Chapter Four
Orson
Scarlett looks at me as if she’s completely baffled as to why anyone would ever want to drink a glass of champagne while it’s still daylight. She’s obviously never drunk alcohol when she ‘shouldn’t’—never snuck a bottle of vodka out with her friends for a camping trip, never stolen a third of her dad’s whisky and watered the rest down; in fact maybe she doesn’t drink alcohol at all. I can’t imagine growing up in a community that’s so restrictive.
The commune isn’t closed doors exactly, but it is very private. In its early days, while they were in the process of setting up, they came under a lot of local media scrutiny, and after a reporter wrote a scathing article mocking their hippie ideology, they tightened their ranks and created a set of rules to keep their structure and systems private. There are lots of rumors. Some people say that newcomers have to take a vow of silence about anything that happens within its walls. Others are convinced that some rules are only revealed once a member reaches a specific level of trust.
Because of my father’s dismissive attitude toward Blake and Kahukura, I assumed it was just a group of long-haired unwashed vegans who sat around chanting ‘om’ and making flyers about global warming, and as a consequence I’ve never paid the commune much attention. However, after Scarlett revealed the true nature of its purpose yesterday, I did a little research. The retreat is highly praised for the work it does with victims of domestic and family violence. It works closely with the Women’s Refuge to provide sufferers with a place to heal and recover, while also helping with accessing healthcare and counselling, giving legal assistance and obtaining protection orders if necessary, finding a place for the victims to live, and even meeting basic needs like food and clothing .
I confronted my father about it last night and asked him if he knew what the commune actually did at Kahukura. It turns out that he did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, furious that I made a fool of myself in front of Scarlett. The Midnight Circle gives millions to charity, and the commune is right next door to our club. I’m stunned that he’s never put it forward as a potential recipient for donations when I assume it relies on them to survive.
“Because I knew you’d want to go riding in on your white horse and I didn’t want you to have anything to do with Blake Stone and his family,” he snapped.
“What the fuck?” I yelled. “You made me think he was a delusional religious freak! But the guy set up a place that’s helped thousands of innocent people.”
“Just because he helped people doesn’t mean he wasn’t a lunatic,” Dad stated flatly. “Blake always claimed he could heal, but just like Jim Jones, he was never able to offer any real proof. Don’t forget that even the Peoples Temple helped the poor.”
“Do you have any evidence?” I asked, shocked that he was comparing a harmless living facility to a destructive cult. “Have you actually seen them drinking the Kool-Aid? It’s a harsh accusation to make if it’s unfounded.”
“I don’t need proof that Blake was a fucking nutcase. I know it to be a fact.”
“We should consider giving them some money,” I told him heatedly.
“I’m not giving that man’s family a single cent,” he replied, and turned away.
I walked out then. I knew there was no point in asking him why he was so bitter toward Blake because I’ve asked him before, and he always refuses to answer. Their feud goes back to their teenage years. It continues now, even though Blake has died, and I have no doubt my father will hate him until he also eventually leaves this mortal coil.
But I’m secretly fascinated. Although once again she has a red rosebud in her hair, Scarlett doesn’t sound like a lunatic country bumpkin who’s part of a crackpot community where men can have numerous wives and cousins can marry and have six toes on each foot. She might not possess a mobile phone, but she sounds smart, educated, and hardworking. Has my father got it completely wrong? And if so, why ?
“How about I get us a takeaway coffee to have while we walk back to the Waiora?” I ask Scarlett.
“That would be very nice, thank you,” she says stiffly.
“What kind? Is a latte okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
I buzz for Anne, my PA, and say, “Can you ask the barista to make us two lattes in takeaway cups, please?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll collect them from the bar in a few minutes.”
“No worries.”
I end the call. I turn back to Scarlett and stop. She’s opened the front of my jacket and tipped back her head, eyes closed, to feel the rays of the sun that are slanting across her. Her long brown hair, free from yesterday’s braid, tumbles over her shoulders like chocolate-colored silk. Splashes of water across her white dress have turned much of it transparent, and… holy fuck… I can see the lace of her bra on her left breast, and through it a glimpse of light-brown nipple. She’s also slipped off her flat sandals, presumably because they’re wet, and she’s resting the balls of her feet on the coffee table, curling her toes over the edge. Her feet are small and clean, and the toenails are neat but unpainted.
Despite not having a foot fetish, I immediately get an erection and, as she opens her eyes, I grab a folder from the desk and hold it in front of me.
I clear my throat. “Are you okay? You didn’t hurt anything when you fell?”
“Just my pride.” Her lips twist. “It’s been a while since I used the stepping stones. I suppose I can see that a bridge might be a useful addition. Although I wouldn’t want your guests to think it means we’d be allowing access to our land.”
“I understand. My idea was a kind of viewing platform, actually, so anyone who wanted could stroll across and get the beautiful view over the waterfall and downstream toward the ocean. It would have to be carefully planned though to avoid blocking the river in the event of high rain. But you could have a gate on your side with a ‘No Entry’ sign if you wanted.”
She nods. Then she glances at the folder in my hand. “Does that have more plans in it?”
I look down at it. “Ah… nah… It’s just serving a purpose. ”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Just for God’s sake, put your sandals back on if you want me to be able to walk out of here.”
She looks at her feet. Blinks a few times. Lifts her gaze to the area I’m covering. And then her eyes widen.
She goes completely scarlet. “Oh my God.” She immediately bends to pull her sandals back on. “I don’t believe you.”
I try not to laugh. “Why? Because I’m a normal, healthy, twenty-seven-year-old guy whose body is reacting to a gorgeous young woman with pretty feet?”
“Stop saying such kinky things.”
That does make me laugh. “I don’t think admiring someone’s feet is necessarily kinky.”
“Jesus, stop it.”
I chuckle and put the folder down. She sits back and looks with alarm at my crotch.
“It’s gone away,” I tell her. “You’re safe. Look, I am sorry for making an inappropriate comment. Blame the fact that I’ve been single for a long time.” I gesture to the door with my head. “Come on. Let’s get our coffees and we can start walking over to the Waiora. I’m sure your dress will dry on the way.”
She gets up. “Do you want your jacket back?”
“You can keep it for now if you like.” I take out my cufflinks and leave them on my desk, then start rolling my shirt sleeves back.
She watches, her gaze sliding up me. “Do you only possess one tie?”
“No…”
“I’ve seen that one before.”
I finger the tie with its red and blue stripes. “I like it. It belonged to my great-grandfather. He was English, and he supported Crystal Palace Football Club. The Eagles.” He gestures to the eagle on the tie pin.
“Oh. Well, that’s kinda nice.”
“They won the FA Cup recently so I’m wearing it for him.”
She looks surprised, as if she hadn’t expected me to be into family. Giving me a small smile, she pulls the two sides of the jacket close, and we head for the door.
“I’m just walking over to the Waiora,” I call out to Anne as I pass her office, and she nods and waves. I lead the way back to the lobby and over to the bar, where the two takeaway lattes are sitting there waiting .
“Thanks,” I say to the bartender. “Sugar?” I ask her. She shakes her head, so I pass her one of the cups.
“Have you been to the club before?” I ask.
“No. It looks very…” She frowns.
“Go on,” I say, amused. “Spit it out.”
“Nice.”
“I don’t think that’s what you were going to say.”
“Maybe not, but I was brought up to be polite.”
“I don’t think politeness has ever featured before in our families.”
She sends me a wry look. “No, you’re right there.”
“I’m guessing your father was as bitter as mine?”
“Ohhhh yes. As a lemon that’s been passed over for a promotion.”
That makes me laugh out loud, and she smiles. Wow. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile, and it lights up her whole face.
“You should do that more often,” I advise.
“You too,” she scolds.
We exchange amused glances. Without meaning to, our gazes lock, the way they did in Jack’s office, and for a moment I can’t look away. Something flares inside me, like striking a match in the dark—bright, sudden, and impossible to ignore.
She wrenches her gaze away, shading her eyes as she looks around the lobby. “What’s that room there?”
“A restaurant. And that’s the club.” I gesture at the double doors. “Lots of people come here just for that.”
“Is it a sex club?”
I stare at her, startled. “What? No! It’s a nightclub. What… how… why would you think it was a sex club?”
“There are rumors.”
“Jesus. Really?”
“You can tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth! It’s not a sex club. Although that would be fun, I’m sure. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
“Oh, er…”
I grin. “You won’t be corrupted just walking through the doors, I assure you.” I lead her over, the automatic doors slide open, and we go inside.
It’s quiet now because it doesn’t open until six. I’m very proud of it. It’s decorated with silver and midnight-blue furnishings, and at the back, beyond the stage, is a huge, magnificent clock .
“When it strikes midnight,” I tell her, pointing up at the nets on the ceiling, “they release those, and balloons and silver foil come fluttering down.”
“I feel sorry for the person who has to clean that up.”
I laugh. We walk slowly around, and I can see her taking in the gleaming tables, the spotless carpets, the way the nooks are placed to allow for privacy.
She glances at the smaller stages with the dance poles and says, “So you have dancers here?”
“We do.”
“Do they wear clothing?”
I chuckle. “Yes. No nudity.”
“Do they offer lap dances?”
My lips curve up. “Sometimes.”
“But it’s not a sex club.”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. I think I’d know.”
She frowns. “Have you been to one?”
“No,” I say, amused. “Not really my thing.”
“I would have thought it was exactly your thing.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, trailing a finger along one of the polished bannisters. I guess maybe her father must have painted the Cavendishes as hedonists, focused only on money and pleasure. That stings a bit. I like food, whiskey, and sex as much as the next guy, but I’d never call myself a hedonist, and for some reason it makes me uncomfortable that people think of me as one.
“Why is it called Midnight?” she asks.
“Because it sounds cool.”
She gives a short laugh. “It’s part of a chain of clubs, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, there are seven others across New Zealand, and one in London. They all have a similar theme to this one, with the clock on the wall.”
“All run by rich guys like you.”
“We’re a consortium. The Midnight Circle. If you want the truth, if we meet to do any business it’s not normally until after midnight. That’s how we came up with the name.”
“I’m always in bed by ten,” she says .
“So would I be if I had a girl like you.” I say the words before I can vet them fully. They earn me a glance that’s half-bashful, half-exasperated. I’m not sure whether she likes me flirting with her or not.
“What do you really think of the resort?” I ask as we go through the doors and cross the lobby, heading outside.
“Honestly?”
I squint in the bright sunlight and slide on my sunglasses. “Always.”
“I’m shocked at the sumptuousness and decadence. The wealth on display.” She gestures at the cars parked out the front. “I mean nobody needs cars as extravagant as those.”
“Wealth isn’t about having what you need,” I tell her. “It’s about having what you want.”
“And you always get what you want, I imagine?”
“See, want, take. It’s a family motto.”
“Really?”
I laugh. “No. You’re incredibly gullible.”
She pokes her tongue out at me, then returns to looking at the cars.
“Do you drive?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you own a car?”
“No. We have a pool of cars, and I use one of those. My favorite is a small Suzuki. It does everything I need.” She stops by a silver Aston Martin DB12 Volante. “I mean, who really needs a car like that? Look at it! Talk about over the top. All that leather. And a convertible! How ridiculous. Clearly that belongs to an arrogant poser who’s compensating for a tiny penis.”
We stand and look at it.
After about ten seconds of silence, she says, “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
She looks at me. Then we both burst out laughing.
“Fucking cheek,” I say as we continue walking.
“You asked for it,” she scoffs, “driving about in something like that.”
“She’s beautiful. I love her with all my heart.”
“I wasn’t sure you had one.”
“It’s small, sure, but it’s loyal to my one true love.”
She laughs, then gives me an appraising look. “I thought motorbikes were your thing.”
“Not anymore,” I say gloomily .
“The accident wrote yours off?”
“Yeah. It was a magnificent Kawasaki Ninja H2R. Black and stunning. I loved that thing.” I sigh.
“I am sorry,” she says softly. “Especially about your dog.”
I roll my right shoulder, which always aches whenever I think about him. “Thank you.”
“What breed was he?”
“A Dachshund. A rescue dog. I went to the shelter to get a dog to run with me, but I saw him and fell in love, even though he had little legs and didn’t like running. He was dignified, placid, and very funny. He was my best friend.” I swallow as my throat tightens.
“We’ve always had dogs at the commune,” she says, seemingly unbothered by my emotion. “They belong to everyone, but there was a sheepdog called Shadow who stayed with me most of the time. I missed him a lot when he died.”
I clear my throat and nod. “They’re good company.”
“What was the Dachshund’s name?”
“Doyle. After Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Oh, you’re a Sherlock Holmes fan?”
“I am.”
“You sound surprised that I recognized his name.”
“I am,” I say, still smarting a bit at her insult about my car. “I thought you only read books about unlocking your inner goddess.”
“No need,” she says, “my inner goddess is unlocked and raring to go twenty-four-seven.”
We both laugh again. Jeez. When I first saw her in the lobby, glaring at my father, I didn’t envisage that I’d be exchanging smiles with her later.
We leave the grounds and enter the copse of trees leading down to the river. They close over our heads, leaving us in a quiet, sheltered world far removed from the busy opulence of the resort.
“Are you okay being alone with me?” I ask, suddenly aware it’s just the two of us.
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean would you rather I ask my PA or one of the other women at the resort to come with us?”
“Why? ”
“Because… you might not feel safe being alone with a man?” Most of the women I know would have balked at the idea, especially if nobody knew where they were.
Scarlett just snorts. “Try anything with me, sunshine, and I’ll have you flat on your back in seconds.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“You started it.”
She throws me a glare. “I hate you and everything you stand for.”
“I love you too.”
“Mr. Cavendish…”
“Jesus, I’m not in my sixties. Call me Orson.”
“Mr. Cavendish, I think it’s probably best that we maintain some kind of professional decorum, don’t you?”
“Absolutely not.” I hold a branch back for her. “I need you to explain exactly how you would have me flat on my back in seconds.”
“I’m a black belt in Jiu Jitsu.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Yes. You have been warned.”
“I’m tempted to tackle you now to see if you’re fibbing.”
“Just try it.”
Without warning, I grab her arm and pull her toward me with the intention of snatching a kiss to prove my male superiority.
About two seconds later I discover myself on my back amongst the dead leaves. Scarlett had dropped to a crouch and charged her shoulder into my midriff with a double-leg takedown, completely taking me by surprise.
“Holy fuck.” I look up at her, astonished. “That was impressive.”
She gives me a smug look. “Told you.”
Her eyes are the same color as the earth beneath me, and the dappled sunlight reveals autumn highlights in her hair—light browns, reds, and golds.
I slide an arm around her waist and, before she can react, I lift up and twist, reversing our positions so she’s underneath me, and then grabbing her wrists and pinning them either side of her head. She fights me, but I’m a foot taller and much heavier, and without the element of surprise she doesn’t stand a chance.
She stops moving, and for a long moment we look into each other’s eyes. Christ, she’s gorgeous .
“Submit?” I ask softly.
Her eyes flare. “Never.”
I give a short laugh. “Stubborn to the end.”
“I always win,” she says. “I’m just being kind.” She glances down, and I follow her gaze to discover her knee resting about an inch from my family jewels.
That should have alarmed me, but all I can focus on is the way the skirt of her dress has risen to her hip to reveal her thigh with its expanse of smooth, light-brown skin.
“This’ll hurt more if you have an erection,” she points out.
“Bit late for that.”
“Jesus.” She struggles to free her wrists. “Does that thing ever go down?”
“Apparently not, when you’re around.”
She can’t get her wrists free, and glares up at me. “Is this your way of making a single woman feel safe?”
I study her mouth, which is free of lipstick. Her lips are a light pinky-brown with an attractive Cupid’s bow.
“Don’t you dare,” she says.
I lift my gaze back to hers, amused. “Is it true that you practice free love at the commune?”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I can see the appeal.”
“I bet you can. I bet you practice it all the time. Spreading your seed around Auckland like it’s oats and barley.”
“Oats and barley? Where are you from, medieval England?”
“Deny it.”
“I do deny it. I’m a serial monogamist. I don’t sleep around.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffs.
“I don’t.” I look at her mouth again. “I don’t kiss just anyone.”
Her lips part, but no words come out.
I look back at her eyes again, and we study each other for a long, long time.
The loud call of a tui bird directly above us jolts me out of my reverie. What the hell am I doing? What if someone were to come along the path and see us?
I blink, then release her wrists and push up to my feet. I extend her a hand, and she takes it and lets me pull her up .
We brush ourselves down, clear our throats, then continue along the path heading east.
“Lovely day,” she says.
“Yes, although I think they’ve promised rain later.”
“It’s been dry for a long time. I think the ground needs it.”
“Absolutely.”
As if I wasn’t kneeling between her legs thirty seconds ago, pinning her down and wondering whether to kiss her.
What on earth am I doing? Scarlett Stone is the absolute last girl I should get involved with. She is the polar opposite to me. She hates my way of life, and disagrees with every single principle by which I stand.
“Do you really believe everyone is born equal?” I ask, puzzled.
She gives me an amused look. “Of course.”
“You can’t really believe that, surely?”
“We’re all blank canvases at birth. It’s our opportunities and experiences that influence the person we become.”
“So you think that Einstein and the guy who cleans the toilets were born equal?”
“I do, as it happens.”
I laugh.
She glares at me. “Why are you laughing? And why are you so rude about the way I live? I don’t criticize you and your beliefs.”
“That’s because mine are sensible and normal.”
Her eyes blaze. “You’re so incredibly arrogant.”
“And you’re the naivest person I’ve ever met. You think everyone’s born equal, money is the root of all evil, and society should be one big group hug.”
“And you think you’re better than everyone else, that money can buy anything, and society should be a kind of caste system where us poor minions should be permanently excluded from your privileged world.”
“Sounds about right.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re an elitist arsehole.”
“And you’re a communalist.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Sure it is.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “I can’t believe you think some people are just naturally better than others. ”
“Not better. Smarter. More capable. More ambitious. I believe we make our own luck.”
She opens her mouth to say something. Closes it again. Then says, somewhat curiously, “Are you really a billionaire?”
I feel the first tingle of warning deep inside, but I ignore it. “Yes, and I didn’t get there by being born the same as the guy down the road.”
“Yeah, I get that. You were born into a rich family.”
Resentment flares inside me. It’s not the first time someone’s assumed my success is purely down to my connections.
“I was,” I say stiffly, “but that’s not what I meant. I’ve worked extremely hard to get where I am. I’m not a genius; I’m not even close. I had to work harder than most of my friends to get my first-class degree and a Master’s in Finance. I barely left my room at uni. I spent all my time studying. Since I graduated, I’ve worked fourteen-hour days. Sometimes longer while Kingi and I were setting up our business. Was I born privileged? Sure. Is that the reason I’m successful? I acknowledge it’s played a part. But I haven’t sat back and let the money do all the work. I’ve earned everything I’ve achieved.”
We walk in silence for a minute or so.
Eventually, the trees part, and ahead of us we can see the path winding toward the Waiora.
Scarlett stops walking, and I turn to face her.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
My eyebrows rise. “What for?”
“I made assumptions, and they were unfair. I assumed you were a rich playboy whose father had given you everything you have. I apologize.”
I’m so astonished I just stare at her. “I don’t think anyone has ever said anything like that to me before.”
“Don’t get all mushy on me. I still think you’re a knob.”
I give a short laugh. “Come on. Let me show you what I have planned.”
She precedes me along the path, and I watch the swing of her hips as I follow.
I still think she’s batshit crazy. But her words warmed me through, and she fascinates me more than any woman I’ve met in a long time. Maybe ever.