Stone Cold Kiwi (New Zealand Ever After Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  “’Cause we were cooking,” she said. “Cooking takes all the, all the very many hands of working”—waving her own hands all the while—“because you have to make the strawberries go in a pretty way, Auntie Karen says, and you have to squish all the cheese down. Squish, squish, squish. I don’t want to live in our house anymore. I want to live in this house with Auntie Karen, because it’s the funnest.”

  “You don’t get to choose where you live,” Hamish said, scrubbing at his own hair. “I want to live in the house with the dog, but there wouldn’t be room for you, or Mummy, or the baby, so I guess we have to live in our house instead.” He sighed in a heartfelt way, and Olivia echoed him. Pathetically, like the child welfare people would come bursting in at any moment to arrest me for Insufficient Fun and Dogginess. And possibly Insufficient Pizza, though I had that one pretty well covered, if you didn’t get too picky about quality. I don’t want to admit how many times my kids had eaten supermarket pizza since Isobel was born.

  Finally, though, they were tucked into their sleeping bags, story told and song sung, and I was shutting the door behind them, my heart picking up the pace as soon as I did, as if the clock had tolled, and this was Poppy Time. As if you could take off your Mum life like a suit of clothes and slip into something silkier, more fragrant, and much more exciting, in a sort of superhero transformation into Sexygirl.

  That was when Jax and Karen came in from their swim, a couple towels nearly falling off them. Jax had his leg off and was on his crutches, and Karen had one arm around him already, her other hand gripping a bottle of wine. She gave me a brilliant smile and said, “Freezing, because no sun, but amazing. We’re getting in the shower. We’d have got in the spa tub, but you know ...kids. And you. We refrained. Points!”

  “I was thinking about going down there myself,” I said. Nonchalantly. I hoped, and not addressing the rest of it. “To the beach. That, uh, full moon and all. Nice. Now that you’re back, for the kids. Who are asleep. Of course.”

  Jax looked at Karen, then said, “Maybe, uh, give us a few minutes.”

  “No,” Karen said. “You go. If somebody’s screaming or anything, Jax will respond. Heroically.”

  Jax looked like he wanted to say, “The hell I will.” What he actually said was, “Right. If they’re screaming.” Then he didn’t say anything else, because Karen was kissing the side of his neck. “Night,” he told me, just before he pulled her into their bedroom and slammed the door.

  I hesitated a moment. I heard Karen’s voice, sounding teasing, and Jax’s, sounding stern. Standing in the passage and eavesdropping didn’t seem like my best move, so I went back into the bedroom, checked on Isobel—still fast asleep in her Moses basket—and instead of pulling on my PJs and climbing into bed like a rational, mature woman, a woman who didn’t need more complication in her life, put on my togs.

  Actually, I put on my bikini.

  I’d almost taken back my invitation to Matiu, earlier. Not because I didn’t want to swim in the moonlight, even thought it probably was freezing. We weren’t in any tropical lagoon here. No, it was because all I had as far as togs was the bikini I’d bought in a fit of rebellion, or insanity, when I’d been pregnant with Isobel, on a day I’d gone shopping for something sensible. Trousers, it had been meant to be. Instead, in the middle of winter, I’d come home with this. When I pulled it out of my suitcase, I realized it still had the tags on.

  I held the pieces in my hand. Then I bit off the tags, pulled the thing on, threw my sludge-colored cardigan over it, and went outside.

  Into the moonlight.

  27

  Diving Into the Dark

  Matiu

  I parked in the drive and got out of the car. It was fully dark out now, and quiet other than the throbbing hum of cicadas. No sound of the surf here in this tranquil bay, and no signs of life from the house, because it faced the water, not the road.

  I walked barefoot along the pavers that ran beside the house. The sea was nearly black in the night but for the wavy reflection of the moon, its huge surface visible just over the horizon. The night was clear and warm, the stars bright around the dark edges where the moonlight didn’t touch.

  I hadn’t done anything like this, been barefoot on the grass in the moonlight, for more years than I could count. For a Maori boy from the Bay of Plenty, this wasn’t any kind of new experience, and yet it absolutely was. It felt like the first time ever.

  She was out there. Standing at the edge of the water, looking out to sea, her arms wrapped around herself. Nothing casual about that posture. She wasn’t strolling on the beach, pretending she just happened to be there. Everything about her said, I’ve screwed my courage up to do this, and I’m not sure if I’m being stupid, or reading this wrong, or ...

  I dropped my towel. I didn’t pull off my T-shirt. She was wearing a jumper, and anyway ... I’d wait. She must have sensed me, though I hadn’t made any noise, because she turned, and then she got even more still.

  I said, “Hi.” Softly, because it was so quiet out here, only the faintest hiss of the barely-there waves, curling their foamy way onto the shore and retreating again in the sea’s endless dance.

  “Hi,” she said. I couldn’t tell how she was feeling now, because her new hair hid half her face from me. “The water’s pretty cold. I’ve been wondering whether I’m mad to go in, but now, I think ...” She heaved in a breath and pulled the cardigan off, then tossed it to the sand and stood facing me.

  One second. Two. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do here. She was wearing a white bikini printed with flowers, pretty as anything, but she looked uncertain. Tentative. I said, “You’re very beautiful.”

  She said, “I’ve never worn it.”

  I said, “I’m glad you’re starting with me.”

  She said, “The water’s freezing. We’re mad.”

  “Probably.” I pulled off my T-shirt and tossed it, then took her hand in mine and said, “Let’s do it anyway.”

  Poppy

  He’d come.

  I’d stood out here for what had seemed like half an hour but was probably ten minutes, feeling more stupid with every one of them. I’d waded out ankle-deep a couple times, but that was all. No worries that I’d go swimming at night by myself. I wasn’t getting in there. Why would you?

  And yet, somehow, I was doing it. Maybe because, when I’d turned to see Matiu standing there, I’d been so relieved.

  Who was I kidding? It was because he’d told me I was beautiful. And because the way he’d looked at me when I’d taken off my cardigan. Like the jaguar in my drawing. Intent. Focused. Drawn in. And I’d shivered all the way down my body again.

  Of course, now, I was shivering in a different way. I was thigh-deep, freezing off all my pertinent parts, shrieking and laughing as we took another few steps and the water reached my waist, no kind of seductive siren.

  “Oh, bugger,” I moaned. “I thought this was going to be sexy. I think I’ve found a natural anesthetic, because I can’t feel myself anymore.”

  Matiu was laughing, still holding my hand. He was waist deep now, and the water was nearly at my breasts. My nipples were going to be ice, I could already tell. They were going to hurt. He dropped my hand and dove under the water like a seal, emerging with a splash. “Shit,” he gasped. “That’s cold. You’re right. Not romantic.” His white teeth flashed in the darkness. “What the hell. Let’s swim.”

  We did. We swam hard, at least I did. Matiu was clearly much faster than me, because he swam lazily, turning onto his side every few strokes to check my progress. We didn’t swim in a line, but in arcs and circles with no destination, diving down under the water to feel the weight of the blackness, then coming up into the starry, moonlit night. And always, when I came up, he was there. The brush of his hand on my arm, my foot touching his leg. Playing like dolphins, and my heart was soaring. Until I started freezing again.

  “Enough,” I said, and he said, “Yeh. Let’s go in.”

  We swam b
ack toward the lights, and when we got close enough to stand, he took my hand again, splashed out of the shallows and up on the sand, grabbed towels and shirts.

  I said, “Oh, bloody hell, I’m cold. Spa tub,” led the way up to the patio, my teeth chattering, and tugged at the cover. “Locked. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.”

  Matiu said, “Key’s got to be somewhere. Ah.” He grabbed something hanging on a beam, crouched down, and fitted it into the padlock, then folded the cover back and lifted it off as I punched buttons and the water bubbled and foamed into action. Another button, punched at random, and the water glowed blue, and, as I slid in, yelping at the heat, shifted slowly to purple.

  Matiu slid in across from me, tipped his head back, and said, “Ahh,” on a long sigh. He opened his eyes, smiled at me like a co-conspirator, and said, “Feels a bit naughty, sneaking a midnight ride in somebody else’s spa tub. Like we should whisper.”

  “A spa tub with pink lights, now,” I said. “Feels so good, and, yeh, naughty. It’s about nine-thirty, I think. Midnight for some, I guess. Midnight for me, all dark and secret.” He stared at me, and I shifted around to a more lounge-y part, where water pulsed in alternating streams over the soles of my feet. “Put your feet over here with mine,” I said, and let out a long breath. “That’s nice.”

  What did I want to happen? I couldn’t even have said. I was scared, and I was daring. Could you be both at once? Apparently you could, because I was.

  “Yeh. It is.” His feet were stroking over mine, a gentle, slow brush against my skin. The freezing cold of the sea, and then this warmth. All your muscles tightening, then letting go like you were slowly melting. And the places where you’d been coldest were the ones that tingled most.

  Or maybe that had nothing to do with the water.

  Matiu’s hand touched mine under the surface. Just a touch, and then, slowly, he was taking it in his. Wrapping it up, his fingers threading through mine.

  And nothing else happened.

  Matiu

  I’d told myself on the drive over here that I’d keep it casual. Keep it fun. That Tane and June and everybody else were wrong that I couldn’t be a woman’s friend, that I couldn’t help being selfish, being shallow. That no matter how much that jaguar in the drawing had looked like me, that didn’t mean the lioness was her. That it was wrong, and I wouldn’t do it.

  I’d known I was lying.

  And then she’d run into the sea with me, laughing, had swum her hardest, dived down into the darkness and shot up again, breaking the surface and raising her arms to the night, had smiled into my eyes and, when I’d swum a slow circle around her, had whirled to watch me with an intensity that I’d swear I could feel even in the water. Even in the dark.

  And now. Now, my legs were tangled with hers and her hand was in mine, the water swirling and bubbling around us, turning slowly from purple to blue, our bodies weightless and warm. She turned in the water, letting go of me and pushing up with her hands on the seat of the tub, and I was looking down that white bikini top, losing my breath, wanting my hands there. Wanting my mouth there. Still telling myself that it wasn’t going to happen, trying to remind myself of all the reasons it couldn’t.

  She walked her way across to me, her upper body rising from the water, her wet hair streaming out from her face, looking like a mermaid. Like a siren. She kept coming, and I thought, No. Don’t. I’m never going to be able to remember what’s right if you do this.

  She was so close. Too close. Her foot, her calf brushing mine, her upper arm pressed against me, and I sat there and thought, Oh, bloody hell, I can’t hold back here. I can’t. And then she pushed a bit harder, floated up and over me, got her hands on the rim of the tub, settled her body over mine, and kissed my mouth.

  That was it. I was done. My hands came up like they had no choice, because they didn’t, and landed. One of them behind her head, pulling her mouth onto mine again, and the other one on her breast. And, no, that wasn’t any kind of practiced, smooth, seductive pattern, A to B to C, slow and deliberate, giving her a chance to back off, for messages to be sent and received. That was a body out of control, except that the second after I did it, when my hand wanted to slide straight inside that too-revealing white top, I managed to keep from doing it. I managed to ask, “All right?”

  “What do I have to do,” she asked against my mouth, “to be disgraced?” And then she kissed me again, her tongue slipping into my mouth, and my hand shoved inside her top and felt the weight of her breast filling my palm. I felt the nipple harden against my fingers, took her gasp into me, pulled her head closer, and forgot about trying. The sin was winning, because my head was full of her, and my hands needed more.

  Tongues tangling, breath mingling. Bodies brushing, coming closer, languid and slow, floating away. So close, and not nearly close enough. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, her skin was soft and smooth as silk, and I was hard as iron, aching with need.

  Hotter. Wetter. Deeper. My fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her in as I found the clasp of the bikini top with the other hand and felt it part, then pulled it down her arms and off her. Dragging my mouth from hers, then, sliding it over her cheek, down her neck, scraping my teeth over her skin, the roar in my head, the heat in my veins, the urgency driving me forward exactly like that jaguar pulling the lioness into him, coming down over her. Hearing her moan, feeling her own hand closing around the back of my head, and there was no stopping now.

  Lifting her by the waist at last, holding her above me, her white breasts round and firm in the moonlight, then pulling her in, rubbing my face between them while she gasped, and then, finally, closing my mouth over one pink nipple. My hand on her back, holding her there, but keeping it gentle, because she’d be tender here. Feeling my way, sucking gently, then, when she moaned, a little harder. She scrabbled with her knees and scooted closer. Her hands on my shoulders, now, hanging on tight, trying to get closer.

  It was that train. It was gaining speed, barreling down the track, and I couldn’t ... I couldn’t ... stop.

  She said, “Matiu.” It was a gasp. “Oh, please.”

  If there are two better words for a man to hear, I couldn’t think of them. I wasn’t nearly close enough, because the water kept trying to pull her away, but she was moaning now, so I transferred my attention to her other breast, lavishing it with every bit of attention I had, wanting to move on, and wanting to stay. Both.

  And I hurt.

  Poppy

  I could swear I was dying. Surely, when your brain swirled away into the darkness, when your body was driving forward, onward, out of control, that was what was happening.

  I needed to touch him. I needed him to touch me. We were too far apart. Also probably about to get heatstroke. I managed to say, “Matiu.” And then, when he didn’t stop, just sucked harder, and I couldn’t breathe and thought, I’m going to come just from this, I tried saying it again. “Matiu. Stop.”

  It took a second, and then he let me go, lowered me down onto him again, and said, “Right. Right.” He was breathing hard, his face twisting as he swallowed. “Sorry. Carried ... away.”

  Something soft in me caught and held, even in my excitement. I put my hand on his face, kissed his mouth, and said, “I think we should ... we should get out of here. I can’t feel you enough. I need ... I need more. I need it all.”

  His eyes met mine. He said, “The drawing. It was you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it was you.” That was tenderness, filling my heart. “Because you’re beautiful.”

  28

  Like an Amazon

  Matiu

  A better man would have asked her again if she was sure, but I wasn’t that man. I was climbing out of the spa tub, my hand around hers again, taking her with me. Grabbing the towels we’d dropped and rubbing them over her, drying her face, her back. Her breasts, where I got a bit distracted. Getting to her belly, and not hearing her say anything about how it wasn’t flat yet. And when I dropped the towel, hoo
ked my thumbs in that last scrap of white, and pulled the bikini bottoms off her?

  She stepped out.

  I wanted to hold her breasts again. I wanted to push her thighs apart and kiss her everywhere. Instead, I kissed her mouth. Long and slow and deep, one hand in her hair, the other on her lower back, pulling her into me.

  I kissed her like I loved her.

  She had her hands on me, too. Sliding over my back, my shoulders, down my arms. I was walking her backwards, and she was going. I pushed her straight over to a lounge chair and got a knee on its cushioned surface, and she was going down onto her bum, then swinging her legs up, still holding me. Still kissing me, her hands pulling me down.

  It was wrong. I knew it. And all the same, I was yanking my togs off and tossing them to the ground, then settling my body over hers. Slowly. Carefully. Completely. Her thighs were parting, and I ...

  “Poppy? You out here?”

  It was a man’s voice. Jax. And there was absolutely no way of spinning this. I froze, then rolled up to sitting. I reached a hand out for Poppy, but she didn’t come with me. She stayed where she was and called, “Yeh. It’s me. I’m good. Just using the spa tub.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “You took a year off my life. I woke up, realized I hadn’t heard you come in, checked your room, and—”

  All of that accompanied by the thud of crutches on the wooden decking. I wished I’d brought the towels over, so I could throw one over her. I moved so I was in front of her torso instead and waited for it. The moment when he came into view, the crutches stopped, and he said, “You.”

  “Well, yeh,” I said. “Me.”

  Poppy said, “Don’t say it.” I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Jax or to me, and then I was, because she said, “I am a grown woman.”