Chapter Thirteen
Scarlett
When I don’t express a preference for dessert—because my brain has turned to the consistency of melted caramel—Orson orders a Tiramisu for two. The waiter tops our glasses with the last of the champagne, then goes away.
“Excuse me a moment,” Orson says, and he rises from the table and goes inside.
I watch him go, then turn back to my glass and let out a shaky sigh before sipping the champagne. The magical bubbles are starting to have an effect, and I can feel my nuts and bolts loosening, releasing the tension in the tendons and ligaments between my joints that feel so tightly strung.
I don’t know quite what it is that I’m so tense about—is it the environment? The food? The champagne? Not really, because it’s very relaxed here, and the food and drink are delicious.
It is, of course, the man who’s been sitting opposite me. If you look up the phrase ‘larger than life’ in the dictionary, I’m sure you’d find a photo of Orson. He’s like a strawberry whose taste is so intense, so strawberry-like, that it’s more strawberry tasting than any other strawberry in the whole history of strawberry-osity.
I think I might be a little bit tipsy.
I pick up the bear and stroke a thumb across its soft fur. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, like he said. After all, I’ve only had two glasses of champagne, but I know that alcohol can increase epinephrine levels, which would explain my racing heart and the feeling of excitement rising through me like the bubbles in the champagne.
I think about the way he leaned forward on the table and stared into my eyes, like a black panther who’d spotted a deer with a particularly juicy haunch. He did everything but lick his lips. He wants to sink his teeth into me.
And oh my God, I want him to… so, so much…
He exits the restaurant and walks across the garden, and I watch him, my pulse picking up again. He walks so confidently, as if he owns the place, and as if he expects everyone in the restaurant to be looking at him, which I think they are, because he’s the most gorgeous guy here. And he’s with me. I can’t help but feel flattered at that.
He sits back down, his lips curving up. “What?” he says. “Your eyes are like saucers.”
I shake my head. I have to bear in mind the effect of the champagne and adrenaline mix and ensure I don’t make any hasty decisions.
“Aren’t you cross with me?” I ask.
He blinks. “About what?”
“The fact that I’ve been sent here to seduce you into accepting the increased price.”
He leans back, one arm over the back of the chair, playing with his spoon with the other hand. “Firstly, I don’t get cross with women. And secondly, is that why you’re here?”
I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. “No.”
He gives a small smile.
I hum along to the song playing in the restaurant, and his eyebrows rise. “You like Billie Eilish?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“She’s all right. I’m just surprised you know her stuff.”
“I don’t just listen to Bob Dylan and burn incense, you know. I also listen to Van Morrison and Neil Young and… brace yourself… modern music.”
He chuckles. “What else do you like to do in your spare time?”
I tell him a bit about my painting and creative writing. When I mention I play acoustic guitar, he laughs and says, “That was a dot on the cards.”
“So what do you do?” I ask sarcastically. “Apart from putting your gold coins in piles?”
He grins. “I don’t get a lot of free time. Sometimes…” He stops though as the waiter arrives with our dish of Tiramisu. To my shock, two sparklers are sticking out of it, and the waiter sings ‘Happy Birthday’ as he places the dish before me .
Orson joins in with the words, laughing at the expression on my face, then thanks the waiter, who withdraws with a smile.
“Naughty boy,” I scold, semi-embarrassed at the smiles of the other diners.
“Least I could do,” he says, removing the sparklers once they’re finished and dropping them into the tumbler of water the waiter has left for that purpose.
“Wow.” I take one of the spoons and stare at the concoction in front of me. Layers of sponge mingle with mascarpone cream and a dusting of cocoa powder.
“Dive in,” Orson says, and he dips his spoon into his side of the dish, then has a mouthful.
I do the same, close my lips around the spoon, and taste the dessert. My eyelids flutter shut. Oh my God, it’s amazing—rich, creamy, and sweet, with the taste of coffee and, I think, a touch of brandy.
“Damn,” Orson says.
I open my eyes to see him watching me, his brows drawing together. I lick my lips and swallow. “What?”
“It’s backfiring on me,” he mumbles, helping himself to another spoonful.
I blink at him. Then, slowly, I dip my spoon in and eat another mouthful, keeping my eyes on him as I eat the creamy mixture, then turn the spoon over and suck it clean.
He gives a short laugh, and I chuckle too.
“Minx,” he says, his eyelids dropping to half-mast.
I have another spoonful, my heart racing. I’ve never felt that I’ve had power over a guy like this before. All the guys my age in the commune are like kids compared to him. He’s so… capable, and confident, and in control. I’ve never met anyone like him. He fascinates me.
“You were about to tell me what you do in your spare time,” I say. “I know you like motorbikes.”
“Not for a while,” he says ruefully.
“No, of course not, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, it’s okay. I shouldn’t really be tearing around the city at my age anyway.”
“You’re only twenty-seven,” I say, amused. “You’re hardly drawing your pension.”
“I’m a respectable businessman. ”
“That sounds like your father talking.”
He just gives a wry smile, so I know I’m right.
“So come on,” I tease, having another spoonful of Tiramisu, “you must do something other than business from time to time.”
“I’m at the club past midnight several nights a week.”
“Socializing?”
“Networking mainly. And I meet with the other members of the Midnight Circle to talk business.”
“And when you’re not at the club?”
“I work out at the gym. Read a bit. Play PS5 games. Watch TV. The usual.”
“Nothing creative?”
“I’m a left brain kinda guy.” He smiles. “You look puzzled.”
“I can’t imagine not being creative. Barely a day goes by when I’m not making something. Music, art, stories.”
“Love?” His eyes crinkle at the edges.
“You know the answer to that,” I tell him wryly, having a sip of my champagne.
He finishes his half of the Tiramisu and pushes the dish toward me. I have the last few spoonfuls, then lean back with a sigh. “That was delicious.”
“The best in the city.”
“I’m guessing you have the best of everything?”
“No point in having money if you don’t.”
I smile. “I guess.”
We both finish off our champagne. “Would you like coffee?” he asks.
“No thank you. I’m full.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you. I’ve had a lovely time.”
He sighs. “It’s a shame it’s over. I’m guessing you wouldn’t like to go for a drink at a bar?”
“Um, not really. I think I’ve had enough alcohol.”
“Fair enough. You want me to call an Uber back to the ferry?”
I meet his eyes. My heart—which has been going faster than normal all night—picks up speed.
I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. “Aren’t you going to ask me? ”
His blue eyes are intense, flickering with flame from the candle on the table between us. But he hesitates, and I suddenly realize what an idiot I’ve been.
“You’re worried I only want to go with you because of George and Richard,” I whisper. “That I’m trying to seduce you.” Oh, I’m such an idiot…
But his brow creases. “No. I hadn’t even thought of that.” He gives me an impatient look. “Scarlett, I’ll pay the seventeen and a half million for the Waiora. Of course I will. I was always going to.”
My eyebrows shoot up and my jaw drops. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“When did you decide that?”
“The moment you told me what they wanted.”
I stare at him, confused. “So why did you ask me to dinner?”
He just laughs. Then he tips his head to the side. “Anyway, it’s not why I hesitated to ask you back to my place. I hurt you last time, and I don’t want to do it again.”
“I’m no expert, but as I understand it, once it’s done, it’s done…”
“I’m no expert either. I think you’re right. But being someone’s first is kind of a responsibility, and down the line I don’t want you to regret that it was me.”
“I wouldn’t,” I whisper.
We study each other for a moment.
“So…” he says eventually, “if you know I’m going to buy the pool at the full amount… and you don’t have to seduce me… would you still like to come back to my place?”
I suck my bottom lip. Then I nod.
His eyes light up, and his lips curve into a smile. “Come on,” he murmurs.
He rises and holds out a hand, and I get up, pick up Bearcub, and slide my hand into Orson’s. His warm fingers close around mine, and he leads me into the restaurant, where he pays for dinner and orders an Uber. Then he takes me outside, and we wait for it to arrive.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say. “I should have offered to pay half.”
He just laughs. Then he turns to face me, slides a hand around my waist to the small of my back, and moves close to me.
His gaze scans me, desire in his eyes. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. Then he dips his head and lowers his lips to mine .
His hand splays in the middle of my back, holding me there, showing me he’s not going to let me go until he’s kissed me. Powerless to resist, I reach up onto my tiptoes and rest my hands on his chest, leaning into the kiss. My fingers pluck at his cotton shirt, and I give a soft moan in my throat as his lips move across mine. It’s a public kiss, no tongues, but my heart bangs anyway, my insides turning molten as my blood heats up like mercury in a thermometer.
When he eventually lifts his head, his pupils have dilated, and we’re both breathing fast. “Uber’s here,” he says, his voice husky.
I detach myself and get in, hoping I don’t faint, because I feel a bit dizzy. Maybe it’s the champagne. Or the adrenaline. Or maybe I’m hyperventilating. I should have brought a brown paper bag with me.
Orson gets in the other side, and the car slides into the traffic.
He picks up my hand and kisses my fingertips. “Are you sure about this?” he murmurs. “I’m not expecting anything. If you’d rather go home, that’s fine.”
I shake my head. “I’d like to see where you live.”
His lips curve up. “Okay.”
“Where do you live, actually?”
“I have an apartment overlooking the harbor.”
“Don’t tell me—the penthouse?”
He just smiles, so I know I’m right.
“But you stay at the club sometimes?” I ask.
He nods. “I have a suite in the hotel.”
“So you have two houses?”
“I also have a bach up in the Bay of Islands.”
My jaw drops at his mention of a beach house in what many call the most beautiful part of New Zealand. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And I have a townhouse in Wellington, another in Christchurch, and one in Dunedin.”
“Wow.”
He grins. “I go to a lot of meetings and conferences across the country.”
“It’s impressive. Do you ever look forward to settling down, though? Putting down roots?”
He looks surprised. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“What about when you have a family? A wife and kids.”
He looks genuinely puzzled, and I can see he really hasn’t considered it. “I guess,” he says .
“You’ve never considered asking any of your girlfriends to marry you?” I ask. The words sound funny as they leave my mouth, as if I’m trying to force apples through small square holes in a wire fence. The thought of him being with other women, being intimate with them, twists me up inside.
“No,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Dunno. Never been in love.”
I stare at him. “Never?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“Then why is it so surprising?”
“Well, you’re an old man for a start…”
He gives a short laugh. “Thanks.”
I feel oddly breathless. “But you’ve lived with someone?”
“No. Not permanently.”
“They’ve stayed over at your apartment though?”
His lips slowly curve up. “Scarlett…” he says, drawing the word out, “are you jealous?”
“No. Not at all. I wouldn’t… I’d never… Goodness. How can you even say that?”
He chuckles. “No other woman has been to my current apartment.”
“Really?”
“I’ve only been there six months.”
“You haven’t dated for six months?”
“I haven’t dated for nearly a year.”
“Why not?”
He just shrugs. “Been busy.”
“You really don’t go on Tinder or have one-night stands?”
He shakes his head. Then he slowly smiles. “You like that?”
I shrug, but I have a warm feeling inside.
He looks out of the window, then says, “Here we are.”
We’re right on the waterfront, not far from busy Queen Street, with Queens Wharf on our right and towering buildings on our left. We get out and he takes my hand again, then leads me past a hotel to an apartment block that glows like a jewel in the dusky evening. I look up, and up, and up. It’s cube-shaped, but the bottom half has an interesting twisted facade.
“It’s inspired by the Māori Pikorua motif,” he says .
“Oh…”
“It’s New Zealand’s tallest residential tower. There’s a gym, a pool, a library, resident lounges, an entertainment hub with a small cinema, and a restaurant with a twenty-four-hour kitchen for room service.”
“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s like an extremely exclusive hotel. He actually lives here?
Glass double doors slide open as we approach, and we enter a large lobby. Wood-paneled walls and a natural stone floor make it look classy and spacious, while green plants in white pots give it a natural touch. A couple of young businessmen sit on a leather suite in a small lounge near to the front desk, presumably waiting for a friend. Orson nods at them and says, “Evening,” as we pass, and they smile back.
“ Ahiahi mārie , Mr. Cavendish,” says the Māori guy standing behind the reception desk. It means good evening.
“ Kei te pēhea koe , Rawiri?” Orson asks, surprising me with the way it rolls off his tongue. It means ‘how are you?’
“ Kei te pai ahau ,” Rawiri replies, meaning I’m good.
“This is Mahuika Stone,” Orson says.
“Everyone calls me Scarlett,” I add, flushing at the sound of him using my full name.
“Kia ora Scarlett.” Rawiri smiles. “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Cavendish?”
“No thanks, all good.”
“Have a great evening.”
Orson nods and leads me over to the elevators. He pushes the button, the doors open, and we go into the carriage.
He takes a key card out of his pocket and touches it to the pad. There are fifty-seven floors, and he presses the button for fifty-four.
“Not the top floor?” I tease. “Thought you’d have the biggest and the best.”
“The top three levels are for services,” he says as the doors close and the elevator starts to rise.
“Oh.”
He chuckles.
“I didn’t realize you could speak Māori,” I say.
“Everyone learned Māori at my school. Kingi always says I have terrible pronunciation.”
I lean back against the wall of the carriage. “You speak it just fine. Was it a posh school? ”
“Somerset College.”
“Private, I’m guessing.” I can’t keep a sarcastic tone out of my voice.
“Yes.” His lips curve up. “You disapprove.”
“Of course I disapprove. Decent education and medical care should be available to everyone, not just those who can afford it.”
He tips his head to the side, his eyelids lowering to half mast, looking so sexy that it makes my mouth water.
“You’re so privileged and elitist,” I say breathlessly. “So confident and arrogant.”
“Yep. I always get what I want.”
“And what do you want right now?”
He laughs, walks toward me, and takes my face in his hands. “I fucking adore you.”
“Oh! I—”
I have no chance to say anything else, because he crushes his lips to mine, presses me up hard against the wall, and kisses the living daylights out of me.
Oh my God, I’ve never been kissed like it, not even remotely. There’s enough heat in his lips to brand me, and when I gasp, my mouth opening, he plunges his tongue inside and deepens the kiss until I’m breathless and aching with longing.
Only when the lift pings and the doors open does he move back. His blue eyes blaze as they search mine, and then he takes my hand and leads me out and along a quiet corridor. It’s thickly carpeted so our feet make no sound. There are four doors, two to the left and two to the right, and he walks to the furthest door on the left.
He stops before it, then to my surprise turns to me. He takes my face in his hands again.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks gently.
I nod.
He strokes my cheeks with his thumbs. “I don’t want to keep asking, but I need you to know that if you want me to stop at any time, just say so, and I will, okay? I won’t be angry.”
This guy makes me melt. “I know,” I whisper, because even though I’ve just called him arrogant and privileged and he’s told me he always gets what he wants, I believe him. He hasn’t forced me to come here. It’s entirely my choice, and I know if I said I wanted to leave, he wouldn’t stop me .
I have no intention of doing that, though. Not in a million billion years.
“You going to give me a safe word?” I ask, trying to be sassy.
He chuckles. “You won’t need one.” He lowers his head and kisses me, this time so gently it’s as if a butterfly has landed on my lips. Then he lifts his head, touches his key card to the door, and we go inside.