Chapter Three
Poerava was rating exceptionally well on the Zoe Scale of Fabulousness.
So well, she’d already started framing a vignette about its philosophical aesthetic for her article. That sounded grandiose but it really did seem to her that accessibility for people with a disability had been integral to the design, not an afterthought. The essential modifications were not only all present and accounted for, they’d been thoughtfully and artistically integrated. A welcome change from suites that didn’t let you forget you were different with their utilitarian stainless-steel grab bars, cheap plastic shower chairs and ugly nonslip mats that railroaded over the top of any charm.
The exaggeratedly wide entrance to her two-bedroom bungalow, for example, was a feature of all the overwater bungalows. As was the enormous bathroom, big enough for two people to move around in comfortably. The shower was a walk-in—or in her case, a roll-in—affair, with a seat that looked like it belonged in an ancient Roman garden. And OK, the grab bars and safety rails were there, but they were shaped in gorgeous wave-like curves and semicircles that blended delightfully with the mosaic wall tiles. Special care had been taken throughout the suite with the placement of light switches, height-adjustable tables and counters, and the positioning of furniture to make transferring to and from her chair easy, but the differences were subtle enough to make them unremarkable. All the materials looked top-shelf—even the nonslip floor tiles in the bathroom and on the balcony, which looked like natural timber.
Everything about the bungalow was effortlessly lovely. Well, perhaps the electric pool lift installed on her balcony wasn’t exactly lovely—in fact, it was the one incongruity—but she wasn’t going to complain. The views were glorious but it meant more to her to be able to get into the water directly from her balcony like all those other guests who could descend from their balconies via ladders.
Even the ingenious wide teak ramp that led from the communal house to this party space—which could have been specifically designed for wheelchair users—looked more like an ancient tree that had simply fallen over and been worn flat over the years. It was hard to believe Aiata’s explanation that it was a temporary ramp designed to fit into the floor extensions. Then again, she couldn’t believe this space was officially called something as basic as the Poerava Ballroom when it looked like it had emerged from the surrounding rainforest.
Something to talk to the resort manager about, she decided, as Aiata led her and Cristina in his direction. She liked to have a conversation starter in mind when meeting managers and the cunning design features that had turned a ballroom into a mystical arbor seemed a good choice.
“The big boss” was what Aiata called the manager. She’d said his name, too, but that had been drowned out by applause from the guests following the singer’s introduction of a special song, “Te Tama Mā’ohi”. No matter. She’d find out soon enough and in her experience the manager was never the one to provide the best quotable quotes for her stories anyway.
Looking around, Zoe understood why the applause had been almost deafening: there were a lot of guests. If she’d known the scale of the reception she’d have arrived early and spared Aiata the necessity of battling her way through the throng to get her where she needed to be.
At least she would have tried to arrive early. Problem was, the surf school article had been more difficult to write than she’d anticipated and she’d taken too long on the documentary brief; if she’d stopped to read through all the information Aiata had provided as well she would have missed the party altogether.
Thankfully Aiata was a smooth operator, wending a way for them across the floor with admirable discretion. No bumps, jostles, or cringeworthy calls to people to get out of the way. But perhaps Aiata was a little too discreet? Because from what Zoe could see their quarry had moved on.
“Oh, we missed him,” Zoe said, stopping and gesturing toward the man’s back. “I can find him on my own if you need to be somewhere else.”
Aiata glanced in the direction of Zoe’s waving hand. “Oh no, that’s Kupe Kahale. We’re visiting Kupe’s restaurant, Mama Papa’e, on Heia Island on Saturday. Not that our chef Gaspard isn’t world class, but we’re all about solitude and seclusion at Poerava, and you might be ready for more excitement by the end of the week. The Mama Papa’e dinner show is famous. The best dancers in Polynesia will be on stage.”
Zoe shuddered inside, remembering her recent New Zealand trip, being coerced onto the stage and handed a couple of pois to swing. “Oh. Dancers. Lovely.” She looked up at Cristina, who’d been similarly dragged onto the stage that night. They’d both agreed that kitsch shows put on especially for tourists were on the never-again list after that experience. “What do you think, Cris?”
Clever Cristina launched into a request for as much information as Aiata could provide on the mode of transport offered to Heia Island and accessibility details pertaining specifically to the restaurant there. Zoe recognized this as a diversionary tactic—go, Cris!—and concentrated on locating Poerava’s owner so she’d know in which direction to head—her own diversionary tactic—as soon as the interrogation was over, because she was not going to be talked into going to that dinner.
Where Kupe Kahale had been standing there was now only one man. He had to be the boss, although he looked younger than she would have expected. Not that she could see his face: only his back, but his back looked...well, young. Or maybe “fit” was a better word. Broad in that hard way that suggested plenty of muscle. Like he was a rugby player, or worked out very seriously in the gym. He was tall—over six feet. His hair was short, thick, blue-black. He was wearing black trousers and a blue shirt that fit him to perfection.
A tingle snaked across her skin and she suddenly wanted to see his face. Silly, to wonder if he was handsome. His looks were immaterial; in all her years as a travel writer she’d never met a resort manager—male or female—who’d done more than shake her hand and wish her a good time during her stay. There was no need—they had PR people to escort her, answer her questions, make sure she enjoyed the amenities. She wrote travel articles—factual, descriptive, personal, experiential—not corporate exposés.
And yet...whoa, there was that tingle again, she really did want to see what he—
“Shall we move on?” Aiata, calling her out of her thoughts. “I’m not sure how long the boss will be here tonight, best to grab him fast.”
After her blunder with Kupe Kahale, Zoe thought it best to confirm where she was heading and nodded in the direction of the man in the black trousers and blue shirt. “That’s him, right?”
“That’s him,” Aiata confirmed.
“Let’s go then,” Zoe said, and wheeled herself in his direction.
“Careful!” Cristina warned. “It’s crowded, Zoe, take it slowly.”
Which of course made Zoe speed up.
Aiata shot Zoe a glimmering smile, and serenely increased her own pace to match, forging their path a little more energetically than she had hitherto. A weight Zoe hadn’t known was lying across her shoulders lifted. Aiata understood. The odds of enjoying her week on Tiare Island had just increased exponentially.
The three women reached their quarry without creating any more disturbance than could be addressed by an occasional apology as they eased past people chatting and came to a stop behind him.
Aiata lightly tapped two fingertips on his shoulder. Half a second, no more.
He seemed to stiffen, but didn’t turn around.
One more second. Two. Three. And then, “Boss?” Aiata said, tentative, maybe even confused—as well she should be; he had to have felt that touch, light though it was.
OK, he’d heard her. Zoe could tell from the unmistakable tensing of his broad shoulders. But he still didn’t turn.
Zoe would have supposed him to be annoyed at being disturbed if not for the fact that he was standing on his own: they weren’t invading a tête-à-tête. The only thing they were disturbing was his perusal of the gardens, which, yes, were fabulous, but surely very familiar to him. Unless it was his thoughts that were being interrupted, in which case Zoe would be quite happy to leave him to th—
He turned, and Zoe gasped.
That tingle became a shiver. Electric. Hot.
She blinked. Blinked again. No. It couldn’t be him. He looked so different. And yet...the eyes, so deeply, outrageously blue.
“Finn,” she said. Or maybe she’d merely mouthed the name; her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t hear anything else and so didn’t know if she’d vocalized it.
The last time she’d seen him he’d been wearing his usual age-faded jeans, washed-to-death long-sleeved Henley T, coming-apart Converse. His hair had been down to his collar, disheveled as though he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. He’d always looked scruffy. Now he looked scrupulously neat. But something of the old Finn was there, something dangerous, warning her there was unfinished business between them.
“Zoe,” he said, and the hot shiver raced through her at the sound of his voice. The voice that had seemed way too gruff and gravelly for a skinny eighteen-year-old twelve years ago and yet had nevertheless suited him perfectly. It suited him even better now.
Cristina reacted to the shiver by putting Zoe’s wrap around her shoulders. Zoe shrugged her shoulders so it slid straight back off—what healthy woman needed a wrap when the air temperature was nudging thirty degrees?—but the damage was done. Finn’s lip curled in the barest approximation of a smile and Zoe wished Cristina hadn’t done it, wished she’d fade into the background so Zoe could pretend she was on her own.
“Oh! You know each other?” Aiata said, entering the fray warily. And well she might be wary: you’d have needed not a knife but a meat cleaver to cut through the tension in the air.
“Yes,” Finn said, and left it at that, neither elaborating nor taking his eyes off Zoe. “No champagne. Not allowed?”
Zoe felt the usual flash of despairing rage at being treated like an invalid who didn’t know what was good for her. No, not usual, worse than usual, because Finn knew how it was with her. He’d promised never to do that to her.
Which meant...what? That he’d done it deliberately?
Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting. No matter how hostile he looked, how tough and cold and...and hot, oh God, cold and hot and so, so sexy, so mouthwateringly sexy, she was going to hold her own. “I turn twenty-eight in a week,” she said. “So yes, I’m allowed to drink champagne.”
He looked not at her but pointedly at Aiata, who murmured something about sending over a waiter and excused herself with telling alacrity. Now if only Cristina would make herself similarly scarce. But Cristina looked mulish.
“Cris,” Zoe said, sweet but firm, “would you mind going back to the bungalow for my painkillers.”
“But—”
“I’d go myself but I need to talk to Mr. Doherty for my article and this might be my only chance.” Decode: this is work; Cristina knew when it was work she had to leave.
“Have you got your phone handy?” Cristina asked.
Oh, for the love of—! Slo-o-ow breath. “Yes, I have my phone,” Zoe said. “And don’t worry, Mr. Doherty and I are old...” she hesitated over the word “friends” and settled instead on “...acquaintances.” Yes, that would do. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be safe.”
Cristina shot Finn a glare that promised retribution should Zoe not be fine and safe, which made Zoe want to groan, but at last she left.
The countdown was now on. Even though Cristina would have to look high and low for the painkillers since they were actually in Zoe’s purse, she’d be fast; Zoe only had a few minutes. She wanted to get through this necessary interaction with Finn in as businesslike a manner as she could manage and be out of his orbit before Cristina returned.
She launched in with: “You didn’t know I was coming, did you?” at the same moment Finn asked: “You didn’t know I’d be at Poerava, did you?”
Zoe’s “No” crossed midair with Finn’s “No.”
Silence. Frozen.
A flash of memory. The Crab Shack. Ewan asking what they thought would be the best way of announcing a change to the opening time for the dinner service, and Zoe and Finn simultaneously saying, “Tell Mrs. Whittaker!” And then crying “Jinx” and spending five minutes arguing over who’d said it first, by which time Ewan, laughing and shaking his head, had left them to it.
But now all they seemed able to do was stare at each other.
Zoe fought against a wave of melancholy. Ridiculous to feel nostalgic. Memories were meaningless, worthless. There was nothing between her and Finn—no, not Finn, Mr. Doherty—except the article she would write on his resort.
She took a little breath and pasted on a professional smile. “Actually, this—” waving an all-encompassing hand “—was a last-minute invitation. Wanderlust Wheels had a different writer lined up but he ended up in hospital with pneumonia. I didn’t have time to do my usual research.”
“I flew straight from my resort in the Maldives without having had a chance to read up on what journalists would be here,” he offered in response, which seemed to indicate he was equally determined to keep things professional even if he couldn’t actually manage a smile.
“Oh! A resort in the Maldives too?” she said and remembered that Aiata had called him the big boss. “Are you, like, the global manager?” She trailed off as his eyes went glacial.
There was a moment of absolute stillness, except for Finn’s eyes, which raked her from her head to her toes and back up again, briefly snagging on the return at her chest so that she had to fight an impulse to cross her arms over her breasts, then stopping at her mouth. She had the absurd thought that if he kissed her at that moment it would scald her despite the chill emanating from his eyes, that he would want it to scald her, want it to...to brand her like a hot iron. I won’t let you forget me. She thought of what Malie had said about the way Finn used to look at her, and that shiver rushed, hotter, through her blood. What would it be like to be kissed by him, kissed so hard it hurt?
His mouth quirked in a mocking semi-smile, as though he’d read her thoughts. His eyes raised to hers at last. “The owner,” he said. “Half owner, strictly speaking. The company is Doherty Berne.”
A waiter carrying a tray of champagne arrived and Zoe took a flute, then a sip, floundering in another excruciating silence as she processed that information. Finn Doherty had a business partner? They owned two luxury resorts? Finn had never even finished high school. And despite running with that gang he’d always seemed so...so alone, not the type to be anyone’s partner.
She wracked her brain for the best thing to say. Asking about the engineering and design the way she’d intended seemed suddenly insipid. Ditto commenting on the party, her bungalow, the amenities, the food she could expect, the weather. Just pick a topic, Zoe, break the ice!
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
Aiata could talk to her about all that. She’d be eating at Tāma’a, having a drink at Manuia, relying on her personal impressions of both. The weather...well, the weather was the weather. What could he say? It was warm and humid and they could expect some rain? Those were not things to waste the owner’s time with.
The owner! What could she say?
OK, OK, she knew what to ask. Projections for guests with disabilities. Marketing activities targeting people like her.
She opened her mouth again, resolute, and out came:
“I’m not lost.”
She felt her eyes go wide. Had she seriously just bowled that out, apropos of absolutely nothing?
A heartbeat of a moment. She could see that she’d startled him. But he recovered lightning fast, his lip recurling in that not-really-a-smile.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, so dryly she wanted to scream that it was true.
“I can look after myself,” she said, and swallowed a groan. What was wrong with her? People who could look after themselves didn’t need to announce it to the world, they just did it! Finn Doherty certainly had never announced what he was doing, he’d always just done it and screw anyone who questioned him.
“Glad to hear that, too.” This time it was an amused drawl.
How it rankled, that she amused him. She’d never amused him before, at least not in this...this patronizing way. But still, she found herself needing to explain, to make him see that appearances could be deceiving, just like he used to say about her at the Crab Shack. You look fragile as a snowdrop but you’re an oak tree on the inside. Stop! Stop remembering that time! “What I mean is that Cristina—”
“Look, Zoe,” he cut her off, which was both disheartening and probably a good thing considering the mess she was making of things. “I’m sorry for the crack about the champagne. I really am. You made it clear a long time ago you had nothing to prove to me. If you’re happy with what you’re doing, that’s great. Now, I see your friend—carer, minder, whatever you want to call her—is coming back in, so if you’ll excuse me I’m flying to London in the morning and there are a few more people I need to meet.”
And at last pride came to her rescue and up went her chin. “That’s a shame. If you’re leaving in the morning, you won’t see that I...I mean—”
“I won’t see you looking after yourself?” Taking over again as though he’d had a gutful now. “But I don’t need to.” Pause. Infinitesimal. And then, “Right?”
A hovering moment. As though he were waiting for her to contradict him. She wanted to insist that he stick around, let her show him that she could look after herself, that she was doing just fine, that she’d already proven she didn’t need anyone and he should just...just acknowledge that he’d been right about her twelve years ago and so very wrong ten years ago.
She opened her mouth. She had to get this out. Had to. “Finn—” she began, a little desperately, but then Cristina was there, saying, “I couldn’t find the pills,” and the moment was gone.
Zoe wanted to scream, but so ingrained was her need to smooth troubled waters that she smiled at Cristina instead. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, Cris.” Smile, smile, smile. “I forgot I had them in my purse.”
“Maybe the champagne isn’t such a good idea if you’re taking those pills, Zoe. How about I get us both some water?”
Cristina hurried off before Zoe could protest, leaving Zoe with more impenetrable silence.
And then Finn shrugged one shoulder as though twitching away an invisible hand, a gesture that was almost dismissive...and yet somehow not. “Goodbye, Zoe,” he said, and walked away.
“I’m not lost,” Zoe whispered to his disappearing back.
As if he’d heard her—which of course he could not have—Finn stopped.
Zoe held her breath, willing him to turn around and come back...but with a shake of his head, he continued on.
A minute later, when Cristina tried—unsuccessfully—to swap Zoe’s champagne for water, Zoe saw that he’d joined a group of women who seemed to be hanging on his every word. Well, he was the owner of a luxury resort—no, two luxury resorts—and the bulk of the guests here tonight were in the travel business so of course they were hanging on his every word.
OK, that wasn’t true. At least, it wasn’t the whole truth. Women weren’t only interested in him because of his job but because of...of him.
A bit of rough with a reputation—Malie’s description. On every girl’s radar, the bad boy every female wanted to be ruined by. Yep, true. She could only imagine how many were lining up for him now.
She shivered again.
Cristina clucked and tried to replace that stupid wrap around her shoulders. Zoe took it from her, scrunched it in a ball and shoved it behind her back. She wasn’t cold, dammit, she was...sensitized. Although she couldn’t feel her legs every other part of her had become almost excruciatingly sensitive since the accident.
She wondered what it would be like to let someone like Finn Doherty explore those parts of her with his hands. Wondered what Malie would say if she could see him now. Would she still think he wanted to strip Zoe naked and have his way with her?
No. No way. To think Finn Doherty had ever been interested in her was ludicrous. And anyway, bad boy he might have been, bad boy he still might be, but if Zoe did end up in bed with him—an option that didn’t seem to be on the cards in this lifetime—she knew that with her he would not be a bit of rough! One of the fleeting portions of memory from that dreadful night in the hospital was her own horror that he’d done a 180-degree turnaround, seeming to think she was a snowdrop after all, needing to be saved from being crushed underfoot. And Cristina’s presence tonight would have been all the proof he needed of Zoe’s frailty—and not one of the daring females she’d seen lounging about the Cove with Finn all those years ago had been frail.
She forced herself to search out Finn with her eyes, girding her loins (and wasn’t that an apt expression given the train of thought she’d just indulged?) to take a good, long, final look at him. She would remind herself that he was not for her, that he never had been and never would be, and then she would close that chapter of the book of her life and move on.
She found him in seconds. He’d moved on from that group of women and was talking only to one—an exquisitely beautiful Polynesian woman. A match for him if ever Zoe had seen one.
He was side on to Zoe and seemed to be concentrating unwaveringly on what his companion was saying...but then, abruptly, he tipped his head in Zoe’s direction and she had the strangest feeling he could feel her watching him.
Another shiver shook her.
“Er... Zoe? Are you sure you’re not cold?” Cristina asked.
“How could I be—” She stopped because Cristina’s mouth had pursed and she was looking at Zoe’s chest.
Oh. Oh! Zoe looked down, saw that her nipples seemed about to poke two holes through her bodice. She recalled the way Finn’s eyes had snagged there and thought if she could drop dead right that second she would be quite happy to do so. She snatched the wrap from behind her back, draping it around herself.
“Perhaps I am a little chilled,” she said.