Chapter Fifteen
Hallie
Fraser and I stare at each other. He looks amused, but hides his smile as he sees how horrified I am.
I turn to the sink, pick up the container I knocked over which I guess could hold a guest’s toothbrushes, then look hurriedly in the mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes are bright, all my lipstick has disappeared, and part of my hairdo has come loose. I pin it up quickly and straighten my dress. Then I grab a few sheets of paper from the roll by the toilet and clean myself up, glaring at him as he tries not to laugh.
“I’m trying to will it to go down,” he whispers, and I realize he’s referring to his erection. He buttons up his jacket and tugs it down, trying to cover the bulge in his trousers.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Who’s outside? Another guest, waiting to use the bathroom? Or a member of staff who’s about to give us a right bollocking for intruding in a private area?
There’s another knock, and Fraser waits for me to nod, gives me a look that says, Here goes , then opens the door.
Oh holy shit. It’s Isabel.
Fraser is clearly fighting not to laugh. Damn him. Doesn’t he realize how serious this is? We walk out into the bedroom, where she’s standing, arms crossed, waiting for us. Unlike Fraser, she clearly isn’t amused.
I meet her eyes, then drop my gaze like a schoolgirl that a teacher has caught snogging a boy behind the bike sheds.
Fraser meets her gaze openly, though, and gives a small smile.
“Can’t you read?” Isabel asks, her voice sharp. “The sign states that this part of the house is private.”
“Oops,” Fraser says.
I glare at him, then give her a sheepish, apologetic look. “We’re very sorry. We got… er… carried away. I’m so sorry for intruding—that was unforgivable.” I glare at Fraser. He doesn’t look at me. He continues to look at Isabel, clearly unrepentant.
She looks at me, then back at him. To my surprise, her lips curve up, just a little. Fraser’s match them—he thinks she’s amused. But her eyes hold no humor at all.
“I could ask you to leave,” she says, “but my father spoke very fondly of you, and I don’t want to mar the day. Please return to the garden. If I discover you’ve trespassed again, I won’t be so forgiving the next time.”
“Of course,” I mumble, because Fraser obviously isn’t going to apologize. I stride across the room, along the corridor, turn toward the back of the house, and head outside, hoping Fraser is following.
In the garden, people are taking their seats with their full plates, and nobody pays any attention to me as I make my way back to the food stations. I collect a plate and scoop some salad and pasta onto it, then return to my seat at Wiremu’s table. A waiter asks whether I’d like champagne or something else, and I gratefully accept a flute, drinking half of it in one go.
Fraser has finally exited the house, and he walks slowly down the steps and across to the food stations as if he owns the place. I would never have considered him arrogant, but when I think about his amusement on being found out, I realize just how this guy is leagues above me. I don’t think his family are billionaires or anything, but they’re certainly wealthy. It’s not just about money, though. Were we in Britain, he would have been upper class. He’d have gone to Eton, then Oxford or Cambridge to discuss history and archaeology over port in wood-paneled dining halls. He’d have belonged to an exclusive gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, the sort that has velvet armchairs, fine cigars, and traditions that go back centuries. He’d have spent summer in the South of France, and drank champagne on a yacht in Saint-Tropez, or gone to polo matches and rubbed shoulders with royalty while he sipped Pimm’s on the sidelines.
His comportment, his attitude, his education, are all super classy.
Going down on me in the bathroom during a public event is somewhat less so.
Oh my God.
I lean my forehead on a hand, dying a little inside. I can’t believe Isabel knows what we did. Oh shit, she probably heard me, too, because I wasn’t quiet. Ahhh…
Next to me, Fraser puts his plate on the table and takes his seat, brushing against my arm as he does so.
“Great spread,” Wiremu says.
“Terrific,” Fraser replies. “I’ve worked up a real appetite. No idea why.”
“Oh my God,” I mumble, my face burning.
I hear him give a short laugh, and then feel him press against my arm. The smell of his cologne fills my nostrils as he leans close. “Are you all right, Princess?”
I like the endearment, but I’m not going to let him charm me like that. “No. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t worry. I told her it was all my fault.”
“Good, because it was.”
“I don’t recall you pushing me away.”
“Shut up.”
He chuckles. “She’s a woman of the world—she doesn’t care.”
I look at him then. He’s smiling, his eyes sparkling. He’s so incredibly handsome.
“Don’t you realize?” I’m angry that he hasn’t guessed. “She’s going to tell Whina Cooper.”
His smile fades slowly. “What?”
“She doesn’t like you, Fraser. When she smiled, it wasn’t out of amusement. She’s realized that if she gets you in trouble, you’ll have to drop the claim on the letters.”
He stares at me, and I can see the truth sinking in slowly like a stone thrown into a vat of honey.
I look back at my food. “I can’t believe we were so foolish.” Tears prick my eyes. “It was such a stupid thing to do. We were so close, and that one slip has threatened everything.” Because of course, not only are the letters at stake, but our positions at the museum. Whina has warned him that if he has a relationship with someone at work again, she’s going to fire him. Am I really going to be the reason he loses his job? Shame and disappointment lodge in my gullet like a stone, and I stare at my food, knowing there’s no way I can eat anything.
Fraser clears his throat. Then he picks up a roll, slices it in half, opens it, and starts filling it with some of the sliced lamb.
“I don’t regret it,” he says. “You tasted better than anything else they’re serving at those tables.” He takes a big bite of the roll, his eyes gleaming.
I glare at him. “Don’t think flattering or embarrassing me will change my mind. I know how bad this is. How can you be so unrepentant and dismissive?”
His eyes blaze then as he lowers his roll and turns to me. He speaks quietly, but his jaw is tight with barely contained frustration. “Nobody tells me what to do,” he states, each word chosen and placed precisely, as if he’s laying tiles in a mosaic. “And when I want something, I’m not going to have anyone tell me I can’t have it.”
At first I think he’s talking about the letters. His respect for his father has always been obvious, and Isabel’s disregard for her father’s wishes has hit him hard.
But the fire in his eyes speaks of another desire. It reveals the resentment simmering beneath the surface at the leash that Whina has placed on him. It’s a constant reminder of how little control he has over his personal life. And it’s only now that I understand. He knows he shouldn’t feel anything for me. He’s not supposed to care about me or want me. But he’s just risked everything for one taste of me.
His determined tone shocks me. He’s usually so laid back, so diplomatic and tactful, that I forget he’s also the most ambitious, driven, and tenacious guy I know. His words ring with his upbringing, his privileged position, his money, and his self-confidence, and I have no doubt he means what he says.
“Fraser,” Wiremu declares, “tell us about the new exhibition you’re planning for Valentine’s Day.”
Fraser holds my gaze for a few more seconds, leaving me in no doubt as to the strength of his resolve, before he switches to the other guests at the table and smiles as he begins to describe his plans for the exhibition. It’s as if Sauron’s eye has finally turned away from the Hobbits, leaving me gasping with relief.
What was he saying? Just that, at that moment, he wanted me, and he was determined to have me, like the spoiled, upper-class brat he is? As if he’s seen an oil painting in an auction, and he resolves to outbid everyone else in the room, no matter how much the price rises, just because he can?
Or was he suggesting something more? That he’s willing to risk his job to have me permanently?
My head spins. There’s no way of telling. I know him well enough to be convinced he wouldn’t play with my emotions. He’s not the type of guy who’ll sleep with a girl, knowing she likes him, when he has no intention of taking it further.
But he’s also a man. Talking to my girlfriends suggests that many of them can be clueless about emotions. Maybe he thinks sleeping with him was a flight of fancy for me, a momentary lapse, and that I can forget him as easily as he can forget me.
When I want something, I’m not going to have anyone tell me I can’t have it.
I shiver. Those words are like multiple matau —Māori fishhooks, that are sinking into me and refusing to let go. But I can’t afford to let him land me like a kingfish. Slowly and methodically, I need to unpick them and keep myself safe, or I’m going to end up with a broken heart. Again.
For the next hour or so, I concentrate on my meal, which is excellent, and on the conversation around the table. Fraser, as always, is entertaining and funny, and the others are keen to discuss Sebastian’s role in preserving the history and culture of the area, so there are few gaps in the conversation, and for that I’m thankful.
When we finish our mains, Fraser asks whether he can fetch me a dessert, and I let him bring me some chocolate profiteroles, glad of a few minutes to myself to breathe.
The woman next to me—Abby, the wife of the head of the Rotary Club—leans close to me with a smile and whispers, “You’ve caught yourself a fine man there, Hallie.”
My face burns. “He’s not… I mean we’re not…”
She notices, and her eyebrows rise. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a husband-and-wife team.”
“No, not at all—he’s my boss.”
Her lips curve up. “I’m not sure that’s all he wants to be, judging by the way he was watching you just now.”
“Oh… goodness… we can’t… we work together…”
She smiles. “Many couples meet at work. It’s where we spend most of our day, so it’s not surprising. As long as you declare it to HR, what’s the problem?”
I can’t go into Whina Cooper’s instructions, so I just give a small smile and change the subject before Fraser returns to the table. It must be true that many people meet at work. But that’s not the same as a boss having a relationship with a subordinate, which I am, much as I don’t like the word.
Fraser arrives with our desserts and places mine in front of me before sitting. He has a portion of the panna cotta, which he proceeds to polish off in double quick time.
“I don’t know how you can eat so much and not put on weight,” I grumble.
“I am,” he says, scraping around the bowl. “I have a paunch.”
“You do not,” I scoff.
“You’d know,” he says with a smirk.
“You’re going to have to stop making comments like that when we get back,” I point out, trying not to blush.
“What happens in Tauranga stays in Tauranga, right?”
“Don’t quote my own words at me.”
“I’m just saying. We have another whole night here.” He flicks his eyebrows up.
I stare at him. “Don’t even go there.”
“You didn’t enjoy the first round?”
I give him a wry look and eat a mouthful of the pastry. Oh my God, it’s so good that I can’t help but give a small moan.
He stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth and stares at me. “Don’t do that,” he scolds.
I turn the spoon over and suck the chocolate off, meeting his eyes. Two can play at his game. I’m not going to have him taunting me for the rest of the day and not do the same back.
Our eyes lock, and his hot gaze makes me think about what happened in the bathroom, how he sank to his knees, ducked beneath my skirt, then kissed up my thighs and slid his tongue into me. I hadn’t expected it at all, and I was shocked with how quickly he was able to bring me to a climax.
The warmth in his eyes suggests he’s thinking about it, too.
He leans closer to me and, his mouth right next to my ear, murmurs, “I want to t-taste you again.”
“Stop it.”
“I want to be inside you, Hallie.”
“I can’t… I don’t…” My brain’s not working.
“Tell me you’ll spend the n-night with me.”
“No!”
“Just one more night.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Imagine all the fun we c-could have.” His breath is hot on my ear. His stutter only confirms his desire for me.
This guy makes me feel like a profiterole left out in the sun. I’m melting from the inside out, turning to a puddle of warmed chocolate and cream.
“Fraser, stop. Please.”
He moves back a little, looks up and sees Abby watching us with a grin, and chuckles as he returns to finishing off his dessert.
I try to concentrate on my profiteroles, but it’s impossible. He wants to sleep with me again? I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. I need to be the bigger person here and make the right decision for both of us. If we go to bed together tonight, it’s going to make it harder to return to our normal lives. Last night was an aberration, a freak lapse of concentration, a shooting star that burned with brief brilliance before it burned itself out. But if we do it again… it’ll suggest there’s something more between us, that we’re binary suns, doomed to spin around one another indefinitely until something knocks us out of orbit. Like Whina Cooper, for example.
I’m saved from having to continue the conversation by Adam approaching our table. “Hey,” he says, pausing by us with a smile. “I wondered whether the two of you would like to take a look at the letters now?”
My pulse picks up speed as Fraser says, “Yes, of course.” We’ve both finished our desserts, and we rise and let him lead us across the busy lawn toward the veranda.
“Isabel’s taking a phone call,” Adam says as we mount the steps. “So I thought we’d take the opportunity of her absence.”
“Did she… ah… tell you about our… um… conversation?” Fraser asks.
Adam glances at us. “That’s none of my business,” he says curtly. “I’m only concerned with the letters and my father’s legacy.” He leads the way inside.
It sounds as if she did tell him, which is embarrassing, but clearly he doesn’t care. Perhaps Isabel tried to influence his view of us by telling him, and he resented her attempt at manipulation.
We follow him into the dining room, and he takes us over to the display cabinet. Under the watchful eye of Pania on the wall, he unlocks the cabinet and lifts the glass lid.
Fraser looks at the letters, then gestures to me. He wants me to be the first to touch them. I open my clutch and take out the pair of thin cotton gloves I brought for this purpose. Quickly, I pull them on and look at Adam for permission. He nods, looking impressed. Carefully, I pick up the pile of envelopes.
“This is original?” I ask, gesturing at the ribbon that holds them together. It’s delicate and faded, and when he nods, I pull it undone very gently, afraid it might come apart in my hands. I place it to one side, then look through the envelopes.
“Someone—not my father, it was before his time—wrote the date of each letter on the back,” Adam explains.
I turn them over, and sure enough, the date has been handwritten on the flap of each envelope. They range from April to November 1861. It was a period of upheaval across the world—it saw the beginning of the American Civil War, as well as major conflicts in Europe, South Asia, and parts of the Caribbean and the Pacific world. But these letters show the most important struggle of all—that of the heart, which can cause just as much devastation to those involved.
Turning the envelopes back over, I examine the fronts. “The ink has faded a little,” I observe out loud. “It’s a warm brown color now, and that’s typical of iron gall ink as it oxidizes over time. Despite its age, though, the paper’s held up well.”
“Rag-based rather than wood pulp?” Fraser asks.
“Yes. It explains its durability.” I open the top envelope and slide out the letter. It’s three pages long and folded into three. I unfold it carefully and inspect the paper first. “The edges are brittle where it’s been exposed to air and light. But there are no signs of water damage or insect activity. That’s good, given the climate here.”
I take out a small loupe or magnifying device and hold it to my right eye as I inspect the delicate fibers of the paper. “The ink has settled deep into the weave. It’s been absorbed rather than merely sitting on the surface. That shows the paper’s quality, and the fact that the person writing was pressing on the quill. It shows that they were deeply invested in their words.”
“How amazing,” Adam says in awe. “I didn’t know any of that.”
“Have you read them?” Fraser asks.
“No,” he admits. “Isabel’s the one who’s into genealogy and history. I’m more of a practical man, I’m afraid—cars and rugby are my forte.”
“You can see the creases where the letters have been folded and unfolded countless times,” I tell him. “And look at these faint smudges where fingers have lingered over the words. It’s evidence that it was cherished. Read and reread.”
“As all love letters should be,” Fraser says.
I smile, refolding it and sliding it back into the envelope. I turn the envelopes over again and fan them out, looking at the dates.
Adam has wandered to the door, and he frowns and says, “Isabel’s finished her call. I’ll see if I can stall her.” He walks off, and we hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
“Wait,” I say to Fraser. I stop, go back to the beginning, and count the envelopes. “There are eleven in Hemingway’s book,” I comment, my heart racing. “But there are twelve here.”
“Really? I wonder which is the extra one?”
“I memorized the dates,” I say, going through them. I stop as I reach the second-to-last, marked October 1861. “It’s this one.” As quickly as I can without damaging it, I take the letter out and unfold it. “Have you got your phone on you?” He nods and takes it out. “Take a photo of each of the pages,” I instruct, carefully holding the first page upright. He takes a photo of it, then of each of the three others as I hold them up. Finally, as he pockets his phone, I refold the letters and slot them back into the envelope. I’m just replacing it into the pile as I hear raised voices outside, and then Isabel appears in the doorway.
She’s clearly furious. “Put them down,” she demands. “You have no right to touch my private property.”
“Izzy,” Adam snaps, “I was the one who unlocked the cabinet. Don’t yell at them.”
“Leave them alone,” she says to us, and she’s clearly distressed.
“Of course,” I say, placing them back in the cabinet and backing away. I take off my gloves and replace them in the clutch.
“We didn’t mean to upset you,” Fraser states. “I know what they mean to you.”
“They’re much more than artifacts to me,” she says. Her eyes gleam with tears.
“I understand.” Fraser gives her a gentle smile. We’re archaeologists, Isabel. We have nothing but respect for taonga like this.” It’s the Māori word for treasure.
She hesitates, and for a second I think he might have got through to her.
Then she lets out a shaky sigh. “I’d like you to return to the garden.” She lifts her chin.
Fraser opens his mouth to argue with her, but I take his hand. “Of course,” I say, and I lead him out, past Adam, who’s frowning, onto the veranda, and down the stairs.
“This is so frustrating.” Fraser stops by a waiter with a tray of champagne. He takes two flutes from the tray, and we wander over to the hydrangea bushes. “I can’t see her ever agreeing to give us the letters. She obviously has an emotional connection to them.”
“Maybe they remind her of her father,” I suggest.
“Maybe. But you’d think if he meant that much to her, she’d want to honor his wishes.”
“Hmm. I wonder if the answer lies in the extra letter?”
He takes out his phone, moves next to me, and brings up the photographs he took. We turn so the camera is in shadow, and I do my best to enlarge the first page. The writing isn’t easy to decipher. It’s faded in places, smudged in others, and it’s written in Richard’s slanting hand.
“He should have been a doctor,” Fraser mumbles.
I give a short laugh. “Some of it’s decipherable. Listen.” And I begin to read it out.