Chapter Eight
Marama
As two p.m. approaches on Tuesday, I take a final glance around the room where Spencer and I will be spending the next few hours, my stomach full of butterflies.
Mum and Dad turned this room into a studio for me when I was a teenager, and even though I’ve not lived at home for many years, they’ve kept this and my room the way they always were in case I visit, which I appreciate.
Although I haven’t worked here for a long time, as soon as I set up my first canvas and started to paint, I felt as if I’d never left.
I’ve spent all morning getting everything ready. The place is spotless, apart from the usual paraphernalia I need to work—the table full of disposable palettes, water pots, cleaning cloths, and of course the many tubes of paint.
I’ve set up the chair where I want Spencer to sit in the bay window with the garden behind him.
It’s nice and light, and it’s also an attractive backdrop.
I’m not using a canvas because I’m not planning on this work being the finished picture.
Today I just want to do some sketches and try to capture his likeness ready for when I paint his proper portrait.
I’ve put a table nearby in case he wants a drink. I add a cushion to the chair, as I want him to be comfortable for a couple of hours and not fidget too much. Then I tell myself to stop fussing, and head out of the room.
I walk slowly through the house, enjoying the peace and quiet.
Not that it’s super noisy when my parents are home.
Dad’s usually either at his office in the CBD, at the Midnight Club, or working in his office here.
But Mum often has friends around, usually belonging to one of the many societies of which she’s a part.
She holds regular gatherings in our dining room as the table can seat sixteen, and she has several members of staff on hand to supply the chatting women with drinks and food.
But it always amazes me how noisy women can be.
Continual talking and raucous laughter cut right through the house, and I end up putting on my noise-cancelling headphones when I want to work.
It’s not an ideal arrangement, and I don’t plan on staying here long term.
But I’m still not a hundred percent sure what I want to do or where I’m going to live, and it didn’t make sense to live out of a suitcase in a hotel.
Anyway, it has been nice to see Mum and Dad a little, as Connor disliked all my family and refused to come up here to visit them.
I’m not going to think about him, though. My days of tears and regret over him are done.
I reach the living room just in time to see Spencer’s blue Bentley Continental GT Speed pulling up on the drive.
It’s big, sleek, and dark, an unmistakable symbol of wealth and power.
When Dad’s home, his personal assistant, who doubles as his chauffeur, is usually here, and he’d normally approach Spencer and offer to garage the car or maybe clean it for him.
But he’s away, and this time Spencer locks his car and walks unimpeded up to the front door.
There are no staff at home at all today, as the housekeeper finishes at midday on Tuesdays, and any other people that Mum and Dad might require have been given a few days off on my insistence that I don’t need anyone.
Only Joe, the gardener, is here, and I can hear him on the sit-on lawnmower way off in the distance.
So it’s up to me to answer the door, and I open it as Spencer walks up.
My pulse immediately picks up speed. He’s wearing a white shirt with a navy jacket, and oh my God, faded jeans. I’ve never seen him in jeans before. Wow, that’s super sexy. Every inch of this man screams class and money. He certainly knows how to make the best of his wealth.
“Good afternoon,” he says, his voice a deep purr, the same as the engine of his car.
“Afternoon.” I move back to let him enter the house, and I receive a whiff of his cologne as he passes. It’s classy and seductive, something woodsy, and expensive, no doubt. It clings to him like confidence. Like power.
Like sin.
My mouth has gone dry, and I swallow hard, closing the door behind him. I feel a little dizzy, as if I’ve had one glass of wine too many, although I haven’t had any alcohol today.
“You managed to clear your schedule for the afternoon?” I ask. “Or do you have to go in a couple of hours?”
“No, all clear.” He pushes his jacket off his shoulders and lets it slip down his back, catching it in a hand, then hangs it on the coat stand by the front door.
Then he toes off his shoes and leaves them there, too.
He turns back to face me, and I find myself breathless.
His blue eyes are bright as today, vivid and clear.
I think he might have just had a shower because the beautiful silver flashes of his hair are damp at the temples, and his jaw looks so smooth he must have shaved very recently.
He’s obviously changed out of his work suit, too.
He’s prepared himself for me. I feel oddly flattered.
“Come in the kitchen with me,” I say, gesturing with my head, “and I’ll get us a drink, and then we can head to the studio.”
“You look stunning today,” he says, following me through the living room to the kitchen.
I look down at myself in surprise. I always take care with my makeup, but my hair is up in a scruffy bun, and I’m wearing my favorite artist’s gear—a pair of well-worn, tie-dyed dungarees in all the shades of a rainbow, over a white tee.
“I’ve hardly dressed up,” I say wryly, going over to the coffee machine. “Want a latte?”
“Please. And it doesn’t matter. The dungarees with the bare feet is an arresting combination.”
I glance at my toes—I painted the nails a sparkly blue yesterday. “The color’s not a step too far for you?”
“What do you mean?”
I turn the machine on and pop a capsule in while he leans a hip against the bench, folding his arms. I can’t believe I’m alone with Spencer Cavendish. Feeling a surge of mischief, I say, “Older men are normally more traditional in their choices.”
He lifts an eyebrow. That makes me giggle, and I go over to the fridge to retrieve the milk.
“I’m only forty-six,” he says. “Not sixty-six.”
“It was you who kept pointing out our age difference,” I remind him, pouring the milk into a jug.
He doesn’t reply, but his lips curve up, because he knows I’m right.
I’m conscious of him watching me as I make the coffee, steaming the milk and pouring it onto the espresso. I let him look, though, before finally turning off the machine and bringing his mug over to him.
He takes it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We both sip them, our eyes meeting over the rim of the mugs.
My pulse continues to race, and I still feel breathless.
The air around us feels charged, I don’t know why.
Well, I know he’s attracted to me. That much is obvious.
But he’s made it clear that he’s mentally painted a red circle with a line through it over my head, and I can’t imagine that Spencer Cavendish has ever given in to his desires.
I’m sure he has iron willpower. He wouldn’t have risen the dizzy heights he has if he wasn’t able to curb his appetites.
Briefly, I think about what those appetites might be, and my eyes glaze over. Spencer’s lips curve up.
“Stop it,” he scolds.
“What? I’m not doing anything.”
“You know perfectly well what.”
I poke my tongue out at him. “You want a cookie with your coffee?”
“No thank you.”
I take a cookie out of the tin on purpose, even though I don’t really want one. “Do you ever have any fun?” I ask tartly before crunching into it.
“Only between the hours of nine and ten p.m., and then only if all my reports are finished and my inbox has under ten emails.”
I snort. “Wild man.”
“You have no idea.”
I don’t know what he means by that, so I finish my cookie and remove the crumbs from my lip with my tongue, which earns me another wry look, and beckon with my head for him to follow me.
I lead the way through the house to my studio, open the door, and gesture for him to go in first. He walks in, and I follow him and close the door behind me.
I try to see the place through his eyes.
It’s quite girly, I suppose. The large room has off-white walls and kauri-wood floorboards.
Several of my paintings on the walls add a splash of color.
A sofa sits in the corner, covered with a colorful throw I bought in Italy and half a dozen mismatched cushions.
It faces the floor-to-ceiling windows and the garden beyond—I use it for reading, and occasionally dozing off.
Warm-white fairy lights run above the windows and around the walls, not for light, because it’s a light-filled room, but because I like the magical quality they give.
“I painted a lot here as a teen,” I say, “and it’s been great to get back in here.”
“Are you thinking of staying?”
“In the house?” I pull an eek face. “God, no. I don’t want to live with my parents for the rest of my life.”
He chuckles, walking around the room. “You’d like your own place, with a studio?”
“I’m thinking about it. A friend of mine in Wellington spent a long time turning her apartment into the perfect studio, and she lost it when the landlord decided to renovate the building into luxury offices.
She was devastated. The light was perfect there, the neighbors were other creatives, and she thrived in that environment.
She found it so hard to recreate it somewhere else.
It’s not just losing your house, you know.
It’s losing your shortcuts, your neighbors, the smell of the bakery in the morning.
You don’t just move people—you rip up the roots they’ve been growing for years.
So I’m reluctant to make that commitment. ”