by Diana Fraser
“Wolfing me back sounds pretty attractive at the moment,” Rachel said with a rueful grin.
He squeezed her hands, drew a deep breath and stepped back. “I’ll walk you home and you think about what I’ve said. And, if you’re still interested, there will be plenty of time for binge eating.”
Why was it when he said these things she grew hotter rather than calmer? “Well, it looks like I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it?”
“No, you don’t. I’ll get my shirt and walk you home.”
They wandered up the path together and up the steps to his house. He switched on a small lamp in the hallway by a window and it shone out, down the steps and into the garden. She didn’t go inside but watched him, each movement of his powerful body deliberate and controlled. She let the cooler night breeze try to calm down her arousal, although she really only saw one way to deal with it—and that was to satisfy it. But that didn’t look to be happening any time soon. Unless… unless she agreed to have a serious relationship with him. And how could she? Because at some point her secret would be revealed and that would be an end to it all. He’d have no further interest in her then. No, she only had now.
She greeted his smile with one of her own as he pulled on a shirt, coming out the house.
“Don’t you lock it?”
“No.” He grinned. “If anyone other than family tried to enter here they’d been given short shrift by the others.”
“So your family come and go as they like?”
“Sure. That’s why I keep the fridge fully stocked. Some of the family don’t have much money. They return to the marae when their own families have enough of them.” He suddenly looked fierce. “Anyway, if they’re hungry they know they can always have a feed here… a good life here.”
She’d been right. He’d protect his family with his life. He was protecting them with his life, whether they knew it or not.
They walked side by side to the top of the hill and looked over the harbor, down at the lights of Belendroit and, farther along the harbor, Akaroa. It was beautiful… too perfect a view to be real. She suddenly had a deep need to be alone, to consider her own imperfect future. “Goodnight, Zane.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure.” She indicated Belendroit. “I’m almost there.”
“If that’s what you want…”
She nodded. “It is. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Rachel. I’ll see you around, yes?”
“Sure.” And he would. Not because she saw a future with him—family came first and he’d hate her when he discovered that she and her family had given her child up for adoption. But because the need to find her child was too strong and Zane was her best bet for finding her daughter.
7
Turned out their new relationship wasn’t so much slow as stationary. Between the filming at Belendroit and Zane’s work on the tribal council, which was taking him all over the South Island, over a week had passed without Rachel so much as clapping eyes on him.
Rachel wandered over to the window for the hundredth time, wondering if she’d see Zane’s car in the drive. He said he might come direct from the airport. But the only cars belonged to her father—his ancient, prized Daimler—and the film crew, bumper to bumper along the drive.
She fingered her cellphone in her pocket. He’d rung during his absence, but only late at night, after he’d finished work. During those phone calls he’d told her about the kind of work he and his Maori Board did—about protecting and investing the assets which had been granted them by the Waitangi Tribunal which made them the wealthiest tribe in New Zealand and, more important to Zane’s heart, protecting the culture and families of the tribe. She’d listened with a heavy heart as he described the issues facing his people, issues he’d faced as a youngster. She felt his need, she felt his compassion and she also felt, quite viscerally, his anger. Because it was an anger she feared might be directed at her once he found out his niece was also her daughter.
“Rachel!” called the producer.
Rachel jumped round. There were people everywhere, her father in the midst of them all, entertaining and hindering the team by turns. “Yes?”
“Can you finish these photos off here and then we’ll get back to shooting the last sequence.”
“Sure.” The photos were to be included in the new book which accompanied the series. But as she slid a crème caramel under the grill to brown, her phone buzzed. She automatically checked the screen. She sighed. It wasn’t Zane. Only a text from her friend, Lucia, who lived on an estate near Wellington, inviting her to stay the weekend. She smiled at Lucia’s excitement about a weekend party she was arranging with the Mackenzie clan. Rachel’s sister, Lizzi, and her family would be there, being close friends of Callum and Gemma Mackenzie. She was tempted. She adored Lucia and Guy’s long-awaited-for twins. But, she tapped the phone against her lips, she was torn. There was a lot of unfinished business around here, in more ways than one.
“Rachel!” said the photographer, frowning at her as if she’d gone mad. “You’ve described it as golden in the book. That”—he waved his camera lens at the offending dessert—“is more like burnt.”
“Damn!” Rachel put on the oven glove and grabbed the dessert from under the grill and slid it onto the wooden board. She wafted the smoke away with her hand, feeling flustered. “It’s okay. I made a backup.” She slid the new one under the grill and gave herself a talking to. She had to focus. She suddenly had a vision of herself performing the circus trick of spinning plates on the top of long poles. She imagined herself moving around constantly, making sure the poles gyrated enough to keep the plates from falling. The TV series, the accompanying book, her father, Zane, and not least, her child. She had a horrible feeling that if she took her mind of any of the things that mattered to her, they could all come tumbling down.
It was the last day of the board meeting and Zane was relieved. Chairing the group wasn’t his idea of fun but his reputation for good judgement and the mana associated with his past sporting achievements had lumbered him with the role of Chairperson, not only of his sub-tribe, but also of the main tribe which covered over two-thirds of the South Island. And his strong sense of duty and responsibility, inherited from his grandmother, made him unable to reject the position, even if he would rather be out with the kids, kicking a rugby ball around.
As he walked into the boardroom in their new corporate headquarters in Christchurch, everyone greeted him. His tribe had always been under pressure—in past centuries from immigrants and the government—and now, from the issues which plagued all lower socio-economic groups—unemployment, drugs and gangs, not to mention the need to keep his culture and language alive. It was a constant battle over resources and political maneuvering.
He looked around at his board—some old, steeped in traditional ways, and some young and reactionary, wanting to blast away the links that kept them anchored to the past and move them into the future, using all their valuable assets. It was down to Zane to lead them all, sticking firmly to his principles, which made his decisions easier to make, even while they made his life more difficult.
The first day had been especially testing but the meeting was at last concluding with family business around adoptions and family access. It was always a sensitive area and one that tested Zane’s love of family against his protective instinct.
“And finally, we’ve had a request regarding one of our whangai children.” The man looked over his glasses at Zane. “One of your family, Zane. We wouldn’t normally raise this at board level but this is an unusual situation and we need to clarify some principles. As you know, Maori informal adoption occupies a legal gray area.”
Zane narrowed his eyes as he considered which of his large extended family the man could be referring to.
“The child involved is a”—the man referred to his notes—“Henrietta Tau.”
“Etta?” Zane sat back with surprise. Etta lived on his marae and went to the local school
where he worked. He kept an eye on her, just as he did his other nieces and nephews because Etta was his brother’s child. “Who wants to know about her?”
“Her mother, apparently”
Zane felt a flash of indignation and anger. “Her mother? Her mother who didn’t want her at her birth and who gave away her own child to my brother’s family when it didn’t suit her to raise the child herself? That person?”
The man shrugged. “She was quite young at the time.” He flipped through the pages. “Her name isn’t available. Looks like they hushed the whole thing up and your family took responsibility.”
Zane frowned. He hadn’t ever investigated his family’s informal adoption of Etta which had happened while he’d been away. He’d had no interest in discovering who the mother was who’d abandoned her child to his family. “The usual principles and rules apply. The mother doesn’t gain access. It’ll disturb the girl. She’s settled at school. She’s my niece, she lives on the marae, and she’s doing well.”
The man pushed another piece of paper across the desk. “That would agree with a report from one of our counsellors. She suggests that this information remain secret. The circumstances are unusual—apparently the mother has a high international profile—and the counsellor is concerned about this influence on Etta, who apparently is quite headstrong. Therefore, she concluded that it wasn’t in the best interests of Henrietta—Etta—to become known to her mother.”
Zane scanned through the report, noting the name of the counsellor, someone with the same firm ideas about adoption as his own. “Then the case is clear.”
“But apparently the woman is a public figure. She could make trouble.”
“That’s irrelevant and has no bearing on the matter. If she applies for access under the Guardianship Act, then we’ll face that later.” The fact that the woman had a high profile simply made things worse in his mind. How dare she return demanding to find out about the child who she’d happily given away ten years before? “The principles are clear. And there don’t appear to be any extenuating circumstances, nothing to change our mind, so deny the application.” Zane grimly flicked over the page and looked down determinedly at the next item of business. But, as the man’s voice fell into a droning, tired monologue about a local land issue, Zane’s mind clung to the anger which the previous business had roused.
Thirty years before, his young mother had left him on Ti Tahi Marae, giving him up for informal adoption. But then she’d turned up and his memory of that day remained firmly in his mind. He’d been around Etta’s age. His world had shifted on its axis when she’d come back and took him away from his home on the marae at Akaroa, to Auckland, to a world of concrete and passing strangers. But he’d been lucky for a while. His mother had been briefly re-married to a good man—named Black—who’d helped Zane move on when he needed to, concerned that, like so many of the young people, he’d resort to gangs for a family. So his step-father had put Zane forward to boarding school for Maori boys and Zane had thrived. He’d focused on his studies and rugby and left his birth mother’s world far behind. Zane had kept the name Black to honor his step-father and, after he’d been launched into the elite rugby world, Zane Black he’d stayed.
The whole experience had left him with a desire to protect children, to give the best experience he could to them and, in order to do that, he needed to save them from the love of people who, simply by virtue of their birth, felt they had a claim on a person. Zane believed they’d lost that claim the moment the decision had been made to give their child away. Some people described him as uncompromising, others as black and white. If Zane had to describe himself he’d call himself principled. There was only ever one right answer.
Rachel had taken advantage of some technical difficulties with filming to escape into Akaroa. She’d left behind the cameraman berating the distance they were from Wellington and the delay it would take to get the required parts. He blamed production, who blamed the technical department in Wellington. Rachel left them blaming each other, tempers flaring, and her father happily trying to provide distraction with anecdotes and wine. One last glance at the unhappy group showed that the wine was proving the most successful tactic.
She walked along the beach road to Akaroa enjoying the fresh air. It felt like an age since she’d been outside during the day. She’d forgotten that that was what her life had been like in Wellington—inside all the time—whether inside a hot kitchen, a hot studio, or a hot stuffy evening venue, she was always hemmed in. Not that she’d seen it that way. But now she could hardly believe she’d put up with it for so long.
She stopped on the outskirts of Akaroa and looked around at the row of colonial houses, with their white-painted fretwork and balconies overlooking the harbor which was demure and gray under a heated cloudy sky. People were enjoying late lunches in the café at the end of the short pier, and boats bobbed alongside, waiting for the busy weekend ahead when the small town would welcome visitors, from New Zealand and overseas.
Rachel had always been irritated by visitors when she was growing up. But now she enjoyed the variety they added to the place. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d find herself thinking of Akaroa as home again.
Instead of going directly into the café, Rachel was about to walk past the school when a car hooted and drew up on the other side of the road. It was Zane. He lowered his sunglasses as he caught her gaze, and smiled, a heart-stopping, too-rare smile. She waved and walked across the road toward him.
“Ms Connelly!” he called, switching off the engine and jumping out the car.
She grinned. “Mr. Black! Fancy seeing you here. I thought you had one more night in Christchurch.”
He put his arm around her and kissed her chastely on the cheek. “I’d had enough. Another evening, surrounded by men talking politics and finance, would have done my head in.”
“Their loss, my gain.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’d hoped you’d think that.” He licked his lips and drew back his bottom lip with his teeth. The glint in his eyes couldn’t be described in any other way except naughty. “Busy?”
“As it happens… no. Technical glitches with filming has given me the afternoon off. And I can make that evening, too, if it suits.”
He nodded slowly as his quick gaze took her in from head to toe. “It suits.”
She blushed at the intimate way his gaze lingered on her body. “You’re looking very smart,” she said, deciding a change in subject was the wisest course of action. “I haven’t seen you in a suit before.” She narrowed her eyes assessing the silk lining of his jacket, the classic fit of the shirt, the silk tie hanging loose, and the perfect fit of the pants. Very perfect. “European styling, designed to impress.”
“If it’s impressed you, it’s done its job.”
“I didn’t say that. I simply recognize clothing that’s designed to impress.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s a legacy of my days as an All Black. An Italian designer gave me suits in exchange for some modeling.”
She nearly choked on a laugh. “You? A model? I can’t imagine that.”
“What? You think I’m not pretty enough?” He grinned, rolling back on his shiny leather-soled shoes.
“I wouldn’t describe you as ‘pretty’, exactly.”
“Good.”
“But I can see exactly why your services as a model would be required.”
“Is that right? And why’s that?”
She stepped closer to him, only the bag she was holding between the two of them, oblivious to anyone else around them. “Buy me a drink”—she indicated the café at the end of the pier—“and I might tell you.”
His eyes grew dark before he shook his head. “The things I have to do to earn compliments.”
“Oh, I didn’t say anything about compliments.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You have me intrigued now, Ms Connelly.” He locked his car and offered Rachel his arm. “Shall we?”
Rachel could
n’t figure out what was different about walking arm in arm with Zane. She enjoyed the company of men, loved flirting and dating, yet she’d never felt like this before. A range of words and descriptions flitted through her mind as they walked along the pier, the slick water flowing beneath the wooden boards. But she settled on ‘girlish’. She felt as if ten years had been rolled back and she was a teenager again. Except a little wiser and a whole lot more sexually aware.
They were immediately shown to a table which hadn’t been there minutes earlier. The maitre d’ fussed over them, snapping his fingers for a waitress to appear out of nowhere with a carafe of water and glasses in hand, as he welcomed them and set them a place by the waterside.
Zane glanced at the back of the maitre d’ as he walked away, leaving them alone. “Do you have this effect every time you go out to eat?”
Rachel placed her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her steepled fingers. “Everywhere except places run by my own sisters. They make no concession to me, I can assure you!”
“Ah, that makes sense. There’s no one like family to bring you back to earth.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not a back-to-earth kind of girl?”
He threw up his hands in surrender. “I guess I am.” He leaned forward, echoing her stance. “And you know what? I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He bridged the inches of space between their hands and brushed his finger up along hers. “I’ve missed you.”
Something strange happened to her stomach—a flip, a surge of desire—which made her lick her lips and look down at his own. She answered the touch of his finger by moving her forefinger over the tip of his strong square fingernail and around the pad beneath. As her finger drew toward his palm, he curled his fingers around hers and caressed her with an intimate, and yet innocent action, which only intensified her desire for him.
“I have you, now. You can’t escape.” He was joking but there was something in his eyes and in the curve of those sensuous lips which told her the truth. He wasn’t joking. He wanted her and he wanted to keep hold of her.