Chapter Six
Spencer
I was planning to head home, but I got caught by the CEO of Ridgeway Investments, and I’m still standing there, unable to escape his long monologue about a new property development in the CBD, when Genevieve enters the lobby through a doorway across the other side.
Shit. Time to make a hasty exit.
“Why don’t you get your secretary to call mine,” I advise the guy in front of me. “I think this merits further discussion.”
“Yes, of course, will do.” He’s been hoping to team up with Cavendish Enterprises for ages, and he looks pleased to have finally convinced me to meet with him. “I’d also like to talk to you about the Rutland complex. Rumor has it that it’s up for grabs, and I think it has great potential for—”
“Absolutely.” I glance at Genevieve—she’s heading straight for me. “Got to go.” I turn away, knowing I’m being rude, but I’d rather do that than suffer the consequences.
Leaving the guy standing there, still talking, I stride off. I’m halfway across the floor when she calls out, “Spencer!”
Her voice rings across the floor, and everyone in the lobby turns to look. I slow, then stop, cursing. Exiting now would give the many members of the press who are here fuel for their fire, and I have no intention of doing that.
I turn slowly as she closes the distance between us, and I survey her with distaste.
On the surface, she’s beautiful: tall and slender, with elegantly coiffed blonde hair and fine features.
I can’t put my finger on why I don’t find her attractive.
She’s confident, even outspoken, but I happen to like women who are sure of themselves.
She’s witty and clever, and she’s clearly an exceptionally talented businesswoman.
Then she glances to her left at a plus-size woman who’s wearing a dress that’s several sizes too small for her, and when she looks back at me, her eyes are full of amusement, and I realize why I don’t like her. She’s spiteful, cruel, and cold, and she reminds me too much of my wife.
Also, she usually has exquisite taste in clothes, but the shimmering gold gown she’s wearing tonight looks like the inside of a chocolate bar wrapper.
“Well, well, well,” she coos, resting a hand on my chest. “Spencer Cavendish bidding one million pounds for a woman. Never thought I’d see the day.” Over to one side, I see someone lift their phone to take a picture. Fuck my life.
“The bid wasn’t for Marama,” I say icily.
“Really.” She pats my jacket, smoothing the lapel as if it has a crease in it, which it doesn’t. “You were quite clearly staking your claim, my darling. The whole of the city will be talking about it tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll make sure of that,” I snap.
She smiles. “I can see the headline now.” She swipes her hand in front of her. “Wolf of Waiheke bids mysteriously exorbitant amount for unknown artist.”
“What do you want?” I ask tiredly. It’s been a long day, and I want to go home, get myself a coffee, and do my best to forget the woman with the moko kauae who has been haunting my dreams since the party at the Midnight Club.
“Just to give you this.” Genevieve hands me a sheet of paper. It states that I won bid number fourteen tonight, and has Lumen’s bank account details for me to deposit the funds.
I fold it and slide it into my inside pocket. She could have had Carly deliver that, or even a waiter. That’s not why she caught up with me.
She looks up at me. “So… You do have a weakness. But it’s not money, or pride, as I thought. It’s Marama Davis. Your secret obsession?”
I stiffen. “Her father is my business partner. I didn’t want him to hear about this ridiculous charade, so I took her off the market.”
Her face flushes. “How dare you call it that. This evening has been immensely successful in raising the profile of upcoming women artists.”
“There were other ways to do that than sell their talent to the highest bidder. You demeaned them. Had them perform and strut across the stage. And somehow convinced them they were empowering themselves.” I feel nauseous at the thought of seeing Marama up there, looking nervously across the crowd, wondering which blubberous fool was going to win the bid.
Genevieve’s eyes flare, and at the same time they turn a tad glassy. I feel a brief spike of guilt at my cruelty. She has raised a good deal of money for these women, and gained publicity and prestige for their work.
My guilt disappears though as I think about the Midnight Club.
Ever since she opened Lumen, she’s bad-mouthed Midnight, slating it as a men’s-only club, which is ridiculous, and accusing all its members of being misogynistic.
We’ve even considered taking legal action over it, but so far have held back, because lawyers are expensive, and Genevieve would have a field day promoting the image of men doing their best to bring down women, and dark overpowering light, and lord knows what else.
But I will consider it if she doesn’t stop being a major pain in my ass.
I’d rather have peace, though, and I make my voice gentle and say, “Just put the money to good use and it will have been worth it.”
She moves closer to me. In her high heels she’s almost on a level with me. She looks into my eyes and says, in a quiet but furious tone, “Fuck you, Spencer.”
I don’t react. I hold her gaze, knowing my disdain for her is evident.
“Genevieve!” Behind her, someone calls her name. She glances over her shoulder. Then, without another word to me, she pins a smile on her face and walks off to talk to a group of her guests.
My stomach churns. I want to get out of here. I turn toward the exit, then stop, surprised to see Marama standing there, clearly waiting for me.
I walk up to her slowly, hands in the pockets of my trousers.
She looks amazing tonight. The slit in her skirt reveals an expanse of smooth light-brown thigh.
Her black high-heeled sandals are incredibly sexy, and she’s painted her toenails an erotic cherry-red.
She’s wearing false eyelashes that make her look sultry, like a movie star, but her moko kauae labels her as something more serious, a spiritual artist, Hina Marama—the goddess of the moon—made real.
Genevieve is wearing gold but is cold as ice; Marama embodies the moon but has a heart of fire.
She looks exotic and stunning, and I want to pull her toward me and crush my lips to hers.
I don’t. But I want to.
The lobby is busy with people coming and going from the hall and staff dashing around frantically delivering orders and keeping the guests happy. We stand in the middle of them, as if we’re in the eye of the storm.
For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, and we study each other silently. Then, eventually, she says, “Why?”
“It was a worthwhile cause,” I reply. “The world needs more women’s art programs.”
I thought she’d be either flustered or angry, but she just seems nonplussed. “I don’t understand. You made it very clear you’re not interested in me, and you don’t want anything to do with me. And then you go and bid a ridiculous amount to have me.”
The sentence makes me bristle. It was a ridiculous amount, and it’s going to be all over the Internet tomorrow. “Not to have you,” I snap. “I did this as a favor to your father, so he didn’t have to worry about you being bought by some red-faced, lecherous octogenarian.”
“You’re a dog in the manger,” she says. “You’re angry because you want me, but your principles won’t allow you to have me, and so you don’t want anyone else to have me either.”
I clench my jaw, furious that she’s right. “Not at all. I did it to keep you safe.”
She glares at me. “I don’t need saving, Spencer. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I’m not a child.”
“That much is obvious,” I say tartly, unable to stop myself glancing at the top of her gown.
The low bodice barely hides her nipples and reveals an enticing swell of her light-brown breasts above the black velvet.
It’s too revealing, too sensual. The men at the auction tonight would have been unable to tear their gazes away.
Her eyebrows rise. “Did you just eye-dip me?”
I glare at her. “You have no idea of the wolves circling tonight.”
“Including one from Waiheke.”
I give her a sarcastic look. “I’m not the one you need to be worried about.”
“‘Stop taunting this wolf, because he’ll eat you alive?’ I thought you were the only one I had to be worried about.”
“I wouldn’t take advantage of you the way those other men would.”
She lifts her chin. “I’m glad to hear it. Because I don’t know what you thought you’d bought for a million dollars, but it doesn’t include a night in my bed. Not after the way you treated me.”
Her eyes flash, and I realize then that she’s no longer the young girl I once knew.
She’s not even the hurt, broken young woman who fled the country after her boyfriend cheated on her.
Her solo travels abroad have given her composure and a belief in herself that means her self-worth no longer rests on what other people think of her.
She’s every inch a stunning, powerful woman in her prime, confident in her abilities and her sexuality.
She’s magnificent, and I want her so much it hurts.
Our gazes lock. Her lips part, and I wonder whether she can see my desire in my eyes.
Then she tears her gaze away. “You have, however, won a commission for a portrait,” she says. “As I choose to see you.”
“It’s okay. I won’t be requiring that.”
“I have to present a finished piece for the Empowerment Exhibition. You have to sit.” She speaks with calm certainty, brooking no argument.
I’m not used to being told what to do, and my first instinct is to refuse and walk away. Nobody dictates what I do in my life anymore. I’m completely my own man.
But deep down, I’m intrigued. I want to know how she sees me, and how she’s going to choose to portray that with her art.
“All right,” I say, with some reluctance.
She rolls her eyes. “Well don’t sound so thrilled about it.”