Chapter Twenty-One
Hallie
Out in the kitchen, Fraser directs me to sit on a stool at the breakfast bar and watch him as he cooks dinner.
Wearing nothing but his T-shirt and my underwear, I perch there, resting my chin on my hands, and enjoy the view of him in his boxer-briefs, pan-searing the salmon. He’s already put the potatoes in the oven, and by the time the salmon is done, the cheese has melted on the smashed potatoes, and it’s all ready to serve.
I love that he can cook, and I love this apartment. It’s big and filled with light, and so different from my own cramped, dingy flat. The view across the harbor is fantastic, too.
“I wonder how Joel and Zoe are getting on,” I say as Fraser slides a spatula beneath each piece of salmon and lifts them onto the plates. “I haven’t heard from her for a while. I think she’s… otherwise engaged.”
He laughs, turning to collect the tray of smashed potatoes, which he then adds to the plates. “I’m sure Joel will have done his best to convince her to give him a chance. He’s pretty crazy about her.”
“I wonder if they’ve found the Mair Necklace?” I’m referring to an artifact that legend says went down with a ship carrying opals back from Australia.
“I thought we might have heard from them if they had,” he says. He tips a bowl containing orange segments, avocado, and almonds on top of the baby salad greens, then adds a few tablespoons of a dressing from a jug and tosses it together. “Come on, I’ve worked up an appetite, and I’m starving.”
I chuckle and pick up the salad as he carries the plates to the dining table. He’s already taken the glasses and wine bottle there, and after placing the plates on the mats, he opens the bottle and pours us both a glass.
We sit and start to eat while we chat about the ship—the Relentless—that Joel and Zoe are investigating. We continue talking about other ships of the period and move on to maritime archaeology, discussing major finds in New Zealand, as well as in the rest of the world. Fraser is so easy to talk to. I never feel as if I have to excavate beneath his words to discover what he’s really trying to say the way I did with Ian. Part of me had worried that he’d asked me over to talk about our relationship, and to tell me he couldn’t see me anymore, but that certainly hasn’t seemed the case so far.
After we finish our mains, he grills a tray of peaches and serves them with honey and mascarpone cream. We decide to take them into the living room, and we sit on the sofa, Fraser with his bare feet propped on the coffee table, me curled up beside him, and choose a movie to watch while we eat the sweet fruit.
It’s easy to do this. To nibble the peaches and suck the cream off the spoon, to drink the crisp, cool wine, and to sit with Fraser and just be . I feel no need to keep making conversation, to behave a particular way, or to try to impress him. I’ve known him for long enough that I’m sure he knows my many faults anyway. Instead, I enjoy being close to him, kissing him occasionally, discussing the movie, and just relaxing.
It’s been so long since I did this with a man. I hadn’t realized how toxic my relationship with Ian had become. We created an elaborate maze for ourselves over the years where every sentence, every gesture led to a complicated choice of response, and one wrong turn could easily lead to hurt feelings, an argument, and a ruined evening.
It makes me think then of my promise to myself that I needed to spend time alone to heal, and that in turn reminds me that Fraser and I can’t have our happily ever after until we solve the issue that we’re not just colleagues, but that he’s my boss.
Will the quest that Whina gave me help toward that? I’m not sure. If I’m lucky, it might change his stars, but it’s not going to alter my past.
“That wasn’t bad,” Fraser says, and I realize the movie has finished. I check my watch; it’s nearly nine thirty. The sun has set, and the first stars are twinkling in the night sky. I really should make a move, as I don’t like being out alone in the dark.
But Fraser draws me toward him for a kiss, then stretches out on the sofa, pulling me on top of him. I give in and let him kiss me, enjoying the play of his lips across mine, and the way his hands wander over my body, first above the T-shirt, then beneath it. His hands are warm on my skin, and he uses just enough pressure to stop it being ticklish while being light enough to arouse me.
I lift my head and look at him, into his beautiful blue eyes that are now midnight blue in the semi-darkness, like the sky outside. “I should go,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Stay.”
“Fraser…”
“Stay,” he says again, more firmly this time.
“I didn’t bring anything.”
“You can use my toothbrush.” He starts kissing down my neck.
I shiver. “I haven’t got any makeup or clothes or…” I moan as he cups my breasts and squeezes the nipples.
“You can get up early and go back to your apartment,” he murmurs. “Just stay the night with me. Please.”
He tugs my nipples again, and I shudder and say, “Okay.”
With a triumphant, somewhat smug smile, he slides a hand to the back of my head and pulls it down to kiss me.
I want to protest and ask him why he’s torturing me like this when we know we have no future. But I know men hate having The Talk, and they don’t like to discuss Where This Is Going. And anyway, my body is turning to caramel again, as every kiss melts me just that little bit more. I can’t blame him. I came here hoping he’d want to take me to bed, and I was thrilled when he opened the door and it was immediately obvious he was interested. I can’t really criticize him now for wanting me again.
And it’s so nice to be wanted. To be desired. And to be encouraged to show my feelings in return. How can I push him away and demand he explain himself when earlier I was lying at home dreaming about this very scene?
So I let him make love to me oh-so-slowly, and it’s different from before, when we were so desperate for one another that neither of us could wait for him to be inside me.
This time, we kiss for ages on the sofa before he finally pushes me up. We rise, and he leads me to the bedroom, and we remove the little clothing we’re wearing before sliding beneath the cool duvet.
He kisses me again, and it’s like floating in the shallows of the ocean that have been heated by the sun. My body is still humming and a little sensitive from our previous lovemaking, and he seems aware of this, because his touch is tender and gentle. He kisses me all over, from my hands, down my arms to my breasts, over my body, and along my legs before finally moving between them. Once there, he kisses me gently, teasing with his tongue, until I can’t bear it any longer. And only then does he rise and slide inside me, making both of us groan with the exquisite sensation.
But despite both of us being incredibly turned on, we take our time to make love—because that’s what we’re doing, I have no doubt about it. Fraser is making love to me; it’s evident in the affection in his eyes, the reverent way he touches me, and his murmured endearments.
We change position, and he enters me from behind. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot on my neck. “You feel so good, Hallie.”
“Mmm…” I reach up a hand to touch his face. “I love the feel of you inside me.”
“You’re like warm v-velvet… it’s fucking amazing…”
I shiver. “Do you know what you do to me?”
“If it has half the power of what you do to me, then it m-must feel pretty good.”
We continue like that, telling each other how we feel, whispering words of love, because how can they be called anything else? I’m in love with him, and I know he’s in love with me.
He withdraws and turns me over and pulls me on top of him, and I ride him like that for a while, gradually realizing that although his hands continue to trail across my skin, he’s not trying to push me to the finish line. It’s the journey he’s interested in, and he’s willing to let the end come when it wants to, to let it arrive naturally.
So I move slowly, rocking my hips and enjoying the slide of him inside me, feeling both shy and beautiful under his watchful gaze. And when I can’t stand it any longer, when my muscles begin to tighten despite my desire to wait, and I frown and bite my lip, he just says, “All right, sweetheart, it’s okay, you can let go. Just relax.”
I do, letting it arrive at its own pace, and when the orgasm does claim me, it’s as slow and sweet as the peaches we had for dessert, rich and sublime, and I cry out with every pulse, tipping back my head and knowing he can see the pleasure written across my face.
When I’m done, I capture his hands in mine and pin them above his head. “Mmm,” I murmur. “Now I’m going to ride you till you come.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes glitter with starlight, and he looks up at me as I carry out my threat and rock on top of him. I set a faster pace now, and his fingers flare and then tighten in mine, his eyes closing as his climax nears. And it’s my turn to watch with satisfaction as I see the ecstasy claim him. I watch each pulse as it takes him, and feel him swell and jerk inside me as he spills.
When he’s done, I lower down and hug him for a long while.
Eventually, I move off him and lie beside him. I’m tired, the wine, the emotion, and the long day having taken their toll. Briefly I wonder if he’s going to want to talk now about our future. But he rolls me over and snuggles up behind me, and soon his deep breathing suggests he’s asleep.
I lie awake for longer, though. Clouds move across the sky, blocking out the stars, and the room grows dark. Still, sleep won’t come, and it’s well past midnight before my brain finally lets me close my eyes.
*
The next morning, I rouse as the bed shifts beneath Fraser’s weight. He rises and goes into the bathroom, and I yawn and stretch. The room is filled with lemon-colored light. It’s later than I’d hoped. I check my phone—yes, it’s 7:35 a.m. So much for rising early.
Despite having slept well when I eventually dozed off, my eyes feel gritty, and I have a heavy stone in my stomach. It was great to sleep with him, but I shouldn’t have stayed the night. We should have had a conversation yesterday. All we’ve done is put it off by a few hours.
I get up and pull on my underwear and his T-shirt, and pad down to the main bathroom. By the time I come out, he’s in the kitchen, making coffee.
“Morning,” he says with a smile, holding out an arm as I round the breakfast bar.
“Good morning.” I slide my arms around him, and we exchange a long kiss and hug.
“Cereal’s in the cupboard,” he says, bringing out two bowls. I find some Cornflakes, pour them into the bowls, and add some milk, then sit as he pushes my coffee over to me. He takes a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar, and we crunch the Cornflakes, smiling at one another from time to time.
“So,” he says. “Would you rather head home? Or do you want to shower here, with me?” He waggles his eyebrows and gives me a wicked smile.
I chuckle. “As attractive as that sounds, I think I’ll head home. If I don’t use my own conditioner, my hair ends up all flyaway.”
“Aw. Spoilsport.”
I smile and stir my spoon through the Cornflakes. He picks up his phone, scrolling through his emails, and I suddenly realize that he has no intention of raising the subject of what we’re doing, or what’s going to happen.
“Fraser,” I say carefully, “I think we need to talk.”
He glances at me, then switches off his phone and puts it down. He exhales, leaning on the counter, looking defeated before we’ve even begun.
“I’m not sure what to say,” I begin. “I don’t think there’s an easy answer to this.”
He stares into his coffee. Then he takes a deep breath and looks back up. His blue eyes blaze into mine. “I think there is. I’ve made a decision.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to resign.”
I stare at him. “What? You can’t do that!”
He surveys me calmly. “I’m in love with you, Hallie.”
I frown.
After a moment, he frowns, too. “Okay, that announcement didn’t have quite the effect I thought it would.”
“I know, Fraser. Whina said you told her.”
“Whina?” His eyebrows rise. “When did you talk to her?”
“Yesterday, she asked me to go to her house, after she’d spoken to you.”
The emotion disappears from his face, and his expression turns flinty. “What did she want?”
I’m not ready to discuss that with him yet, so I say, “Just to talk. She wanted to hear my side of the story. But one thing was clear—she’s very fond of you, and she wants to find a way to make it work. So you can’t just up and leave.”
“I want to be with you,” he says. “And it’s not going to happen if we continue to work together, I don’t care what Whina implied.”
“Fraser, we’ve had sex… what? Four or five times? We’ve been intimate for two days. That’s hardly a relationship. You can’t give up your job for a fling. We don’t know each other at all, not really.”
“I know, but I want to get to know you. I want to go on dates, take you to restaurants and the movies, and be seen in public with you.” He’s angry now, although he’s keeping it under control. “I’m not going to sneak around with you. You’re worth more than that to me.”
My heart leaps briefly, but I put a foot on it and hold it down. “You have to stop,” I tell him, my throat thickening as tears prick my eyes. “It’s not going to work, Fraser.”
“Why?” he demands.
“Because I’m not the right girl for you.”
He glares at me. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know everything about me.”
We’re silent for a moment. I can see him thinking, trying to work out what I mean. “Is this about your father?”
I don’t reply.
He pushes his bowl away and leans on the worktop. “You’re going to have to tell me at some point, so it might as well be now.” He sees the tears in my eyes and adds, “And don’t give me that line about it changing how I see you. Give me some credit.”
The words stick in my throat. I feel like Schrodinger’s Cat—at this moment, with the truth about to be revealed, the future still holds promise, and yet also the threat of being torn apart at the same, and I don’t know which way it’s going to go.
I swallow hard. I don’t want to tell him. But I don’t think I have any choice.
I finish off my coffee.
“Hallie…” he says.
“That’s not my real name.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Hallie Woodford isn’t my real name. It changed when I was eight and we moved away from Dunedin.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “You’re in witness protection?”
“Yes.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “No wonder you were so upset when you heard from your father.”
“Yeah.”
“So… what is your real name?”
“Mum chose our new name based on our old one so it wouldn’t be so hard for Dee and me to get used to. My first name was Harriet—Harry she used to call me.”
“And your surname?”
“It was unusual. Wildblood.”
“Wildblood.” He tries it out. It sounds weird on his lips.
“My father…” I moisten my lips. “My father’s first name was Joshua.”
“Joshua Wildblood.” Fraser frowns. “I know that name.”
I wait calmly for the penny to drop. It’s an unusual name, so I’m sure he’ll have heard it.
After about ten seconds, I watch the realization spread across his face.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh no.”
I nod, feeling calmer now I know there’s no going back. “Twenty years ago, my father was convicted of abducting, raping, and murdering a total of eleven young women. It was the worst crime of its kind in New Zealand for over a hundred years. It was on every news channel, and splashed all over the internet. The police and other authorities helped us move across the country, and gave us a new identity. We had new passports, new Inland Revenue numbers, and new National Health Index numbers. We even had a new family history—we told everyone our father had died—bowel cancer, in case you’re interested. Nobody else was. Nobody questioned us, ever. People aren’t interested in anything except themselves, unless it’s good gossip or sensational. And I’ve made sure not to be sensational. I’ve flown under the radar in every area of my life so I don’t attract attention.”
The room falls silent. The early sunlight suddenly feels like a huge yellow blanket, suffocating me. Fraser’s face is impassive.
“Say something,” I implore.
“A lot of things make more sense now,” he says. “It must have had a huge impact on you and your sister.”
“Mum did her best for us. She took us to a therapist. Answered our questions. And told us repeatedly that it was nothing to do with us. That our father still loved us. You can imagine our reaction to that.”
He doesn’t reply.
I continue, “It’s natural when you’re a teenager to ask existential questions. Who am I, why am I here, that sort of thing. And I couldn’t get it out of my head. Half of my DNA came from my father. So did that mean half of my personality came from him? We know that genetics help shape our personality. Nature versus nurture.”
“Your upbringing, choices, and values would override any inbuilt tendencies, surely,” Fraser says.
“That’s a nice sentiment,” I say softly, “but that last word shows your doubt. And the thing is that just the fear of becoming like my father has been enough to influence my personality. I’m hyper-aware of my own morality.”
“True psychopaths don’t worry about being evil.”
“Maybe. But I know I have certain traits, and they make me uncomfortable. Like a lack of emotional response when things get heated, and an ability to compartmentalize my emotions.”
“When a child is afraid of anger, they’ll suppress their own,” he says. “It’s a coping mechanism that stems from childhood trauma.”
I meet his eyes. “I agree. But the thing is, I’ll always have this hanging over me. And you deserve better.”
“Bullshit.” He’s openly angry now, although he’s obviously doing his best to rein it in. “You’re a wonderful woman, warm, loving, and generous. You’re not remotely like your father. And I get to make my own decisions about what and who I deserve, not you.”