Nabbed in New Zealand
by
Christine Edwards
Fanny Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
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edwards.fannypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Nabbed in New Zealand
Copyright © 2014 by Christine Edwards
Parts of this novel previously appeared under the title Valla’s Captor.
ISBN: 978-1-60381-538-3 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-539-0 (eBook)
Produced in the United States of America
* * * *
Dedicated to beautiful readers who long for adventure.
This one’s for you.
Special Thanks
I’d like to especially thank Emily H. of Fanny Press for your editing precision and sunny disposition. It’s such a pleasure working with you.
Thank you to Jennifer M. and Catherine T. for assisting me in bringing this book as well as several others to life. It’s an honor to work with you ladies.
Special thanks to the incomparable New Zealand artist Dean Corbett. I hope one day to see your breathtaking artwork in person.
To Sia for her inspirational song “Moon.” With every listen I think of Valla and Judge’s love for one another.
Prologue
***
Recollection
My brain commands my eyes to open, yet I find it incredibly difficult to accomplish this simple task.
Why am I so dizzy?
As I struggle to wake up, my eyes slowly flutter open and I’m completely dumbfounded by the sight before me. Across the large bedroom is a set of French glass doors, but it’s what lies behind them that stuns me into total stillness. White snow falls endlessly, filtering through the early dawn light and blanketing the tall evergreen trees. The small porch beyond the doors is completely covered with a snowdrift that must be a foot high.
What the hell?
I scramble to remember how I got here. Last evening I was camping in the mild weather at Kaikoura Beach, on New Zealand’s South Island. The weather was chilly, but not freezing. So how could it be snowing? How in the hell did I end up in the mountains?
Where am I?
The question begins circling around in my foggy brain. This is so wrong. Something horrible must have occurred … but what?
Alarm bells rapidly fire off within my head as I start to panic … big time. It’s precisely at this moment that I become aware of the fact that I’m propped up by pillows in a big, snuggly, completely foreign bed. Glancing around me, I gasp when I see that my right wrist is tethered by a smooth, braided length of blue rope knotted to one of the log beams on the hulking headboard. I give a desperate tug only to discover that it’s as tight as a fist.
Oh, fuck.
Snippets of the hazy conversation I’d overheard the night before begin to come back to me. Two men talking … thick accents… strong arms lifting me ….
Slight movement from within the heavily shadowed right corner of the fire-lit room instantly commands my rapt attention. My eyes try to focus, straining to make out who could be watching me from the darkness.. He leans forward, and as a narrow stream of light passes across his face, my eyes suddenly collide with those of my captor. Abject terror surges through me like a bull on a rampage.
Oh my God!
Unbridled fear courses through me, so strong that after a few heartbeats my head begins to swim.
It can’t be … It’s him ….
Chapter One
***
Fifteen Hours Earlier
“G’day, miss. Would you like a cuppa?”
“That would be lovely. Oh, and could I please have one of your turkey sandwiches along with my tea?”
“One sarnie and a cuppa coming right up for the pretty Yank.” The weathered old proprietor, who can’t be over five feet tall and is clad in a simple tan sweater, smiles kindly at me across the battered, pine counter.
“Should I pay you now?”
“No worries, miss. Mick and Guy come round with their guided groups on a regular basis, and they always foot the bill. They’re both good blokes that way. We’ll see you right. You just have yourself a seat and enjoy the afternoon. Are you having fun on your Tiki Tour then, eh?”
“Oh, yes. In fact it’s far more action-packed than I’d imagined. Your country is just mesmerizing. Truly wondrous, actually.”
He puffs his chest out a bit, obviously proud to be a Kiwi. “Happy to have you here. You Yanks are always a fun, polite lot.”
I smile at his comment before turning to head across the wide, plank floor of the ancient roadside café. Today is day three of my grand Kiwi adventure, and I’m just as excited as the day I arrived. Our camping trip originated in the small city of Wellington on the North Island and over the first two days we made our way south. I’ve worn out the pages in my copy of Fodor’s Guide to New Zealand after reading it constantly before I came here; however, nothing prepares you for the majestic beauty of a country that offers it all: waterfalls, snow-capped mountains, drool-worthy beaches, and the most genuine, interesting people I’ve ever come across in my life. I know that I’m fortunate to be here and I’m looking forward to making the most of each and every stop on our tour.
“I’ll be right over, guys, just a quick trip to the ladies’ room.” I give a pleasant wave to my seated travel companions and head through the door marked ‘Chicks.’ We’re a small group and so far everyone gets along quite well, which is fortunate. I booked this tour not knowing anyone and thankfully I’ve already made a few new friends.
After washing my hands in the deep metal sink, I look up to catch sight of my reflection in the chipped, rectangular mirror. I tilt my head to the right to avoid a crack and catch sight of my wide, greenish-blue eyes. Anticipation of the sights and thrills yet to come gleams in them as I quickly smooth my hands across my long, coal-black hair and dab on a touch of Benefit posie-pink lip gloss.
I’ve only taken one step back into the main dining area when a bell-like voice calls out to me, “Hey Valla, c’mere. Saved you a seat!”
Lana is a saucy, flame-haired diving instructor from Oregon. She takes a vacation to a new and exciting place each year as her reward for countless hours of hard work. Just like myself, she scrimps and saves at every turn, setting money aside in a special travel account for her dream destinations. She’s informed me that she also waits tables several nights a week for extra income.
We met in Los Angeles while waiting to board our flight only three days ago, but it already feels like we’re kindred souls. I really enjoy hanging out with her because she clearly has the same wild spirit of adventure that has drawn me solo across the world to the incomparable island chain of New Zealand.
Lana is nearly bouncing in her seat. Her big cornflower-blue eyes sparkle as she asks, “So are you psyched to explore Kaikoura Beach later today? I’ve been waiting to get there and I’ve heard that it’s stunning. I don’t care how chilly the water is. If it’s not unbearable I say we go in. What do you think, Valla?”
“Ah, okay,” I say with a laugh. “It’ll probably be close to freezing, but I’ll give it a shot. At least until I begin to go numb.”
Her enthusiasm and positive attitude are
inspiring. In fact, being away from the drudgery of the art gallery in Charleston is a relief in itself. I love my job but sometimes I need a break. It can be depressing to realize that the art business is also about money, and often a truly inspired work of superior quality takes a back seat to “what sells.” Taking these trips really helps clear my head, and I remind myself that I made the perfect choice coming here. New Zealand is unparalleled in its wild, majestic beauty and I’ll never tire of hearing the local, wicked-cool accents, the rising and falling intonation. It’s music to my ears. Lana and I often find ourselves giggling while trying in vain to decode the endless Kiwi slang, such as “rattle your dags” (hurry up) and “grab your jumper” (grab your sweater). Also, we think it’s hot that many sentences end in “eh?”
As I sit sipping my “cuppa,” I feel a momentary pang of sadness. I wish I could share the numerous photographs I’ve taken so far with my parents, but that’s not possible. In fact, if it wasn’t for the life insurance payment I received after the plane accident that took them from me seven years ago, I wouldn’t be here. I never could have afforded this trip on what I earn. The money I set aside from each and every paycheck isn’t enough to fund an expensive trip like this, not after daily bills and expenses. I’d move heaven and earth to have them back, of course. They would be so thrilled to hear about New Zealand, a place they often talked about visiting.
I take a bite of my sandwich, piled high with turkey and avocado, and try to tune into the conversation taking place around me. Guy is talking about the local wildlife. Our guides, Guy and Mick, are two good-natured Kiwis in their mid-to-late twenties. Guy is a former rugby player and has all the brawn to back it. He has buzzed, dark brown hair and warm brown eyes. Both he and Mick are noticeably tall, like most young men I’ve run across here. Mick is fairer in complexion, with light hair and sky blue eyes. They both dress for comfort, wearing abused jeans, thick-soled boots, and zip-up fleeces over fitted T-shirts. If it wasn’t for their distinct accents, the casual observer would have no idea that they were the ones running the show. We look like a group of friends on a camping trip. They both seem to know each and every stopping point on our picturesque route as if it were their own backyard. Yes, they are that good.
Lana and I have agreed that we’ve lucked out with our patient, knowledgeable guides. They have effortless answers for even the most obscure tourist questions, such as Lana’s quirky inquiry, “How many poisonous animals live here?”
Mick grins and informs her in his silky-smooth accent, “Only one. A rare spider called a Katipo. But you shouldn’t worry, darlin’. Few New Zealanders have ever seen one. They’re quite reclusive. However, I would think twice before you venture too far out into the ocean, ladies, because the deadly Great Whites might mistake you for a seal meal.”
We exchange a wide-eyed look. “Terrific,” I say. “Lana, let’s be certain to shake out our shoes every morning and skip the ocean swimming.”
“Yeah, agreed.”
Avoiding the water shouldn’t be an issue because the weather has only been hitting a high in the mid-fifties each day. August in New Zealand happens smack in the middle of winter. Back home in South Carolina it’s so oppressively, searingly hot right now that you could fry eggs on the sidewalk. The overwhelming humidity gives me a constant frizz halo that can’t be tamed, no matter how many beauty products I apply. In this part of the world the lower temperatures are perfect for exploring and camping, and it’s an added bonus that every day is a good hair day. Lucky me.
Guy and Mick have basically given us free reign to explore during our seven night excursion, so long as we inform them before we venture off away from the tour group. This is fine by me because the prospect of wandering out into the wilds of a foreign country alone is harrowing, to say the least. Mick and Guy have warned us about the plethora of snakes on this island chain and I most certainly do not want to meet up with any of them. Except when sleeping, I make a conscious effort to keep my tall suede boots on at all times.
Our group of six consists of Phil and Chaz, a fashionable gay couple from Dallas, and a retired Navy Seal in his late forties named Jack who is accompanied by his shy Asian wife, Kano. They hail from the D.C. area, and both Lana and I agree that Kano couldn’t be a day over thirty. Lana and I round out our camping fiesta.
Tonight our plan is to erect our tents on the edge of the scenic coastal town of Kaikoura. The South Island is less densely populated than the North Island and the roads grow notably rougher as we travel deeper within it. The terrain is becoming far more mountainous and rugged. We’re getting closer to both the grand Southern Alps mountain range and the country’s nature reserves.
The distance between towns increases as well. Fortunately for us, the white Land Cruisers have proven to be the perfect vehicles for our rough, cross-country course. We have two SUVs, with Guy and Mick each taking charge of a vehicle. This is fine with everyone—well, except for Navy Seal Jack, who is unsettled by giving up any form of control. Although, after seeing the surreal, rocky terrain, even he comes around and rolls with the plan.
Mick has informed us that we are 115 kilometers, or a bit over seventy miles, away from our campsite, right on track to arrive about two hours before dusk. This will give us ample time to set up camp and take a brief, early evening stroll down to the scenic beach.
Guy rests his tanned arms on the table and leans in to tell Lana, “You might enjoy photographing the cove there. It is very pretty, Lana.”
“Thanks,” she replies shyly before taking a sip of her drink.
I get the impression that Guy would like to give her an up close and personal tour of that cove. These two have been flirting back and forth since they first shook hands at the airport back in Wellington. With his swarthy looks and honed, rugby body, I can see the appeal. She’s rocking a hot body as well and is as cut as any female swimmer I’ve ever seen. Yes, they would make one smoking couple for sure. I hope they get it on soon because the sexual tension is starting to rub off on me, leaving me achy for a stone cold fox of my own to steam up the tent with on these chilly evenings.
The lunch crowd in the little café has already thinned out considerably. We’ve just finished up and are about to head out when the screen door opens wide and someone immense captures my attention. At first I see only a dark, murky shape coming in from the sunshine. He’s so massive that he momentarily blocks out the streaming light with his expansive shoulders.
I’m vaguely aware of Lana seated next to me, chatting away about our next destination. I am oblivious to her as sound and activity dissipate around me. My wide eyes do a rapid head-to-toe scan of this stunning stranger as my lips part slightly in awe. Thank goodness I’m seated about ten feet away from him because I suddenly feel quite faint. As soon as he stops in front of the counter I begin to drink him in.
He is without a doubt a decadent fantasy come to life. The man is easily tall enough to be a college basketball player. His wide back stretches the confines of his navy blue thermal shirt. My eyes meander down farther to take in his faded, naturally distressed jeans with black grease smeared down the sides. I imagine the grease stains are from working on some particularly manly project; he just couldn’t be troubled to find a rag. I sigh inwardly at his lusciousness and continue my leisurely perusal.
His huge, rugged brown boots are scarred and worn. A third of his face is shadowed by a dusty and abused, Mick Dundee style leather outback hat. Who knew that one of those could look so damn fine?
I continue to peer curiously at him over my mug of tea, taking in his profile as he shifts his weight and turns his face into my direct line of view. He’s both beautiful and terrifying. His chiseled, sloped jawline is stubbled with short, dark growth. Sensual, full pink lips and a strong, Roman nose. His dark, chocolate brown hair nearly skims his shirt collar in fluid waves, giving the impression that he hasn’t bothered to cut it in a few months. He’s the epitome of sexiness and, hands down, the most stunning male I have ever come across in m
y life.
As if sensing my gaze, he turns his attention from the conversation with the café owner to lock his steely, cobalt blue eyes directly onto mine. Lazily they roam my face and hair in blatant male appreciation. Time stands still as his unwavering blue eyes hold mine with ease, ensnaring me in their mysterious depths.
Who is he? He looks like a local. Who else could wear the dust and soil as if it’s an integral part of him?
Caught in his high beams, I’m frozen in place, struggling to breathe in anything other than a shallow pant. We continue to observe each other for a thick moment. A slow, languid smile begins to spread across his lips. Damn, as if he could possibly be any finer? I can feel heat beginning to pulse between my legs from our heady, intense connection.
Contact is instantly broken as Lana touches my forearm. “Are you all right, Valla? You look spooked. Feeling wiped from all the traveling? Jetlag, maybe? Heard that can set in after a few days.”
A bit shaken, I turn to her and reply in a distracted tone, “Sorry, just daydreaming, I guess. Hey, are you ready to check out Kaikoura Beach?”
“I can’t wait. I’ve read about it online but nothing can prepare you for the real deal, right?”
“Yeah.” I grin and look once again over toward Mr. Mysterious, only to find that his powerful back is now facing me as he leans against the counter on his forearms, deep in conversation with the older man.
Lana leans in close to whisper devilishly, “I can think of a hot Kiwi guide that I wouldn’t mind exploring once we reach Kaikoura.” She gives a little head tilt toward Guy.
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