Chapter Nine
Spencer
Marama’s amber eyes stare at me for a long moment, and then she drops her gaze back to the table at her side. She spends a moment rearranging her pencils, looking nonchalant, but I can see the pulse racing in her throat.
My lips curve up, just a little.
She looks amazing today. Her hair is pinned up in a very scruffy bun with crescent-moon-shaped clips, and tendrils tumble all around her face and neck.
For a moment I didn’t think she was wearing any makeup, but when I look closely I can see she is, but it’s just in neutral tones, and expertly applied.
Her rainbow-colored dungarees make her look flaky and a little wild, especially with the blue toenails.
She’s so unlike the women I’m used to being around, who are all cool, calm, and composed.
But in this room, with her light-brown skin and moko kauae , she looks like Hina Marama in the flesh more than ever—a Māori goddess full of fire and life.
She makes my heart race—and it doesn’t do that often these days.
She changes her pencil, then returns to sketching. “So you turned Genevieve down, and now she’s out to get you?”
“Something like that.”
She gives me a curious look. “Did she create Lumen because Midnight rejected her?”
“There’s no way of telling, but I would assume so, wouldn’t you? Lumen—the light confronting what she sees as Midnight’s darkness. Approaching our women and luring them over.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “We do have a mind of our own, you know. Maybe those who’ve gone over to her have done so because they feel she offers them better opportunities.”
“I’m sure that’s the case. But not every opportunity is what it seems.”
She sketches quietly. Then she says, “You think the auction was just a way for her to exercise her agenda?”
“Yes.”
“And my commission?”
I hesitate. Then I say, “It’s not my place to say.”
She snorts. “Spencer Cavendish, holding back on an opinion? I don’t believe it.”
I give her a wry look. “I can see how it’s a great opportunity for you. And getting on the right side of Hariata Pere isn’t going to do you any harm. Exhibiting at Lumen will mean your work will stand a chance of being noticed by many top businesswomen, and that can only be good for you.”
“But…”
“I don’t like to think of her using you, that’s all.”
“There’s no way she could possibly be doing it because she truly believes in my talent?”
“Oh, I’m sure she does. But I don’t think Genevieve Beaumont would do anything that didn’t benefit her own business and personal beliefs in some way.”
“Spencer… come on… the same could be said about you and any man in business.”
I frown. “I don’t believe that’s true.”
“I’m not talking about Midnight here, because I understand the charitable nature of that and I think it’s commendable. But in your own business? You don’t agree that every interaction you have, any deal you make, is purely to benefit you in some way?”
“No deal I make is done to fit an agenda. I’m not trying to raise men above women. I deal with women at the office all the time. I work purely to make money and to grow my business.”
“Do you enjoy closing a deal?” she asks.
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you like how it makes you feel?”
I don’t reply.
“So it’s not just about making money,” she says, taking my silence as affirmation. “You do it because it makes you feel powerful. I saw you scowl when I called you the Wolf of Waiheke, but I think you love it.”
I glare at her. She meets my eyes, then continues to sketch.
“I wonder whether losing Amiria, and then Eleanor becoming pregnant, made you feel out of control,” she says. “And that’s why you’ve cultivated this image of being dominant and assertive. If that’s why you’re so bossy.” She glances at me. “Oh dear, have I touched a nerve?”
“People don’t talk to me like this,” I say, somewhat icily.
“Sorry,” she says, not looking apologetic in the least.
My fingers tighten on the arms of the chair. “I didn’t want this portrait in the first place. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
She stops drawing then and lowers her hand. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says softly.
I glare at her, breathing hard.
“You fascinate me,” she says. “I’m just trying to see the man behind the wolf.”
I shift in the chair. I don’t like the way she makes me feel unsettled and off balance. But if I don’t like it, why is my heart racing, and why is my stomach full of butterflies?
I want her, but I can’t have her. This relationship is forbidden—I shouldn’t even be here, and I certainly shouldn’t be having intimate conversations with her. But the atmosphere feels charged and intense. I’m close to having a hard on, and that’s ridiculous, dangerous even.
“How many relationships have you had since Eleanor died?” she asks.
I don’t know why she thinks she can ask me these questions. Nobody else talks to me like this. It’s as if the world has tilted, and the tectonic plates are shifting. If I was standing, I’d be unsteady on my feet.
She looks at me.
“Zero,” I say.
She stops drawing and her eyebrows rise. “You haven’t had any relationships since then?”
“No.”
“So what, mainly one-night stands?”
I shift awkwardly, uncomfortable with this line of conversation. “No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dislike the idea of one-night stands.”
“But… I don’t understand.”
I huff a sigh. “I’ve only ever slept with one woman. Is that clear enough for you?”
She just stares at me, mouth open.
“It’s not so shocking,” I say irritably. “I met Eleanor at eighteen. She was my first girlfriend.”
“What about Amiria?”
“We only dated for a few weeks. We never got that far. And I was a faithful husband.”
“But why haven’t you been with anyone since Eleanor died?”
I shrug. “Not met the right person.”
“So you haven’t had sex for six years? What about escorts?”
“I couldn’t,” I say distastefully.
“I would,” she says ruefully. “If there were reputable ones for women. I did some googling a few months ago. There are agencies, but they mainly offer gay or bisexual guys, and they always look seedy. There’s nothing… respectable.” She rolls her eyes.
“What about Casanovas?”
“What?”
“In the CBD. I don’t think they advertise as such, but I’ve heard they’re high-class. Expensive. Discreet. Maybe you should check them out.”
She glances at me. “Maybe I will.”
I glower at the thought of her hiring a man to service her, and she giggles. Then her expression softens. “I can’t believe the powerful, omnipotent Spencer has only been with one woman.”
“Not all guys sleep around.”
Her expression softens. “That’s a fair comment, and I apologize if I insulted you.”
I don’t reply. If anything, I’m a tad embarrassed that I don’t have a slew of affairs to brag about.
“You told me once that you wanted to put me over your knee,” she continues, looking mischievous. “Are you dominant in the bedroom?”
My mouth goes dry. I should close this conversation down now. But her eyes glow like the sun, and I find myself saying, “I’m not into whips and chains, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Breath play?” she asks.
I glare again. “No.”
“Collaring?”
“No.”
“So Eleanor wasn’t your sub as such?”
“God, no. My sexual experience has been quite vanilla,” I admit. “Eleanor wasn’t exactly… adventurous.”
“But you like your women submissive?”
“I don’t mind being challenged. Just don’t expect to win.”
The comment flips a switch. Our eyes lock, and the air between us becomes charged with electricity. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and my cock hardens until it strains at the seam of my trousers.
Something in my gaze makes her tongue tied. A slight flush stains her cheeks, and she moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. She’s all talk, until she realizes who’s in charge.
I feel a flare of smug pleasure, quickly followed by the sting of regret.
What the hell am I doing? I tear my gaze away.
Marama wants me, I can tell, and she doesn’t understand the nuances of what us having a relationship of any sort would bring, so she’s not going to be the one to step back.
I need to be the adult here, and take charge of the situation.
I look back at her. She’s sketching again. Her cheeks are still flushed, and her smile has faded. She can feel that I’m rejecting her again, and it’s hurt her feelings.
I rarely apologize, or feel the need to explain my actions, but I regret upsetting her. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “You have to understand why we can’t get involved.”
She doesn’t reply. She moves closer to the easel and is quiet as she concentrates on part of the drawing.
She’s not working on a canvas, and she’s only used pencils so far, no color.
Occasionally she smudges with her fingers, so I assume this is just a sketch, and not a basis for a larger painting.
I wonder what it looks like? I’ve seen her work, of course, but they’ve mainly been fantasy pieces with birds and foliage; I have no idea if she’s any good at portraits.
We sit quietly for a while. She’s at a slight angle to me, on my left, and earlier she asked me to face forward, but it’s easy for me to glance at her while she sketches.
She frowns slightly, but I don’t know if it’s from concentration or if she’s thinking about me.
I want it to be the latter. Dog in the manger, Spencer.
If you’re not going to take her, let her go.
After a while, she straightens and finishes off her coffee. As she puts the cup down, she says, “You said you’re not interested in another relationship. Why is that?”
“I don’t want the complication.”
“You’re never lonely?”
“I’m too busy to be lonely.”
“Really?”
“I work long hours. When I am at home, I relish the opportunity to spend time in my workshop and listen to music, or sit on the deck and read to the sounds of the ocean.”
“The lone wolf,” she says. “Hmm.” She picks up her pencil again. “What about at night? You don’t get lonely in bed?”
“Eleanor and I had separate bedrooms from the time Orson was young. So no, not really.”