Chapter Eighteen
Aurelia
“You’re getting cold,” Luke says eventually, obviously feeling me tremble. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
I follow him in, not sure how to tell him that it was being close to him that made me shiver, and not the cold. He closes the sliding doors and locks them, then tests them, making sure they’re immovable before he turns away.
“Security here’s tight,” he murmurs, taking off his hoodie and tossing it over a chair. “I like it. I feel like I can breathe at last.” He gives me an amused look as he walks past me into the kitchen.
“It’s so strange,” I say, following him. “I’ve only known about all this since about six o’clock this evening. But you’ve known about it for months.”
He opens the fridge and looks in it. “I can see how that would feel weird.”
“All those times I tried to give you the slip. And how you reacted so strangely to the roses.”
He takes out the bowl of seafood chowder, puts it in the microwave, and starts heating it. “There was method in my madness.”
“I can see that now. I’m sorry I gave you the runaround.”
He throws me an amused look. “You were a challenge, I admit.” He lifts up the front of a bread bin and his eyes light up. “Ooh. Crusty bread.” He picks it up and inhales. “Wow. It’s still warm.” He takes out a bread board, chooses a bread knife, and starts cutting the loaf into chunks.
I watch him do this domestic task, realizing for the first time that he’s not constantly looking around the room, counting exits, noting faces.
He’s not pressing the button in his pocket, and his posture is relaxed for maybe the first time since I’ve seen him.
For the first time since I’ve met him, he looks off duty.
He glances up. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Suddenly, I’m so tired I can barely stand. “I’m exhausted.”
“You can go to bed straight after dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat,” he says firmly, putting the slices onto a plate.
I feel a flare of anger. “I wish everyone would stop deciding what I do and don’t want. I am capable of making my own decisions.”
He stops then and stares at the counter for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine.
“You’re right,” he says softly. “I apologize.” He turns and gets the bowl out of the microwave as it pings, opens the lid, and starts stirring it.
“Don’t worry, I can probably demolish most of this on my own anyway. ”
The scent of the chowder drifts across the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. I am hungry; I haven’t eaten anything since the protein bar I had at lunch.
“All right,” I say grouchily. “Just a small bowl.”
He smiles, puts it back in the microwave for a few more minutes, and retrieves some cutlery from the drawer.
He takes it over to the dining table on the left-hand side of the living room and lays it out with two place mats, adding the bread in the middle.
Then, after the microwave pings again, he takes out the bowl and ladles it into two smaller soup bowls.
“I’m too tired for wine,” I say. “Do you want one?”
“Nah. I haven’t had a drink for six weeks.”
I go over to the fridge, take out a bottle of Sprite, and get two glasses from the cupboard. “Jeez, why?”
“When you said you nearly called me after your date with Ivan, I realized I’d had a few beers and couldn’t have driven out to you, so I stopped drinking.” He carries the bowls over to the table.
Shocked, I bring the Sprite over, and we sit facing each other at one end. “I didn’t realize.”
He takes a chunk of bread. “Do you mind if I’m uncouth and dip it in the chowder?”
“Absolutely not. I’m going to do the same.”
We both dip and eat, and then sigh at the same time at the taste of the creamy soup. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” I admit, scooping up a prawn with my spoon.
“Yeah. I had a sandwich before we left, but I’m still ravenous.”
“That’s because you’re six-four and weigh, like, five hundred kilos.”
He grunts. “I think there’s a compliment buried in there, somewhere.”
Smiling, I look out of the window. I think of that night I went on the date, and something occurs to me. “You don’t think the stalker is Ivan, do you? And he’s upset because I didn’t go through with it?”
He stirs his chowder slowly, thinking. “The messages and gifts started before your date.”
“Oh. Right.”
He eats a mouthful, watching me. “I don’t think it’s him. He was too…” He searches for a word.
“Wussy?”
That makes him laugh. “I was going to say quiet, but yeah, he did seem a bit timid. Very different from your ex.”
“That’s why I liked him.” I lean back in my chair. “I can’t believe you saw that photo of me.”
He drops his gaze to his bowl and concentrates on dipping the bread in. He doesn’t say anything.
“Did my father see it?”
“No. I was the only one that Ella showed it to.”
“She mentioned other photos.”
“He sent pictures of you taken during the day, at your parents’ house, out for lunch.”
“You saw them all?”
“Yes. They’d compile a daily report. We’d analyze all the messages and photos. Test the gifts for fingerprints. Try to trace the flowers. He was smart, though; he always sent them from somewhere different.”
“It’s so weird to think of all that going on behind my back.”
He puts down his spoon. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, so many times.”
We study each other across the table. It’s dark outside now, but the lamps fill the room with a warm glow. The one behind Luke casts a golden glow around his hair as if he has a halo.
“What?” he asks, lips curving up.
“You’re like my guardian angel.” The thought takes my breath away.
He has a mouthful of Sprite, embarrassed. “I was just doing my job.”
“Is that all it was?” I feel suddenly unsteady, like I’m standing on the deck of a listing ship. The events of the past few hours feel unreal. It’s beautiful here, but it feels like a dream. Another fantasy I’ve conjured up—me and Luke, stranded on a desert island.
Why do I over-romanticize everything? Maybe I was wrong and he’s not interested in me at all. And even if he is, he’s not going to allow himself to feel anything for me.
Emotion bubbles up inside me, overwhelming, too strong to stop. I’m so tired, angry, frustrated, frightened… My throat tightens, and I cover my face with my hands.
“Hey…”
Tears stream down my face, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
His chair scrapes and his bare feet sound on the tiles as he walks around the table. “Don’t cry,” he says, but it just makes me cry harder.
“Baby,” he says, “come here.”
I barely register the endearment, too overwrought as he places his hands under my arms and lifts me to my feet. He bends and lifts me into his arms, and I loop mine around his neck and cling to him like a limpet.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” he murmurs, walking across the living room. “I’m here.”
He obviously has no idea that’s why I’m crying. I should have demanded he stay in Auckland, or at least in another villa. Being so close to him is going to kill me, and yet I can’t let him go.
After turning into the first bedroom on the left, he takes me over to the bed. He lowers me down, but I refuse to release him.
“Aurelia…”
“Don’t go,” I whisper.
He sighs, but he says, “I’m not going anywhere,” and he climbs over me onto the mattress. Leaning back against the pillows, he draws me to him. I curl up beside him, wrapped in his strong arms.
When I bury my nose in his tee, I can smell his cologne.
It’s become so familiar over the past six weeks.
His car smells of it. Once or twice, he’s lent me a hoodie when I’ve been cold, and I’ve snuggled down into it, enjoying how it feels twice as big as mine, and liking the scent of rum and sugar that arises from it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, taking deep, shuddering breaths.
“Don’t apologize. You’ve had a helluva shock today. You’re coping incredibly well.” He strokes my back. “I’m just sorry we weren’t able to catch him before you found out.”
“Do you think I did something to him? Turned him down, or was nasty to him or something?”
“Aurelia… you’re never nasty. He just has a crazy fixation with you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It might be as simple as because you’re young, and beautiful, and vivacious, and he knows he would never stand a chance with you.”
I’m so tired. My eyelids droop, and I feel his hand on my hair. “You think I’m beautiful?” I murmur.
“I think you’re possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
I close my eyes, his words thawing the ice that has circulated in my veins since the moment I walked into my bedroom and saw the items on the bed.
I think he kisses my hair, but I’m asleep before I can process what it means.
*
When I open my eyes again, a gap in the curtains shows it’s morning.
I’m lying on my right side. The window is on the wrong side of the room, and it doesn’t feel like my room in my parents’ house, either. It takes a few seconds for my brain to reboot, and then the memories of the previous day come flooding back.
The stalker. The overwhelming panic and fear. The flight to Evermore in the semi-darkness. Luke.
The bed beside me is empty. I sit up, but the bedroom door is closed. I’m lying on one half of the duvet, still in my jeans and hoodie, although someone—Luke presumably—has removed my trainers, then covered me up with the other half of the duvet.
Slowly, I get up, go over to the windows, and part the curtains. I inhale at the view of the sandy beach, and beyond it, the sparkling Pacific Ocean. In the distance, I can see the town of Russell, and far to my right, the flagpost outside the Waitangi Treaty House, high on the hill.
I turn back to the room. It’s large and pleasantly furnished, the chest of drawers and bedside tables made from what looks like kauri wood.
The decor is the color of exotic flowers—cream walls with a dark-turquoise duvet cover, and hot-pink and blue throw pillows.
My case stands by the door—Luke must have brought it in for me.