Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Oliver raised a hand, cutting his assistant off mid-sentence. A text from Lucy had come through. It had been a week — long enough to worry him. Lucy MacLeod didn’t do silence.
‘Er, Simon, we’ll leave this for now. Could you get back to my earlier request and push that background research on Lucy MacLeod to the top of the list?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Once the door was closed, he reread the message.
He thought back to their evening together.
He shouldn’t have invited her home. That was when he’d veered off-script — swayed by her charm, by the way she laughed, by the flash of vulnerability she hadn’t meant him to see.
He’d underestimated her and overestimated his own ability to keep his distance.
From that moment, his intentions had scattered. The goal had shifted from using her to winning her. And that was dangerous.
Then she’d run, leaving a note that had told him in no uncertain terms where he could go.
He hadn’t expected to hear from her again — at least not in any dignified fashion.
If anything, he’d mentally prepared himself for a public showdown at a consultation meeting, her voice ringing out across a packed hall.
But this? He shook his head as he reread the text: an apology for her untimely exit and a suggestion they meet up. No, he hadn’t expected that at all.
When something unexpected happened, his alarm bells rang.
He did what he always did — he analysed.
What game was she playing? Because, for all her charm and vulnerability, her departure had snapped him back into the reality he was determined to stay in this time. On this next round, he’d be prepared.
He sat for a moment, going back over their conversations from the night they’d spent together. To his annoyance, he’d spent far too long talking about sailing — something almost no one knew about. Yet Lucy now knew where he went to breathe.
He’d let her past his guard once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
His thoughts shifted to their exchange about business tactics and strategy. She’d gone to business school; her own thriving café proved she could not only run a commercial operation but protect and grow it. She’d made it very clear she cared about her community and knew her own power in it.
He was in no doubt that while she might have apologised for her note, she didn’t regret it. She still saw him as the enemy. So why invite him closer? He smiled as the answer came.
Keep your enemies close.
A tried and tested strategy. Pushing him away wouldn’t help her win; not yet, anyway. For now, she’d chosen to keep him within reach.
He jumped up and paced up and down in front of the picture windows. Outside, Wellington Harbour was ruffled by wind, the Eastbourne ferry punching through choppy whitecaps.
He certainly wasn’t averse to spending more time with the lovely Miss MacLeod.
Especially not if he was going in with his eyes open this time.
He’d never anticipated that a box-ticking consultation project would prove so entertaining — so long, a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him — as he kept his emotional distance.
He picked up his phone.
Sure. How about I come to you this time?
Her reply appeared almost immediately. Brief. Careful. Controlled. So, Miss Lucy MacLeod was in an agreeable, if unusually non-communicative, mood.
He suggested they meet at the Old Colonial Hotel. No point in ignoring the elephant in the room.
Then he waited for a reply, which didn’t come. It seemed she wanted time to think about this. Well, he had no choice but to give it to her.
He slid his phone back onto his desk and rang for his assistant. Whatever she was planning, he intended to match it.
‘Have you got me that information I requested about Lucy MacLeod?’ he asked when Simon reappeared.
‘Yes, sir. To be honest, there’s not much to tell. She was born and raised in MacLeod’s Cove — named after her family, in fact. She attended university in Wellington, where she topped her year in Business Studies. It appears she continued to live at home while she studied, commuting daily.’
‘So no rogue student activity of interest?’
‘None whatsoever.’ Simon hesitated. ‘There is one thing, though.’
‘And that is?’
‘She appeared in her school yearbook as “The Girl Most Likely to Remain Single.”’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Unusual. It’s not a usual category. But it seems she wrote it in herself. There’s a quote about “independence.”’
‘Hm.’ It fitted with what Lucy had alluded to last night. Hurt once, she’d sworn off men. He rolled his shoulders, irritated that the idea affected him at all. This wasn’t like him. ‘Carry on.’
‘She’s the youngest in a large family with… notable careers. Her sister, Jennifer, is a writer. Brother Daniel is a political lobbyist, formerly based in the US. Another sister, Ellie, is in Hong Kong. There’s also a brother, Matthew, a photographer working in Africa.’
‘Right. And the youngest has to be fiercer, louder, more individual to be heard.’
Well, he thought, I hear her. Loud and clear.
Lucy brought a plate of freshly baked muffins and two coffees into the small conservatory at the back of the café. Pots of kitchen herbs crammed the space, which looked out onto a long, narrow garden, at the end of which, a cherry tree spread its branches.
She turned at the sound of someone entering. ‘Dan!’ She gave her brother a hug as he zeroed in on the muffins.
‘Cheese. Yum. My favourite.’
‘I suspected your tastes hadn’t changed. You’re like a big kid.’
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered around a mouthful. ‘I’m your big brother, and you should respect me as such.’
‘Ha ha.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So, let’s get down to business. Oliver Perry-Warnes, to be precise.’
‘Right.’ He brushed crumbs from his laptop and opened it.
‘I’ve done the usual searches — which were interesting enough — and I’ve talked to Sam, who told me quite a bit.
Perry-Warnes’s usual MO is big property development.
I’m talking multi-million-dollar projects, not run-down village hotels.
Which I thought was interesting.’ He grinned.
‘Then I spoke to a couple of old mates who’ve worked with him and lived to tell the tale. ’
Lucy leaned forward, impressed. She rarely saw Dan in full corporate mode. ‘And?’
‘They were a bit nonplussed by his buying the Old Colonial. Not his usual scale, not his usual style. So, little sister,’ he said, tapping her on the head as she’d done to him, ‘I kept digging. Went to council connections — remember Tim? We used to play soccer?’
Lucy waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’
‘Well, Tim says Oliver is involved with the development of a prime piece of Wellington real estate on the harbour, which is tipped to be on a different scale to anything in New Zealand. He’s planning an exclusive retail precinct, executive apartments, a luxury hotel — the works.
But…’ Dan tapped a few keys. ‘If he doesn’t get council approval across the board, it’s just land. No consents, no development, no value.’
He turned the laptop so she could see a well-known waterfront site that had sat derelict for years.
Lucy’s mouth actually dropped open. She had to consciously close it.
‘He owns that?’
‘Yep. Apparently, all that land was in the Perry-Warnes family for generations until his father sold off a big chunk. Oliver bought back a large piece last year. The price isn’t on public record, but Tim says it’s rumoured to have broken records.’
‘I remember that sale.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t remember seeing his name, though.’
‘You wouldn’t have. He keeps his name out of things whenever he can. Prefers a low public profile when it comes to his business.’
‘He’s not doing a very good job of that here,’ Lucy muttered, studying the plans. ‘This is big-time property development.’
‘Yep. And he’s going to lose a lot of money if his MacLeod’s Cove project doesn’t proceed. I mean, a lot.’
‘So… what’s the connection between the Old Colonial Hotel and this waterfront development?’ She pointed at the screen. ‘Why does he lose all of this if the hotel doesn’t go ahead? I don’t get it. Why does he have to make one a success to leverage the other?’
‘Because he needs to tick boxes. Council boxes. He might own the land, but the council controls what happens on it — and the marina rights, access roads, public easements, heritage overlays, you name it. Unlike his usual stuff, he can’t just muscle through. He has to comply with everything.’
‘And?’ she prompted.
‘Patience, sister. I’m getting there.’
She stifled a sigh. Patience had never been her strong suit. ‘I don’t want all the regulations, just the ones connecting the Old Colonial to his big project.’
Dan grimaced as he checked his notes. ‘Most of the consents are straightforward — zoning, heritage, building. Tim says nothing too controversial.’
‘Should Tim have told you all of this?’
‘Probably not, but he always was pretty flaky. Anyway, the only sticking point is that the council wants a proven track record of successful community consultation. Proper, documented engagement. And Oliver doesn’t have that track record, because his projects are usually so high-end and city-based that consultation hasn’t been a condition in the past.’ He looked up, his expression smug.
‘And that, my dear sister, is where this project —’ he jerked his thumb towards the hotel, ‘— comes in. Specifically where you come in. If your Oliver Perry-Warnes —’
‘He’s not mine!’ Lucy snapped.
‘If Perry-Warnes,’ Dan continued smoothly, ‘fails to demonstrate a successful consultation process on the MacLeod’s Cove project, his waterfront proposals will be rejected. And the land will instantly devalue. He could lose millions.’
‘Blimey.’ Lucy exhaled slowly. ‘That explains why he spent time with me.’ She pressed her lips together, trying to flatten the bitterness. ‘Using me to get his consultation across the line.’