Chapter Twenty-Five
Finn had just finished a walk-through of the Poerava Ballroom, enclosed tonight because rain was expected at some point, and was going through the order of events with Aiata when Zoe entered.
He broke off midsentence to gaze at her. Even Aiata’s undisguised chuckle didn’t have the power to bring him to his senses because Zoe looked...he didn’t know how to describe it, but he figured heart-stopping came close.
She was wearing a shimmery green-black dress that fitted her like a second skin, draped lovingly across the small swell of her breasts, hiding those passionate marks he’d left on her last night. Two impossibly narrow shoulder straps held the dress in place and spangled silver spiderweb gauze attached to each of those narrow straps stretched tightly down her arms to her delicate wrists.
She was sitting straighter than ever in her chair, shoulders back further, head held higher, chin...jutting. Oh. And then he saw that her smile was stretched unnaturally wide and her eyes were glittering rather than glowing.
Something wasn’t right.
He glanced behind her, to each side, ready to annihilate anyone who’d irritated, insulted or touched her, but except for Cristina there was nobody in the vicinity. Zoe had arrived early—because of course she had.
“Excuse me,” he said to Aiata, and walked hastily toward Zoe, but Zoe wasn’t waiting for him to reach her; instead she was making her way to the glass doors furthest away from him.
And then he saw the butterfly clips and stopped.
Zoe accepted a glass of champagne and said something to Cristina, carefully not looking in his direction, and it hit him that the person who’d irritated, insulted or touched her was him.
It didn’t make sense; when he’d accompanied her back to her bungalow to get ready for tonight she’d given him an incendiary kiss at the door, running her hands across the hidden love bites she’d left on his chest, then up to the one very visible bite on his neck, and reminded him that raspberry was her favorite flavor if that gave him any ideas for tonight. He’d said it gave him ideas for right that second, with a gigaton of sprinkles, if she wanted to give Cristina a shock the minute they got inside the bungalow. She’d laughed and shooed him away and seriously, she’d thought he was joking but he absolutely was not.
OK, remembering all that, maybe he was overthinking this situation. Maybe she wasn’t avoiding catching his eye. Maybe she wasn’t wearing the combs because they didn’t suit her outfit.
He reexamined her dress, looked at the toes of her shoes peeping from beneath the hem—platinum-colored sandals studded with black crystals—at the sparkling black evening purse on her lap. The combs he’d bought her were a glorious match.
So why was her hair studded with off-theme butterflies?
Well, he’d better ask her. Deep breath.
But two strides in he came to another stop.
Gina was entering the room, and although that didn’t make sense either he was glad. It meant all the plans were in place, ready to be shared with Zoe.
Zoe knew who the woman was the moment she entered.
She was exquisite. Glowing with vitality. Gilded skin. Caramel hair in a sleekly simple chignon. Wearing a gown Victoria would have called Modern Grecian Goddess—a miracle of intricate folds in a rich cream color. No jewelry, no glitter: she didn’t need anything more than what she was.
And just like that, Zoe Tayler, global citizen, intrepid travel reporter, drift-snorkeling screamer, was back in Hawke’s Cove looking over at Finn with one of those bold, beautiful, confident girls, knowing he could never be interested in her.
She watched as the woman made a beeline for Finn, saw the surprise on his face give way to an unguarded smile, watched as he opened his arms and the goddess walked into them without a moment’s hesitation, saw him fold her in close, whisper something to her as she touched that stupid, stupid love bite on his neck. And then he was laughing and turning that stunning woman in Zoe’s direction; it seemed he was about to lead her over.
Zoe had never had a panic attack in her life but she wondered if she were about to.
“Who’s that with Finn?” Cristina asked.
“His ex-wife.”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
Click, click, click in Zoe’s head. The phone calls yesterday on Little Micky. The reference to Hawke’s Cove. There had been affection there. Love. “Her name’s Gina. Gina Berne. I... I’ve heard him talking to her on the phone.”
Gina had her hand on Finn’s arm now, stopping him from bringing her over.
Good.
No! Not good! Bad! She was coming over all by herself. And Finn was letting her!
Calm down, Zoe. You are a successful journalist living your best life and—oohhh, her eyes are gold, and she is sooo beautiful, and she used to sleep every—single—night with Finn.
Gina came to a stop in front of her. She was smiling, but somehow not smiling.
“Can I get you a refill?” she asked, nodding at Zoe’s glass.
Zoe looked at her glass. Empty. How had that happened?
Gina didn’t wait for an answer, simply snagged a champagne flute from a waiter who’d been hovering near her—because who wouldn’t want to hover near her?—and swapped it for Zoe’s empty one before taking a glass for herself.
Gina tilted her head toward the glass doors. “How about we go outside?”
“The rain...” Zoe said.
“An hour away at least,” Gina said, and turned to Cristina. “Do you mind if I borrow her?”
“That’s my choice,” Zoe said, emerging feistily from her near stupor.
Gina looked somewhat startled at the outburst, but nodded. “Of course. Shall we go outside, Zoe?” Oh-so-formal.
“Yes, let’s,” Zoe said, oh-so-sweet.
Gina moved around her to open the door and walked out onto the deck leaving Zoe to follow.
“We prefer it when we can open all the doors and lay down the extended teak floor but the grass also has charm for people looking for something a little more civilized,” Gina said. “Have you had an enjoyable week?”
“Yes,” Zoe said mechanically.
Gina took a sip of champagne, giving Zoe the impression she was fortifying herself. “So you know,” she said, “our PR people send me links to all the media coverage associated with our properties. I saw a photo of you and Finn on Motu Marama.”
“One of Matilda’s stories,” Zoe surmised.
Silence as Gina examined her, unsmiling.
Well, no way was Zoe going to break the silence. If this was some kind of showdown—and it certainly felt like one—it wasn’t of her making.
And then it came, a bolt from the blue: “I don’t want Finn to get hurt, Zoe.”
Zoe blinked at her. Finn get hurt? “What makes you think I have that power?”
Gina smiled then, and it was rueful. “I researched you, Zoe Tayler. I know you’re from Hawke’s Cove, I know about your accident. I know all sorts of things.” She flicked a hand at Zoe’s wheelchair. “Finn has a savior complex. He couldn’t save his mother, but maybe he thinks he can save—”
“I know about his mother.”
“OK, so hear me out. When a man who hasn’t even been able to go back to England to visit his mother’s grave—about which he feels intensely guilty—who hasn’t wanted to invest in property in the UK, who’s had to be dragged kicking and screaming every step of the way, who reluctantly gives in but chooses Scotland because it’s the safest emotional option, who somewhere in the middle of negotiations meets up with an old friend and looks at her like...like Finn looked at you in that photo, resulting in him switching out the Scotland option for the England option, and not just any place in England but a place so close to his old village it might actually be in his old village?” She gave a soft laugh. “Something’s not right about that picture, so I have to assume he’s done it for you, because nothing else has had the power to get him home.”
“He hasn’t done it for me,” Zoe said. “If you’ve researched me, you know I live in Sydney, not Hawke’s Cove.”
Another of those soft laughs. “Don’t you see, Zoe Tayler? That makes it worse. Finn just mentioned the word ‘fate’ to me, about Poerava, about Sydney, about Hawke’s Cove, and that is not the Finn I know. He’s homesick, always has been, and you’re part of that homesickness. He thinks you’re going to take him home no matter where you live. An emotional home if not a geographic one. But you’re not, are you? I’ve read your blogs, I know you’ve moved on, that you don’t want to go back to Hawke’s Cove. So let me say once more: do not hurt that man. Whatever power you have over him, let him go, please, and maybe instead of having someone else to save, he can go home and save himself.”