Chapter Two #2
“We use it for money laundering.”
“Well I know that’s a lie. There’s no way my father would be involved in anything remotely dishonest. The man has morals straight out of the Old Testament.”
“Thou shalt not launder funds through a business that sells tequila and plays loud rock music?”
She laughs. “Something like that.”
Les comes back with our drinks and places them before us, then, without asking, moves one of the heaters closer to us, which brings a welcome warmth to the late March evening. I thank him, and he smiles before returning to wiping down the bar.
The final group of friends sitting around the pool gets up and heads for the nightclub, leaving Marama and I on our own, with only a few staff members quietly cleaning up.
Above us, the moon is a thin crescent. Marama has a Māori tattoo on her arm that includes the phases of the moon, presumably reflecting the meaning of her name.
I think how much she’s changed since the last time I saw her, about eighteen months ago.
She was still dating Connor then. Rangi, her father, had admitted to me that he disliked the man intensely, stating that he was a manipulative bastard.
Marama had seemed her usual sunny self, although I had found it strange at the time that her partner hadn’t come with her to visit her family.
Now, she seems sadder and quieter, more serious.
She’s average height, attractively curvy.
Her moko kauae adds to her beauty, drawing attention to her full mouth, the dimples in her cheeks, and her light-brown, flawless skin.
Even though she’s obviously not been a child for a long time, for me it feels like a symbol of her entering womanhood.
She glances at my glass. “What are you drinking, vodka?”
“No. Just Sprite.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Seriously?”
“I’m teetotal.”
“Oh, why?”
I just smile.
“You’re incredibly handsome,” she says, surprising me. She’s so open, as if she has no internal filter and says exactly what’s on her mind. “I love your silver hair.”
“Why do you like older men?” I ask, genuinely interested.
She shrugs. “Guys my age seem immature and childish.”
“I wouldn’t call Kingi and Orson childish.”
“Are you serious? Can you hear Kingi singing?”
Sure enough, his deep voice is currently bellowing Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie, once again singing the wrong words. I try not to laugh, and fail.
“You’d never make a fool of yourself like that,” she says. “I like that you’re in control.”
My heart gives an unusual bang on my ribs at her mention of control. Her eyes glitter, suggesting her words hold a deeper, maybe sexual connotation.
She holds my gaze, and gradually our lips curve up.
“I’m sure another of your father’s commandments would be ‘Thou shalt not lead older men into temptation,’” I point out, determined to use humor to disarm the increasing sexual tension.
“Am I tempting you?” she murmurs seductively.
I don’t answer, but I’m unable to tear my gaze from hers.
“I admire you,” she says.
“Why?” I’m surprised, even baffled. Women are often attracted to my money, but Marama comes from a wealthy family, so it’s not that. I don’t think I’m bad looking, and I keep myself fit, but I’m hardly a stud, and I don’t understand why I’m drawing her eye.
“The fact that you’re a self-made man,” she says. “I know you had issues with your birth parents, and were raised by a foster family. That you don’t come from money. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I think that’s admirable.”
I don’t reply, but her words touch me. It’s true; practically everything I have, I’ve made myself, with the guidance and support of my foster parents.
“You had Orson so young,” she says, “and it makes you feel as if you’re a different generation from the young guys who are on their way up, but I think you forget you’re only forty-six, not sixty-six.”
“That may be true,” I concede.
She has a mouthful of champagne, and I imagine the bubbles dancing on her tongue, sliding down inside her.
“There are still sixteen years between us,” I point out. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Well, technically, maybe.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
She shakes her head. She leans forward, both arms on the table. Her dress has a low neck, and it gapes forward a little. It takes all my willpower not to eye-dip her, but I’m aware of her beautiful breasts on the verge of escaping the bright-blue bikini triangles. Is she doing it on purpose?
“You’re stunning,” I murmur, unable to keep my words to myself.
Her expression lights up. Did she really not know that I found her attractive?
“Thank you,” she says graciously.
“You were the most beautiful woman here tonight.”
She likes that. Color appears on her cheekbones, and she gives a bashful smile.
I lean forward too, and now we’re only six inches apart. I could kiss her, if I wanted to. I don’t. But I could.
“Thank you for buying a piece of my work,” she says softly.
I admitted earlier this evening that I have a piece of her stained-glass artwork hanging in my home.
Last year, I had a late business meeting on the outskirts of Auckland, close to a small art gallery.
After the meeting, I saw that the gallery was open late for a special exhibition, and, curious more than anything, I wandered in with the intention of passing five or ten minutes before I went home.
I was genuinely impressed by the stained-glass pieces that were displayed with lamps behind them, so they cast dazzling jeweled light across the room.
I decided to buy one called Parson-Bird which features the tui bird with the white feathers at its throat that give it the nickname, its plumage a beautiful blend of blue, purple, and green.
I find any natural talent fascinating, and this piece stayed with me.
It wasn’t until I got home and saw the name on the back that I realized the artist was Marama.
“I thought it was amazing,” I tell her. “You have incredible talent. You could take this country by storm if you put your mind to it.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh! Well, thank you.”
“Amazing to think of what must be going on inside your head. I love your brain.”
“Oh, it’s my brain you find attractive?”
“Of course.”
“Not my boobs?”
I give a short laugh. “I knew you leaned forward on purpose.”
Her mischievous smile tells me I was right. She glances down, then back up at me, her eyes holding an open invitation.
Slowly, I let my gaze slide down her neck, over her collarbone, and then down the smooth skin exposed by the low neckline to the swell of her breasts.
We’re right under the fairy lights, and the top of her breasts are illuminated, and glow a rich creamy brown.
I can’t see her nipples, but I imagine them medium-brown, swollen in the warmth from the heater.
They’d tighten, though, if I covered them with my mouth and sucked.
When I lift my gaze back again, her pulse is beating fast in her throat.
“That was the sexiest look anyone’s ever given me.” Her voice is husky with desire. “It was as if you were trailing a feather down me.”
“I’d like to do that.”
“Would you tie me up first?”
Ohhh… I did not expect this when I came to the party tonight. My cock twitches, and I’m glad it’s invisible beneath the table.
I tip my head to the side. “Would you like that?”
She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, then gives a small nod. “Would you like to tie me up, Spencer? So I’m at your mercy, and you can do whatever you want to me?”
Her eyes are sultry, the pupils huge in the semi-darkness.
I now have an erection, and it’s impossible not to think about stripping her naked, kissing her until she opens to me, and then sliding inside her.
She lifts a hand and touches the flash of white at my left temple. Then she slides her hand into my hair. Her nails run lightly across my scalp, and I close my eyes. Her fingers as they stroke me are tender, loving even.
I’ve never had a woman touch me like it before, and it makes me shiver.
“I’d like to paint you,” she whispers, “a wolf with silver hair.”
My lips part, and I’m close to moaning with ecstasy. If she moved her other hand under the table, slid down my zipper, and stroked my cock, I know I could come in less than a minute.
Argh. Exercise some self-control, man.
With some effort, I force my eyes open and lean back in my chair. Her fingers slide out of my hair, and she lowers her hand.
“I understand we’re going to exhibit some of your work,” I say, trying to lighten the mood and turn it away from sex. “Maybe you can add it to the collection.”
She studies her champagne glass, then has a large mouthful.
“Not really enough room in the Morepork.” Before I can comment on the touch of sarcasm in her voice, she says, “I had some good news tonight, though. I’ve been invited to the business club, Lumen, tomorrow.
” Her expression is pleased, eager. “Apparently the owner wants to empower women by supporting local female artists, especially Māori women. I’m looking forward to that. ”
It’s as if she’s thrown a bucket of cold water over me. I stare at her, while my heart stamps its feet in my chest.
“I see,” I say stiffly. “Well, good luck with that.”
Her smile fades slowly. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just don’t believe everything Genevieve Beaumont tells you.”
“You know her?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She waits for me to elaborate. When I remain silent, she gives a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe Helen was right.”
“About what?”
“About guys at Midnight not wanting women to do well.”
I frown impatiently. “That’s bullshit. Don’t get caught up in my daughter’s conspiracy theories.”
“I thought you’d be pleased for me.” She’s genuinely hurt.
I push away my own misgivings. “I am glad that someone recognizes your excellent ability. Just keep in mind that everyone has their own agenda.” I finish off my drink. “I should go now.”
She stares at me, mouth open. “Seriously?”
“I have an early meeting tomorrow. I need some sleep.”
“But…” She blinks, clearly confused. “I thought… after what just happened…”
“You’re a very attractive girl,” I say firmly, “but—”
“Don’t call me a girl. I’m not fifteen.”
“A very attractive woman,” I correct, “but nothing was ever going to happen. You’re too young for me. You’re barely older than Helen.”
“I’m four years older!”
“Even so, it’s not enough. You’re my business partner’s daughter. Kingi’s sister. And I have my position to think about.”
That makes her laugh. “This isn’t Regency England.”
“Maybe not, but my business thrives on honesty and respect. A scandal would be damaging to my company, and I have more to think about than my own reputation—I have employees whose livelihoods rely on the success of my business.”
“Jesus, Spencer, one night with me isn’t going to bring down the empire.”
I reach out and pick up the coil of hair lying over her shoulder. Before she can react, I wrap it around my hand, bringing her closer to me.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” I tell her. “It makes me want to put you over my knee.”
Her eyes widen, and she inhales.
“And it wouldn’t be one night.” I fight with myself not to kiss her. It takes every ounce of willpower I have—and I have a lot of willpower. “If we had sex… if I tasted you… I would want you again. And again. And again.”
Her breathing quickens, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.
“My lust would consume you,” I say, my voice hoarse with desire. “It would consume us and ruin us both. So it ends here.” I tug her hair, just a little. “You say you’re not a child, so stop acting like one. Stop teasing me, stop taunting this wolf, because he’ll eat you alive.”
She stares at me, speechless, for ten seconds while I look into her eyes.
Then I let go of her hair and get to my feet. Without another glance in her direction, I stride off, heading for my suite.
I glance up at the moon, who’s eyeing me with a baleful glare, and I scowl at her.
Then I go inside, and put this evening out of my mind.