Chapter Two
Chessie
We walk around the side of the resort, back to the car park, and I stop and retrieve my bag with a set of clean clothes and sandals from my car.
“Jesus.” Kingi looks at my beaten-up old Volkswagen Beetle. “How is that thing still running?”
“It’s held together with Sellotape and bits of string.”
“You’re not kidding. You’ve had that thing for as long as I can remember.”
I close the door and lock it. “Dennis is the love of my life. We’ll be together forever.”
“Dennis?”
I gesture at the number plate that bears the car’s name.
Kingi grins. “I forgot you christened him. Why Dennis? I can’t remember.”
“It’s the name of Cordelia’s ghost in Angel. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”
“Wow, I’d never have remembered that.”
My smile fades a little. Most of the time when we were kids, we’d spend our time outdoors, swimming or playing rugby, cricket, or tennis, but of course sometimes the weather was bad and we couldn’t go out.
Dad still had to work though, so when it rained, Kingi’s dad would open up the sleepout next to their house, which they sometimes used for guests who came to visit, and we’d make popcorn and hot chocolate and watch TV together.
One particularly bad autumn where it rained non-stop for about three weeks, we watched all the seasons of the paranormal show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff, Angel, with his sister and my brother.
I have such fond memories of those times, and the programs and their characters are etched on my soul… but not on Kingi’s apparently.
“Poor Dennis,” Kingi says as we begin walking toward the resort.
“He must get lonely all the way over there.” I always park at the edge of the car park—ostensibly so I’m near the shed, but also because I’m too self-conscious to park near the fleet of new cars close to Midnight. Dennis would never forgive me.
“There’s a significant amount of money here,” I comment, spotting a Bugatti, a Maserati, and an Aston Martin amongst the Range Rovers, Bentleys, and Teslas. “What are you driving at the moment?”
“That’s mine.” He gestures at a black Porsche Taycan parked in the VIP section.
My eyes nearly fall out of my head. It’s plugged into the charging point so it’s obviously electric. It’s cutting-edge, eco-conscious, and powerful. I’m betting it cost over three hundred thousand dollars.
“Wow.” I’m tempted to cover my eyes to stop them from falling out of my head. I’d forgotten how rich he was.
When the two of us fell over and we were covered in mud, it transported me right back to my childhood, to the days when we used to play together.
But of course he’s grown up into a wealthy, successful businessman.
He’s around six-three now, I guess, with hair down to his collar and a big black beard, and he’s incredibly handsome.
I blink. Where was I?
“Turbo,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Nought to sixty in two-point-two seconds.”
I laugh. It’s such a Kingi thing to say.
As a boy he was always into extremes—he wanted to be the fastest runner, the best climber, to hit the cricket ball the furthest. Speed and power were his answer to everything, and his favorite saying was ‘no risk, no reward.’ It doesn’t surprise me that he’s now one of the most powerful men in the city, if not the country. He was always destined for greatness.
He’s come an awfully long way since our childhood, whereas I’m still the same old Chessie—normal, ordinary, and slightly awkward.
Ahead of us, a group of men and women is making their way toward the lobby. They’re all wearing suits, and everything about them screams money, from the guys’ handmade shoes and sharp haircuts to the women’s coiffured hair and designer handbags.
My step falters, and Kingi glances at me and slows. He looks at the group, then down at his bare chest, then at me. “This way,” he says, and he turns and leads me along a side path that curves around the complex to a plain door in the side of the hotel building.
He punches in a code, then opens the door and stands back to let me pass.
I have to turn to the side to slip by him, and even though he’s right—he does smell a bit like a farmyard—as I move close, I get a whiff of his delicious cologne.
Mmm. Gone are the days when he’d smell of supermarket-bought deodorant like the rest of the boys his age.
Now his scent is something expensive and classy, with cedarwood, that makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
Gosh, I’d forgotten how tall he was. I’m only five-four, and I’m wearing flat walking boots, so he towers over me.
My eyes are level with the greenstone pendant that rests on his chest, which would normally sit beneath his shirt.
He’s almost as wide as he is tall, with huge shoulders and a broad chest covered in curly hairs.
I don’t think both of my hands together could circle his biceps.
His left forearm bears a full Māori sleeve tattoo which is immensely attractive. Wow.
I make it past him unscathed into the stairwell, and he closes the door behind him, then gestures for me to go up. I climb the stairs, with him following me.
“Are you looking at my butt?” I tease as we climb.
“What? No, of course not.”
“Fair enough. Nowadays a guy can have his eyes put out for something like that. Did you know that on the London Underground there are signs warning against intrusive staring of a sexual nature?”
He snorts. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I sort of get it,” I say thoughtfully. “I mean it’s no fun when a stranger stares at your boobs…”
“My point is that signs shouldn’t be required. Young guys should be brought up to be respectful and not stare at strangers’ tits on the train.”
“Good point. We’re not strangers, though.”
“True. So I can look at your butt?”
“Feast your eyes, my friend.”
We both laugh.
“Actually,” he says in a mild tone a few steps later, “you have a rather nice ass.”
“I… ah… oh.” Words fail me as, with that one sentence, our childhood relationship falls away, and suddenly I’m intensely aware that I’m a grown woman and he’s a man, and my pulse starts to race.
But that makes me think about the kiss, and I remember what happened after that, and my heartbeat slows once again. The fantasy will always be light years away from the reality.
We reach the door at the top of the steps, and I open it to reveal a long corridor ahead of us. He leads the way and stops at a door marked with the number 104, touches a key card to it, and goes in.
I follow, letting the door close behind me, and stop to take off my filthy boots.
We’re in a large suite that overlooks the gardens.
It’s open plan, with a living room, kitchen, and dining room all in one, and a bedroom visible through a doorway.
It’s like a hotel suite, and I guess most members of the Midnight Circle have one for when they don’t want to go home after a late meeting.
“Interesting design.” I leave the boots by the door and walk further in. The furniture is all made from natural materials—bamboo, wicker, rattan—and there are lots of plants, making it feel very homely and fresh.
“It’s called biophilic design.” He tosses his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter. “The whole hotel is like it. We’re keen to be environmentally friendly here.”
Obviously, I’m aware the gardens have won a sustainability award, so I know the environment is important to the Circle, but I’m impressed that their interest extends to the hotel itself.
“The bathroom is through there.” He gestures at the bedroom door. “Have a shower if you want—you can use anything you find in there, and there are plenty of towels. Would you like a coffee and a muffin? I’ll place an order while you’re in there.”
“That would be great.”
“Okay.” He winks at me, then goes over to the phone on the counter.
I take my change of clothes into the bedroom and close the door behind me. Then I pause a moment.
Oh my God. I’m in Kingi Davis’s bedroom.
I stand there for a moment, looking around me. Kingi is wealthy, powerful, and gorgeous, and he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in New Zealand. How many women would kill to be in here? How many have already been in here?
To be fair, there’s no sign of a woman around.
Even though it still features a few plants, including a single orchid on the bedside table, the room is decidedly masculine, from the colors of the bedding—navy with burgundy stripes, to the accoutrements—a suit hanging on the front of the wardrobe; a large, expensive Patek Philippe watch on the dressing table; a biography of Edmund Hillary on the bedside table.
The smell of his cologne hangs in the air.
I swallow and cross to the ensuite bathroom in the corner and go inside.
It’s clean and neat; I’m guessing a member of housekeeping has already been in.
The towels are folded on a wooden rack, and the items beside the sink—deodorant, hair product, a couple bottles of cologne, a mug with toothpaste and toothbrush—are all neatly lined up.
A beautiful, large Chlorophytum comosum—a spider plant—hangs from a holder in the corner, trailing its stripey leaves almost to the floor.
Feeling oddly shy, I go over to the cubicle and turn the water to hot.
I shower quickly, because my arms and legs and even my neck are covered in mud, using the shower gel in the tubes on the wall that smell of orange blossoms. I don’t wash my hair, but it’s still damp when I come out, so I take it out of its ponytail to dry while I soak up the drips with a towel.
I pick up one of the bottles of cologne, undo the top, and have a sniff. Immediately it takes me back to the moment I slipped past him in the stairwell. That huge chest and those biceps…
I put the bottle down hurriedly. No, no, no. I’m not going to have sexual fantasies about Kingi Davis. That way lies madness. I’ve always known that.