Chapter Nineteen
Scarlett
Right up until the moment Orson almost-knocked on the door, I was telling myself I couldn’t go with him. I spent yesterday and most of today arguing with myself, getting ready for the party while at the same time convinced I wasn’t going to go. I carried his phone in my back pocket and felt it buzz each time he messaged or called. I couldn’t bring myself to answer the call, but I did listen to his voice message, and I read the texts he sent. I wanted to reply… but every time I rested my fingers on the keys, I thought of my father and imagined how angry he’d be that I was getting involved with Spencer Cavendish’s son.
And yet here I am, in his car, heading over to the Midnight Club. I feel a pang of shame as I think about the rare times that Dad mentioned the Cavendishes, and the way his eyes would light with fury. I don’t think he’d understand that neither Orson nor I are interested in their feud. He would say I don’t understand the perils of capitalism, and that all Orson wants is to destroy the beauty of the world he created at Kahukura, and I’m betraying everything he worked to build. And I have no doubt that Spencer would say I’m after his son’s money.
“Are you okay?” Orson reaches across to hold my hand.
I look out of the window, listening to the Aston purr its way through the countryside. “I’m nervous that your father is going to be at the party.” His eyes held hostility the last time we met in Orson’s office. It makes me uncomfortable and anxious just to think about it.
“He won’t give you any trouble,” Orson says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure that the pup has the strength to confront the leader of the pack. Spencer’s manner commands respect, and I’m convinced his haughty disdain would subdue any confrontation in the workplace. I’m sure he would have discouraged any challenges from his children while they were growing up, and that would naturally have led into adulthood. Orson has his own business with Kingi, and he’s obviously successful in his own right, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to take on his father.
There’s no point in worrying about it, though. Both Mum and Dad are gone, and all I can do is follow my heart and do my best, even if I make a complete hash of things in the process.
Orson swoops around the drive in front of the resort and pulls into a parking space right out the front of the main building that has his name on it. Oh, that’s flash.
“Come on,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt. “Try not to worry. You look amazing.”
Somewhat mollified by his comment, I get out of the car and go to retrieve my bag, but he shoulders it and takes my hand. I decide not to argue and let him lead me up the steps to the lobby.
“Hey, Ash,” Orson says to a young porter who comes out to greet us. “Could you take this up to my suite, please?” He hands him my bag and says to me, “Do you need anything from it?”
I have a clutch, so I shake my head. Ash agrees to take the bag up without batting an eyelid, although I’m sure he’ll be telling the rest of the staff shortly. I wonder how often Orson brings girls to the club? He insisted he hasn’t dated for nearly a year, but I can’t quite believe that. He’s too handsome, too loaded, and too irresistible not to be fighting girls off with a stick. Surely he must parade a succession of beautiful young things through these doors?
The lobby is busy with guests, some checking in, others sitting having a coffee or an aperitif by the windows overlooking the gardens. A couple of businessmen are heading for the doors to the club. As the doors open, the enticing beat of dance music makes my heart race, and colored lights spill onto the gray carpet as if someone’s knocked over cans of paints. My heartbeat rises; I’ve never been to a nightclub and have no desire to go to one, and if Orson leads me over to it, I’ll have to run off in the opposite direction.
But he doesn’t—he takes me to the other side of the lobby to a set of doors marked ‘Gardens and Pools’ with a sign that announces the area is ‘Closed for private function’. I guess most of the guests will be at dinner or heading to the club.
The automatic doors slide open, and we go outside. It’s a beautiful evening, close to sunset, the air still holding late-summer warmth. There’s a lane pool at the far end, but the one closest to us is huge and kidney shaped, with steps leading into a shallow area at one end and a deeper area at the other. The place is paved with attractive light-pink and white paving slabs, and there are numerous palm trees to give the place a tropical feel. The bar I saw beside the pool is open, with bartenders carrying cocktails and other drinks to the guests who are sitting on loungers or at the round tables. A couple of staff are working at a barbecue that stands in front of the main kitchen, filling the air with the smell of cooked food. The sliding doors that lead to the Midnight Club are open although roped off, so the music is audible, but not too loud to make conversation difficult.
“Kingi,” Orson says, and I turn to see the birthday boy approaching with a smile. Orson has previously made the comparison to Bigfoot, and now I can see why—the guy is huge, taller than Orson by a couple of inches, and with big shoulders and a wide chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless tee, and he has a full Māori tattoo on his left arm from shoulder to wrist. He has amazing shoulder-length wavy dark-brown hair, and a thick beard. His eyes are an attractive amber color, almost orange.
“You must be Scarlett,” Kingi says, his voice deeper than Orson’s, like a lion’s growl. He holds out a big paw and shakes my hand. “Good to meet you at last.”
“Happy birthday!” I take a small parcel out of my purse and hand it to him. Orson’s eyebrows rise.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Kingi protests.
“It’s nothing elaborate,” I admit. “I made it myself.”
He tears off the paper and reveals a miniature canvas attached to a tiny wooden easel. On it I’ve painted the words ‘Te Aranui Developments’ and a stylistic landscape of a road disappearing into the distance—the long road.
“It was just for fun,” I say bashfully. “You don’t have to keep it.”
“I love it,” he replies, astonished. “I’m going to put it on my desk. Thank you so much.” He gives me a big bearhug, grinning as he releases me. “I’m glad you could make it. I don’t know what I’d have done with him if you’d decided not to come. He’s been grouchy as all day.”
“No I haven’t,” Orson insists.
“Moping,” Kingi adds. “Pining like a lovesick teenager.”
I giggle, glowing with pleasure at the thought that he’s missed me .
Orson rolls his eyes. “Where’s Marama?”
“She was here a moment ago.” Kingi looks around, spots her by the bar, and gestures for her to come over.
“It’s Kingi’s older sister,” Orson murmurs to me as she approaches.
She can only be older by a year or so, because she looks a similar age to me. She has flawless light-brown skin. Her dark-brown hair is long and sleek, and like me she’s small and slight, with high cheekbones, a pretty smile, and a Moko Kauae—a traditional Māori tattoo on her chin. A Moko Kauae isn’t just a decoration—it’s a sacred expression of a woman’s connection to her whānau or family, and also illustrates that she has leadership and status within her community.
She also has a tattoo curling around her lower left arm. At first glance it looks like another traditional Māori tattoo, but as I look closer I can see it includes the phases of the moon, maybe because her name, Marama, means ‘moon.’
She looks nothing like Kingi, and briefly I wonder if they’re adopted until I see she has the same startling amber eyes. I guess she must take after their mother.
“Orson!” She goes up to him, and they exchange a serious hongi, pressing noses in the Māori fashion, exchanging the ha or breath of life. Then she laughs and flings her arms around his neck, and they have a big hug.
“And who’s this?” she asks, smiling at me as they move back.
“This is Mahuika Stone,” Orson says.
“Most people call me Scarlett,” I tell her.
“For the fire goddess?” She gestures at my red dress and smiles, then comes forward. We hongi as we shake hands. “Wait.” She moves back and her eyebrows rise. “Stone? As in, Blake Stone’s daughter?”
I nod.
Her jaw drops, and she glances at Orson. “Are you two an item?”
“Yes,” he says, at the same time that I say, “No.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” Kingi says.
“We’re just… it’s a casual thing,” I say, flustered.
“Don’t listen to her,” Orson says, “we’re getting married next month.”
“Orson!”
“What?” He smirks. He’s only joking, I know, but my face still burns .
Marama glares at him. “Don’t tease the poor girl. Make yourself useful and go and get us a drink.”
“Champagne?” Orson asks me.
“Goodness.”
He just grins and walks off with Kingi to the bar.
“Men,” Marama says. “They’re all pains in the ass.”
“Absolutely,” I agree with feeling, and she laughs.
“You live over at Kahukura?” she asks curiously, leading me to an empty table by the side of the pool.
I nod, taking a seat opposite her. “I hold yoga and art classes there.”
“Oh!” Her face lights up. “I’m an artist, too!”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Have you exhibited anywhere?”
“No,” I say hastily, “I’m only an amateur. I use art as part of a holistic healing program for abused women and children.”
Her expression softens. “That sounds amazing. Art can be so therapeutic and cathartic, can’t it?”
“That’s what I think. I encourage the women to paint what they feel, and to journal and write poetry to help them express their anger and frustration. What about you? Are you professional?”
She nods. “I lived in Wellington for a few years and exhibited down there and did quite a few commissions.”
“You paint?”
“I work in lots of media, like clay and collage. My favorite was making stained glass Māori patterns. But I’ve been traveling across Europe, and it’s not been practical to carry too many supplies, so I’ve mainly been painting acrylics.”
The guys come back with our drinks and sit beside us, listening while we continue talking.
“I’ve never traveled,” I admit. “How amazing, to go across Europe.”
She drops her gaze to her champagne flute. “Mm, well, I was in a bad place and needed to do something different.”
I see Orson and Kingi exchange glances. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” I tell Marama softly.
She rubs her nose. “No, it’s okay. I’m much better now. I was living with my fiancé—we’d been engaged for six months and were due to get married. This was over a year ago. Then a friend of mine told me she’d seen him at a conference, and said he went to his room with another woman.”
I press my fingers to my lips as both men frown. “Oh no.”
She continues, “He denied it and got really angry with me for suggesting he’d been unfaithful. We had an uneasy Christmas while I tried to tell myself my friend had gotten it wrong. But on New Year’s Eve I was wearing his jacket, and I found an earring in his pocket. He denied it again, but long story short, it eventually turned out he’d been having an affair with a work colleague for several months.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say with feeling.
“Cheating on her was bad enough,” Kingi says, “but gaslighting her like that was just awful.” His eyes flash. “I wanted to break both his legs.”
“Too obvious,” Orson says. “I told you poison would have been easier to hide.”
We all chuckle, but it’s clear that the two men are mad about what happened, and I understand why.
Marama sighs. “It’s terrible when you know in your heart that something is wrong, but the other person won’t admit it. I thought I was going mad. Anyway, I was angry and upset when I realized what he’d done. I took it really hard. The apartment was his, so I had to move out. My father suggested I go somewhere completely different to recover and concentrate on my art. So I visited some of the big European art galleries, trying to heal and regain my inspiration.”
“Did it work?” I ask.
She nods. “I painted lots of beautiful landscapes. I’m much better now, thanks.” She smiles. “Anyway, enough about me. Come on, why don’t we get something to eat?”
“Now you’re talking.” Kingi gets to his feet, and the rest of us follow.
We cross to the tables next to the barbecue where the food is laid out, and a waiter hands us all a plate. I was concerned that there wouldn’t be much for me to eat as I’m a vegetarian, but I’m relieved to see they’ve included some veggie kebabs with zucchinis, bell peppers, mushrooms, and baby tomatoes, and a whole heap of various salads, including a pasta one, a rice one, two different potato salads, and a gorgeous Greek salad with green leaves, olives, and feta cheese. There’s also freshly baked garlic bread and herb bread .
We heap up our plates and then return to our table. On the way, Orson introduces me to a few people, including a woman who turns out to be his sister, Helen. I would think she’s a year or two younger than him, elegant and graceful, despite the fact that she’s heavily pregnant. Is this what his mother looked like?
“Oh, hello,” she says, shaking my hand. Her eyes, the same blue as his, are alight with curiosity. “So you’re the girl who has him all a flutter?”
“Don’t you start,” he mumbles, putting his plate down with a thump.
She grins. “Callum wants to know if you’re definitely coming to his birthday party?”
“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’ll let him know. Good to meet you,” she says to me, then heads off back to her table.
“Callum?” I ask as we sit.
“My nephew. He’s three next week. I promised him I’d go to his party and get my face painted with him.”
I smile, warmed through at the thought of Orson having his face painted as Spider-Man or something. “Is he here today?”
“No.” He’s distracted by a man who approaches to wish Kingi happy birthday, and he and Kingi shake hands with him and start talking business.
Marama leans closer to me and murmurs, “This is a child-free resort.”
I look around the pool, realizing she’s right, and there are no children here today. The youngest person present is maybe twenty, so there aren’t even any teens.
“How weird,” I say, then suddenly realize how rude that must sound. “Oh, um…”
“It’s all right,” she says softly. “It takes some getting used to.” She nibbles at a seafood kebab. “It’s just how we’ve been brought up—children are seen and not heard. When I was traveling through Spain and Italy, it shocked me initially to see children with the adults at the dinner tables, and they don’t tend to have kids’ menus—they eat what the adults are having. The children are often up very late. But then I’m guessing that’s your experience too, at the commune?”
I nod. “My mother was Māori, and she was keen to include children at all meals and social events. ”
“The Midnight Club is marketed to the rich as exclusive, a place you can come to escape the noise and frustrations of the family,” she says. “We hold lots of conferences here, too, so a lot of business is done, and you don’t really want little kids running around screaming, or teenagers causing havoc.”
“I suppose. But then—” I stop as a shadow falls over the table. I look up, and my heart skips a beat at the sight of Spencer Cavendish standing there like a stone monolith—tall and imposing. He’s wearing chinos, so he looks more casual than the last time I saw him in a suit, but he still has a shirt and tie. Does he wear one in bed?
Orson is still talking to Kingi and the other guy, and he’s standing with his back to us, so he hasn’t seen his father. Spencer’s blue eyes are cold, and my mouth goes dry.
“Ms. Stone,” he says.
“Mr. Cavendish,” I say in a similar cool tone.
“I understand you managed to persuade Orson to pay an extra two and a half million for the Waiora,” he states. He tips his head to the side. “Now how did you manage that, I wonder?”
I meet his eyes. It’s the second time someone’s implied that I slept with Orson purely to get him to raise his bid, and I get to my feet, feeling a rare surge of anger. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marama reach across and tug Orson’s T-shirt. He looks over his shoulder and sees us, and immediately turns and walks across to us.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Spencer states. “Ms. Stone here was just about to reveal the truth about what she did to get her extra two and a half million dollars.”
Orson’s eyes flare, and he inhales, clearly with the intention of exploding. Before he can do that, though, I say, “I overheard you, you know.”
Spencer frowns. “What do you mean?”
“When you came to the commune,” I tell him. “I was in the house. I overheard everything.”
Orson opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
The music is still playing, and around us the sound of laughter and conversation continues. But at the table there’s an icy silence.
Orson looks from his father to me and back again. “What does she mean? When did you go to the commune?”
Spencer’s brows draw together, but he doesn’t reply .
“It was just after Christmas,” I say.
“Before your mother died?” Orson asks.
I nod. “You want to talk about the truth,” I say hotly to Spencer, unable to keep my anger suppressed any more. “Tell him why you came to Kahukura. Tell him what you said.”
But Spencer doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns on his heel, walks away, and disappears inside the building.