged the meeting today. He wants to discuss the sale of the Waiora.” The large pool sits between our lands. The Cavendishes have been after it for years, but my father always refused to sell.

I glare at Orson. He doesn’t look amused anymore, but he meets my gaze evenly.

I’m so angry, I can barely form words. “My father died two weeks ago,” I say, the words falling from my lips like sharp stones. “We’ve only just buried him. And my mother died just two weeks before him. I’ve lost both parents within a month, and now you swoop in thinking you can take advantage of my grief to get what you want? How dare you ask me here for this reason!”

The Elders told me that the lawyer’s email requested a representative of the commune to talk about land ownership. Did they know that the Cavendishes wanted to discuss the sale of the Waiora?

“I’m very sorry for not being clearer,” Jack says quickly.

My eyes blur. “Really? Because it seems to me that you were purposefully vague because you knew I wouldn’t come here if he was here.” I jab a finger at Orson, who just lifts an eyebrow. Then I say, “Well, it looks as if we’ve all wasted our time.”

I spin on my heel and march over to my bike, intent on leaving. As I turn the bike, though, Orson moves to stand in my way. “Please,” he says, “come and hear what I have to say.”

“Get out of my way.” My chest heaves with emotion.

“Scarlett, please. I just want to talk.”

“I don’t. I want to leave.” I try to steer the bike around him, but he moves to block me. I change direction, but he blocks me again. Now I’m starting to feel panicky. One rule we have in the commune is that if someone wants to walk away from any situation or conversation, nobody is allowed to stop them, and this feels like a huge invasion of my privacy.

“Please move out of my way,” I demand.

“No,” he says.

Before I can think better of it, I push the bike forward, hard, and it bangs into his knee.

“Ow,” he says. He moves then, but it’s not to let me pass. Instead, he walks around the bike and rests a hand on my arm. “Please,” he says.

“Don’t touch me!” I shake his hand off, starting to tremble.

He holds both hands up. But then he says, “Scarlett, I’m so sorry that your parents died, especially so close together. I lost my mother six years ago. I do understand some of what you must be feeling. And I’m sorry I arranged this meeting so soon. I actually asked to meet with the Elders. I didn’t expect one of Blake’s daughters to show or of course I would have waited.”

He’s not touching me now, but he is standing close to me. He’s so tall—he towers over me, with his broad shoulders and wide chest. I’m so tempted to push him aside and get out as quickly as I can. But his words, delivered in a gentle tone, mollify me, just a tiny bit. It makes sense. Most of those who live in the commune assume that the land belongs to it, but at the reading of the will it was revealed that my father never transferred ownership. As the eldest child, I’ve technically inherited the land, which is why the Elders asked me to come today. Orson probably wouldn’t have known that.

My chest heaves with resentment, but I make myself stand still. My father and Orson’s father have been bitter enemies for nearly thirty years. Dad made it very clear that the Cavendish family were our polar opposites, and they stood against everything that he and the other Elders have tried to build at the commune. The Cavendishes are rich, privileged, arrogant, and elitist. They believe everyone should earn their own wealth and use it as they see fit. You’re from a rich, smart family and have every opportunity open to you? Lucky you. Screw all the others who come from broken homes and have no money for an excellent education, and no connections they can call on to give them a leg up with employment. It ain’t what you know, it’s who you know, right?

They have all this wealth, and what have they done with it? They could have helped those who are less fortunate than themselves the way my father did all his life, and organized medical facilities and disability programs and educational support and computers for schools. But no. Instead, they opened the exclusive Midnight Resort and Night Club on the land next to our commune. The kind that only extremely rich people can afford to go to, with helicopter pads and heated pools and swanky restaurants.

I hate them and everything they stand for. But the Elders have sent me here and want me to report back, and as much as I detest every second I’ll have to spend in Orson’s company, I don’t have a choice.

“I’ll stay,” I tell him, my voice almost inaudible. “But I’m not promising anything. ”

“Thank you.” He gently takes the bike from me and returns it to the wall. Then he gestures for me to precede him.

I walk past him, stiff and resentful, to where Jack is waiting. Jack gives me a smile and says, “This way,” and walks down the corridor into an office on the left.

I follow with a rising sense of dread, not looking back to see if Orson is behind me, but feeling as if I’m being followed by a big cat—a tiger, or a black panther. I can almost hear him padding behind me, swishing his tail menacingly, his teeth bared in a menacing smile.

His family is known for being ruthless in business. If I make it out of here in one piece, I’ll be incredibly surprised.