Possession Under the Southern Stars

Chapter One

Sunday January 28th

Hallie

The National Museum of New Zealand is bathed in summer sunshine.

I stand in the foyer and look up the sweeping central staircase, watching motes of dust dancing in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Before Fraser Bell became Museum Director five years ago, the building was run down and old fashioned, the kind of place that only people who are real history nerds would think of visiting. The sun’s strong rays had faded its painted walls and signs, and its dated displays sagged with the weight of passing years.

But Fraser is skilled at sourcing funds, and now the museum gleams with a fresh coat of paint and new tile floors. It looks modern and welcoming with its carved rimu wood reception desk, its colorful interactive displays, and interesting exhibitions from across the world.

I’ve loved working here since the day I started just over a year ago. Today, though, I’ve been dreading coming in.

I start walking up the stairs. It’s Sunday, and technically I don’t work on weekends, but this morning Fraser sent me a text asking if I could come in for a meeting. He didn’t explain what it was about, but I’m convinced he wants to discuss the fact that, on Friday evening, at his sister Elora’s dinner party, I flirted with him in an extremely unprofessional way.

It doesn’t matter that we’d all had a few glasses of wine, or that he responded in kind and flirted back. The fact is that I initiated it, and it was unprofessional, and it put us both in a difficult position. He’s one of the good guys, and he’s not the sort of man who would’ve come down hard on a friend when they were stepping out of line, especially when he knew I’d just broken up with my boyfriend. But I’m sure he wants to make it clear that it was unacceptable.

I could kick myself for letting it happen. I’ve kept my feelings for him under wraps for the whole year, and it was stupid to let the wine loosen my tongue. But he was sitting next to me on the sofa, and he’d focused all his attention on me, and under the spotlight of his blue-eyed gaze, I’d forgotten about my ex, forgotten that Fraser was my boss, forgotten everything except the fact that I’ve been attracted to him since the day I started working for him, and everything else went out of the window.

I’m sure he’ll be nice about it, but I’m still nervous about having the conversation, which is why my feet are moving in slow motion, the sunlight that’s coating the steps sucking at my sandals like golden syrup.

At the top, I turn left and cross the mezzanine floor, then go through a doorway into the row of offices. They’re quiet today, most of them locked up, so I walk along the corridor to the end without seeing anyone.

He asked me to come in at 9:45 a.m., and it’s just after 9:30, so I’m a little early. It’s an odd time for a meeting, but I guess he has something else planned for ten. I pause in his secretary’s office. Louise isn’t in either today, and her chair is tucked under her desk, which is clear except for a closed diary and a pot of pens.

Should I sit in the small guest area for a bit? His door is open, and normally I’d walk straight into his office, but I have no desire to rush into my formal reprimand.

I’ve just lowered onto one of the chairs when Fraser appears in the doorway.

“Oh!” He smiles. “Morning! Didn’t realize you were here already.”

I leap to my feet, bang into Louise’s desk, and promptly knock over her pot of pens. “Oops.” I fumble to put them back into the pot. “Yes, um, well, I didn’t want to be late, and then I was too early, and I wasn’t sure whether to wait, and… um…” I stop talking as I look up and see the amusement on his face.

Fraser turned thirty on New Year’s Eve. He’s the spitting image of a young Harrison Ford, and, because he’s an archaeologist, he usually makes the most of this by dressing like Indiana Jones in corduroy trousers and jackets with patches on the elbows, stopping just short of donning the hat or carrying the whip.

Today, though, presumably because it’s Sunday and he’s not officially working, he’s wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt with a slogan that says ‘Archaeology - like history but dirtier.’ Ooh. The tight tee reveals that the nerdy professor has impressive pecs and biceps a girl could swing on. Wow. I didn’t realize he was hiding all that under his shirts. As I watch, he lifts his dark-rimmed glasses up onto his hair, revealing his eyes, blue as the summer sky through the window.

“Want a coffee?” he asks, going over to the coffee machine and switching it on.

I’ve convinced myself that I’m here for a dressing down, but he doesn’t look angry. Puzzled, I say, “Coffee would be great.”

He pops a capsule in the machine and presses the button to start it pouring. “Thanks for coming in,” he says. “I’m guessing you’re wondering why I asked you in on a Sunday. Well, Whina Cooper is calling at ten, and I wanted to catch up with you before she rang.” He pronounces the ‘wh’ in her name in the Māori way, as an ‘f’, so it sounds like ‘Feena’.

Whina Cooper is the museum’s board chairperson. Oh shit. Has he reported my behavior to her? Is she going to give me an official warning? My stomach flips, and I feel suddenly queasy.

“I need to give you some background to the situation,” he continues, turning to pass me the mug of coffee. “There’s milk in the fridge.”

“Thank you.” Background to the situation? I’m getting more and more confused.

He makes himself a coffee while I pour milk with a shaking hand, then gestures for me to precede him into his office. I slip past him, catching a whiff of his cologne, something with woody and spicy citrus notes that makes my mouth water.

His office has a great view across Wellington Harbour. The water is a little choppy, topped with white horses, but otherwise it’s a gorgeous day.

Fraser gestures to the light-gray suite on the other side of the room from his desk and says, “Take a seat,” before picking up the remote control and switching on his air conditioner. I sit on the sofa, watching as he angles the blinds covering the big windows to cut out a little of the sunshine, then comes over and sits in the armchair facing me.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, cradling his coffee mug. His square jaw and the angular planes of his face encourage the comparison to an old-fashioned Hollywood movie star, like Cary Grant or Charlton Heston. He’s so handsome. He’s given me goosebumps since the moment I first shook hands with him, here in his office. If only I hadn’t been with Ian… My mood sinks at the thought of how different my life might have been if he hadn’t been in the picture.

For a moment, Fraser stares at his coffee. Then, finally, he admits, “This is a bit embarrassing.”

Oh God. Here we go.

He takes his glasses off his hair and lowers them to the table. Mmm, why’s that so sexy? Maybe because I can imagine him doing that before he kisses a girl…

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass on what I’m about to tell you,” he says.

I pretend to zip my mouth shut.

He gives a small smile. “I’m only telling you because Whina and I need your help.”

I’m flattered. But what does this have to do with Friday evening? “Okay…” I say slowly.

“The museum’s in a bit of trouble,” he says. “And it’s my fault.”

It doesn’t sound as if it’s anything to do with my flirting with him at all. Talk about a guilty conscience.

“What’s happened?” I ask, caught between relief and concern. For the first time, I notice the deep frown lines on his forehead and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks tired and worried.

He runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up at the front as a result. “You know the new building project?”

“Yes, of course.” Before Christmas, Fraser gave the go ahead for the ambitious rebuilding of the west wing of the museum. I’ve seen the plans, and it’s going to be amazing, preserving the look of the current Edwardian building, but with new high windows that will bring in more light. They’ve already started work, and the hope was that it would be completed by the end of the year. “I thought it was going well,” I add.

“It is. But we’ve run into some money troubles.”

Fraser was the Director of Development and Fundraising before he became Museum Director. His job was to secure funding through donations, grants, and partnerships, and look after donor relations. He was extremely good at it, and he was almost single-handedly responsible for turning the museum’s fortunes around. So it’s surprising to hear he’s having trouble.

“I thought we had lots of grants coming in,” I say.

“We did.”

“There was a substantial one from the Penguin Community Trust, wasn’t there?” The Trust supports arts, culture, and heritage projects.

He nods. “It fell through due to budget cuts.”

I blink. “Well what about the cultural and art endowment from The New Zealand Creative Arts Association?” It provides funding for museum and arts projects. Fraser applied for the upcoming Valentine’s Day exhibit for which I’m supposed to be sourcing an artifact.

“There was a scandal around the organization and their financial status,” he says. “Someone’s been embezzling funds, and they withdrew their grant as a result.”

“Shit.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

I search my brain furiously. “We’ve still got the grant from Taonga, though, right?” It’s a Māori organization which has been keen to support a new display of artifacts.

“It fell through,” he states flatly. “Local iwi discovered that the artifacts were removed from a site of ancestral significance. The land needs protection, and the press is using the exhibit for a wider, mostly negative discussion about environmental and cultural preservation.”

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “That must be very worrying for you.”

“The controversy completely threw me,” he admits. “You know how much we pride ourselves on honoring our cultural relationships here.”

I nod. I can see he’s hurt and a little angry that the media are challenging his principles. “Anyway,” he continues, “then we had that storm in December. A leaking ceiling in the basement damaged one of the collections, and I had to divert some funds for the restoration.”

“None of this is your fault, though,” I tell him. “It’s just a run of bad luck, surely.”

“Partly. But I gave the go ahead for the rebuilding of the west wing before the money was in the bank. And now the museum is in debt.” He leans back and looks out of the window.

I don’t say anything for a moment. I can see how horrified he is to be in this position. It must have taken him a lot of courage to admit it.

I’m flattered he’s confided in me, but I push the pleasure away. This isn’t personal. He obviously needs my help somehow. It’s purely business.

As I study his profile, though, I can’t help but think how much I like him. I know he graduated top of his cohort at Otago University, and he’s smart, dynamic, and ambitious. I admire him a lot, which is one reason why I was so upset that I’d been unprofessional. He’s way out of my league, and I don’t want to lose my job because I acted like an idiot.

Normally, he exudes an air of confidence, but right now he looks worried and a little lost, and my heart goes out to him.

“And this is why Whina’s calling at ten?” I ask.

He brings his gaze back to me. “Partly. I think she wants to talk about Sir Sebastian Williams.”

“I know that name. Wasn’t he an MP?”

“He was, back in the day. He’s descended from Henry Williams.”

“The missionary from the Bay of Islands?” Henry Williams came to New Zealand in 1823, and he and his son were responsible for translating the Treaty of Waitangi into Māori.

“Yep,” Fraser continues. “One of Henry’s grandsons, Richard, was a famous artist.”

“You’re talking about the Richard Williams who married… Pania wasn’t it?”

He smiles. “I should have guessed you’d have heard of him.”

“I’ve read about his paintings,” I reply. “He’s well known for his landscapes, isn’t he? And don’t forget I’m a conservationist. At uni we had to study their letters.”

Pania was the daughter of the leader of a local iwi or tribe. Not only was she Māori while Richard was Pakeha or white European, but her family was Catholic, whereas Richard was an Anglican, so both families frowned on their union. They had to content themselves with exchanging a long series of passionate letters until Richard won the families over and they eventually married.

“The letters remain in the possession of the Williams family to this day,” Fraser says. “I came to hear about them through my dad, who was friends with Sebastian through the Church.”

I’d forgotten that Fraser’s father is a deacon. He runs a school for troubled youths in the South Island.

“Dad told Sebastian I’d taken over as Museum Director,” Fraser continues. “He came to see me speak at a conference in Christchurch in December. I talked about how I don’t agree with private collections and believe that New Zealand’s history should be available to everyone. Sebastian approached me afterward and said I’d convinced him, and that he wanted to donate Richard and Pania’s letters to the museum. He also offered a donation of five million dollars.”

My eyes widen. “Wow.”

“On the back of the news, Heritage New Zealand offered a grant for the conservation and restoration of the love letters because they’re a glimpse into the cultural and religious differences of the time.”

“That’s great,” I say. When Fraser’s expression doesn’t match my enthusiasm, I say, “So what happened?”

“Sebastian died five days ago.”

My jaw drops. “Oh… how?”

“He had a sudden heart attack.”

“Oh Fraser, I’m so sorry.”

“He was a great guy,” he says. “Honest and down-to-earth.” He frowns. He’s obviously upset about it.

I don’t want to sound materialistic, but I sense his feelings for the guy aren’t the only problem. “So what about his offer?” I ask. “Did you get anything in writing?”

“I have an email in which he states his intentions, but I don’t think it’ll stand up in court. His son, Adam, wants to honor it, but his daughter, Isabel, doesn’t. She’s hired a lawyer, and now it’s all tied up in red tape.”

“Oh Fraser,” I say softly, “I’m so sorry.”

He gives a heavy sigh and tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “So there are no letters, no donation, and Heritage New Zealand are likely to withdraw their grant. All the money has vanished, and I, like an idiot, gave the go ahead for the development of the west wing. I can’t believe it’s gone so wrong in such a short space of time.”

I try not to stare at his tanned throat and the attractive swell of his Adam’s apple. “So why is Whina Cooper calling? And how can I help?”

He meets my eyes. I think about the dinner party, and some of the things I said that evening when a few glasses of wine had loosened my tongue. After he took off his glasses, I complimented him on his gorgeous blue eyes… I told him he was the most intelligent man I’d ever met… and I’m pretty sure I asked him whether he owned a whip like Indiana Jones… Jesus. My face burns.

He notices and frowns a little. Then he says, “She asked me to make sure one of our conservation officers was present when she called, and you’re the only one around.”

That brings me down to earth with a bump. Elora and Zoe, who work in the conservation office with me, are both away. His words suggest that neither he nor Whina wants me personally—any one of us would have done. I stiffen, thinking, Hallie, you’re such an idiot.

He obviously spots the way I’m angry at myself and mistakes it for indignation, because he blinks. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to imply that you w-weren’t my first ch-ch…” He stares at me. He looks oddly alarmed. Then he closes his eyes.

“You okay?” I ask, bemused. I’ve never heard him stutter before.

At that moment, his phone starts ringing. He opens his eyes and, without looking at me, answers it and puts it on speaker.

“Fraser Bell,” he announces, his voice brisk and businesslike.

I look down at my hands. This is the board chairperson, and I need to concentrate on my job and act professional.

Fraser would never be interested in me in a million years anyway.