Chapter Seventeen #2
I lie awake a little longer, though. I shouldn’t stay the night. For a start, Joe might decide he does want to work, or the housekeeper might turn up, or any other member of the staff, who decides to tell Rangi when he gets back.
But it’s also not good for either of us emotionally. It’s been a fantastic evening. But I’m kidding myself if I insist it’s purely physical. I’m sure other people can have amazing sex like that and remain emotionally distant, but I don’t think either of us is like that.
I’m drawn to her free spirit, and her warmth.
I can’t get enough of her. I nuzzle her neck and kiss the skin beneath her ear, and she stirs and sighs.
I don’t want to wake her, so I don’t do it again, but I want to.
I want to touch her again, to arouse her, to make love to her repeatedly, until she can’t think, feel, or remember anything except how it feels to be with me.
Inside, my stomach flips with unease. But I’m too tired, and before I can do anything about it, I fall asleep.
*
“Are you sure you won’t stay for breakfast? I make a mean bacon and egg sandwich.” Marama smiles.
I glance over at her. She’s still in bed, lying on her front, the duvet bunched beneath her. It stopped raining sometime in the night, and the early sun falls across her, coating her curves in gold. She looks as if she’s been touched by King Midas.
My cock twitches at the same time as my stomach rumbles. It would be so easy to stay. But I continue to get dressed, doing up my trousers and then pulling on my shirt. “No, I’d better go. I don’t want to be seen.”
“There’s nobody around,” she protests.
I ignore her, though, unable to still the anxiousness that lies heavy in the pit of my stomach. What if Rangi comes back early? I can only imagine what he’d say if he walked in and saw me having breakfast with his daughter in my boxers.
“I’ve got a lot to do,” I tell her, “I need to go.”
Her smile fades, and I soften my voice as I go over to her and say, “But I wish I could.” I bend over her and kiss her, a peck that turns into a smooch. She lifts her arms around my neck, and I laugh and extricate myself. “Stop it,” I scold, picking up my wallet.
She sighs, gets up, and tugs on a bathrobe. I lead the way out, and we pause in the hallway so I can tug on my shoes.
“I had a great time,” I tell her.
She closes the distance between us, slides her arms around my waist, and rests her cheek on my chest. Frowning a little, I put my arms around her.
“Can I see you again?” she asks.
For a moment, I don’t answer. I rest my lips on the top of her head, inhaling the smell of strawberries from her shampoo.
She moves back and looks up at me. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy last night,” she says.
My lips twist.
“I could come to your house,” she suggests.
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
We study each other quietly. I wait for her to argue or to get upset, but eventually she just lowers her arms and says, “All right.”
I pick up my car keys and hesitate. I’m all twisted up inside. I desperately want to stay, but I’ve already been weak, and I can’t afford to give in to my desires again.
I can’t think what to say; ‘thank you,’ would be insulting, ‘take care,’ would be feeble, ‘see you later,’ is lame. So in the end, I don’t say anything. I bend and give her one last, quick kiss, and then I open the door and go out into the sunshine.
I take the ferry back to the mainland and drive the short distance to my house in Herne Bay. I have a shower and change, then make a coffee and take it out on the deck.
I’m just checking my emails when I get a message from Marama. I pull it up, wondering if she’s going to ask to see me again, and half-expecting her to argue her point of view.
Instead, the message says, Painting looks good, don’t you think? And she’s sent a photo of it.
My eyebrows rise as I study it. She’s photographed it in the early morning sunlight, and the colors are vivid and leap off the canvas.
I only looked at it briefly last night, and now I take some time to zoom in on the brushstrokes.
It’s really good—she’s so talented. She’s really captured my expression, which is less sardonic than it normally is, because I’m looking at her.
She’s also started filling in the greenery around me that’s going to turn me into Tāne Mahuta.
The God of the Forest. I have to admit, I don’t mind being compared to a god.
I’ll have to think seriously about where I’m going to hang it.
It’s almost a crime that not many people will get to see it, because few people come to the house.
Maybe I should hang it in my office. But I reject that instantly for several reasons.
People are going to question my expression and the intimacy of the portrait.
And she painted it for me—in a way, I don’t want anyone else to see it.
I message her back, I love it - it’s coming along so well
Marama: Yeah, I’m pleased with the foliage too
Me: I like the way the leaves blend into my hair
Marama: Me too and the light green color will blend well with your silver locks
Me: locks, lol
Marama: You’d look great with long hair like a rock star
Me: We’ll never know
Marama: Playing power chords in front of a mini Stonehenge
I laugh at her reference to Spinal Tap.
Me: What are you up to today?
Marama: More painting! I’m happy smiley emoji
Me: Glad to hear it heart
I wait, then when she doesn’t reply, I put my phone down and look across the harbor. That’ll probably be the last I’ll hear from her today. It’s for the best. At least it ended well.
I reach for my laptop, open it up, and begin making notes on a new development I’m planning in South Auckland.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes again. I open the message, my lips curving up. She’s sent me a song and the accompanying message says, What I’m listening to right now.
I set it playing while I work, the smile still playing on my lips.
*
For the next few days, we message each other constantly.
I repeatedly tell myself I should curtail our connection.
Sometimes I manage to go a whole hour without contacting her.
But inevitably she sends me something that makes me smile—a joke, a song, a meme, or a photo of herself pulling a face—and I end up replying with a sarcastic comment that she then teases me about.
She doesn’t ask to see me again, and for that I’m thankful.
Despite this, I know I’m a little distracted at work.
I do my best to hide it, especially on the occasions Rangi is in the room.
The first time I see him, at a meeting on Tuesday morning, I feel uncharacteristically nervous, convinced that someone saw me leaving the house on Saturday morning and has told him.
But he seems normal, chats away about his time down south, and doesn’t mention Marama at all, and with some relief I think I’ve gotten away with it.
It’s therefore a surprise when, on Wednesday, I look up from where I’m working at my desk and see him standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorpost, his hands in his pockets.
I don’t have a meeting planned with him, and I wasn’t expecting him to drop by.
I lift my eyebrows, forcing myself to stay calm, even though my heart is banging away inside.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing,” he says, pushing off the post. “Kaye said you were free,” he adds, naming my PA.
“Yeah of course.” I toss my pen onto the desk and lean back. “What can I do for you?”
He walks into the room and stops in front of my desk. “Have you seen the front page of Kōrero this morning?”
“No…”
He gestures at my laptop. “Maybe you should take a look.”
My mouth goes dry as I pull up the website and scroll down. I pause as I see my photo. The headline reads ‘Beauty Tames the Beast: Midnight Club Tycoon Poses for Rising Star’s Boldest Work Yet’.
I scan the article quickly. It refers to her new Maramataka exhibition—the first time the title has been revealed officially, and talks about what Elizabeth mentioned the other day: themes of female power and sexual agency.
‘The moon is rising, the sun has had his day,’ the article says, as well as, ‘the series of paintings will feature atua wāhine , modern, powerful goddesses taming beasts and overturning male power.’
“This has the Wicked Witch of the West and Cruella De Vil written all over it,” I say. I’m never disrespectful to women, so my reference to Genevieve Beaumont and Hariata Pere makes his eyes widen, and he gives a short bark of a laugh.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He tips his head to the side. “Have you been modeling for Marama?”
I wonder whether he’s asked her already, and is double-checking our stories. Well there’s no point in trying to second guess what she said. Honesty is always the best policy.
“Yeah,” I reply, “I’ve sat for her a couple of times. I told you—she had to paint a portrait as a condition of entering the auction. I’m guessing she’s also started work on the first piece for her exhibition.”
“What form does it take?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t seen it.” I shift uneasily in my chair. Marama didn’t mention the other painting. “Why don’t you ask her?” I say defensively.
“I did. She refuses to show me.”
I meet his eyes, and for a moment we just study each other.
“Beauty and the beast,” he says eventually.
“Genevieve has a fucking cheek to call your daughter a beast,” I joke. Rangi doesn’t laugh. “She’s shit stirring,” I say crossly, starting to get irritated. “She wants to cause trouble, and she’s obviously succeeding.”
“The Circle won’t like it.”
“Well they can shove their disapproval where the sun doesn’t shine. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
His eyebrows lift at my vehemence, and I think he’s going to challenge me. But then he sighs and says, “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, you wouldn’t do anything to sabotage all our hard work, would you?” His eyes meet mine again briefly before he turns around and heads out of the door.
Fuck.
I rub my stomach as acid threatens to rise. I’m going to give myself a stomach ulcer at this rate.
“Want some Gaviscon?” Kaye asks from the doorway.
I scowl at her. “I’ve just drunk too much coffee on an empty stomach.”
Her lips twitch. “I’ll get you a sandwich.” She goes off.
I turn my scowl to the laptop and glare at the article.
Beauty Tames the Beast. My jaw clenches.
Genevieve knew the headline would humiliate me.
Well, this wolf isn’t going to be brought to heel by anyone.
Nobody controls Spencer Cavendish—not Rangi, not Marama, and certainly not Genevieve Beaumont.
I close down the article and bring up the report for the new development. People are chaotic and unpredictable. Business is the only thing that matters. As always, I’ll lose myself in my work, and let everything else fade into the background.