Chapter Seven
Fraser
When we land, we find a taxi, which takes us to our hotel on Papamoa Beach. It’s a little way out from Tauranga city center, but I asked Louise to find us something near the sea, and she’s certainly done us proud. The Waterfront is a five-star establishment with an impressive frontage that overlooks the Pacific. Louise has booked us into two executive king rooms, and after we’ve checked in, the porter takes us out and along the walkway. He unlocks the first door and takes Hallie’s case in, and we follow him inside.
I look around, pleased at the choice. The water is so close it almost looks as if you could step out of the sliding windows into it, although there is a deck outside. The room is large and airy, full of sunshine. A comfortable suite sits near the windows, and the bed is king-size with a pretty blue coverlet. The bathroom is Italian inspired, all white and gray marble, with a big shower and a spa bath.
“Very nice,” I say to the porter, and look at Hallie. “Is it okay for you?”
She stares at me, then just gives a small nod. Hmm. Maybe she doesn’t like it for some reason, but she’s too polite to say so? I’m sure she’s too shy to tell me in front of the porter. I tip him and tell him I’ll put my case in my room, and he goes out, letting the door close behind him.
“What do you think?” I ask, concerned. “Is it missing something you need?”
She looks around her as if she’s standing in Buckingham Palace. “Fraser… this place is magnificent. I can’t possibly stay here.”
I chuckle. “Why?”
She turns her big brown-eyed gaze on me. “Because… the museum can’t be paying for it. You’ve paid privately, right?”
I purse my lips, then nod.
She frowns. “This is just a business trip. Why not just book two standard rooms? Why splash out so extravagantly?”
Now she’s brought it up, I’m beginning to realize how inappropriate it was. But I’m not going to let her make me feel guilty about it. “I often stay in places like this. And anyway, you’re my friend. You’ve had a tough time. And I wanted to spoil you.” Joel gave me the idea, as he’s booked a villa up in the Bay of Islands for him and Zoe to stay in while they’re doing their marine excavation.
She looks around again. At the gleaming table and chairs. The sumptuous king-size bed. The large-screen TV. The coffee machine. Is she going to tell me she can’t stay here?
On the plane, after our discussion about our exes, I resolved not to talk about anything personal again, and to keep the conversation strictly business. I managed it for the final ten minutes of the flight. But once again, I’m straying into dangerous territory. I’m such a fool. I should have got Louise to book two standard, boring rooms, even though I would have chosen a suite like this even if I was on my own.
Hallie’s gaze comes back to me. And then, to my surprise, she gives me such a beautiful smile it makes my heart swell.
“It’s lovely,” she says graciously, with genuine pleasure. “Thank you so much, Fraser. I appreciate the gesture.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.” I check my watch. “It’s nearly three. What would you like to do? I’m speaking at seven tonight. Do you want to come to the meeting?”
Her eyes light up. “Of course! I’m always up for anything archaeological.”
“What time would you like dinner?”
“I’m quite full up from lunch so I’m not too bothered at the moment. Maybe we could get something light in the bar before we head out?”
“Sure.”
“What would you like to do now? Rest for a bit? Have a cocktail on the deck? Go for a swim in the pool?”
She gives one of her delightful giggles. “A cocktail on the deck doesn’t sound very professional.”
She’s absolutely right. I close my eyes for a moment. What is wrong with me?
“Fraser,” she says, “I was joking.” She sighs. “Can I suggest something?”
“Fire away.”
“Can we accept that we’re here as friends and not just colleagues? I’m tired of worrying about being unprofessional.” She moves a little closer to me and looks up. Her eyes are such a dark brown that normally they look almost black, as if the pupil has encompassed the iris, but up close, with the light on them, I can see that they’re actually a warm chocolate brown, similar to her hair, and they have unusual orange flecks near the center.
She continues, “Elora said Ginger was beautiful, and it’s clear how strong the attraction was between you. But you chose your job over her. And I’m just… me.” She laughs. “I know nothing will ever happen between us. And that’s okay. But we are friends as well as colleagues, aren’t we? So why don’t we forget about being professional? If you blur the lines, I’m not going to suddenly think it means we can be more than friends. You don’t have to worry, is what I’m trying to say.” She reddens a bit.
I’m so taken aback, I can only stare at her. I know her well enough to understand that her self-deprecation is genuine. She doesn’t believe she could possibly be as attractive as Ginger, so in her mind, there’s no way she could ever be more dangerous to me than Ginger was.
She doesn’t understand that in so many ways, if not all ways, she lights my candle much more than Ginger ever did. I wish she had more self-confidence, but I can’t help but find her shy naivety incredibly attractive.
Part of being with a woman is making her believe she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and I detest Ian for not doing that. Over the years, he’s made her believe she’s ordinary, and that’s a crime I will never be able to understand or forgive.
The more we’re together, the more I want to take her in my arms and prove to her just how lovely she is. How beautiful, how interesting, how funny, how stunning. And it’s becoming harder to keep my distance.
But she’s right. If I continue to fret over not being professional, I’m going to strain something. If we both accept nothing can happen, surely that means we can enjoy this trip and each other’s company?
Somewhere in the Northland, I can hear Joel laughing, but I ignore the thought and smile at her. “That sounds like a g-good idea.”
She presses her lips together at the stutter, but neither of us comments on it.
“Let’s have a cocktail,” she says. “If you think you’ll still be okay to do your talk tonight if you have a drink.”
“It’ll help,” I admit. “I get nervous before I speak in public.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I’m all right when I get going, but I get a bit anxious beforehand.” I pick up the room service menu. “Come on, then. Let’s place an order.”
We look through the options.
“Sex on the beach?” Hallie asks innocently.
I give her a wry look, and she giggles.
“You were put on this earth to torture me,” I tell her. “B-behave.” Clearly, The Stutter isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I’m just going to have to deal with it.
She grins and chooses a Mojito—white rum, sugar, lime juice, soda water, and mint. I decide on a White Russian—vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream, and I phone the order through. Then we open the sliding doors and go out onto the deck. It’s small but it has a magnificent view across the Bay of Plenty. It’s the height of summer now, and it’s warm and humid today, but luckily the deck is in the shade, so we pull the two chairs out from the round table and sit as we wait for our drinks.
Hallie’s brought a bottle of sun lotion with her, and even though we’re shaded, she pops the lid, pours some on her left palm, then rubs her hands together before smoothing it on her arms. I watch, fascinated, as her light-brown skin glistens, and I try not to stare as she applies some to her chest.
Don’t even go there, Fraser.
“Top five archaeological sites,” Hallie says. “And… go!”
I chuckle. “All right.”
We start discussing our favorite sites, get up to answer the door when our cocktails arrive, take them out to the deck, then continue our conversation as we sit and watch the boats coming and going on the ocean.
I stretch out my legs as I listen to Hallie extolling the virtues of Skara Brae in the Orkney Islands, and feel a sweep of happiness and contentment I haven’t felt for some time. This is pretty much a perfect moment for me. Sitting in the peace and quiet, watching the sun play on the water, talking about archaeology with a beautiful woman. My problems are all still there, but they fade into the background listening to Hallie talk about the Neolithic period and the ‘Scottish Pompeii.’
The slight breeze lifts her long hair, which gleams in the sunshine like brown ribbons. Her skin is flawless, even without the heavy layer of foundation that Ginger used to prefer. There’s something very natural about Hallie, very unaffected.
I like that.
“Mmm,” she says, sucking a mouthful of Mojito through her straw. “This is delicious. What’s your White Russian like?”
“Try it.” I push it over to her.
She picks it up and sips it. “Ooh, that’s lovely.” She licks her top lip, removing the line of cream that was sitting there. “What a nice way to spend an afternoon.”
I nod, because I’m having trouble forming words in my brain. She gives me an innocent smile, and I know she has no idea how beautiful she looks sitting there, with the Pacific Ocean behind her, the breeze ruffling her hair.
She lifts her eyebrows, and I realize she’s asked me a question.
“Sorry?” I ask guiltily. “I was… thinking about s-something else.”
Her lips curve up. “I asked what you were talking about tonight.”
“They want me just to talk generally about the National Museum. What I changed when I took over, and my vision for it going forward.”
“Have you prepared a speech?”
“Nah. I can talk about the museum until all the farmyard animals come home.”
She giggles and sips her cocktail. “Tell me more about your plans for the west wing,” she says.
I swirl the vodka concoction over the ice, watching it coat the glassy cubes. “Not sure if I should,” I mumble. “I feel as if I’m tempting fate.”
“In what way?”
“Well, if I can’t get the funding, there won’t be any rebuilding. There might not even be a museum anymore.”
She frowns. “You’re kidding, surely? There are a hundred different ways the museum can sustain itself. I mean, I know we don’t charge for entry, and some grants have fallen through, but there are other ways.”
“Yeah, of course, but they all take time to implement. I have ideas… I want to start a membership program that gives special access to new exhibitions and exclusive events. I’d like to begin an educational program that would bring in funding from schools and universities. We really need to grow the shop—merchandise is a huge source of income. But it all takes time and, of course, investment to begin.”
“I’ve heard that hiring out museum space for weddings is popular,” she says.
My eyebrows rise. “Really? People want to get married in a museum?”
“I would.”
“Yeah, but you’re weird.”
She laughs. “Maybe. But lots of people love the idea of being surrounded by history. There’s something comforting about the reminder of all those people who’ve loved each other through the years.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose we could even build an exhibition around it.”
“Absolutely—you could build on the Valentine’s Day exhibition and make it a part of an ongoing Love Endures display or something. The history of marriage, models in old wedding dresses, traditional Bridal Kākahu, you know, the Māori cloaks decorated with bird feathers, artifacts from different religions and places. It would be lovely.”
“Hmm.”
“Have you thought about a restaurant?”
“As opposed to the café?”
“Yes. Something much bigger, more exclusive. With museum-themed food, maybe, dishes from history? That would be great fun. You could hold medieval nights where everyone eats off bread trenchers with whole roast pigs and stuff. People would dress up. They’d love it.”
“It’s an idea.”
“You should also definitely think about crowdfunding.”
“I have considered it. It feels a bit…” I hesitate. “Cheap. It’s one thing to ask benefactors for donations. It’s another to ask the general public to donate. What’s the difference between doing that and charging for entry?” She knows how I feel that the country’s history should be available to everyone regardless of their financial situation.
But she says, “It’s very different. It’s voluntary, for a start, the way we have the big piggy bank at the entrance. Lots of visitors want to donate. And although a lot of people struggle financially, not everyone does. Older visitors often have more disposable wealth, for example. And younger people who are passionate about their country’s history would be excited to either contribute or help spread the word to raise money.”
She’s animated, her eyes alight, and that more than anything warms me to her. I enjoy fundraising, and I know I’m good at it, but a lot of people find it distasteful. I’ve never minded asking those who can afford it for money. I only baulk at demanding cash from those who can’t.
“You could run a Kickstarter campaign,” she says. “With the right amount of publicity I’m sure it would do really well.”
“What kind of target would you aim for?”
“It depends. If you wanted to run it locally or regionally, you could start with a modest figure, say fifty thousand dollars. If you could tie it to a broader, global interest like preserving Māori heritage, I think you’d be able to set the bar higher and reach international donors.”
“Hmm.”
“Have you thought about offering a Patreon option? You could offer things like behind-the-scenes content, online lectures, and digital access to collections.”
For the first time since I heard of Sebastian Williams’s death, I feel a faint glimmer of hope.
“Is the Bay of Plenty Archaeological Group paying you for talking to them tonight?” she asks.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, you could have asked them for a donation to the museum in return for your time. You’re so good at sourcing funding, Fraser. I think you just need to cast the net wider.”
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about it,” I say.
She shrugs. “I kind of fell into the conservation job because it was the only thing going at the time. And I love it… but my degree is in Cultural Heritage Management—preserving, promoting, and funding cultural sites and museum collections. Securing sponsorships and government grants. I did papers on Archaeological Resource Management, and Arts and Cultural Policy and Administration, as well as Conservation.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I say in admiration, and a little embarrassed that, as her boss, I hadn’t known. That’s because I hadn’t been involved in the employment process. “It’s nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of,” I admit, liking the fact that she’s interested in the same areas as I am.
“You don’t have to do it all alone,” she says softly. “We’ll save the museum, don’t worry. You’ve worked so hard to make it such a beautiful place.”
We study each other quietly for a while. I don’t quite have her faith, but I like that she’s so convinced.
Her gaze dips to my mouth for a moment, and her eyes turn sultry. She’s thinking about kissing me. My pulse picks up and, without thinking, I lift my glasses on top of my hair so I can focus on her lips. She inhales as she meets my eyes, and our gazes lock. Man, her eyes are beautiful.
“Your eyes are such a gorgeous blue,” she says breathlessly. She studies them in wonder. “They’re a shade lighter than the sky, but they have a dark-blue ring around the outside.”
I rest my arms on the table, leaning closer to her. “Yours are usually so dark they’re almost black, but today in the sunshine they look much lighter. They really are like melted chocolate.”
Time slows and seems to stop for a moment. I’m sure the boats cease to sail on the ocean, and the seagulls are motionless in the sky. I’m acutely aware of the exotic smell of the frangipani growing nearby, and the warm, comfortable aroma of baking pastries from the hotel, mixed with the coconut scent of Hallie’s sun lotion.
It would be so easy to kiss her. To throw all caution like rose petals into the summer breeze, lean forward, and press my lips to hers.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, “Fraser…”
“What?”
“You’re giving me goosebumps.”
I lift my gaze to hers. “I can’t k-kiss you.”
“I know.”
“I want to.” I shouldn’t have admitted it, but the words rise through me like bubbles in champagne, and they pop out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Her lips curve up a little. Then she looks longingly at my mouth. “Ian wasn’t big on kissing.”
Anger and resentment swell inside me with such force it surprises me. “That guy was such a fucking idiot.”
She gives me a wry look. “I know.”
“Hallie, honestly… Why did you stay with him so long?” I’m honestly baffled, and a little bit incredulous.
She drops her gaze then, and I curse myself. It sounds as if I’m criticizing her. Well, maybe I am. I don’t understand why she would be with him for nearly ten years when the guy obviously didn’t appreciate her. Doesn’t she have any self-worth?
And then it hits me like a frying pan around the head. Hallie doesn’t have any self-worth at all. Not an ounce. I don’t know what happened to her in her youth, but I’m guessing it started with whatever occurred with her father. Then she met Ian and clung to him because he obviously afforded her a small measure of comfort. And for some reason, she believed she didn’t deserve better.
She would never have demanded to know why he didn’t kiss her more. Why he wasn’t interested in spending hours making love to her. The guy obviously had his own issues, and it must have made sex a bodily function to be dealt with in a matter-of-fact manner. And she thinks that’s all she deserves.
Well, shit.
I reach out a hand, grasp the back of her chair, and pull it toward me so it slides along the deck. She gasps, laughs, then sobers as I lower my arm around her shoulders.
Turning toward her a little, I cup her face with my other hand. She looks up at me, her eyes so big they’re like saucers.
“I’m going to kiss you,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t, but right now I don’t care, because I can’t bear the thought that you’ve never been kissed the way a woman should be kissed. If you have any objections, you need to tell me now.”
She blinks, then gives a tiny shake of her head.
I study her beautiful eyes, then drop my gaze to her mouth. Her lips part a fraction as she inhales, and she moistens them with the tip of her tongue. Ahhh… I move my thumb to stroke across her bottom lip, thinking about how best to kiss her. The anticipation is one of the best bits. Thinking about how soft her mouth is going to be… how she’s going to taste…
“Fraser…” she whispers. “You’re giving me goosebumps.”
Smiling, I lower my lips to hers.
As I suspected, her lips are soft, the bottom one plump, the top one bearing the curve of her Cupid’s bow. I give her a long, gentle kiss, holding my lips there for about ten seconds before lifting my head.
“All right?” I murmur.
“Mmm.”
“Don’t forget to breathe.”
“Mmm.”
“Want me to stop?”
She shakes her head.
So I kiss her again.
This time, I start in the left corner of her mouth and press light butterfly kisses all the way across her lips to the other side. Slowly, enjoying every touch, every second of being so close to her. When I reach the right corner, I don’t stop; I continue up her cheek, then trace her cheekbone up to her temple. Next I kiss over her eyebrows to the space between her brows, and I touch my tongue there, just the tip, but I feel her inhale.
I carry on over her left eyebrow, kiss her temple, then nuzzle her hair, enjoying the fresh smell of her shampoo and the light scent of her perfume… I breathe in, inhaling lavender and pear and… mmm… a sweet aroma, like whipped cream… I exhale with a light groan, my breath whispering over her ear, and she shudders.
“Fraser…” she whispers.
I move her hair back so I can kiss behind her ear, trace my lips down to the lobe, and touch my tongue to it.
“Ohhh…” She sucks her bottom lip.
Smiling, I kiss her temple, then slowly back down her jaw to her mouth. When I reach it, I pause, my lips a fraction of an inch from hers. She releases her bottom lip, studying my mouth, her chest rising and falling quickly with her fast breaths.
“Want me to kiss you again?” I ask.
The summer breeze plays with her hair, and she says, “Yes, please,” her tone filled with longing.
“So polite,” I tease, sliding my hand into her hair. Then I tilt my head to the right and press my lips to hers.
I could kiss Hallie Woodford all day and all night. I give her soft, light kisses to start with, not wanting to alarm her. Part of me wondered whether she’s so damaged that she might be reluctant to react and just sit there stiffly—that I’d have to coax a kiss out of her. But she lifts both arms around my neck and melts against me, which fills me with such joy that I almost laugh out loud.
I give an appreciative murmur, wanting to let her know that I love her reaction, and she sighs in response and gives a tiny shudder again. Encouraged, I touch my tongue to her bottom lip, and in response she opens her mouth, allowing me to slide my tongue inside.
Wrapping my arms around her, I kiss her slowly and sensually, enjoying every moment of this intimate, magical sharing of ourselves. Hallie gives a soft moan, which stirs my blood, and I deepen the kiss, ready to back off if she seems alarmed at any point. Instead, she tightens her arms around my neck and returns every thrust of my tongue with one of her own. When I nibble her bottom lip, she does the same to me, eager, I think, to show me how much she’s enjoying it.
Aaahhh… fire spreads through me, and my hand tightens in her hair, pulling her hard against me as I delve my tongue into her mouth. I want to lift her into my arms, carry her into the bedroom, and remove her clothes as I cover every inch of her skin with more kisses. I want to bury my mouth between her legs and taste her, and make her come with my tongue and fingers.
Did Ian give her an orgasm every time he made love to her? I don’t think he can have, because how would he have been able to stop if he’d had Hallie lying beneath him, crying out his name, her body tightening with every pulse of her climax?
Wrapping her long hair around my hand, I pull it as I tear my lips from hers, forcing her to look up at me. Her eyes widen. I’ve kissed all her lipstick off, and her cheeks are flushed. Her breasts heave with her rapid breaths.
I release her abruptly and move back.
“That was a huge m-mistake,” I say harshly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’ve opened Pandora’s Box. And now all my feelings and desires are spilling out, and there’s no way I’m ever going to be able to get everything back in.