Chapter 4
Chapter Four
With one hand jammed in his trouser pocket and the other clamping his phone to his ear a fraction too tightly, Oliver gazed out across Wellington harbour.
It had been a long time since he’d had to listen to someone drone on about things he already knew.
But he couldn’t cut the mayor of Wellington short.
He needed him. He needed him in a way he’d never needed anyone, because he’d made a mistake.
He’d underestimated something that should have been straightforward.
‘Of course, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said in his smoothest voice. He needed to sound in control even if he wasn’t.
He was rewarded with a rambling stream of corporate jargon, which might have impressed councillors but only irritated him.
For the sake of his temper, he let his mind drift, catching the odd phrase — ‘pursuant to clause 5… the city’s environmental policy…’ — and the one that made him close his eyes in frustration: ‘…proof of community support is central to the process.’
He forced himself to listen. The man on the other end of the phone would have the final say on whether Oliver could proceed with his central Wellington waterfront development.
Ordinarily, he acted entirely independently, and he hated how entangled this project had become with the council.
But if he was going to develop the land the way he wanted to, he had no choice.
He might own it, but the council controlled what happened on it.
He needed their co-operation for zoning approvals, building consents, public easements, heritage reports — the whole tedious list. Most were already in train, some approved. The sticking point was his lack of a track record in community consultation. He’d never needed one before.
Now, the mayor couldn’t have been clearer: fail to get community support for his ‘test’ project — the Old Colonial Hotel at MacLeod’s Cove — and the waterfront development would stall. Permanently.
And this waterfront site wasn’t just another investment.
It was land his family had once owned and his father had sold, impoverishing their legacy with his own weakness and greed.
The development was meant to honour the only member of Oliver’s family who’d ever shown him love or respect — his grandmother — and reclaim his grandfather’s name.
This was personal. It wasn’t about money.
If he failed, he’d be left with a crumbling hotel in godforsaken MacLeod’s Cove and mega-expensive prime real estate he couldn’t develop as he’d planned.
He’d bought the hotel out of desperation — to tick the ‘community consultation’ box.
He’d assumed it would be easy.
He’d assumed wrong.
All because of one woman.
The Old Colonial Hotel was proving one long headache from start to… he couldn’t even see the finish.
‘Don’t worry, Chris,’ he said, finally cutting in — he couldn’t bear another minute.
‘I realise the clock is ticking, but you have everything else you need.’ He shut his eyes as the mayor launched into another spiel.
‘Sure, sure. And that’s where the Old Colonial Hotel comes in.
It’s all about community. I can assure you that box will be ticked. ’
After a few closing niceties, he ended the call and tossed the phone aside, swearing under his breath.
He made a mental note to get his assistant pushing harder on the plan to minimise the requirements around community consultation.
While the mayor was adamant the consultation box had to be ticked, in Oliver’s experience money greased the wheels of commerce — and, he suspected, councils too — even in New Zealand.
Community, community, community. God, how he hated that word.
He strode to the window and stared at the stretch of land he wanted to reclaim for his family.
His father had sold it, and Oliver had bought it back in the only acquisition he’d ever made driven by emotion rather than calculation.
Develop it properly, and he could bury his father’s shame and honour his grandparents.
He couldn’t fail. Not here. Not on this.
He’d been raised to believe life was a battle. A competition with only one winner. That winner had never been his father.
It would be him.
A lot depended on the seduction of the proprietor of the Perching Parrot.
Lucy paused at the top of the restaurant steps and took in the view. Spread out below, Wellington’s city lights glittered across the still, inky harbour.
She’d forgotten how beautiful it was.
She rarely made the half-hour trip into the city anymore. Too many bad memories. The last time this view had taken her breath away she’d been too young to recognise a predator in teacher’s clothing.
She pushed open the front doors and stepped inside.
‘Good evening,’ said the ma?tre d’. ‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘I’m meeting…’ Lucy paused, feeling slightly awkward that she could only give the ma?tre d’ a first name. ‘Oliver.’
But, she had a feeling one name would be enough. He certainly looked the type. From the man’s reaction, he was indeed known here.
‘Certainly, Miss. May I take your jacket?’
Lucy brushed a hand down the faux-Arctic fur and shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’
She wanted to make an entrance. Dressed all in white — pantsuit, camisole, heels — with platinum-blonde hair and dramatic, dark eye makeup, she knew she looked striking.
She followed the ma?tre d’ through the softly lit room to a table by the window where Oliver sat waiting. She was gratified to notice he was watching her — not his phone, not the view. Her.
Her steps slowed unconsciously. He sat back, openly appraising her.
‘Oliver,’ she said as the ma?tre d’ hovered, letting him wait a heartbeat longer. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’
Oliver rose. He took her hand, brushed a light embrace against her shoulder, and kissed her cheek.
‘Lucy. No need to apologise. Sometimes one must wait for something —’ his gaze slid over her ‘— or someone, so beautiful.’
She tipped her head and gave him a small, knowing smile as she slipped off her faux fur. It had done its job; she was roasting. The ma?tre d’ took it and pulled out her chair.
‘I didn’t take you for someone who waited,’ she said.
He didn’t sit until she did. ‘That suggests you thought I might not be here.’
‘Indeed.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, silver jewellery clinking, and rested her chin in her hands. She had thought exactly that. Men like him weren’t in the habit of waiting for anyone.
She was close to him now. He didn’t retreat. For a moment, she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Good. Somewhere under that polished exterior was a human being who was unsure, even if only slightly.
‘So…’ He took an unhurried sip of his drink before setting it down again, entirely composed. ‘That begs the question — why did you go to the trouble of dressing up and travelling into Wellington if you’re not interested?’
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.’
He tilted his head. ‘You thought I wouldn’t be here if you were late. And you were late anyway. That suggests a certain level of disinterest.’
‘I am interested,’ she said. ‘Sure, there was a risk you wouldn’t be here, in which case my interest was misplaced. But if you were here, that could only mean one thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re more interested in me than I fully understand. And that definitely interests me.’
For a moment there was only the murmur of other diners, the clink of glassware, and the discreet piano drifting over it all. He blinked.
‘This is starting to sound complicated,’ he said, mirroring her posture and lightly steepling his fingers. ‘On the one hand, you’re suggesting you don’t believe I’m interested in you. On the other hand, you clearly don’t suffer from a lack of confidence.’
She laughed, bright enough that several people turned to look. Even while confusion flickered in his eyes, he smiled at the sound. People usually did.
‘Oh, no, I have a high opinion of myself.’
‘That’s what I thought. I like it. Most women I meet aren’t so confident, deep down.’
‘Then I guess I’m not your usual type.’
He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to different types.’
They drank.
‘But you still leave me with a question,’ he went on. ‘If you’re so confident in yourself — and I quite understand why you should be; you’re beautiful, engaging, and clearly successful — why would you assume I have some sort of ulterior motive?’
‘Because men like you don’t wait for anyone, least of all a woman.’
‘Then why do you think I waited?’
‘You want something. And I can’t quite work out what… yet.’
His hand jerked slightly as he put his glass down. A bead of wine spilled onto the polished table and disappeared into the napkin.
He sat back and nodded to the waiter for menus. While the ma?tre d’ described the specials, Lucy listened, ignoring Oliver’s gaze which she could practically feel on her skin. Let Oliver wonder. It handed her the advantage.
Only after the ma?tre d’ had left did she turn back and give Oliver a pleasant smile before glancing around. ‘It’s ages since I’ve been here. It’s been revamped. It looks good. Do you come here often?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were in Australia before.’
He nodded. ‘Correct.’
She noticed he didn’t elaborate. ‘What brought you back?’
‘Business.’
‘Hm.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘Tell me something — are you trying to intrigue me with these one-word answers? Determined to be a “man of mystery”?’
‘There’s very little that’s mysterious about me,’ he said. ‘I work; I play a little; I work some more.’
‘You know what they say about all work making Jack a dull boy,’ she teased.
‘You think I’m dull?’
‘I don’t know you,’ she said, tracing a droplet of condensation with her fingertip. ‘But you don’t strike me as dull.’
‘And how do I demonstrate that?’
‘It’s in your eyes. It’s all in the eyes.’
Those eyes warmed as she met them.
‘You’re a connoisseur of eyes?’
‘It’s my specialist subject,’ she said. ‘My café is my laboratory. Every day people come in, and I figure them out through their eyes. I’m an expert on community.’
He made a small, dismissive sound and dropped his gaze. Her interest sharpened.
‘Community?’ she repeated. ‘You don’t like community?’
He looked up, and she read both agreement and faint surprise there.
‘Why not?’
‘What are you, some kind of witch?’ he muttered. ‘In another life, you’d have been burnt at the stake.’
‘Why, thank you. You are such a smooth-talker,’ she said, laughing. ‘Although I have to agree — I’m very glad I’m living in the twenty-first century, where the only people out to get me are the taxman and men who think they can tame me.’
‘You won’t be tamed?’
‘No. Not for anyone.’
‘Fair enough.’
She nodded, but didn’t believe him. Every man wanted to tame his woman. It was in their DNA. At least, in her experience, it was.
‘I wouldn’t want to be tamed either,’ he added.
That she did believe.
‘How fortunate,’ she said. ‘Because I’m not in the business of taming people.’
‘You’ve never wanted to change someone? Mould them more to your liking?’
‘Of course not,’ she lied lightly. ‘That way madness lies. I don’t believe people can be changed.’
Somehow they’d strayed into uncomfortable territory. To the world, she was a strong, independent woman who let nothing touch her. Her mother knew better. Maybe some of her siblings, too. But she always cut them short. She didn’t talk about emotions.
Ever.
She glanced at the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the fish.’
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘The fish is excellent here. Now,’ he added, leaning back, ‘tell me what a woman like you is doing running a village café in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Nowhere? MacLeod’s Cove is home. It’s where I was born, where my family and friends live. That makes it somewhere.’
‘I suppose we define “somewhere” differently.’
‘How do you define it?’
‘Wherever things are going on,’ he said briskly, as if she’d strayed into territory he had no interest in. ‘Not a backwater, but the main river, if you like.’
‘No, I wouldn’t like.’ She frowned as she took a sip of her wine, trying to figure him out. ‘So,’ she said, as she replaced her glass, ‘does that mean you’ve no family?’
Did she imagine it, or did his face darken?
‘I’m an only child. My family is long gone.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ And she was. Her father’s death had gutted her. She couldn’t imagine life without her mother, her siblings, or the friends who counted as family.
He flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t be. We were never close.’
‘Goodness. That sounds…’
‘What?’
‘Lonely?’ she ventured.
She couldn’t imagine not wanting to live near family. She was the only one of her siblings who’d seemed to know that from the start. The others had taken longer to learn it.
‘Not in the least. Since when did having a family guarantee happiness?’
‘Mine does,’ she said. ‘With the usual built-in frustration and irritation, obviously. But yes — generally happy.’
‘Then I’m pleased for you. Tell me about them.’
‘Who? My family?’
‘Yes. Your family, your friends, your… community.’
He said the word oddly. Normally, she didn’t need to be asked twice. It was her favourite subject — her loved ones, the people who filled her life. But this situation was nowhere near normal. And, as she knew to her cost, knowledge was power. She wasn’t about to hand that over to him. Not yet.
And there was no better way to divert a man than with something they were universally susceptible to: talking about themselves.
She leaned forward, letting her gaze lock with his in a way she knew got results.
‘Oliver,’ she said, her voice a touch lower, ‘I’d rather hear about what you do in those few hours you’re not working. What gives you pleasure?’
She saw the moment she caught him. His eyes told her everything.
She hadn’t lied about the café being her laboratory.