Just Say (Hell) No (Escape to New Zealand Book 11)

by Rosalind James

  He frowned when he felt too much. He was a whale, that strongest of Maori totems, most of him under the surface. Protective. Unmovable.

  She stepped into him. His bag hit the floor, and his arms went around her, lifting her off her feet. His mouth was on hers, kissing her like he couldn’t do anything else, and she was kissing him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him close, and thinking, Yes. This.

  When he finally set her down, Tom was there with his own tattooed arm around Ella, asking her, “Feeling all right? Babies growing well, eh. You’re looking good.”

  She was looking excited, and shy, too. “Nah. I’m huge. Twenty-one weeks, eh.”

  “Yeh,” Tom said with his sweet smile. “I hear that can happen when you’re pregnant. So what did you find out? Do you get to talk to the parents today?” Which meant that the two of them had been texting, obviously. Nyree shot a look at Marko, but he wasn’t looking as fierce as he might have been.

  Ella said, “No. They’re in Rarotonga, on holiday, and then there’s your match, so we’re doing it next Sunday instead. Wouldn’t you know it, when I finally find the right ones. I couldn’t do it earlier, because Marko wanted to be there. I want it to be at their house, too, I mean the parents’, so I can see it. So…”

  “That’s good,” Tom said. “That’ll help, for him to be there. And next week’s all good. You’ve got time.”

  Marko said, “Glad you approve, mate,” his voice dry, and Nyree jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Ella needed all the support she could get.

  Tom said with a glance at him, “I could come by in a bit, Ella. Too cold for ice cream, maybe, but we could have lunch, go for a walk, and you could tell me. Go to the supermarket, too, if you like. I need to do that anyway.”

  Ella was about to answer, but instead, her hand went to her belly, and she froze. “They’re moving again,” she said. “The babies. I started feeling them right after you guys left. At first, I wasn’t sure, but…” She was right, because Nyree could actually see movement under the snug gold top. “Whoa,” Ella said. “I guess it’s strong because there are two of them. It’s like they’re both rolling over, doing somersaults.” She laughed. “I still can’t get used to it. It’s so weird to think about them in there, being alive. Isn’t it?”

  Tom lifted his hand, hesitated, and asked, “Can I?” She smiled at him, took his hand, and set his palm on her belly. He looked down at it, then up at her, his own smile growing, and said, “I feel them. Awesome.”

  That was when Hugh Latimer and Josie Pae Ata walked by. Marko said, “See ya, mate,” and Hugh nodded and hesitated, but Josie had that distant expression again, that fixed smile, and was looking straight past them as if she couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  Beautiful on the outside, and that was all. Pity.

  The fatigue was trying to get the best of Marko on the forty-five-minute drive home, his eyes closing despite himself until he jerked them open again.

  First had come the brutal match against the Lions at the pressure cooker that was Ellis Park in Johannesburg. Playing at altitude on the Highveld, battling all that South African physicality in front of one of the best rugby crowds in the world. This time, the duel had resulted in a loss for the Blues, which always drained you so much more than a win, even if the effort had technically been the same. Something about not getting the adrenaline rush that carried you through the next day, or just that to play at this level, you had to hate losing. Then there were the eighteen hours in the air, a thirteen-hour time change, and having to switch gears already, to focus on getting his aching body and his mental state back to the place where he could turn around and do it all again. It was always about next Saturday night.

  That was the job, and he was lucky to have it. It was still a job. And whinging about it being too hard got you exactly nowhere.

  Nyree glanced across the car at him and asked quietly, “Tired, eh,” and he smiled and said, “Nothing a bit of time in the spa tub won’t cure.” She put her hand on his for a moment, then returned her focus to the road. She could have overtaken the car in front, but she didn’t. After a moment, he saw why, when a white sedan sped past on the right. He said, “I remember this drive as more hair-raising.”

  She said, “Maybe it’s different with Ella in the car. Or something. I could be getting responsible. Ugh.”

  That one made him laugh. “When were you not responsible?”

  “I’m not. I’ve never been.”

  “Yeh. You are. Think about it again.”

  “You totally are,” Ella insisted from the back seat. “Nothing like living with Mum, except when you’re, like, wrapped up with painting. But we never run out of eggs or bread, and you always ask about school. That’s pretty much the definition of responsible.”

  “Time for me to ask, too,” Marko said, shaking off the fatigue once again, because he could all but feel Ella’s vibrating excitement, her emotions careening around like the ball in a Ping-Pong match, how she was nearly bursting at the seams to share. “Tell me about the parent search.”

  “OK,” Ella said. “So, you know, I did that thing Nyree suggested, weeding them down. I copied and pasted the best ones into one document, and then I made a spreadsheet of variables. Like a matrix. I weighted them so everybody got a numerical score.”

  “Very organized,” Nyree put in. “Very impressive. You should have her show you.”

  “Anyway,” Ella said. “So at the end of that, I had four couples with the highest scores. I didn’t want anybody to get the babies if they already had kids, like it was their good deed or something to rescue them. I want to make somebody happy, you know? I want to make them parents, like maybe they thought they couldn’t be. That’s the point. And I didn’t want people that were too flash. I want them to play music with the kids, like our family, and play cricket on the beach, and go fishing. I want them to do family things. Regular things. And other variables, too. How old they were, education, all that.”

  “Got it,” Marko said. “Nobody too flash, and nobody with kids. But you found four couples who seemed good.”

  “Yeh,” Ella said. “I rang the social worker, and she rang them, and all of them said twins were fine, but only three of them seemed, like, excited. So I talked to all of those on the phone, and Nyree listened. It was hard, because I could tell they’d be really disappointed and all. I felt bad for them, but I have to know I’m picking the best ones, right?”

  Marko reached into the back and took her hand. “Yeh,” he said. “You do. No worries. And we’ll keep on making sure. We’ll go meet them and see what we all think.”

  “I wanted to do it straight away, though,” Ella said. “It’s getting hard to wait. I want to feel like the babies are settled. Like I have a place for them.”

  “Never mind,” Marko said. “Look at it this way. Less time for everybody to wait, once you decide. And imagine how they’ll feel when they meet you and see that belly, eh.”

  “Yeh,” Ella said. “Thanks. Super helpful, reminding me of that. Geez, Marko.” But she was laughing, and so was Nyree. So that was better.

  At least the conversation had got them closer to home, where Cat went through her ecstatic greeting routine, Marko picked her off him twice and put her back on her gym, and she jumped back onto him both times. She’d conquered her world at last, because she was sitting on the top platform now. She was more sleek than fuzzy, she’d grown even more than Ella’s belly, and she was louder than ever, but she still thought she should sit on his shoulder. When he finally set her on the floor and headed upstairs with his bag, she trotted behind him.

  “You’re actually a dog,” he told her. “A disgrace to Catdom. You do realize that.”

  In answer, she meowed.

  Ella went into her room and shut the door, her phone already in her hand. Texting Kors, probably, or maybe Caro. Not looking like she needed him at this particular moment, anyway.

  That was when he realized that Nyree wasn’t with him. He sw
ore, turned around again, and went back downstairs with Cat at his heels.

  He found her in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. “Oi,” he said. “Why?”

  “Why what?” The jug boiled, and she poured boiling water over the bag and said, “Do you want one?”

  “No,” he said. “I want a beer. In the spa tub. With you.”

  “Oh. Well, get a beer, then.”

  He stared at her, and she stared back. He said, “I’m missing something. What?”

  “Nothing.” She pulled out milk from the fridge, grabbed a beer at the same time, and handed it to him.

  “Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ It’s something. What? I didn’t call enough? I know I didn’t. Thirteen-hour time difference. Training. PR stuff. Team stuff. I shouldn’t assume you want to spend the day with me? You said you didn’t have to work, and, yeh, I assumed. Of course I assumed.”

  She sighed, poured her milk, and turned to face him. “I want to spend time with you. I guess I thought you’d ask me, that’s all.”

  “Ask you what?” He searched his memory, but couldn’t come up with anything. Whether she’d waited for him? She’d bloody well better have waited for him. That wasn’t all right to say? Bugger that. He was going to say it anyway.

  There was a faint flush rising into her cheeks. That didn’t look like a good sign. “Maybe what I’ve been doing?” she asked. “How it’s going?”

  “Oh.” He exhaled with relief and went for the bottle opener. “Geez. You had me scared. I thought you were pregnant for a second there, or telling me you’d met somebody else, somebody who didn’t keep running off on you.” Sounded good. Casual. Like he hadn’t actually felt that stab of fear, piercing too deep. “So it’s not that. Then what? Assume I’m an arrogant bastard and set me right. Wait. You just did. How’s the painting been going, then? Been immortalizing any Chihuahuas?”

  The second he said it, he knew it was wrong again, because she’d stiffened. He set the beer bottle down, searched his mind for the right thing, and gave it up. He was never going to say the right thing, so he’d go with what he had. “I told you the flowers were amazing,” he said. “You told me you had to paint dogs, because that was what people would buy, but when I walked through the door today, I saw those blue flowers, and I remembered that, yeh, you’re amazing and talented. How’s that?”

  Her shoulders had relaxed, at least. “Better,” she said. “And you did say all that. I guess I wondered if you meant it after all, when you didn’t ask about it while you were gone.”

  “You don’t need to wonder about that,” he said. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Let’s go look at what you’ve done, then. If it’s Pookie and Precious, I’ll do my best to admire the technique. I’ll still think it’s a waste of talent, and I won’t hide it well enough. But show me anyway.”

  “It’s not Pookie and Precious.” Her hand was turning the mug on the counter, like she had all those weeks ago in a café. Short, unpainted nails, small, square hands. A few flecks of paint on them, too. Orange and red and yellow, nothing like a dachshund and a Chihuahua being married under an arbor of pink roses. She said, not looking at him, “I haven’t worked on them at all, and I should have.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “If you’ve been doing something better—never mind them. It’s good for what’s-her-name, Savannah, to have to wait anyway. You’ll make her appreciate it more.”

  “You say that,” she said, finally looking up at him, “but you do exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

  “That’s because I’m lucky enough to be doing exactly the job I want to. Are we going to stand around and have a yarn about this, or are you going to show me? Because I don’t think this is about me at all. I think you’re stalling.”

  Her mouth tightened, her eyes flashed, and he smiled and said, “That’s better. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m going to see for myself. Come if you like, or stay here and have a sulk, but either way, I’m looking.”

  He headed up the staircase, his beer in his hand and Nyree and Cat following behind, and thought, Hope it’s not something rubbish, because she’s going to know if I’m lying. He didn’t open her door, though, when he’d got there. Whatever he’d said, this was hers to show or not.

  She took a deep breath, and then she pushed the door open.

  Both windows were open, but the smell of paint lingered underneath. Her mattress wasn’t on the floor anymore, and the bed was covered by a complicated spread, all reds and Oriental style, like a Persian carpet. Speaking of which, there was a Persian carpet on the wood floor. Old and threadbare, but glowing all the same. Her paintings hung on the wall, and the little tables around the room held a variety of… things. A bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a collection of crockery, the physical objects blending into the art and back again until you almost couldn’t tell which was which.

  There was no cloth over the oversized canvas on the easel, not this time. The painting was finished. And looking into it was falling in, like a funhouse mirror. Like the effect of the room times ten.

  A wall and a half of her room, and that was all. No windows. Nothing but interior. The walls more yellow than orange in her rendering, saturated with color, glowing with warmth, like the sun was coming in from somewhere, strong as in Western Australia. Or as in Northland. Rich red oriental-patterned coverlet on the bed, red carpet on the floor. Paintings and objects, texture and color. Every detail rendered exquisitely, but no question, this wasn’t any photo. This was a painting.

  Making you want to live in her room, in her heart, in her life, to climb inside all that richness and heat and heart. Making you—not just see it. Making you feel it.

  She said, “It’s boring, isn’t it? It’s weird to paint a room. I know I need to do people instead. I never want to, though, even though I should paint you, because nobody could be better, like the model you always wished you could get in Life Drawing class but never did. I wanted to do this, though. It’s all I could see, but nobody wants to look at a room. Unless it’s Van Gogh’s bedroom in Arles, but I’m not Van Gogh.”

  He said, “Stop. Stop talking.”

  She said, “Right. Never mind.” Her voice came out tight, not like Nyree at all. “You asked, at least. You were interested. Thanks.”

  He turned to her, finally, and said, “Didn’t I say to stop talking? Nyree. Stop. I’m not telling you what I think because I can’t think how to say it. And I can’t stop looking, either.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You… can’t?”

  He laughed, and her head jerked back. He had to hold her, then, didn’t he? He had to pull her into him, and to keep looking at her painting from over her head, because she didn’t even reach his shoulder. That was all right, though. That was perfect, because she packed so much into that body of hers. All the emotion. All the vision. All the life. He said, “It’s you, that’s all. This painting is everything you are, and I want to live in that world.”

  “You do? Really?”

  “No,” he said, still smiling. “I’m lying. Of course I really do. It’s awesome. You have to know it’s awesome.”

  “It’s decorative,” she said.

  “Bugger decorative. It’s beautiful, is what it is. It’s got all this detail and all this color, and you can look at it forever and find more to see. It’s at a whole different level from the flowers, and you must know it.”

  “It’s how I feel when you play the guitar,” she said, then shook her head. “I can’t explain. How I felt looking at the stars with you, and sitting in your mum’s kitchen, talking to your grandmother. Sitting in the church with you, looking at the lake and the mountains. Being on the beach in Northland, with the wind blowing and the tide coming in and the sea wild and nobody else around. It’s about being whole. It’s about being home.”

  “Yeh,” he said. He’d have been looking for a place to put his overflowing heart, except that he already had one. It was right here. “It is. It’s about being home.”

  “What do you mean,�
� Marko said three days later, “you aren’t bringing them here? And you’re moving the mattress back? Why? The night before the match, and you’re going to spend it at the garage? That’s rubbish.”

  He wasn’t shouting. Nyree remembered somebody saying, a while back, that Marko didn’t shout, because he didn’t have to. Tom, she thought that had been. Well, Tom had been right. The raw power that was Marko standing over her, vibrating red, black eyebrows slamming together, was enough all by itself. No shouting necessary.

  “Stop,” she told him, still holding the salad tongs she’d been using to mix in the dressing. “Back up. Back off.”

  “Whoa,” Ella said, coming into the kitchen and wheeling around again. “I’ll be coming back later, then.”

  Nyree barely heard her. Marko turned off the fire under the snapper he’d been cooking, and she barely noticed that, either. Marko could give off that much intensity and still remember to turn off the stove. She couldn’t. Too bad. She said, “If you want me to talk to you, dial it back.”

  He stood there another second, poised out on the edge, and then he took a breath. “Right,” he said. “It’s dialed. But I’m exactly as not-happy as I was two minutes ago.”

  “You do not need to see my stepfather the night before your match,” Nyree tried to explain, “and to have him know you’re sleeping with me. That I’m living with you. You also don’t need my mum telling him about it, but you really don’t need to see him.”

  “How about if you assume that I know what I need?” Not dialed all that far back after all, because his next words were, “And that I can handle anything Grant Armstrong throws my way? You could assume that as well, while you’re at it.”

  “All Blacks selection is in, what? Two weeks? You want Grant telling the selectors you’ve got character issues? You know he would.”

  “I’ve been an All Black for more than ten years. The selectors know my character. Which includes not hiding, and not backing down. From anybody.”