Just in Time (Escape to New Zealand Book 8)

by James, Rosalind

“Sorry. No accounting for my bad taste, I guess.”

  “No, it’s terrible, you’re right, and so are the cats. It’s just…I liked Mrs. Ferguson. I wouldn’t use this, but I’ll…I don’t know.” She fingered the doll’s flounced skirt. “She’d crocheted me an afghan for Christmas. I opened it after she was gone. Her arthritis was bad, but she still did it, just because she needed to do things for people. She was that sort of person.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady now. “I miss her.”

  He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. He knew about missing people, though. About the ache that settled low in your chest, the tears that would come up behind your eyelids, always at the most inconvenient time, when a snatch of song, a joke, even a truly hideous doll reminded you. When you thought of something you wanted to tell the person, and realized that he wasn’t there to tell anymore.

  It wasn’t that she liked the cats. She’d kept them, and the horrible doll, and the awful paintings, because she hadn’t been able to get rid of them yet. And since Will was wearing his grandfather’s watch right now, which didn’t even keep perfect time, he could understand that.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently, and she nodded once, quick and short. “Are all my neighbors old, then?” he asked, trying to help her move on.

  “Well, depending what you think of me,” she said, clearly rallying her forces.

  “You? You live here?” Better and better.

  “Right next door. I told you, I manage the building. So what do you think? Cats, dolls, flowers, and all—which could all be gone, I promise, in fifteen minutes—do you want it?”

  “Yeh. I want it. Especially if you’re living next door.”

  She crossed her arms across the front of that T-shirt, which was a nice look for her, because she had some curves and no mistake. Unfortunately, it was also nowhere close to the body language of a woman who was saying, “Come and get it, boy.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to say this,” she said, and no, she didn’t. “Because I’m also sure that I’m nothing close to your type. But I’m not interested.”

  “Not?” He made a joke of it, even as he felt a jolt of…surprise? Disappointment? Something. “Convenient as it would be to have your very own Maori warrior right next door? Bit of a winter fling? I’d never tell.”

  “No. I don’t fling. And I’m very busy.”

  “Ah. Very busy.”

  “And,” she added hastily, “not interested.”

  Well, that was a little too much protesting. “Not even if I promised to be dark and dangerous?”

  She laughed out loud, and he grinned back, because he liked the way she laughed. She had a little gap between her front teeth that was just…absolutely adorable. She really was the girl next door. She’d be his girl next door, and he needed…he needed something.

  Looking at the shape of her, the warmth of her, he found himself filled with a yearning for that sweet oblivion he somehow knew she’d be.

  He was close enough to taste it. That perfect moment when he’d slide inside her for the first time, would feel her opening to take him in. That instant when the world would shrink to only this woman, only this body. He looked at her leaning back like that, smiling at him, and he could feel the way her hands would grab for his shoulders. He could hear the way she would sigh, the way she would moan. He could very nearly taste her, warm and sweet and salty as the sea, and he wanted to. He needed to.

  “Well, since you already revealed your dirty secret, that you’re not actually dangerous…” she said, not seeing it in him at all. “I’m afraid the magic is gone. I’ll have to hold out for the hurtin’ kind.”

  “Right.” He kept the smile on his face, shoving the thoughts back where they belonged. He held out a hand instead. “Friends?”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then took it, and her hand felt good in his. Warm, and firm, and just soft enough. Exactly like her.

  “Sure,” she said. “Friends.”

  Hemi Te Mana

  Will turned up at the studio at nine o’clock two days later as promised, his hair still a bit damp from the shower, grateful for the trainer he’d found to help him out during his stay. It might be called his holiday, but nothing was a holiday, not if you wanted to be the best.

  Now, he was awake, alert, and relaxed the way you could only be when you’d been doing twenty-meter sprints, quick turns, and up-downs, one after another, on a rugby field. When you’d been running with the heavy bag across your shoulders, fifty meters each way, then, without much pause at all, quick-stepping through a network of orange cones, knees high.

  His latest session at the Outlaws’ brand-new field the day before had been much the same, and nothing like the same. The same kind of running drills, but he’d felt like an…an accessory.

  What they had really wanted to see was his kicking. He’d showed them that, but afterwards, he’d mostly been relegated to watching. He hadn’t even been invited to join the tackling practice, because it seemed that kickers in gridiron, the American version of football, almost never tackled. Where was the fun in that? Or in kicking, if you hadn’t even been on the field beforehand? It was so much better when the kick came after you’d sprinted to intercept a fleet-footed winger, made the tackle, then switched effortlessly to offense when one of the forwards forced the turnover. When you were shouting to your backline, getting them into position, watching for the chance.

  Subtle as a chess match, direct as a punch to the gut. When somebody dove across the tryline at last for those hard-earned five points, and you pounded him on the back for doing it, then had to settle your galloping heart, breathe deep, and find the stillness at your center before you took that toughest of kicks all the way from the side. When you’d sent the ball between the posts for the two points that could determine the outcome of the game, and you didn’t even have to look, because you knew it had gone through. When you were pulling your mouthguard out of your sock, shoving it into your mouth, and trotting back out to await the other team’s kickoff so you could do it all again.

  Eighty minutes’ worth of busting a gut, even as you were keeping your head. Eighty minutes straight of keeping your composure, because that helped everyone else keep theirs, and a team couldn’t win without composure. And because a winning team was a team working as one.

  Instead, there he’d be, putting on enough padding to stop a tram and a helmet he could barely see out of, just to kick the ball from nearly dead center and run off again to wait a half-hour for the next time? At least ten times as much money, and that mattered, but all the same…how much challenge would there be in that?

  Well, today would be a challenge, anyway, he had a feeling. He came through the glass door of the studio to find Gretchen, Calvin, and an older woman he didn’t know sitting around the table accepting coffees from Faith.

  It was good to see her, and all at once, he wasn’t second-guessing the decision to do this quite so much. He was living next door to her, but he’d only really seen her once since he’d moved in. He’d spotted her the day before starting to haul out the rubbish bins, and had sprinted down to help her. Which might have earned him a few points in the “friends” department, but wasn’t exactly wine and candlelight territory.

  “Good,” Calvin grunted when Will walked over to join the others. “You’re here.”

  “Morning.” Will decided to take that as a greeting. He sat down and accepted the coffee Faith handed him. She’d asked him the last time what he liked, and she’d remembered, too. “Beautiful day out there.”

  “It’s always a beautiful day,” Calvin said gloomily. “It’s Las Vegas.”

  Faith laughed. “Never mind him. He’s always a little nervous before he starts a big job.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Calvin said. “When I need you to apologize for me, I’ll tell you.”

  “You constantly need me to apologize for you,” she said calmly. “That’s why I do it.”

  “Why I put up with you…”

  “Well, nev
er mind,” she said. “You can fire me when this is over. I’ll hold my breath, shall I?”

  “Cheeky,” Will said.

  “Isn’t she, though?” Calvin said. “Thinks she’s cute.”

  “Well, she is, a bit.” Will grinned at her, and she smiled back. Her hair was in that messy almost-bun again, and she was wearing a T-shirt and jeans again, and she still didn’t have much makeup on. And she still looked good.

  “This is Charlotte, our stylist,” Faith said, and Will shook hands with the older woman.

  “And while we’re doing introductions…” Faith did a drumroll on the glass tabletop with her hands. “Hope Sinclair, meet Hemi Te Mana, your new employer.”

  “Oh,” Gretchen said. “Hope. I like that. Hi, Hemi!”

  Will didn’t answer her, just stared at Faith, and her confident smile faded. “What?” she asked. “Is it a dirty word? I thought it sounded good, and mana is power or something like that, right? Perfect.”

  “No.” If he sounded a little grim, it was because he felt that way. “It means prestige. Honor, the kind you earn for the person you are. That man, that woman who walks through the world upright—that’s what it means. It’s an important word.”

  “Well, then, even more perfect,” Calvin said, impatient as always. “I agree, sounds good. Let’s go.”

  Faith didn’t move. “If it’s offensive, though…”

  “It’s an actual name, right?” Calvin demanded of Will. “Te…Te Mana?”

  “Yeh. It is.” How could he say that he didn’t want his heritage treated like some Vegas show? He was the one who’d agreed to do this. They didn’t want him for his fine rugby brain, or for the content of his character. They wanted him for his color, his size, his muscles, and his tattoo. He couldn’t very well complain that they were objectifying him. He was doing it to himself. And he’d agreed to this. “Right,” he said in resignation. “Hemi Te Mana it is.”

  “Well, then, Hemi,” Calvin said, “let’s get on with it. Charlotte’s got some wardrobe for you. Get yourself into it.”

  Fact and Fiction

  Faith moved lights and softboxes, set up cameras, checked angles. All the while watching Will being prepped by Charlotte, who handled him with the matter-of-fact briskness she brought to every shoot. The older woman rubbed oil into his chest and fussed with the waistband of his trousers with all the emotion she’d showed when she’d been braiding hair on a six-year-old for a book on Making Your Own Paper Fairies. Less, actually, because Charlotte liked kids. And if Will was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it either.

  The first shots were of him alone. A white shirt unbuttoned over his broad chest, his sleeves rolled up to show bulky, sinewy forearms and the start of his tattoo. A thumb hooked into the waistband of dark dress pants, the woolen fabric stretching tight over muscular thighs, a black tie loosened around his neck. His gaze lowered, his stare dark and a little menacing.

  He posed, and Calvin shot, and Faith’s mind responded in spite of herself, going off on its own volition even as she shifted equipment and crawled along the floor and tweaked.

  She had the story. It was right there in front of her. She could hear Hemi’s voice in her head.

  I did a lot of things differently before that day. Or rather, I did them the same way. I did them my way. I kept my personal life in shadow, for one thing, partly because mystique was good, but mostly because my personal life didn’t bear scrutinizing.

  My physical presence was a different story. I’d seen the articles saying that I was a walking advertisement for my products, but that wasn’t the reason. Vanity is a weakness and a delusion, like love. I knew that my appearance, like my intelligence, was nothing more than a gift bequeathed by my ancestors, a gift it was my responsibility to hone. I’d built up a naturally strong body the same way I’d built up my company, and for the same reasons. If we were both powerhouses, that was because winning was the only option. Close didn’t count, and second place was for losers. You could call it my philosophy.

  I didn’t get photographed for my ads, of course. I left that to the models, which was why I was there that day for the kickoff shoot for my new underwear line. I always came to the first day to make sure they did it right. I knew some people called me controlling. Arrogant. Obsessive. As if any of that were a bad thing.

  Now, I stood in one corner of the spacious studio and kept an eye on the slow progress before me. They’d be shooting outdoors tomorrow, with Central Park in the background, but I wouldn’t be around for that. No need. Anyway, I could see Central Park anytime from the windows of my Manhattan penthouse.

  My fingers flew, checking and responding to the messages on my phone as I waited for the crew to finish their endless fiddling. I indulged one brief flash of annoyance at Galway not being ready for the ten o’clock shooting schedule I’d specified, then let it go and concentrated instead on the task at hand. Annoyance wouldn’t help right now, and I never indulged in unnecessary or unhelpful emotion. My assistant would be reaming him out after I left. That was what he was there for. Instead, I typed out a quick answer to my VP of Finance about the upcoming bond issue, then moved on to a question from Martine in Publicity about the Paris show. She thought she was short-staffed, but everybody always thought that, when the reality was that they didn’t want to do what it took to get the work done. So I texted back,

  Make it happen anyway.

  and moved on.

  My attention kept straying, though, and that was completely unlike me. It was the girl setting up the camera who was doing it. She seemed too small for the task of hauling those tripods and umbrellas around, and I had to restrain myself from going over to help her. She was as fragile as a flower, her pale-blonde hair falling in a soft cloud to just below her narrow shoulders, her little face a perfect heart dominated by enormous blue-green eyes.

  And then there was that mouth. Surely, that mouth had been created for a man to use. I remembered the way her lips had parted when I’d touched her. The way I’d been able to feel her heart fluttering, even when I wasn’t touching her at all, and the kick of pure lust it had given me, a shot straight to the groin. When I’d licked my fingers, and she’d watched me do it—the connection had been as strong and sharp as a lightning bolt.

  And when she was on her hands and knees, crawling to plug in the cords…I lost my train of thought entirely, my fingers and mind both stilling as they never did, taken over by one thought.

  I want that.

  “Hope!” Vincent Galway, the prima donna behind the camera, was barking again now. When I’d first met him, I’d appreciated his brusqueness, his cold insistence on perfection. I’d been accused of possessing exactly those same qualities often enough. Now, it was making the hot rage rise, and I couldn’t afford that.

  “Hurry up with those lights,” Galway ordered. “Mr. Te Mana is waiting.”

  She bit her lower lip, and it trembled a little as the delicate color rose in her porcelain cheeks. “Sorry,” she said. “One moment.” Her fingers were fumbling, and I somehow knew that she needed this job. That she couldn’t afford to fail.

  Nobody should be treating her like that. Nobody should be doing anything to her. Nobody but me.

  “Faith!”

  She jerked herself back to awareness, stepped hastily forward again and pulled the memory card out of the camera, went to plug it into Calvin’s computer and load up the photos.

  “Get his shirt and tie off,” Calvin told Charlotte. “We’ll get a few in just the pants. Or maybe keep the tie,” he said consideringly. “Faith? What do you think?”

  “Oh, yes. Just the tie. Loose, like that.” She grinned at Will. “The better to lead you around by.”

  “Really?” He gave her one of those slow, devilish smiles, more mischief than danger. “That wasn’t how I was planning on using it.”

  “You’ll get your chance,” she said. “But not until Day Four. I’m sure Hope will be begging for it by then.”

  “Right. Hope.” Another mea
ningful look, and he had her heart fluttering despite herself. “And you said it, I didn’t. A gentleman never tells.”

  “Oh, and you’re a gentleman?”

  “Always,” he said softly. “Except when I’m…not.”

  “Ooh.” She opened her eyes wide at him. “I’m oddly intrigued. Please. Tell me more.”

  “OK, enough chit-chat,” Calvin said. “Fifteen minutes,” he told Will. “Take a break.”

  A break. Yeah. She needed a break. And all right, she might have interjected herself just a little into her story. Too bad. That was why they called it fiction. Because you could make up whatever you wanted, including being tiny, delicate, lovely, and fiercely, completely, utterly desired by Will. Uh, by Hemi.

  Chocolate Cheesecake

  Will opened the door to his ridiculous granny flat, dropped his duffel, and headed for the shower. He was a greasy mess, and that was the truth. Posing for these kinds of photos, he was finding, took heaps more effort than training. Too much standing around. His least favorite thing. And all that pretending to be broody, deep, and dark—it was exhausting. He wasn’t deep, and that was that. He liked being shallow. So much easier.

  Faith had seemed to notice every time he’d been flagging, had talked to him encouragingly, and when he’d scowled at her, she’d laughed, because she’d known that he’d known what she was doing. She hadn’t seemed the least bit bothered that he’d been holding Gretchen, either. Well, neither had Gretchen, but that didn’t matter. Faith was friendly. She was cheerful. And that was all. But maybe that would change. Maybe tonight.

  He got out of the shower feeling better, saw a text from Solomon, and rang the other man back.

  “Lelei wondered if you wanted to come for dinner again tonight,” his mate said. “I think she’s worried that you’ll develop a cocaine habit, now that you’re a model.”

  Will smiled. “Thanks, but I’ve got plans. And tell her no worries. I don’t think the model life’s for me. I’ll stick with footy.”