Midnight Secret (The Midnight Club Billionaires #2)

Chapter One

Marama

“ E tuahine !” It’s Māori for “Hey, sis!” so when I turn, I’m not surprised to see my little brother, Kingi.

Actually, ‘little’ is a bit of a misnomer—he’s six-four and huge, with a big shaggy beard and long wavy hair, and could easily double for Jason Momoa.

But he is younger than me. Today is his twenty-eighth birthday, and I turn thirty next month.

I’m sitting at a table by the poolside in the gardens of the Midnight Club on Waiheke Island off the coast of Auckland, New Zealand, where he decided to hold his birthday party.

As he walks up, the clock in the club strikes midnight, and a huge cheer rises as balloons and glitter are released from the ceiling onto the people on the dance floor inside.

Outside, our family and friends who haven’t yet retired for the evening clink glasses and toast the new day.

I hold my half-full champagne glass up, and Kingi taps his whiskey glass against it, then takes a seat.

“It’s not your birthday anymore.” I gesture at the badge on his T-shirt that says ‘Birthday Boy.’

“True.” He laughs, unclips it, and tosses it on the table. Then he has a mouthful of whiskey, observing me with his warm amber eyes, which are a shade darker than mine. “You okay?” he asks.

I smile. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You look tired.”

“It’s midnight. I’m normally in bed by ten. It’s only you weirdos who stay up into the small hours.” Part of the reason the Midnight Club is so named is because the group of businessmen and women who run it often work late into the night.

He grins. Then he leans forward on the table. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“I put your idea forward, about holding an exhibition of your work here, and they’ve given it the green light.”

My mouth forms an O, and I inhale with pleasure. I’ve recently completed a series of paintings inspired by my travels around Europe, and I’d been hoping they’d display them here. “That’s amazing, thank you!”

“Can’t do the lobby, though,” he says, “that space is fully booked for several months, so they’ve suggested the Morepork Room.”

My excitement is like a feather blown up into the air that now drifts slowly back to the ground.

The lobby would have been the perfect place, in full sight of rich guests checking into the resort who would have money to burn, and facing all the billionaires and millionaires heading for the Midnight Club.

The Morepork is just a boardroom, and it’s not even off the lobby—it’s along a corridor to a function room, and it hardly gets any passing traffic.

I’d hoped for much more, especially considering my brother and father are both members of the Midnight Circle consortium that runs the place.

But Kingi’s expression is eager and happy—he’s pleased that he’s been able to arrange this for me. I don’t want to spoil his birthday by being ungrateful.

“Thank you,” I say as graciously as I can manage. “I really appreciate you doing that for me.”

“No worries at all. Glad I could help.” He finishes off his whiskey and gestures at my glass. “You want another?”

“No, I think I’m done. I might head off home soon.”

“Lightweight.” He laughs, gets up, and kisses the top of my head. “ Aroha ki a koe, e tuahine .” I love you, sis.

“ Arohanui , Kingi.” It means big love, Kingi, and I add a warm smile.

My smile fades as he walks away. Don’t be so unappreciative, I scold myself. All publicity is good publicity. But it’s impossible to stop frustration and resentment rising inside me.

“Hey you.” Helen, a good friend of mine, drops into the chair that Kingi has just vacated.

She’s heavily pregnant, and she lifts her feet onto the chair opposite to rest her legs.

“I was just eavesdropping,” she confesses.

“So they’re going to exhibit your work in the Morepork?

I’m not surprised you’re pissed.” She’s obviously seen my dissatisfied expression.

I have a mouthful of champagne. “The lobby was already booked, so I do understand.”

She purses her lips. Then she says, “Do you know whose work they’re showing there through April and May?”

“No…”

“Jason Ridgeway.”

My eyebrows lift in surprise. Jason is younger than me and far less established as an artist. It’s going to be huge exposure for him.

“What a shock,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with him being a white male.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. She may be right… but I don’t want to appear bitter. “Jason’s a great artist. And they’d already given him the space—I can’t expect them to pass him over for me. That wouldn’t be fair.”

She blows a raspberry. “They wouldn’t bat an eyelid if it was the other way around. But anyway, I’ve got some news that will cheer you up. Have you heard of Lumen?”

“The business club in Auckland?” It opened a few months ago. Kingi mentioned it on a Zoom call while I was in Europe. I vaguely remember him seeming annoyed, but he never explained why. “I haven’t been there,” I add. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“I met its owner at a conference a few days ago. Her name’s Genevieve Beaumont—her dad’s some rich French dude, and her mum’s Māori.

She did a talk on how she wants to empower women by supporting local female artists, especially Māori women.

The club’s tagline is ‘Illuminating Women, Igniting Change.’ But I think she called it Lumen in direct competition to Midnight. You know, light and dark?”

“Oh… So that’s why Kingi was annoyed.”

Helen laughs. “Yeah, they were all a bit put out by it. They know they’re male-heavy here, and Lumen will appeal to businesswomen in the community. Anyway, I spoke to Genevieve after the conference, and she told me they’re holding an Empowerment Auction.”

“A what?”

“Women are being invited to this high-profile art and culture auction. She’s holding a meeting about it tomorrow. She asked me to mention it to you.”

I blink. “To me?”

“She specifically mentioned you. She said she has one of your pieces in her house and she loves your style. So… will you come?”

I’m immensely flattered that this executive has heard of me and has personally asked Helen to invite me. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“It’s at three p.m. at Lumen itself. I’d go but I have a doctor’s appointment, and I’m no artist anyway. It sounds interesting, though. You’ll have to tell me all about it afterward.”

“Of course I will.” The feather of hope inside me lifts once again, and this time it stays buoyant.

“It’ll serve them right here if you end up working for Lumen,” Helen says. “They’ve overlooked women for far too long.”

Privately, I think that Helen has an agenda, and she’s not being fair to the Midnight Circle.

Six out of eight members of the Auckland branch are guys, but four of them were friends before they formed the circle, and the other two male members are Orson and Kingi’s fathers, so it’s not as if they chose men over women purposefully.

I’m not sure, I might be being unfair, but I wonder whether Helen asked to be in the Circle and they turned her down? I love her dearly, but she doesn’t have the business background, expertise, or qualifications that the others have.

But of course she’s a friend so I’d never say that. Instead I murmur, “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she says. “With someone like my father at the helm, women are never going to get a look in.”

I follow her gaze to where Spencer Cavendish is sitting at a table on the other side of the pool. He’s on his own, reading something on his phone.

Spencer is the father of both Helen and Orson, another friend of mine.

Spencer was eighteen when he had Orson, so he’s only forty-six now, hardly old, but still sixteen years older than me.

He’s tall and slim and obviously keeps fit, and when he was younger his dark hair bore silver flashes at both temples, the same as his son’s, but Spencer’s hair is threaded with gray now, so the flashes are less obvious.

He’s clean-shaven and handsome, an exceptionally good-looking guy, kinda like a young George Clooney.

Part of his attraction is his looks, and the rest is his manner—his confidence and self-assurance.

He’s a self-made man who’s worked hard to get where he is, and to him, any guy who hasn’t done the same isn’t worth his time or attention.

He’s hot as fuck, and I’ve wanted him for years, but never been brave enough to tell him.

As I watch, a man stops by his table and says something to him. Spencer looks up from his phone and gives a short, cool nod. The man smiles uncertainly, then moves on. Spencer watches him go, a little amused, I think, at the guy’s awkwardness.

His gaze scans the poolside—and then, to my alarm, he looks straight at me, catching me watching him.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look away, either.

My heart jolts as if it’s been shocked with a defibrillator.

Half of me wants to drop my gaze with embarrassment.

But somehow I find the courage to keep my gaze on him, and we study each other across the pool.

I let my lips curve up, just a little, and see his do the same.

Then I look back at Helen.

“A lone wolf,” I comment, my pulse racing.

Helen gives a short laugh. “You know they call him The Wolf of Waiheke in the city?”

“Seriously?” I glance back at him, but he’s returned his gaze to his phone.

“Yeah. He has the reputation of being ruthless and cutthroat. If he ever turned up dead with a knife in his back, the queue of suspects would stretch around the block.”

Her casual insult shocks me, but I don’t react. I’ve never hated anyone in my life, and I certainly can’t imagine hating Spencer Cavendish. Sure, his confidence borders on arrogance, but he’s always been nice to me.