Chapter Ten
Orson
“Orson? Ms. Stone is in the foyer.”
“Thank you,” I say to Anne, who’s stuck her head around my office door.
“You want me to bring her through?”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll get her.”
She winks at me.
“Stop it,” I scold. “She’s here on business.”
“Of course she is.” She chuckles and disappears. Rolling my eyes, I get to my feet and pull on my suit jacket. I do up the buttons, glancing at my reflection in the window to make sure my hair looks okay. Briefly, I wonder what she thinks about the white flashes at my temples. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t inherited them from my father, but some women seem to like them.
Not that it matters—Scarlett is here on business today, and I have to focus on that. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, and it’s impossible not to think about when I lay with my head in her lap, and she taught me how to meditate and breathe from my belly. Shaking my head, I go out of the door and along the corridor to the foyer.
I see her immediately, leaning on the front desk, talking to the receptionist. I stop in my tracks. She’s wearing a scarlet blouse and a long black skirt, and she’s pinned her long brown hair up in a bun, although untidy strands tumble around her face and neck. I think she’s attempting to look businesslike, but there’s still something bohemian and wayward about her.
God, this girl… She drives me crazy no matter what she’s wearing.
Hana, the receptionist, glances over and sees me, and Scarlett follows her gaze and turns. I walk toward her, conscious of my heart banging on my ribs .
“Afternoon,” I say, stopping before her.
“Hello.” She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flush slightly. Our eyes meet, and immediately I’m transported straight back to the moment when I pressed into her and felt her close around me, warm and wet.
I blink, suddenly aware that about ten seconds have passed, and glance at Hana to see her studying her computer screen with a small smile, so I know she’s witnessed our silent exchange.
I clear my throat. “You want to come through to my office?”
“Um, sure.”
I glare at Hana, who tries not to laugh, then lead Scarlett through to my office. I gesture at the sofa, and she sits while I try not to remember the way she curled her toes over the edge of the coffee table last time.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask as Anne appears in the doorway.
“A coffee would be great.”
“Two lattes, please,” I say to Anne, and she nods and goes off to get them.
I flick open the buttons on my jacket and take a seat. Scarlett watches me. I can’t read her expression.
“Your father has the same white flashes at his temples, hasn’t he?” she asks.
I nod. “All the men in my family have had it.”
“Your sons will probably have it too, then.”
“I suppose,” I say with some surprise. I hadn’t given it any thought.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Scarlett says. “You said she died six years ago?”
“Mm. Also of breast cancer.” I know her mother died of the same.
She hesitates as if wondering whether to ask me something. “Did she have Enhertu?”
It’s the more common name for Trastuzumab deruxtecan, a drug used to treat advanced breast cancer that has shown superior progression-free survival compared to other treatments. I nod. “It gave her four more years with us. What about your mum?”
She looks at her skirt and smoothes out a wrinkle. “The drug isn’t funded in New Zealand.”
Ah, fuck. There would have been other drugs available, but Dad did his research at the time, and Enhertu was by far the most successful, so that’s what mum got. Without a second thought .
We sit in silence for a while, during which Anne comes in with our coffees and a plate of brownies, glances at us both, then leaves them on the table and goes, closing the door behind her.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Scarlett leans forward and picks up her takeaway cup. Then she smiles at me, surprising me. “It’s not your fault.”
“No… that’s true.”
She has a sip of the coffee, looking around the office. “You said you do business here sometimes with the other members of the Midnight Circle.”
“Yes.”
“After midnight?”
“Often. We all work long hours.”
“So it’s the equivalent of handshakes over golf?”
“Not quite.” I’ve debated whether to tell her this, but although we tend to keep it quiet, it’s not a secret as such. And the truth is that I want her to know that I’m not as shallow as she thinks I am. “The Midnight Clubs aren’t quite what you think they are.”
Her eyebrows rise. “They’re not decadent nightclubs for the rich and famous?”
“Well, if you put it that way…”
She smiles and sips her coffee.
“They are,” I say. “But once all the bills are paid, the profits go to charity.”
She stares at me. When she lowers her cup, I can see her jaw has dropped.
“You’re kidding me?” she says.
“Nope. I was approached by a guy called Oliver Huxley, who runs a business club in the city, also called Huxley’s. He told me he was inviting a selection of wealthy business people to invest in a nightclub, with the intention of donating the proceeds to charity. I told my father, because he’d recently inherited this land when his father died, and I suggested we use this as the site for the club, and he came up with the idea for a resort which would make even more money than just a club. So Midnight in Waiheke was born. That was six years ago, and since then the Circle has created another seven clubs across the country, and one more in London.”
“And all the proceeds go to charity? ”
I nod and lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying the cup in my hands. “Scarlett… I want you to know that I wasn’t aware that Kahukura was a Women’s Refuge. I don’t know why, but my father has always implied that the commune is some kind of wacky retreat for aging hippies, and I’m ashamed to say I never investigated it myself.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” My tone hardens. “I don’t understand it, but I will have it out with him at some point.”
Scarlett’s mouth opens, but she hesitates and then closes it again. She examines her coffee cup and fiddles with the lid.
“Go on,” I say, amused. “Spit it out.”
“I… was just thinking about you giving to charity. It’s… not what I expected.”
For some reason, I don’t think that was what she was going to say, but I can’t force her to speak her mind. “You thought I stored all my gold coins in a vault and sat there sifting through them like Scrooge McDuck?”
That makes her laugh. “I can see you with a top hat and walking stick,” she says, and I smile. “You should do that more often,” she says softly.
Our eyes meet, and lock, as they seem to do more often than they should. We study each other quietly for a moment.
“Do you like my hair?” I say eventually. “I was thinking of getting it dyed.”
She gives a short laugh. “Don’t do that. It’s distinguished.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“Nothing wrong with being distinguished at twenty-seven.”
I inhale and let it out as a sigh. “I dunno. Sometimes I feel old before my time.” I rub the back of my head. “I’d feel better if I could get rid of this damn headache. It did go briefly at the Waiora, which surprised me, but unfortunately it soon came back.”
“It won’t go until you resolve the things that are bothering you,” she says.
I lean back. “Don’t go all New Age on me. I have a headache because some idiot crashed into my motorbike and gave me a concussion.”
“That might have started it. But the reason it won’t go away is because of the emotions you’re carrying in here.” She presses her hand over her heart .
I sip my coffee, not saying anything.
“How do you feel about losing Doyle?” she asks.
I frown. “How do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. I wouldn’t presume to try to understand someone else’s grief.”
I shift in my seat and glare at her.
“Are you going to tell me to mind my own business?” she asks mildly. “Because that’s fine; you’re within your rights to do that.”
I swirl my coffee in the cup. I know she’s thinking it would be a predictable retort. I don’t particularly want to talk about my feelings. What guy does? But I also hate being predictable.
I think for a moment. “I’m angry that he was taken before his time. Furious at the guy who caused the accident, but I don’t feel I can express it because he didn’t mean to do it, and he’s gutted that he injured someone and killed his dog. And I’m sad at losing my best friend.” I stop as my throat tightens and have a mouthful of coffee.
“It’s always good to get things out in the open,” she says. “And I know that’s not everything. I know you’re angry and resentful at your father, and I suspect that’s not a recent thing. He’s obviously been a huge presence in your life. All sons feel a need to impress and prove themselves to their fathers, and some are harder to please than others.”
I don’t say anything.
“You’re still grieving over your mother’s death,” she continues. “Of course you are, because the loss of a mother never goes away. Most of us who lose someone to cancer have lots of blame to throw around—we blame the disease and we blame ourselves for not working hard enough to find a way to fix them and we blame the hospital and the doctors and nurses for letting them die, even though of course we know it wasn’t their fault.”
I look away, out of the window.
“And on top of all that,” she continues relentlessly, “maybe because of the way your father is, and also because it’s a part of your nature, you’re imbued with this incredible drive to succeed and to make something of yourself, so you work fourteen-hour days, and subject yourself to incredible stress. And it’s like lying down with a stone monolith on your chest. If you don’t have support, it will eventually crush you. It’s too much for one person to bear. Are you seeing a therapist?”
Speechless, I shake my head .
“You should,” she says. “You should talk to someone who can listen and give you ways to work on releasing that stress.”
“I’m talking to you,” I reply.
“I think after what happened between us, I’m not the right person to help you.”
“I’m sure you can think of a way to help me release my stress.” I let my lips curve up.
I thought it would make her blush, but instead she lifts an eyebrow. “You think turning this conversation to sex will distract attention from the fact that you’re struggling and hurting and need help?”
I’ve never had anyone talk to me like this before. Even men who are good friends don’t discuss thoughts and feelings. Women I know through work would also never talk about personal issues. And it’s only now that I realize the few women I’ve had serious relationships with were never interested in me like this. They only wanted to know how I was feeling or what I was thinking when it impacted on them in some way. I’d come to assume that everyone is selfish and concerned only with themselves. So maybe that’s why Scarlett’s open discussion shocks me to the core.
“You’re a qualified therapist?” I ask.
“I don’t just weave flax and eat kale over there.” Her lips twitch as she leans forward and picks up one of the brownies. She takes a bite and chews, then says, “Mmm. These are lovely.”
I pick one up and take a bite. “Yeah.”
“They’ve got cherries in.”
“Have they?” I look at it in surprise. “I guess.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Well, I didn’t make them myself.”
She laughs. “No, I guess not. Although you said you liked cooking.”
“I can fry a steak. I’m not a great baker.”
“Pity. I can see you with the white hat and checked trousers.”
We both chuckle.
“I suppose we should talk business,” she says, “rather than continue embarrassing you.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I say, realizing with some surprise that it’s true. “But you’re probably right.”
“The Elders have authorized me to tell you that they are willing to sell the Waiora to you. For seventeen and a half million.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and study her as I suck a few crumbs from my thumb. “And they sent you to deliver the message. Interesting.”
“It’s my land,” she says firmly, lifting her gaze to mine. But there are twin spots of red on her cheeks.
They’ve told her to come here because I sent her roses. They know I like her, and they want her to try to talk me into increasing my offer.
That fills me with such fury that it blazes through me like wildfire, turning everything in its wake to ash. I hate being manipulated like that, in both my business and personal life.
And I’m mainly angry because I know it’s going to work. I’ll pay whatever Scarlett wants for the Waiora because I want to make her happy. That shocks me. I’ve never let my feelings influence my business decisions before.
I don’t want to say yes immediately because I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. Equally, that’s going to force Scarlett to play their game. And how do I know that if she spends time with me, it’s not because she’s been instructed to do so?
I finish off the brownie, then wash it down with a mouthful of coffee. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“I am wearing underwear today, if that’s what you’re going to ask.”
I laugh. I adore this girl. “No. I was going to ask you how your father died.”
The humor fades from her face. “He had a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry. Were you with him?”
She shakes her head. “George was.”
“Oh?”
“They were in the office. It came out of the blue. George called an ambulance, but he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“No. Why should there be? There was nothing suspicious about his death. He was overweight, had high blood pressure and cholesterol, and often forgot his pills.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t raise my suspicions with Scarlett. She’s been brought up to respect her literal Elders, and she would never suspect that her father’s death could be anything but natural. And of course she might be right. If the authorities didn’t find anything amiss, surely that means there’s nothing wrong? I’ve become jaded and distrustful, that’s all .
Still, I can’t quieten the tiny bell of doubt ringing inside me. And because I can’t silence it, I don’t want to give in to George and the others just yet.
Also, it gives me a reason to persuade Scarlett to see me again.
“I need time to think about it,” I say.
It prompts her to give me a sarcastic look. “You don’t need time. You’ve already decided what your reply will be.”
“Not at all. I need to get another surveyor’s valuation and take a look at the market, and also examine my own books. Two and a half million is a lot of money to pull out of nowhere.”
“Says the man with nine zeros in his bank account.”
I smile. She pokes her tongue out at me, and my smile spreads.
“I have an idea,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “What?”
“Come to dinner with me tonight. It’ll give you the opportunity to convince me.”
Another sarcastic look. “That’s not fair.”
“Nor is attempting to fleece me for another two and a half million dollars. We all have crosses to bear.”
We survey each other. I’m amused; she’s bemused.
“Why?” she asks eventually.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you want to go to dinner with me? I might be naive, but I’m not stupid. You’re rich, handsome, successful, sophisticated… You could have any woman you want. Why are you pursuing me?”
“I don’t want any woman. I want you.”
“Again, I ask why?”
“Are you looking for compliments?”
“No. I’m genuinely baffled.”
“You honestly can’t understand what I see in you?”
She blinks. “No.”
Jesus, she really does mean it.
“I want to see if you meant it when you said you weren’t going commando.”
That earns me a third sarcastic look. “There will be no exploration beneath my attire on this dinner date.”
I try not to laugh at her use of the word attire, and fail. “So you do agree to come?” Her gaze goes unfocused. “To come to dinner,” I correct, my smile widening. “You have a dirty mind. ”
“You started it.”
“That’s probably true.” Our eyes meet, and my stomach flips the way it does every time I see her. “I want to say sorry,” I say softly. “Please come to dinner with me.”
Her warm brown eyes crinkle a little at the edges. “Okay.”
My heart leaps, but she’s already getting to her feet, so I rise with her, hiding my joy that she accepted. “I’ll pick you up at six,” I tell her, “and I’ll take you somewhere nice in the city.”
Suddenly, she looks uncertain, and I remember that she’s never been to a restaurant. “What should I wear?”
“This is New Zealand,” I remind her. “Half the clientele will be in shorts and tees. Whatever you want will be fine.” When she continues to look worried, I add, “I’ll make sure it’s somewhere relaxed, honey. I want you to have a nice time.”
“I’m vegetarian.”
“I know that. Most restaurants offer veggie options now. I’m not going to take you to CowsRUs.”
She tries not to laugh, and fails. “Okay.” She chews her bottom lip. Then she walks forward and extends a hand. “Thank you for your time.”
I smile and shake it, closing my fingers around hers and holding her hand for longer than necessary. “I’ll see you later,” I say softly, looking into her eyes. “I look forward to it.”
She looks up at me with those big brown eyes that are full of trust. I love that she’s so open and honest, but I also worry about the fact that she’s worn rose-tinted glasses for so long that she’s never learned to take them off.
“You’re incredibly beautiful,” I murmur, looking at her flushed complexion, her silky hair, and her soft mouth. “Inside and out.”
Her gaze drops to my lips, and my pulse picks up speed—she’s thinking about kissing me. Still holding her right hand, I slide my left onto her waist as I move closer. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t move back, and she lifts her face to mine as I lower my head.
Behind us, someone clears their throat. I straighten immediately and release her, and Scarlett steps back. It’s my father, standing in the doorway, his expression heavy with disapproval.
“Excuse me,” Scarlett says. She flicks Dad a brief smile, but he just glares at her. Dropping her gaze, she slips past him, and I hear her footsteps tapping rapidly as she runs down the corridor .
“That was fucking rude,” I snap, furious that I missed out on a kiss.
“What’s she doing here?” he demands.
“We were talking business.”
“Yeah, it sure looked like it.”
I glare at him. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“She’s the daughter of Blake Stone. This has everything to do with me.”
“I’m tired of this,” I say irritably. “Of your eternal feud with Blake and his family. He’s gone now. The guy’s dead. It’s time you moved on.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “Midnight might be your baby, but the land is mine. I said you could be in charge of the purchase of the Waiora, but I’m not going to let you screw up the sale. If you can’t seal the deal, I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll do it. But they’ve added two and a half million dollars to the price.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. So forgive me for wanting to take time to think about it.”
He gives me an appraising look. “You know they’ve sent her to soften you up.”
Privately, I think it’s to give me the opposite effect, but I don’t say that.
“I know,” I say instead. “My eyes are open.”
“She’s never been around money like this,” Dad says, gesturing around us. “I told you years ago that you have to be careful with women. Most of them are treasure hunters, and if you let yourself be blinded by a pretty face and a pair of tits, you’ll never be sure that they’re not after your fortune until it’s too late.”
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like what he says. I’m fully aware that Scarlett is after my money, but I don’t believe the connection between us is entirely due to that, and I’m not going to let him come between us because of his bitterness.
I turn away. “I need to get back to work because I’m going out in a few hours.”
“With Scarlett?”
I don’t reply.
“You’re a fool,” he says. And then he turns and walks out.
I sit in my leather chair, then slide down in it a little and stare moodily out of the window.
The terrible thing is that I know he’s right. And I don’t give a fuck.