Chapter Five
Scarlett
We walk up the steep path to the top of the waterfall and turn to look at the Waiora. It’s a beautiful view from up here. The river tumbles over the rocks in a sheet of sparkling silver. The rainbow after which the commune is named arcs across the pool, its seven shades shimmering in the sunlight. The pool itself is wide and deep, and luckily has no rocks beneath the surface near the waterfall, which means it’s a relatively safe test for young people’s courage as they leap into its depths.
The far side—my side—of the pool is covered in thick bush. There are Ponga or Silver Ferns; Nikau palms, which is New Zealand’s only native palm; Mānuka trees with small white flowers, which is what the bees draw from to make their special honey; Kawakawa with its heart-shaped leaves that have many medicinal uses; Rengarenga or rock lilies; Makomako or Wineberry, which are small trees with reddish leaves and edible berries; and New Zealand Jasmine, which fills the air with a delicate fragrance. The small, cleared area near the middle is where I bring people to meditate and bathe in the healing waters.
Orson’s side of the pool is more cultivated, with a gravel path, neatly trimmed plants, a small gazebo, several benches, a rubbish bin, and a display board that tells the visitor a little about the history of the Waiora and its spiritual properties.
“Terrific view,” Orson says.
“Mmm.” I’m distracted by his closeness. He’s next to me, not touching me, but his arm is only millimeters from mine, and I can feel the heat from his skin. I turn my head a little, looking down at where he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves. His skin is tanned, which surprises me considering he must spend all day in the office. His hands are big, with clean, neat nails. He’s wearing a large watch, one of those expensive ones that does everything but tell the time. He could probably run NASA from it. He has a scattering of brown hairs on his arms. Does he have the same amount of hair elsewhere?
I lift my gaze and discover him looking at me.
We keep doing this. He does something to my brain. His eyes are like superglue. I look into them, and I get stuck in them—I can’t look away.
I think about when I took him down, and how easily he flipped me over onto my back. I’d never have admitted it, but that impressed me. The feeling of him on top of me, pinning me down as he gazed into my eyes, will remain with me for a long time.
He looks away and runs his tongue over his top teeth. Then he says, “Right. So this is what I was thinking.”
He proceeds to run through the plans he has for the Waiora. I listen silently, half resentful, half intrigued. He wants to secure the stepping stones above the waterfall, and maybe also install a footbridge further up to give everyone a safe crossing. The river here is mostly shallow where it flows over the stones, but after heavy rain it can become precarious, and a bridge would definitely be a useful addition.
On his side of the river, he wants to create a more formal swimming area, with changing rooms, easy access in and out of the pool including a shallow ramp for disabled people, and seating for those who just want to enjoy the view. He insists it would be done respectfully, and that I would be able to okay the plans before he begins building.
He then turns to the commune’s side of the Waiora. “I understand that you want to keep it natural,” he says. “So I’m having my architect design some new ideas that incorporate more rustic designs. Natural is good but it doesn’t provide for longevity. The bank is already eroding on the left side, and again it’s not safe, especially for kids who are going to be climbing out after jumping in. The architect is working with an engineer to explore reinforcing the bank from there to there, with steps and a slope so people with disabilities can use the pool.”
“I guess that would be an advantage.”
“And I know you hold classes down here. I thought it would be nice for you to have private spaces for people to sit and meditate or talk or whatever you do. I think it would be best if they were made from wood, and then my architect could have a Māori artist carve patterns or stories in them.”
“I’m not great at visualizing,” I admit .
“That’s okay. The architect will provide sketches. She’s pretty good.”
“She?”
His lips curve up. “Yeah.”
“She an ex-girlfriend?”
He gives me a baffled look. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”
“Dunno. You seem like the kind of guy who would have slept with half the population of Auckland.”
“I told you, I’m a serial monogamist.”
“Serial as in one a day, every day?”
His glance this time is sarcastic. “No. As it happens, I don’t believe in sleeping around, which is another area where I suspect we differ.”
I glare at him. “We don’t all sleep in one huge bed at the commune.”
“I’m not saying I don’t see the attraction.”
I give up. “I accept that the developments you’re proposing are interesting. But it still concerns me that you would own the land. If you changed your mind and decided to turn it into a nightclub, there wouldn’t be much we could do about it.”
“True. I guess you’d just have to trust me.”
I give a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”
He turns to face me, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers, tips his head to the side, and raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I say, my heart beginning to pound.
“Would you like me to supply you with professional references?”
“George said that although the Cavendishes are ruthless in business, they’re always true to their word.”
He looks startled. “You really say what you think, don’t you?”
“Do I? I suppose. I don’t know any other way.”
“I wouldn’t call myself ruthless. Determined, maybe, when I see something I want.”
His blue eyes fix on mine again, and for some reason it makes me think he’s talking about me.
“No,” I say without thinking.
His eyebrows lift. “No, what?”
God, he’s so handsome, and the look in his eyes is… well, I don’t know how to describe it. Hungry, maybe. Like the big cat he reminds me of, it’s like he wants to ravish me. My mouth has gone dry, and I’m trembling a little .
“Stop it,” I say.
His lips curve up, a frown appearing on his brow at the same time. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
His gaze turns sultry. “Like what?”
“Like you’re planning to act out your family motto.” See, want, take. That’s exactly what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t protest, so I know I’m right. But he does say, “Not where girls are concerned. I’m only interested if they’re willing.”
I take a step back. “I don’t believe you. I know men enjoy the chase. You’ve seen something that’s not fallen immediately into your hands and so now you’re interested.”
His eyebrows lift and he extends a hand toward me. “Scarlett…”
“Well money can’t buy everything, Mr. Cavendish, so if you think you can—”
“Scarlett!”
“No!” I move back, scared because I know that if he touches me, I’m not going to be able to resist him… and then the world gives way beneath me.
I hadn’t realized I was so close to the edge. I fall backward into the river, completely submerging. Before I can scramble to my feet, I immediately feel the tug of the current, which rolls me over and disorients me. My arms and legs flail, and alarm spears through me at the thought that I’m perilously close to the edge of the waterfall. I’ve jumped off several times and survived, but that was a controlled fall after I’d taken a deep breath, and this time I’m already confused and spluttering.
I bump against a rock and squeal, then cough as water pours into my mouth. Oh shit. I’m really in trouble here…
But even as the thought enters my head, I feel something grasp my wrist, and I’m hauled up out of the water. The momentum sends me shooting forward, and I land on him, forcing him to stumble and lose his footing. A strong arm wraps around my waist, though, and then he gets to his feet, bringing me with him.
“Scarlett?” Orson is standing waist-high in the water. “Are you okay?”
I tremble, partly from the cold, partly from the realization that I had been extremely close to tumbling over the edge. Without meaning to, I burst into tears .
He sighs, bends and slides an arm beneath my knees, then lifts me into his arms and carries me to the side. Still holding me, he sinks onto the ground, legs crossed, and lets me sit in his lap while he tightens his arms around me.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now.”
I bite my lip to try and stop crying, still shivering from the cold. Then I sit up in alarm as realization hits me. “Your jacket!” I spin around to look for it, but of course there’s no sign of it. “Oh no, it must have gone over the edge.”
“It did, I saw it.”
“I can look for it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’ll stay in the pool until the current picks it up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it from Italy?”
“Milan, yes.”
I wipe my eyes, which is useless because my hands are wet. “I’ll replace it, if I can take out a small mortgage to cover the cost.”
He laughs and kisses my forehead, then tightens his arms around me. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, because I don’t have the strength to break free.
“I thought I was a goner there for a minute,” I mumble.
“Nah. I wouldn’t have let you go over.”
I think about that, as he rubs my back and arms to warm me up.
“You smell nice,” I whisper.
“Thank you.”
“Is it a very expensive cologne?”
“Six hundred bucks a bottle.”
“Jesus. What is it?” I sniff his neck. I can smell vanilla and tobacco, spices, and something sweet—brandy, or rum.
“It’s a Penhaligon’s Picture scent.”
“A what?”
“It’s called The Tragedy Of Lord George. Very British. They say ‘it’s the perfect scent for a gentleman with something dark hidden away.’”
I close my eyes and inhale. “What secret are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything. I’m an open book.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I mumble.
We sit there for a minute or so, while my heartbeat gradually slows .
“You smell nice, too,” he says eventually.
“River water?”
“No. Something soft and flowery.”
“It’s rose water.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Water infused with rose petals.”
He gives a short laugh, but doesn’t say anything.
The sun is hot, and I’m warming up a little. I should move… but I discover that I’m reluctant to. Orson’s shirt is mostly transparent, the cotton stretching tight across his biceps where his arms are around me. He has huge biceps. He’s quite a big guy close up, bigger than he looks in his suits, which fit so well they hide his athletic build.
I shift on his lap… and then freeze. Slowly, I look up, into his blue eyes.
“Jesus.” I scramble to get away from him.
He laughs. “Steady or you’ll end up falling back in.”
Flustered at the memory of what I felt in his trousers, I try to unstick my dress from my legs. “I don’t believe you. I just nearly died and you’re all aroused!”
“I wasn’t aroused by the near-death experience. I was aroused by the proximity of a gorgeous young girl.”
“Just because my dress is transparent, God you men are so predictable…”
“Look, I defy any man not to get an erection when they have a water nymph sitting in their lap smelling of rose water.”
The word erection makes my face heat. “Goodness.”
He just laughs. “We should get you home so you can change out of that wet dress.”
I think about what Ana’s going to say when I walk in and groan.
“Come on.” He holds out a hand as he walks toward the stepping stones.
“I know the way home,” I tell him, ignoring it.
“I’m not letting you fall in again while you’re all wet and slippery. Hold my hand.”
I try not to think about being wet and slippery with Orson Cavendish and fail miserably. “I’m not holding your hand.”
“Hold my arm then. Scarlett!” He grabs for me as I slip on the first stone. Before I can argue, he lifts me into his arms again and starts walking across the stepping stones .
“Put me down!” I squeal, conscious of his bare arm touching my thighs.
“Not until we’re on the other side. And stop wriggling—do you want us both to end up in the water again?”
I stop, fuming, and loop my arms around his neck as he navigates the stones. “Your shoulder,” I say, remembering his injury. “You’re going to hurt it carrying me.”
“You’re like carrying a pillow,” he scoffs. “Anyway, my shoulder’s almost healed. It’s my head that hurts.”
“You had a concussion?”
“Yeah. It’s taking its time to heal.”
I try not to look at the way his biceps bulge against the tight cotton. Or the sight of light-brown hair through the transparent shirt. Or the bulge of his Adam’s apple. Or how smooth his chin is.
Instead, I look at his hair, and the white flashes at his temples. Spencer had the same, so it obviously runs in the family.
“How old are you?” I ask as he steps carefully from stone to stone.
“Twenty-seven. You?”
“Twenty-four.” He looks younger up close. He has no lines on his face and no scars. His mouth is attractive, his lips narrowish and firm. I bet he’s an expert kisser.
He glances at me. “Stop it.”
“I’m not wriggling.”
“Stop staring at me like that or I’ll end up kissing you and then we’ll go over the waterfall, and it will all be your fault, but I’ll have to pretend it was mine because I’m a gentleman.”
I drop my gaze to his tie, which is also mostly soaking wet, and touch a finger to his silver tie pin with the tiny eagle on it. I’m glad he didn’t lose it in the water. “Did you ever meet your great-grandfather?”
“Once. He died when I was thirteen.” He steps over the last stone onto terra firma, then stands there for a moment, looking at me.
“Are you going to put me down?”
He purses his lips, looking at my mouth.
Oh my God. I despise him and everything he stands for. But I really, really want him to kiss me.
Instead, he slides his arm out from under my legs and lowers them, real slow, until my feet touch the floor, keeping one arm around my shoulders so I end up pressed up against him .
I place both hands on his chest. But as I feel his muscles through his wet shirt, my fingers curl rather than push him away.
He’s so tall, and muscular, and handsome, and he smells so good… There’s nobody at the commune like this. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever met a man in real life who’s as attractive as Orson.
He’s wealthy and experienced and accomplished and confident, borderline arrogant. It’s infuriating, but also extremely sexy. Some of the men at the commune wear suits to work, but they’re nothing like Orson’s. They’re not sophisticated or elegant or refined. They’re just normal working guys. They don’t have the nonchalant, cavalier, ‘I can do anything I like and you can’t touch me’ attitude that money brings.
I have to remind myself it’s the fact that he’s so different from other men which makes him seem so attractive to me. That doesn’t mean that if I delved under the surface, there’d be anything interesting at all. It’s like seeing a fantastic Pavlova on a table, a foot high with cream and fresh fruit, and you can’t wait to eat it, but when you do, you discover it’s ninety-nine percent air.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, amused, as he lifts a hand to unstick a strand of hair from my cheek.
“I’m comparing you to a Pavlova in my head.”
“Elegant as a ballet dancer?”
“ A Pavlova not The Pavlova.”
“Sweet and creamy?” His eyes dance.
“Full of air,” I say sarcastically, then gasp as he bends his head and touches his lips against my ear.
“You smell divine,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning across my skin.
I tremble. “Get off me.”
“Just one kiss.” He brushes his lips along my jaw to my mouth.
I shiver. “Mr. Cavendish!”
“You know that turns me on, right?”
“Orson!” I squeal and push him, terrified I’ll give in.
He straightens, rolls his eyes, and releases me. I’m bitterly disappointed and incredibly relieved at the same time.
“Come on,” he says, leading the way down the bank. “I’ll walk you back to the commune.”
“I know the way.”
“I know you know the way. I just want to make sure you make it back without falling over again. ”
“I don’t make a habit of falling over,” I say as I follow him down.
“Even so. I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t keep you safe.”
“You’re not a gentleman,” I scoff, taking his hand as he offers it to help me climb over a fallen log. “You’re like a big cat. You’re just identifying my weak spots so you can pounce.”
“I’ve had worse insults.”
“I bet you have.”
He laughs and sets off along the track. “Jeez, this is overgrown,” he complains, brushing aside the branches leaning down from the trees. “It’s going to need some work.”
I realize the truth then. “You just want to check out the land and see what needs doing. This has nothing to do with my safety.”
“I can’t do both?”
I send him a wry look, but he’s studying the ground, obviously thinking about how the path could be improved, and maybe what it would cost.
The sun slants through the trees across him, showing that his hair is dark brown, not black, and putting gold flecks in his blue eyes. His shirt is drying out a little, but still clings to his big biceps. He’s so handsome.
I hurriedly tear my gaze away from him and concentrate on where I’m walking so I don’t fall over.
I feel a little panicky at the thought of him coming back to Kahukura. Some of the Elders will be there and will want to talk to him if they see him. And Ana will also be around. I surprise myself by feeling a flare of jealousy. Ana is prettier than me, more outgoing, and better with men. I don’t want Orson to meet her.
Then I get cross with myself. I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know why he’s coming with me anyway. I hardly need protecting.
At that point I walk straight into a tree branch and nearly decapitate myself.
“Jesus,” he says, catching my arm as I stumble. “Girl, you gotta be more careful.”
“It’s your fault,” I complain before I can think better of it.
“Why is it my fault?” he asks, amused.
Because I’m having trouble concentrating on anything else but you.
“You keep distracting me,” I complain. “Go home.”
“I’d like to look around the commune.”
“No,” I say with alarm. “Absolutely not. ”
“You take visitors around, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’d like to visit. I’d like to know what you do there.”
“There won’t be any group sex sessions going on, if that’s what you’re hoping to see.”
He laughs, and our eyes meet. “I want to see your world,” he says mildly.
I hesitate. Then I say, “I don’t want you to make fun of it.”
He snorts. “Because you would never make fun of mine.”
He’s right, and I feel ashamed of that, especially now he’s told me about how hard he works, and how much he studied to get where he is.
He’s looking at me, and now he says, “I won’t make fun of the commune, I promise. I am sorry I teased you.” He frowns. “There’s something about you that…”
“That what?”
“Riles me up.” He looks amused and perplexed at the same time.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just look away as we exit the trees and start walking across the field. It slopes down to the commune, which lies spread out before us. It’s busy today—a car heads up the drive, probably with some kind of food delivery; Dani’s taking the younger kids for a walk through the vineyards; Lee is out digging post holes for a new fence. A car is parked out the front, and Isobel, one of the Elders, is greeting the two women who are currently exiting it.
We stop and look down at the view. Orson surveys it thoughtfully, scanning the vineyards, the vegetable gardens, the quiet but busy life taking place in the peaceful surroundings, a world removed from his opulent resort with its rich patrons, flash cars, and swanky buildings.
Is he secretly laughing inside? Having to hold himself back from mocking my way of life? I lift my chin. I don’t have to prove anything to him or anyone else.
“If you’re coming, let’s get on with it,” I say, and begin to walk down the hill. “Just please refrain from calling anyone a communalist. They won’t appreciate your sense of humor the way I do.”