Chapter One #2
He and my father have been business associates for many years.
As a curvy teenager with brown skin and wavy, somewhat unruly muddy-brown hair, I was envious of his beautiful, elegant wife, Eleanor.
She was tall, slim to the point of skinny, with pale skin and blonde hair that she tended to wear pinned up, although one day I saw her with it down, and I was jealous of the curtain of golden hair that cascaded down her back like Rapunzel.
They would come to the house for dinner parties, and Mum would let me sneak into the room until it was my bedtime, as long as I was quiet.
I’d bring my sketchbook and sit to one side, drawing the guests while I listened to their conversation, most of which went over my head.
I’d draw them all, but the majority of my sketches were of Spencer.
I think about the one I found a few days ago, and try not to blush.
Eleanor died about six years ago now, of breast cancer. I half expected to hear of some blonde bimbo snapping Spencer up soon after—after all he must have half of Auckland sniffing around him—but as far as I know he’s still single.
Helen yawns. “I need to go home. Are you coming?”
“I’ll finish off my champagne first.”
“All right. Let me know how tomorrow goes.”
“Will do.”
She stands and bends so we can kiss each other’s cheeks, and then she smiles and walks away.
I turn my glass in my fingers. The party is winding down.
Orson has left with his new girl, Scarlett, whom I met tonight, and others are starting to head off.
Kingi has gone into the club with a group of friends; no doubt they’ll be delving into the expensive whiskeys by now.
A few people remain, talking and laughing as they finish off their drinks.
I let my gaze drift across to Spencer again.
He’s still alone, still looking at his phone. He’ll probably head to his suite soon. It looks as if he’ll be going on his own.
Most of the guys at the party were wearing tees and swim shorts, but Spencer is wearing cream chinos and a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves turned up a few times, with a plain dark-blue tie.
Because of the way he’s sitting, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, the cotton sleeves are stretched tightly across his impressive biceps.
The champagne has made me bold, and before I can think better of it, I rise with my glass and walk casually around the pool to his table.
He doesn’t look up until I stop before him. He studies my feet, which are bare because I took my sandals off hours ago, and then his gaze slides slowly up my legs, over the short summer dress I’m wearing over my bikini, and up to my face.
“Hello,” I say, trying not to shiver at his slow appraisal. I gesture at the chair next to him. “Can I join you?”
“Sure.” His deep voice is a little husky, and it gives me goosebumps. He pulls the chair out for me, then leans back. I lower myself into it, placing my glass on the table.
My heart hammers, but outwardly I remain calm. Although music emanates from the club, the atmosphere around the pool is peaceful. Members of staff are sweeping up discarded serviettes and streamers, and collecting plates and glasses. Others are cleaning the barbecue and wiping down the tables.
“It was a nice party,” I say.
He turns off his phone and places it on the table, hooks an arm over the back of the chair, and picks up his glass with the other hand. He has bright blue eyes, and more goosebumps pop out on my skin as he gives me his full attention. “Yeah,” he says. “Kingi had a good time, I think.”
“And is continuing to do so. I’m sure I can hear him singing.” Sure enough, my brother’s voice is audible over the top of everyone else’s, belting out the wrong words to the Bee Gees’ How Deep is Your Love . “And you come to me, on a submarine,” Kingi sings, and Spencer and I laugh.
Spencer sips his drink. “How about you?” he asks. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
I shrug, leaning an elbow on the table and my chin on my hand. “Yeah, it was okay. Good to catch up with everyone again.”
“You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Six months,” I concede. “I came back for a couple of weeks over Christmas, but you weren’t around.”
“I was in Australia.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“Business.”
I give him a mischievous smile. “You didn’t indulge in any pleasure while you were there?”
His lips curve up, but he doesn’t answer.
We sit there for a while, not talking. I look around the pool, my artist’s eye taking in the subdued colors, the angles and poses of the staff and guests, imagining how I’d frame them in a painting. The silence doesn’t feel awkward. I like that.
When I eventually look back at him, it’s to find his steady gaze still resting on me. He doesn’t look embarrassed at being caught watching me. I can’t imagine that this guy is ever embarrassed about anything. He owns all his actions and words.
“Tell me about your moko kauae ,” he says softly.
My left hand rises, and I rest my fingers on the tattoo on my chin.
Many Māori women choose to wear these. It flows symmetrically from the bottom lip to the chin, the patterns branching downward like roots and rippling outward like water.
Culturally, it’s a sacred mark of whakapapa or lineage, mana or personal power, and identity.
“Do you like it?” I ask shyly. As soon as the words are out, I scold myself for asking them. What does it matter whether he likes it or not? I didn’t get it to please anyone except myself.
But he says, “It’s elegant and beautiful. Like you.” And I can’t help but warm all the way through. I blush, and he smiles.
“I had it done here, just after Christmas,” I admit. “Even though I enjoyed traveling, I felt lost—not physically, but spiritually.”
“Because of your breakup?” he asks.
My eyebrows lift at his astuteness, and I nod. “You heard about that?”
“Rangi told me.”
I give a short laugh. “I bet he did. My father never liked Connor.”
“Nobody’s ever good enough for a man’s daughter.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I know, but he really didn’t like Connor.”
“Because he was older? What was he, thirty-three? Thirty-four?”
“Thirty-five. That was partly it. But Dad thought he was too manipulative.”
“Was he?”
I look into my champagne glass. My spine stiffens as I think about my ex, and I fill with shame at the thought of how I let him dictate what I wore, what I ate, even who my friends were.
“You don’t have to answer,” Spencer says.
Ah shit, what does it matter now? Slowly, I exhale and feel my body relax. “Yeah, it stings, but he was right. I didn’t realize how much he dominated me until… I got pregnant.”
His eyes widen. “Oh.”
“I was switching birth control methods and thought I was protected, but obviously I wasn’t.
He said we weren’t ready and it was too early, but I was heading toward thirty, and we had our own apartment.
He wanted me to have an abortion, but I didn’t see why we couldn’t have it.
We argued a lot. He pressured me heavily.
And then, ironically, I had a miscarriage, so there was no decision to make. ”
His expression softens. “Ah, I’m sorry.”
“Nobody knows,” I warn him, wondering why it’s all spilling out now. “I haven’t even told my parents.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
I sigh. “Just a few months later, he cheated on me, and I walked out. I realized I didn’t know who I was anymore.” I’m half talking to myself, and I give him an embarrassed glance. “Sorry, that sounds very New Age.”
But his gaze is gentle. “I understand.”
“He didn’t like my friends and family, or even this part of the country, so I hadn’t been home for a long time. I wanted to reconnect with where I come from, and prove to myself that there was life after my breakup, and that I still have purpose and status as a woman on my own.”
He tips his head to the side. “Of course you do. You’re young and beautiful, and you’re a successful artist, with your whole life ahead of you.”
I meet his eyes and let my lips curve in a smile. “Are you flirting with me, Spencer?”
His eyes sparkle in the gleam of the solar fairy lights strung overhead. “Doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”
“Naughty boy.”
“Now who’s flirting?” He has such a relaxed, easy manner.
Such charm. My gaze slides to his mouth, to his firm, narrow lips.
What would he kiss like? And how would he be in bed?
Would he be gentle with a woman, caress her and tease her to the edge of pleasure, then make love to her tenderly?
Or would he be feral and demanding, taking what he wanted and driving us both to a passionate climax?
“Marama…” He scolds.
“What?”
“You know what.”
“I’m just sitting here, finishing off my champagne.”
But we both know there’s something else going on. My pulse is racing, and there’s magic in the air. I want him, and I’m pretty sure he wants me, too.
What will the rest of the night bring?