Chapter Eighteen #2
“It was a work of pure fiction.”
“So you’re not painting a picture of a woman taming a wolf?”
I blow out a breath. “Genevieve is insisting on it.”
“She likes the idea of bringing him to his knees.”
“Hell hath no fury…”
“Yeah, I thought that was the case. She tried to make a move on him to get the position at Midnight, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he turned her down.”
“Yeah.”
“Ouch. I bet she doesn’t get rejected much.”
I tip my head at him. “Do you like her?”
He shrugs. “She’s an attractive woman. Not my type, though.”
“Too old?”
“Too aggressive. I like ’em pliable.” He smirks.
“You wait,” I tell him, “you’re going to meet someone who’s going to bring you to your knees.”
“Fine by me. While I’m down there…” He makes the V sign with two fingers, places them either side of his mouth, and wiggles his tongue, implying he’d happily go down on the girl.
“Oh God, gross.” I can’t help but laugh, though, and he chuckles. “My cue to change the subject,” I say wryly.
We chat for a while, just catching up, and then Orson comes in, and he gives me a hug as well. “No party?” he asks.
“Nah. Not my scene. I don’t like being the center of attention.”
“So what are you up to this evening?”
“Just meeting friends,” I say vaguely, getting to my feet.
“Well, hope you have a great time.”
They both give me a hug, and I promise to catch up soon and head out.
I return back home and spend a couple of hours painting. I often need quiet time after I’ve been with people.
Afterward, I shower and change, and spend some time putting on makeup and getting dressed. I sit there for a few minutes, fighting with myself. Then, I call Scarlett Stone.
“Hey you,” she says. “Happy birthday!”
“Thank you!”
“Orson said you weren’t having a party. What are you up to?”
“Well, I was wondering if you’d do me a favor…”
*
Later, I head out to my car. I have a beautiful Alfa Romeo Spider, and I put the top down and take the ferry to the mainland, enjoying the autumn evening.
When I arrive, I head for Herne Bay. Scarlett has told me where Spencer lives, as she’s been to his house with Orson.
She also found out for me that he was at a meeting not far from his house in Herne Bay this afternoon, and he told his PA that after it finished at four, he was heading home early, rather than returning to the office or going over to Midnight.
I swore Scarlett to secrecy, although I have no doubt she’ll tell Orson, who might well tell Kingi. But at this point, I don’t care. My heart races as I enter the affluent suburb and negotiate the roads to Spencer’s house.
For the first time, I feel a twinge of alarm that maybe he’s not alone. It’s possible he lied to me when he said Eleanor is the only woman he’s been with. It’s much more likely that a rich and powerful man like himself would take girlfriends, one-night stands, or escorts home with him.
But then I think about our first time—his pure delight in me, the groan when he came that seemed to last for years—and deep down I know he was telling the truth. The proud but honest Spencer Cavendish could never do anything but.
I turn onto his road and drive slowly along the beach, past the large houses overlooking the harbor, until I come to the one called Tarāpunga, which means red-billed gull in Māori, a bird seen often around Waitematā Harbour.
The drive is empty, but his Bentley is probably in the garage, no doubt alongside his vintage Aston Martin DB5.
He’s had it for years and it’s in pristine condition—a sleek, silver bullet of a car that looks like it’s driven straight out of a James Bond movie and suits him perfectly.
After sliding the Alfa Romeo onto the drive behind the garage, I get out and walk up to the front door. Then I ring the doorbell.
There’s no reply.
I ring it again. And then a third time. Finally, I hear footsteps inside, and then the door is wrenched open, and an irritated Spencer glares at me as he barks, “What?”
“Hello,” I say, standing my ground.
His glare vanishes as he realizes it’s me, and his jaw drops. “Marama?” he asks, puzzled, and he glances around, either making sure I’m alone, or perhaps trying to see where the candid cameras are.
He’s wearing black track pants, a well-worn gray tee, and a cooking apron, and he’s holding a pair of tongs like a weapon. He’s also barefoot, and his hair looks uncharacteristically scruffy, as if it’s been tousled by the wind. Oh my God, the guy’s even more gorgeous when caught unawares.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I wanted to see you, and you wouldn’t return my messages.”
I half-expected him to be angry, but his expression softens. “Come in,” he says, moving back.
I walk past him and stand there, hands jammed in the pockets of my jeans. He closes the door behind me and turns, and we study each other for a long moment.
Then I go up to him, slide my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek on his shoulder. To my relief, he sticks the tongs in his apron pocket, lowers his arms around me, and rests his lips on my hair, and we stand there like that for about a minute, just breathing each other in.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, turning my face so I can bury it in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. He smells amazing, of his cologne mixed with the sea and a touch of barbecue.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
I move back a little so I can look up at him. He’s smiling.
“It’s my birthday,” I say without meaning to.
His eyebrows rise at that. “What?”
“I’m thirty. Officially over the hill.”
He cups my face, his expression tender. “Then what are you doing here, you crazy girl? You should be out with your friends, partying.”
“I didn’t want to. I wanted to see you.” I look past him and sniff. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing.”
“Have you eaten?” he asks. I shake my head. He sighs, then smiles again. “Come on. I’ll make you dinner.”
He leads the way into the house. It’s not a mansion, like I’d expected a billionaire would live in, but a house this size and in this location would not have been cheap.
I hadn’t realized at first, but it’s built into the hill, so it’s on several floors.
On the ground floor I glimpse a home gym and the room I suspect he’s converted to his workshop, but he leads me up the steps to the next floor.
It opens out into a huge living space. A large kitchen takes up one side with a dining table just off it.
The living room has a soft leather sofa and chairs, a stylish wooden coffee table, bookshelves against the back wall, and an enormous widescreen TV.
Sliding doors open onto the deck that overlooks the ocean, and I can see heat rising from the barbecue out there.
For some reason—maybe because he works such long hours, and because he’s now single—I’d expected his place to be businesslike and bland, all chrome and glass and featureless, but it’s not.
There are bits and pieces from his travels around the world.
An antique Persian rug with rich reds and navy blues.
A Japanese tansu chest, which is like a storage cabinet, practical but elegant, made from dark wood.
A Papua New Guinean tribal mask, probably a replica, knowing his high ethical standards.
A walking stick with the head of an elephant, possibly from India.
Outside, a Moroccan lantern hangs ready to cast star-shaped shadows on the deck.
The walls are filled with photographs and paintings. The photos are all black and white images of bustling markets, quiet temples, rainforests—did he take them himself?
The paintings are all mine.
I stare at them. I knew he’d bought Parson-Bird. I didn’t know he’d bought the others. They’re from various exhibitions I’ve done over the past ten years and show a range of styles and subjects.
I glance at him. He meets my gaze evenly.
“These are all mine,” I say unnecessarily.
“I like your style.” He crosses the room to the open sliding doors and goes out onto the deck.
I stay, though, caught out by my presence in the room. He hasn’t bought these overnight. This collection would have taken him a while to track down and purchase from various collectors who’d bought them while they were being exhibited.
And oh, of course, I forgot… I run quickly down the stairs and out to my car, then return carrying the item I brought with me.
He’s waiting at the top of the stairs and looks relieved when I run back up. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” he says.
“No, silly.” I hold up the canvas, its back to him. “I finished your portrait.”
“Oh!” He glances around and slides a hand under my arm to bring me toward the windows. The sun is sinking beneath the horizon and the light is fading, but there’s enough to see by.
I move back, take a deep breath, and turn the canvas around.
Because I’m facing him, I’m able to see his expression, and my heart lifts as his face lights up and he smiles.
“You like it?” I say hopefully.
He glances at me, wonder in his eyes, then back at the portrait.
“It’s fantastic.” He looks away, at the wall behind me, marches over to one of the black and white photos, and lifts it off.
After taking the portrait from me, he hangs it in the empty space.
He carefully straightens it. Then, together, we move back to admire it.
“The Lord of the Forest,” I murmur. “Tāne Mahuta made real.”
The trunk of the ancient kauri tree is visible in the background, and kauri leaves and other foliage curl around him.
The various greens and browns of the forest contrast beautifully with the rich warm skin tones and the vivid blue of his eyes.
I’m so pleased with his expression; I feel as if I’ve managed to capture a little of the sardonic look he normally sports, but also a tenderness that’s not normally there.
“I love it,” he says. “You are incredibly talented.”
I blush. “I had a good sitter.”
“I’m sure I was a terrible sitter, but you’ve managed to make me look good.
” He turns to me then, cups my face, and looks me in the eyes.
“You’re amazing.” He brushes his thumbs across my warm cheeks.
Then he lowers his lips to mine, and we exchange a long, gentle, wonderful kiss that fills me with joy.
He hasn’t refrained from contacting me because he didn’t want to see me.
He was trying to do the Right Thing, guilted by my father and the rest of the Midnight Circle, convinced it was the best thing to do for both of us.
But my paintings in his house, and the way he’s kissing me, show me he has feelings for me.
He wants me. And all the time that’s the case, I know everything’s going to be all right.