As six o’clock came, her apprehension only grew. Why was Danny so nervous about her meeting his boss? Why did he think she wouldn’t want to see him again after they’d met?
She ordered a taxi, thinking that she might need a drink at the bar to calm her nerves. The drive along the beachfront was magnificent, the Pacific Ocean sea flooded with scarlets and golds. It truly was one of the most breathtaking places she’d ever seen—she understood why it was listed as one of the ten places you had to see before you died. It would be perfect as one of her romantic getaways.
The taxi driver parked opposite the bar by the beach. After paying him, she walked across the road, heart racing. The bar was already busy. Like in England, it had a beer garden, although here it was out the front rather than around the back. Large deck heaters provided some warmth as the evening air grew cooler, and citronella candles burned on all the tables to keep away any insects. It was full of people talking and laughing. To one side, Hermione could see a few hammocks strung between palm trees in which couples were cuddling while they sipped their cocktails. What a nice idea.
She entered through the main door and paused, looking around to gain her bearings. The place was painted with pastel colors, the wooden floors covered with a layer of sand, and shells were scattered across the many wooden tables and clustered in piles on the bar. Large black and white artsy photographs hung on the walls, mainly of surfers caught in mid-wave. The place was light without being over-lit, loud without being noisy. Hermione liked it immediately.
The bar was busy, but she walked across and perched on a free stool between some groups of people. The guy working behind the bar was good looking in a guy-next-door kind of way, with light brown hair and a beard, and an attractive smile. Spotting her, he came over and leaned on the bar.
“Hey, what can I get you?”
“Um...” She looked up at the descriptions of cocktails drawn in chalk on boards behind him. “I’ll have a Singapore Sling please.”
“Good choice.” He started making it, adding cherry brandy, Cointreau, pineapple juice, and dashes from other bottles to gin in a shaker. “Haven’t seen you here before—are you on holiday?”
“Kind of.”
“From England,” he said. “The accent,” he added as she sent him an enquiring look.
“Ah. It gives me away.”
“Just a bit.” He winked at her.
She scratched her nose, conscious that a couple of guys on her right were casting her glances. Smiling at the barkeep, she asked, “Um...are you Beck by any chance?”
His eyebrows rose. “I am.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. He said you were a friend.”
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Mellors. Danny Mellors.”
The guy sitting next to her coughed into his beer, and his friend chuckled.
She glared at them all. “What’s so funny?”
Beck stroked his beard, obviously trying to hide a smile. “Ah, I think young Danny has played a bit of a joke on you there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I assume you’ve heard of Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”
“I...” The penny dropped, followed swiftly by her jaw.
When Danny had told her his surname, she’d thought it sounded vaguely familiar. She hadn’t made the connection with the racy novel in which an aristocratic young woman has an affair with a working-class man.
“What’s his real surname?” she asked faintly.
Someone cleared his throat behind her. “Ahem. That would be Love. As in...Love Landscaping.”
She spun around. It was Danny, looking suitably sheepish.
All the connotations that his use of the name implied dawned on her. He’d been making fun of her.
Embarrassed and hurt, she lifted her hand and, before she could think better of it, slapped him hard around the face.
Chapter Seven
At the crack of her hand, one of the guys standing next to them said, “Jesus!” while the other took a step back and said, “Fuck!” Beck’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, and several people turned to stare at them.
To Hermione’s surprise, Danny didn’t say anything. He’d barely flinched when she struck him, although she’d hit him hard enough to hurt her palm, which stung so much she was tempted to blow on it. It was like slapping a concrete post. His cheek reddened, but he didn’t rub it, nor did he yell at her as she’d expected.
Instead, he blinked a few times, and then to her surprise his lips curved as he said, “Wow, you’re stronger than you look.”
She swallowed, boiling with anger but taken aback by his reaction. She’d hit him in front of his friends—he should be steaming mad at her!
Taking her arm, he steered her away from the others to a quieter corner of the room. When they got there, she snatched her arm out of his grasp.
“Why did you do it?” she snapped.
“I wish I hadn’t now,” he replied, “and not only because you slapped me. I’m sorry.”
Her jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. She hadn’t expected him to apologize.
Not willing to give up her anger just yet, she folded her arms and glared at him. “That was humiliating and degrading. Implying I’m like Lady Chatterley. Who the fuck do you think you are?” She very rarely swore, but the situation seemed to call for it.
His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment on the profanity. “If you remember, when we first met, you told me I was filthy and then said you wanted to talk to the owner rather than one of his hands. That’s why I said it.” His tone was firm, his stare mildly reproachful, the kind she imagined he would give a toddler whom he’d caught pulling up flowers he’d just planted.
The bloody jet lag! Her assumption that the man in charge of the landscaping business would have a managerial role only, and that he’d leave the hard work to the laborers, was sensible, but there had been no need for her to insult him. Her face warmed. She’d been tired and grumpy, but it had been no excuse for bad manners—her father would have scolded her for being rude. Danny owned the business, and she’d played lady of the manor and talked to him as if he was a common workhand. No wonder he’d made the reference to D.H. Lawrence.
“Sorry,” she said quietly, suitably chastened.
A smile spread slowly across his face. A gorgeous, sexy, warm smile. “It’s okay. No harm done. I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”
She met his gaze, and they studied each other for a long moment. This man did something to her ability to form coherent sentences. Why did he make her so tongue-tied? And why hadn’t he taken advantage of her when she’d been so snotty to him?
“You called yourself Mellors,” she said, thinking more about the comparison he’d made. “You meant to seduce me today, didn’t you? That’s why you organized that picnic.”
“Yes.”
“You took me to the beach to get me naked.”
He tipped his head from side to side as if to say perhaps, but his wry grin told her she’d guessed right.
“So why didn’t you go through with it?” It was only as she said the words that she realized she was hurt because he’d changed his mind. She needed to understand. “Why did you stop when the seduction had obviously worked?”
He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared at his shoes. For the first time since she’d arrived at the bar, she looked at him properly. He’d changed as well, losing the faded shorts, well-worn T-shirt, and heavy workman’s boots. Instead, he wore a smart white shirt and jeans with Converses. He smelled divine, of some kind of manly body wash, so he’d clearly had a shower too. His hair curled damply around his temples.
Instead of a dirty, rough workhand with a foul mouth, he looked like a clean, decent, hardworking boy-next-door, the kind an ordinary girl wouldn’t hesitate to take home to meet her parents.
“I was going to,” he said. “I thought that was what you wanted, and it amused me to play the rough workman and
seduce the lady of the manor. But then we started talking.” He looked up and met her gaze. “I can’t explain what changed. You’re a rich aristocrat, and even though I own the business, I work with my hands. We’re still Oliver Mellors and Lady Chatterley. But even though I felt like I wanted to teach you a lesson, when it came to it, I couldn’t do it. I’m not that kind of guy.” He ended with a shrug.
A tiny piece of her melted inside. It was a very tiny piece, but it was there.
He heaved a sigh and looked across at the bar. “You didn’t finish your drink.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t throw it in your face,” she said, although there was no sharpness behind her words.
“I guess. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me and my friends for the evening? They’re nice people, and it might be good for you to get to know some Kiwis while you’re here.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know...”
“Just for a drink,” he said gently. “I don’t expect anything else.”
She had to tip her head back to look into his eyes. He was so tall, and he had such an impressive physique—she’d thought the phrase ‘weak at the knees’ was artistic license, and was surprised when hers felt as if they might give way.
His eyes were a deep blue, and held no hint of animosity or frostiness. In fact, they were quite the opposite, filled with warmth that sent heat rushing through her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.
“Don’t expect?” she whispered, shocking herself. “Or don’t want?”
His lips curved into a delighted, sexy smile. “Don’t expect, definitely. If you ever want to recreate a D.H. Lawrence novel, I’m your man.”
“Don’t push your luck.” She tossed her hair out of her eyes. “You’re in my family’s employ, so I’m still in charge.”
The sexy smile stayed, and although he gave her a deferential nod, his eyes continued to smolder. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shivered. “Ooh, don’t say it like that.”
He chuckled. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
A hand in the small of her back, he guided her across the room to the bar so she could pick up her drink, then took her over to a group of people who sat in the corner. The two guys who had witnessed the slap were there, and they’d obviously told the others what had happened because they all looked up at her with much amusement as they approached.
“Yes,” Danny said, stopping before them, “this is the woman who chastised me and lived to tell the tale. Her name is Hermione Spencer, but you can call her Lady Chatterley.”
“Danny, stop it,” scolded a blonde-haired girl, holding out her hand. “I’m Genie, it’s lovely to meet you, Hermione, and I’m sure Danny deserved every bit of the slap you gave him.”
“He did.” Hermione shook her hand. “But thank you for the support.”
“You’re English,” another girl said in delight, also holding out a hand. “It’s such a cool accent. I’m Billie, and it’s lovely to meet you.”
“Hello, Billie.”
“This is Jonah.” Danny introduced her to the guy at the bar who’d sworn when she’d slapped him. “Jonah and Beck are Genie’s brothers.” Hermione shook hands with the young, good-looking guy. “And this is Niall.” Danny gestured to the other man from the bar. “He’s Genie’s better looking other half.”
“Thanks,” Genie said.
Niall smiled and shook Hermione’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Lastly, this is my sister, Tess.” Danny indicated the woman sitting beside him.
Tall and slender with long dark hair, Tess had the same intelligent blue eyes as her half-brother. Her eyebrows rose as they shook hands. “Oh. So you’re Hermione.”
She spoke as if Danny had mentioned her, but before Hermione could say anything, Jonah stood. “Game of pool?” he asked Danny. “Phil can take over at the bar so Beck can join in.”
“I can’t desert Hermione when we’ve just got here,” Danny said. “After my faux pas she’ll probably give me a right hook.”
He grinned, and Hermione glared at him. “I’ll be glad to see the back of you,” she stated. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” His hand rested again in the small of her back—an oddly possessive gesture, as if telling the other guys to keep their hands off. She didn’t know whether to be touched or annoyed by it, but was aware that an inner glow spread through her at his concern.
“We’ll look after her,” Genie promised, moving along the bench so Hermione could sit next to her. “Go on, then we can gossip about you all.”
Rolling their eyes, the guys walked across to the pool table, just out of earshot. Hermione squeezed in next to Genie and sipped her cocktail, feeling shy. Even in her jeans, she felt overdressed in the blue shirt and smart jacket as the Kiwi girls all wore T-shirts and old, faded jeans, and Billie wore shorts.
“So...” Tess leaned forward on the table. “You’re the lady of the manor.”
Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “Danny’s mentioned me?”
“He said something about you being the daughter of an earl.”
Both Genie and Billie’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?” Genie asked. “Wow. I’ve never spoken to a real lady. Should I curtsey?”
“Please don’t,” Hermione begged, embarrassed, “it’s bad enough with him calling me Lady Chatterley.”
“Aw, I’m sorry.” Genie bumped shoulders with her. “We’re only teasing. Billie’s right—you have a lovely accent. And we’re just unused to aristocracy here—we don’t have a class system in New Zealand.”
“It’s a beautiful country.” Hermione hoped to turn the conversation away from herself. “And the Bay of Islands is like paradise. I envy you living here all the time.”
“Yeah, we’re very lucky,” Billie acknowledged.
“Do you all work in the town?” Hermione asked. “What do you do?”
“I work just across the bay in Russell,” Billie said. “I do aromatherapy and yoga in a health resort.”
“Oh, how interesting.”
“I think so!”
“I run tiki tours,” Tess said.
“Sorry, what are they?”
“Tours of the area to popular tourist sites like the Stone Store in Kerikeri and the Waitangi Treaty Grounds up the road. I used to teach history at a high school, but I decided working with teenagers wasn’t my forte.”
“I can understand that—being a teacher is the last thing I could do.” Hermione couldn’t think of anything worse than spending all day with hormonal teens.
She turned to the girl by her side. “What about you?”
“I am currently between jobs,” Genie said. “Unemployed. A wastrel.”
Billie laughed. “She used to be a lieutenant in the Army, but she’s just resigned.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh? Actually, I revise my previous opinion—being a soldier is the last thing I could do. I would be a terrible soldier.”
Genie laughed. “Oh, it’s not so bad.”
“You haven’t seen me try to do a pushup.”
Billie chuckled. “Physical exercise not your thing?”
“I can think of better ways to burn off calories than running in the rain with a backpack while a sergeant major yells at you.” She’d been thinking about her running machine at home, but the girls all sniggered. They’d thought she was talking about sex.
“Talking of which,” Genie said, finishing off her cocktail. Her cheeks bore a rosy hue, and Hermione suspected it wasn’t her first drink of the evening. “Tell us about you and Danny.”
“There isn’t any ‘me and Danny’.” Hermione refused to think about the incident on the beach. “He’s my parents’ gardener.”
“You’re blushing.” Genie pointed at her. “You have read Lady Chatterley, right?”
Her cheeks burned even more. She hadn’t blushed so much in years. “I’m not... I mean he’s not even...” She shook her head, unable to put her objections into words.
Billie stirred her drink with a cherry stuck on a cocktail stick. “Is there someone back home in England?”
Hermione scratched her ear. How could she possibly explain to these modern, independent Kiwi women the complexities of aristocratic relationships? “Yes. No. Kind of. Not really.”
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.” Billie grinned. “You should totally have a fling with Danny while you’re here.”
“Goodness. I couldn’t possibly...”
“You should!” Genie leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve heard on the grapevine it’s not only his feet that are on the large side.” She gave a saucy wink.
Billie guffawed while Tess rolled her eyes.
Hermione remembered the feeling of Danny pressed against her when she lay on the sand, and lost the power of speech.
“What’s the joke?”
Hermione’s gaze snapped up as Danny spoke. He’d come to have a swallow of his beer and maybe, she thought, to check up on her.
“Um...” She fought against laughter as Genie and Billie giggled. Pressing her lips together, she stared at his face, determined not to look at the area under discussion.
He raised an eyebrow, glancing from one girl to the next, then coming back to her with a suspicious look.
Genie was giggling too much to say anything, so Billie gestured at his feet. “What size shoes do you take, Danny?”
All four girls started laughing, and his lips curved in a wry smile. “Size thirteen,” he said. He leaned forward to put the beer bottle back on the table and lowered his voice. “Not that it’s relevant. You ladies know it’s not the size of the waves that count, it’s the motion of the ocean.” Giving them a wink and Hermione a last amused glance, he rejoined the others at the pool table.
“Good Lord.” Hermione fanned herself with the beermat.
Tess tipped her head, looking at her with interest. “Well, well. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him look at anyone like that.”
An Ocean Between Us Page 5