Chapter Seven
Scarlett
“What time are you meeting him?” Ana asks.
It’s Sunday, and the two of us are working in the vegetable garden. I straighten, arch my back, and look at my watch. “Three o’clock. I suppose I should get going soon.”
Five days have passed since I showed Orson around the commune on Tuesday. It’s not been an easy week. And this morning he called the commune and left a message asking if I’d meet him at the Waiora this afternoon to talk.
I don’t want to see him again. He gets under my skin. He hasn’t yet agreed to the higher offer, and the Elders have called me in several times to try and convince me to push him to sell. But when I’ve called him twice to talk to him about it over the phone, his secretary has told me each time that he’s in a meeting. I suspect it’s been a ploy to make sure I meet him, but I can’t be certain.
“Have fun,” Ana says as I take off my apron.
I glare at her. “Fun is the last thing on my mind.”
“Your mouth says one thing but the blush in your cheeks says another.” Her words are mischievous, but her smile is kind.
I was so sure he’d prefer her, but I still think about his answer when I asked if he’d rather she show him around: I don’t want your sister. I want you.
Shaking my head to try to dislodge it, I say, “Whatever, I’ll see you later,” and head off to the house to get ready.
I take a quick shower because I’m hot and sweaty, and put on a red summer dress and sandals. Then I take it off and pull on jeans and a tee. Take them off. Put the dress on again. I brush my hair. Braid it severely. Then unravel it, brush it again, and scowl at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why I’m bothering. It’s not like either of us is interested in the other in that way.
That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look nice though. I slot a red freesia above my ear, then slick on some red lip gloss. Trying to block out the memory of the look in his eyes when he stared into mine, I realize it’s 2:55, curse under my breath, and head out of the door.
It’s a blustery March day. The sun was hot earlier, but the clouds are moving quickly now, and the sky is turning a deep gray. As I walk up the hill, I begin to wonder whether I should have brought an umbrella, but I can’t be bothered to go back.
By the time I get to the Waiora, it’s nearly ten past three. As soon as I exit the bush, I see a guy on the other side of the pool, sitting in the gazebo there, reading on his phone. For a moment I don’t recognize him. He’s wearing dark jeans, a faded gray T-shirt, and Converses, his hair is a little ruffled, and he looks completely different from the suave, sophisticated man in his suit. But then he looks up and sees me, and he stands, pockets his phone, and waves before walking up the bank to the top of the waterfall.
I do the same, heart racing, and we pause at the top, facing each other across the stones. A drop of rain falls on my cheek, then another.
“Hey,” he calls, and he lifts a hand and beckons to me. “Come over this side and we’ll talk in the gazebo—I think it’s going to rain.”
For some reason, the way he beckons to me irritates me, as if I’m a dog. I bet everyone in his life does his bidding without question. Well, I don’t work for him, and I’m not going to do what he says.
“No,” I snap, “you come over this side.”
He lowers his hand and looks up at the sky. More droplets land on my face. Unfortunately, I think he’s right, but now if I go over I’m letting him win, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.
He looks back at me. “Please, come on. It’s the only shelter out here.”
“I don’t mind getting wet.” I brush a hand over my cheek to remove the drops.
He puts his hands on his hips. “Scarlett…”
I shake my head.
He runs his tongue across his top teeth, then starts traversing the stepping stones. I glare at him, hoping he slips and falls, but I know that despite us not agreeing on a sale yet, he’s had someone up here securing some of the stones, and sure enough he strides out sure-footed and swift.
It’s starting to rain properly, and I’m beginning to regret my decision, but it’s too late now. I watch him approach, impressed with how elegantly he moves, like the big cat I’ve compared him to before. The sleeves of his tee stretch tightly across his biceps, making me wonder if he works out. Surely they’re not natural. Would they give under pressure, like a firm cushion, or would they feel solid, like carved wood?
He covers the last few stones and jumps onto the bank next to me. His light-gray tee is now covered in dark blotches from the rain, and his hair is turning spiky.
“I should have brought an umbrella,” I begin to say as he walks up to me, but my words fade away as I realize he’s not stopping. He closes the distance between us, bends quickly, and hoists me up and over his shoulder.
I squeal loudly and kick my legs, but he wraps one arm tightly across the back of my thighs, turns, and heads back over the stepping stones. Upside down, I whack him on the backside, but he just says, “Are you trying to turn me on?”
“Orson!”
“Serves you right for not behaving.”
I reel off a string of curses.
“Language,” he says. “I didn’t know you Peaceful Percys knew words like that.”
“Fuck off.”
He’s halfway back by now, and he stops and shifts my weight on his shoulder. “Stop wriggling or I’ll drop you.”
I do, because I don’t want to be submerged again and end up falling off the waterfall, but that doesn’t stop me giving him another earful as he continues.
He covers the last few stones onto the bank, then lowers me down. As he straightens, he rolls his shoulder.
“I hope it’s really painful,” I snap, tugging my dress down where it’s risen up. It’s really raining now, and we’re quickly getting soaked.
“Don’t worry,” he replies. “Your wish is granted. Now, will you come down to the gazebo?”
“Will you stop bossing me about? ”
He closes his eyes and massages his temples with a hand for a moment, and I remember that he also had a concussion. Guilt twinges inside me, at the same time that the heavens really open, and rain begins to fall in torrents. “All right,” I concede.
“Thank you.”
We turn and make our way hastily down the bank, but sub-tropical rain like this can easily soak you in seconds, and by the time we reach the gazebo, we’re completely drenched.
“Fuck me,” he says as we climb the steps. It’s covered over, but of course it doesn’t stop rain being blown over us as the stiff breeze whips it around. “Jesus that came down quickly.” He scowls at me. “This was a mistake. I just wanted to ask if the Elders were still pushing for the higher price.”
“You could have asked me that on the phone.”
“You weren’t around,” he pointed out.
“I rang you, but you decided you were ‘unavailable.’” I put air quotes around it.
“I was ‘unavailable,’” he says, repeating the air quotes. “I was in a meeting.”
“Twice?”
“Yes, both times.”
“Yeah, right. You just wanted to make sure I came here today.”
He meets my eyes. Then his lips curve up. “Maybe.”
“I knew it!”
He chuckles and runs a hand through his wet hair. “So have you had a chance to speak to the Elders yet?”
His T-shirt tightens across his chest and arms as he moves. God, he’s gorgeous. “They’re deliberating,” I tell him. “They still want the higher price.”
“Kingi said he’d spoken to you.”
I nod. He rang on Wednesday and introduced himself as the friend who runs Te Aranui Developments with Orson.
“I haven’t approached the Elders about an audit yet,” I told Kingi nervously on the phone.
“That’s okay,” he said easily. He had a deep, gruff voice with a slight hint of a Māori accent, which is a little different from the standard Kiwi accent. “I just wanted to introduce myself and have a chat. Orson told me that at the moment you don’t have anyone to audit the commune’s finances. I wanted to echo his suggestion that you get someone to do that, even if you’d rather use someone else. It’s so easy to make mistakes, and a second pair of eyes can catch all kinds of errors.”
“That’s his bad attempt at diplomacy. He doesn’t trust our finance manager.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Kingi said.
“It’s totally true, and he’s way off the mark.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to imply anything…”
“Yes he did.” My throat tightened, and my eyes pricked with tears. “The success of the commune relies on us trusting one another,” I told him, my voice a little husky. “He doesn’t understand that.”
“I think he does,” he replied gently. “Much of business relies on trust. Auditing provides reassurance, that’s all.”
It was similar to what Orson said, so it made it difficult to argue with him. I told him I’d speak to the Elders and let him know, and he reiterated his willingness to help before ending the call.
“Yes, he offered his services,” I tell Orson.
“And?”
“I put the suggestion of an audit forward.”
He waits. Then, when I don’t answer, says, “And?”
I hesitate. Then I drop my gaze to the floor. “A couple of the others said it would be a good idea. But George went ballistic. Said it went against the ethics of the commune. He said if we didn’t trust him, we should find someone else to do the finances. They spent half an hour talking him down.”
“Huh,” Orson says.
“It’s why I don’t have an answer for you. They asked me to leave, and they’re still trying to sort it all out, as far as I know.”
He massages his head again.
I frown. “Do you have a headache?”
“I always have a headache.”
I sigh. “Come here,” I say softly, lowering myself onto the wooden floor. It’s rain spattered but not too wet in the middle. “I want you to lie down.”
His eyebrows rise. “Why?”
“So I can do some voodoo on you.”
His expression turns wry, but he sits on the floor. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Turn around and lie down, and put your head in my lap.”
His eyes meet mine .
“Don’t get any ideas,” I scold. “I want to help the organ in your skull, not the one in your pants.”
He gives a short laugh. Then he turns around, lowers onto his elbows, and lies back, resting his head on my crossed legs.
I look at him upside down. “Close your eyes,” I tell him, unable to bear the intensity of his blue eyes as he looks up at me.
He does so obediently, and I let out a long breath. My hands are cool, and I rub them together for a moment to try to warm them a bit. Then I place them above his face, not quite touching, covering his eyes.
He exhales, his breath whispering across my palms.
“Try to relax,” I tell him softly. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Listen to the rain and the waterfall. Listen to Kahukura singing to you. Let her waters heal you. Now, concentrate on your breathing. Put your hand on your belly, and breathe from there—not from your chest. You’re going to visualize a flower blooming. As its petals unfurl, you inhale to the count of six. When it’s fully bloomed, you imagine the flower closing at nighttime and exhale for a count of six. Ready?” I count to show him the pace. “Inhale, two, three, four, five, six, exhale, two, three, four, five, six.”
I stop counting out loud and close my eyes. The water tumbles over the rocks into the pool, the sound like the crescendo of an orchestra. The wind has eased a little, and the rain now falls straight down, pattering on the roof of the gazebo, and on the ferns and stones around us. The light breeze ruffles the leaves of the palms and the trees.
After about a minute, I open my eyes and move my hands, resting them over his temples.
Now I can see his face. I usually do this with women, and I’m fascinated by his different bone structure. Women tend to have softer, more rounded contours, their brow ridges less pronounced, their jawlines narrower, and their chins more pointed. Orson has a prominent, angular facial bone structure, with a stronger brow ridge, a broader chin, and a more pronounced jawline. He has a long, straight nose, and a well-shaped mouth. His lashes are dark, quite beautiful actually, long and as curved as a woman’s. I’d tease him about them, but I do want him to feel better, and don’t want to disturb him.
The few times we’ve met, he’s been clean shaven, but today his skin bears a light touch of bristle. Before I can stop myself, I brush my thumbs across his cheeks. They rasp slightly, which fascinates me .
Orson inhales deeply, then lets out the breath in a long sigh. This happens often when people who are touch starved receive healing—they’re so unused to the touch of another person that even a light brush of someone else’s fingers can make them feel emotional. Is he touch starved? It wouldn’t surprise me. I can’t imagine that Spencer Cavendish is the touchy-feely type of father. Orson’s mother died. He said he hasn’t had a girlfriend in a while. And even if he’s the sort of guy who greets friends with a bearhug, men are unlikely to touch each other often.
His headache might have been started by his accident and his concussion, but I believe a person’s power to heal themselves is affected by their mental, emotional, and physical health. He has a high-powered job, so he will suffer from stress and anxiety, even if he thinks he handles it well. All men struggle with the weight of duty and responsibility, and the need to appear in control. These things are like anchors weighing him down and will affect his body’s natural repair tools: his immune system, his heart rate, and his blood pressure.
I’m a big believer in the power of touch, and so I decide to give him a face massage. I start by brushing my thumbs across his forehead, starting in the center and sweeping them to the temples. I do the same with his eyebrows, and very lightly stroke over his eyes and the eye sockets. Resting my first two fingers on each temple, I massage them gently, admiring the unusual white flashes of hair there, and being careful not to press too hard on the graze that is still visible there. Then I move my fingers down each side of his face and cup his jaw.
Sliding my hands down, I stroke his neck and throat above the top of the tee. My fingers brush over his Adam’s apple—possibly the thing that’s most different from a woman’s face. He swallows and I feel it rise and then lower again. I smile and see his lips curve up too.
I dip my thumbs into the hollow at the base of his throat and brush away the drop of rain that has moistened the skin there. I can smell his cologne rising from his damp clothes, the same as before—vanilla, tobacco, and brandy. What did he call it? The Tragedy Of Lord George. ‘The perfect scent for a gentleman with something dark hidden away.’ I wonder what dark things he’s hiding, what his secrets are. What he shares with women in bed after the sun goes down.
Even though he protested he’s a serial monogamist, I have no doubt he’s had many partners. He will be skilled in bed, and know his way around a woman’s body. Know how to touch her and please her, how to tease her to a climax.
I brush my thumbs up over his mouth, tracing the shape of his Cupid’s bow, imagining what it would feel like to press my lips to his. I realize with surprise that I like him, even though we’re supposed to be enemies, and even though my father would be angry to know I’m even talking to him, let alone touching him like this.
To my surprise, he puckers his lips and kisses my thumb. My heart bangs on my ribs. And before I can think better of it, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
His eyes are still closed so he obviously didn’t expect that, and he inhales sharply. I move back a fraction, shocked at myself, wondering if he’s going to scold me. His bright blue eyes open and stare up into mine. Then he lifts a hand, rests it on the back of my neck, and pulls me down to him again.
I give him a Spiderman kiss, upside down. He doesn’t move, just accepts the kiss, but he also doesn’t remove his hand from my neck, and I feel him brush his thumb across my throat.
I shiver, my nipples tightening, my lips parting as I inhale, and then I jump as I feel his tongue touch my bottom lip. He stops and waits, and I take a few seconds to debate whether I should push him away and get up. I ought to. I should.
But I don’t. It’s too wicked, too delicious. His cologne winds around me, and I know that his secret is his passion, kept locked away inside him like a feral big cat. When I lower my lips back to his, he gives an approving growl deep in his throat, like a purr, and it makes firecrackers go off inside me, tiny little fizzes and bangs and sprays of color in my head and my heart and my stomach.
He slides his hand into my hair, opening his mouth, and I gasp as he probes with his tongue, stroking it against mine. Mmm that’s so erotic, and my body stirs like an animal coming out of hibernation.
I continue to brush my hands over his face, stroking his cheeks, his jaw, his throat, and across his shoulders. He sighs as he kisses me, and I feel his shoulders release some of the tension they were holding. I rub his right shoulder, where I know he’s sore, massaging it lightly and willing the healing power of the Kahukura to penetrate his muscles and tendons and ligaments and bones.
At the same time, he runs his fingers over the nape of my neck and through my hair, and I give a little moan, tingling all over. In response, he tightens his fingers, clenching my hair, opens his mouth wider, and deepens the kiss, plunging his tongue into my mouth until I’m gasping for breath. I’m shocked at the intensity of it, how I feel invaded and ravaged, and he’s hardly touching me really.
When I moan again, he shifts suddenly, turning and lifting an arm around my shoulders. Before I can understand what he’s doing, he pulls me across him, lifting me as easily as if I’m a pillow, and adjusting our position until I’m lying fully on top of him, stretched out.
“Oh!” I’m stunned at how easily he manhandled me. But there’s no time to react, because he cups my head and brings it down so he can crush his lips to mine.
Oh my God, I thought the previous kiss was deep, but this is intense, lighting fires inside me, and I’m powerless to fight against it. I know that if I yelled stop, or pushed up, or wrenched my head away, he’d stop immediately. I don’t know how; I just know. I trust him. But I don’t want him to stop. I’m burning, and he’s driving me crazy, and if he stops I honestly think that, like a rose deprived of sunshine and water, I’ll just curl up and wither and die.
So I kiss him back, and he’s hard through his jeans against my stomach, and my heart bangs against my ribs so fast I feel dizzy, and I don’t know where this is going, but I want it to go on forever, until the stars come out to watch us, and the moon rises in the night sky.