Chapter Eight
Hallie
As he lowers his hands, Fraser’s eyes are blazing. He looks angry. Not with me, surely?
My heart is thundering like a train rattling along the tracks, and I have no way of stopping it. I’ve never been kissed like that. I think my head is going to explode. Or my heart. Or some other area that’s tingling and throbbing that I won’t put a name to.
Part of me is exultant, filled with joy at experiencing the most passion-filled moment of my life. At being wanted and desired. Fraser cupped my face so gently, and his lips were so tender, and yet as the seconds ticked by, I could feel the desire rising inside him. But instead of feeling scared, I only felt excited at the thought of where this might lead.
But another part of me is also angry, furious, even, that I’ve spent the past ten years with a man who never made me feel as special as Fraser has done in the past couple of minutes. How did I not know? I thought it was all a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I didn’t realize people actually felt this way. Or that sex—or kissing, at least—could actually be like this.
What would it be like to go to bed with him? I feel completely bewildered as my brain struggles to picture what he might do to me, and what he’d let me do to him. If it’s all true… how would it feel?
All these thoughts spin around in my head like clothes on a rotary washing line, whipped up by a stiff breeze. He still looks angry, and that fills me with sorrow.
The intensity of his gaze fades, he blinks, and then he blows a breath. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“My brain’s melted,” I reply with a sniff.
He gives a short laugh and looks out to sea for a moment. Then he says, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say hastily. “That kiss was the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, don’t be sorry for it.”
He just sighs.
Conscious of my racing heart still banging away behind my ribs, I say. “It’s okay. I’m not going to make trouble for you. I promise.”
He looks at me. “You’re already t-trouble for me, Hallie.”
Not sure what he means, I say, “I meant professionally.”
He looks away again, and this time he doesn’t reply.
I fight the urge to touch my lips. I can feel his kiss imprinted on them. I’m sure everyone’s going to be able to see it, as if I’ve had a moko kauae —the sacred tattoo that some Māori women have on their faces.
I can’t believe he kissed me. After all his talk about staying professional, and the fact that his job is on the line… Something happened when I told him that Ian wasn’t into kissing. I could see the change in Fraser’s eyes, a flare of anger at Ian’s idiocy, followed by a resolute determination to show me what it could be like.
But he regrets it. That much is clear. My heart slowly sinks.
He clears his throat. “Well, I might leave you to unpack. Maybe we’ll meet at five-thirty in the restaurant for something light?”
“Sounds great.”
Without looking at me, he rises, picks up our glasses, and goes into the suite.
My mouth goes dry, and I get up and follow him in. “Fraser…”
He puts the glasses on the kitchen counter, then turns. He looks a little tired and fraught. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.
I remind myself that it wasn’t as momentous for him. It was just a kiss. He’s obviously used to kissing women like that. It wasn’t anything special, even though it was special for me.
“I need to say something,” I tell him. “What just happened… it was amazing, and…” I gather my courage in both hands. “I would have liked more. But not at the expense of our working relationship. I love my job, and I love working for you, and I don’t want that to change.”
He slides his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “Me neither.”
I close the distance between us and force a smile on my lips. “Thank you… for kissing me. Don’t stress about it. We’re friends, aren’t we? You were being kind and just showing the possibilities, that’s all.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t regret it,” I say, tears pricking my eyes. “I couldn’t bear it.”
He studies my face. Then he says, “I don’t. I’m just wondering how on earth I’m going to keep my hands off you for the next forty-eight hours.”
I’m so shocked, I can only stare at him.
“I’ll call for you just before five thirty,” he says. Then he turns on his heel, walks out, and closes the door behind him.
*
Sure enough, at 5:25 p.m., there’s a knock on my door, and I go over and answer it.
“Oh!” My eyes widen at the sight of him in a smart navy business suit, carrying a laptop case. It’s a three-piece with a navy waistcoat—very Fraser—and a white shirt. I thought he might have worn a bow tie—very Indiana Jones—but instead he’s chosen a light-blue striped tie. “You look nice,” I comment, going out and closing the door behind me.
His gaze skims down me like a laser beam. I’ve chosen to dress semi-professionally, thinking that maybe it might help me stay in the business frame of mind. I’m wearing a cream jacket and a matching skirt with lots of tiny soft pleats, a pretty peach vest, and high-heeled, cream strappy sandals.
His gaze reaches my feet, and he studies the sandals, then returns his gaze to mine. He looks a touch exasperated.
“Do I look okay?” I ask, concerned. I’ve twisted my hair and used a claw clip to hold it up, leaving one long strand which I’ve curled to hang to the side in a glossy spiral. I’ve taken care on my makeup, too, using black eyeliner drawn out in wings, and a bronze eyeshadow that brings out the orange flecks in my eyes.
“Good enough to eat,” he says. “Which is giving me all sorts of ideas, and I think we n-need to go to dinner before I c-carry you back inside and act extremely unprofessional.” He turns and walks away, toward the main building.
I jog to catch up with him, my pulse racing, and he glances at me. “You okay? You’re blushing.”
“Oh my God, Fraser, I wonder why.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
He frowns. “Okay, now I’m confused.”
I press my hand to my forehead as we walk, hoping I don’t fall off my high heels. “You say these things as if they’re nothing.”
“What did I say?”
I blush even hotter. “You said I was good enough to eat, and it was giving you ideas.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, so?”
“I don’t… I can’t… do you mean… were you talking about… you know?”
“Yes, Hallie, I was referring to oral sex.”
“Oh my God.”
He laughs. “What?”
I shake my head. Fraser glances at me, then stops walking. I take a few more steps, realize he’s stopped, and turn to face him. This is beginning to be a pattern.
“Please,” he says, looking pained, “please don’t tell me Ian never went down on you.”
I blink, and just shake my head.
He stares at me. I stare back.
“I don’t know what to say,” he states.
Neither do I. He looks genuinely dumbfounded.
“I didn’t realize you were that kinky,” I say, hoping that a joke might lighten the moment.
He doesn’t smile, though. “Oral sex isn’t kinky,” he says flatly.
I give a short laugh. “Fraser, seriously…”
“BDSM is kinky. Fetishes are kinky. Oral sex is a standard sexual practice.”
I just stare at him.
“It’s a major part of lovemaking,” he says, his tone softening. “Oh Hallie, you’re breaking my heart.”
My face is now burning, and I’m starting to feel like an idiot. Sometimes Zoe has joked about sex and suggested her experience is far wider than mine, but you never know what people really get up to in the privacy of their bedroom. Although Ian and I didn’t experiment much, I’ve always assumed our experience was normal. But Fraser is starting to make me wonder.
“I think we should go,” I mumble, and start walking.
He falls into step beside me, and we don’t talk again until we arrive.
We decide to take a seat in the bar, so we make our way to a table by the window, overlooking the Pacific, and check out the menu. I study it as if I’m memorizing nuclear codes, trying desperately not to think about what we’ve just discussed.
“Maybe we could share a platter?” Fraser suggests. “The charcuterie board looks good?”
“That sounds great,” I reply, even though I have no idea what he’s just said.
“I’ll order. What would you like to drink?”
“Whisky, double, neat. In fact, just bring the bottle.”
His lips curve up. “I’m happy to oblige.”
“I bet you are.” Although my voice is full of sarcasm, he just laughs. “I’ll have a latte,” I tell him. I need to keep my wits about me. Fraser is screwing with my brain enough as it is; I don’t need alcohol to muddy the waters.
He goes up to the bar, and I watch him talking to the woman, giving his order. Gosh, he looks amazing in his suit. It fits him perfectly; I bet it’s tailor made. He’s so incredibly handsome, but his glasses just stop him from looking like a Hollywood actor, and give him the bookish appearance I really like.
He pays with his card, then comes back to the table and sits opposite me. I try not to stare as he flicks open the buttons of his jacket, slides it off, and hangs it over the back of his chair, sits down, then takes off his glasses and puts them on the table. He leans back, links his fingers, and studies me with his gorgeous blue eyes.
“Stop it,” I scold.
His lips curve up, but he doesn’t say anything.
“So tell me about your talk this evening,” I say desperately. “Do you want to try it out on me?”
“No,” he says. “Hallie…”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” I’m too flustered. “Later, when we get back from the group.”
He purses his lips and thinks for a moment. I look down at my hands. He’s going to tell me I’ve spent the last ten years with a man who should have treated me better, and I’m going to get upset, and I don’t want to, not when we’re going out soon.
“All right,” he says softly. “Come on, tell me more about crowdfunding. How do you know so much about it?”
Relieved, I inhale and let out a long, shaky breath. “My sister’s husband, Keelan, is a game designer, and he ran a Kickstarter project for a new computer game he was designing. He aimed for five thousand dollars and made it in a week. I think he ended up raising over twenty thousand.”
Fraser continues to ask questions, and we talk about possibilities for the museum as our coffees and then our food arrives. The charcuterie board is amazing—camembert, cheddar, and Stilton cheeses; prosciutto, salami, and smoked salmon; oat and seed crackers and thinly sliced sourdough bread; bowls of chutney and pesto; and for sweetness, figs, sliced pears, and honey-and-thyme roasted grapes. We both tuck in, and there’s not a lot left by the time the waiter comes to pick it up.
“We should probably get going,” I say, realizing it’s gone six thirty.
“Mmm. Just a sec.” He finishes off the Coke Zero he ordered after his coffee.
I watch him drink, the way his throat moves when he swallows, and his Adam’s apple rises and falls. He lowers his empty glass, and his gaze meets mine.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “I just wanted to say thank you.” He tips his head to the side, and I add, “For not pushing it.”
“You promised me we could talk about it later,” he says. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Yeah, well, hopefully I can have a vodka or two before that happens.”
He laughs and gets to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
We order an Uber, and it’s only a short journey to where the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group meets in a community room attached to the library. We go into the building and follow the sound of conversation.
I’m surprised to see nearly fifty people in a large room, most of them already seated in the rows of chairs that have been put out facing a podium and a table.
Fraser introduces himself to the woman on the door who’s handing out a flyer about tonight’s talk, and suddenly there’s a flurry of activity. The head of the group, an elderly Māori guy called Wiremu, comes up to us. They shake hands, and then he and Fraser solemnly exchange a hongi —a traditional Māori greeting in which they press noses.
Fraser introduces me, saying, “This is Hallie Woodford, conservationist extraordinaire.”
“I’m having that put on my business cards,” I tell them, and everyone laughs. Fraser grins at me. He told me he gets nervous before he speaks, but he doesn’t look it. He seems quite relaxed as he goes to the front of the room, takes out his laptop, opens it up, and attaches it to the HDMI cable leading to the projector, all the while chatting to Wiremu and a couple of other members of the group.
I find an empty chair to one side of the room and take a seat. I haven’t seen him speak in public before. I know he’s extremely knowledgeable, and I’ve been in several meetings where he’s impressed me with his experience. But our friends—especially his siblings—tease him for being pompous, so he doesn’t tend to talk as much when we’re all together, and only interjects with short facts or jokes. It’s going to be interesting to watch this talk.
Despite him teasing that he was going to make it up as he went along, he’s prepared a presentation with slides and photos, and he brings up the introductory slide and smiles as Wiremu calls for quiet, then introduces him. Everyone claps and then falls quiet, and Fraser begins speaking.
Wiremu has clipped a lavalier microphone to Fraser’s lapel, so he doesn’t have to stand behind the podium, and he walks up and down in front of the table, his hands behind his back, clicking the button on his wireless mouse to change the slides as he talks.
To my surprise, he begins by giving a welcome speech in Māori. He speaks fluently, without notes. I hadn’t realized he spoke Te Reo. I recognize some of the words, but I don’t have to worry about translating because he repeats it in English afterward in a rough translation.
“ Tēnā koutou katoa, e ngā mana, e ngā reo, e ngā karangatanga maha o te motu, nau mai, haere mai ki tēnei kaupapa whakahirahira. Ko Fraser Bell ahau, he mihi maioha tēnei ki a koutou katoa mō tō koutou taenga mai i tēnei rā. Me mihi hoki ki ngā iwi o tēnei rohe, ngā hapū, ngā kaitiaki o tēnei whenua, mō tō rātou manaakitanga. Nō reira, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou, tēnā koutou katoa .”
He switches to English. “Hello everyone, welcome, I’m Fraser Bell, and I want to thank you all for being here today. I also acknowledge the tribes of this area, the guardians of this land, for their hospitality to us all.” He smiles at Wiremu, who nods.
“I’m Director of the National Museum of New Zealand in Wellington,” Fraser continues. “I’m going to start by telling you a story. Once upon a time, there was an old, rundown museum in Wellington Harbour that was due to be closed down. Visitors were few and far between because the displays were outdated and fading, and there was no money for improvements or new exhibitions. And then along came a superhero to save the day…” He grins, and everyone laughs. “Seriously, though,” he says, “this is the story of how my team saved the museum, and how we’ve turned it into one of the most successful in the country.”
He continues to talk about his ‘team’, but he’s just being self-deprecating, because he’s almost single-handedly responsible.
He skips over the details, but I know that he was working in the fundraising office when he heard that the current director had quit and that the board was considering closing the museum because it hadn’t made a profit in several years. So he came up with a five-year plan for turning the museum around and took it to the board. It was a bold move, but it paid off because his vision obviously impressed Whina Cooper, and she was brave enough to decide it was worth giving him time to see if he could implement any of his ideas.
He explains the major methods of fundraising he’s used, then goes through the various things he’s changed, from improvements to the physical building, to the virtual reality experience the kids love, to the numerous new exhibits. He goes into detail about how he’s worked with schools to develop educational workshops, and how he’s also maintained close contact with local iwi or Māori tribes to ensure that their culture is honored and preserved.
Like everyone else in the room, I sit captivated as he talks, spellbound by his deep voice and his unique blend of storytelling ability and the incorporation of fascinating facts he weaves into it. This guy certainly knows how to entertain an audience. I had no idea he was so good at it.
His gaze flicks over to me frequently, and he mentions me occasionally and even asks me a couple of questions when it comes to conservation, which I answer shyly, conscious of everyone’s gaze turning to me. But I appreciate him treating me like an equal, and managing to make me sound as knowledgeable as he is, even though I’m far from it.
When he finally rounds up and asks if there are any questions, a dozen hands shoot up, and it takes another twenty minutes before he’s finally able to call it a day. Everyone gets up and moves to the tables serving tea and coffee and biscuits, and I accept a cup of coffee, then smile as one of the members approaches me and asks me a question about the conservation of wooden objects found on excavation sites.
I answer as best as I can, and soon discover I have my own audience of half a dozen members around me in a semi-circle, so I adopt Fraser’s approach and tell a funny short story about the time I was helping Elora to separate the bones of half a dozen birds found on a Māori pa site, and I backed into the table and knocked all her carefully separated piles of bones off onto the floor.
“Don’t listen to her,” Fraser says from behind me, and I realize he must have been listening. “She’s the most knowledgeable conservationist we have.” He rests a hand in the middle of my back as he tells them how much I impressed him with my restoration of a nineteenth-century Scottish officer’s sword, explaining how I also managed to save most of the scabbard it was found in.
My face flushes, firstly from his compliments as he tells them how skillful my work was, and also from his touch. His hand is warm even through my suit, and although it’s hardly an intimate touch, it feels like it. He’s taken off his jacket, and I can smell his cologne, warmed by his body, rising from his crisp white shirt. He looks so sexy in his waistcoat, too, mixed with the professorial look his glasses give him that I adore.
I’ve never felt like this about a guy before. Never felt my senses stirred in such a way. Never felt confused, unable to get my brain to work properly, because all I can think about is his scent, and how it might feel to have his arms around me, and his mouth on mine.
He’s right; kissing me was a huge mistake. Because soon we’re going to be returning to the hotel, and he’s told me he wants to talk to me again, and I can’t help but think it’s going to be fatal. I don’t want to hear how being with Ian was a mistake. About all those years I’ve wasted. Because if I do, how am I going to be able to resist climbing onto Fraser’s lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, and kissing him until I’m breathless?