Smoke Screen

by Emilie Richards

  The bellbird's sweet chimes were her only answer.

  * * *

  The Maoris had called it Aotearoa—the land of the long white cloud. The first Europeans on its shores had called it New Zealand—originally Nieuw Zeeland, after a province in Holland. Modern day Kiwis affectionately called it Godzone—for reasons they kept to themselves. Huddled under a blanket in front of a smoking fireplace, Paige shivered and wondered what insanity had brought her to this place where sheep vastly outnumbered people, and people seemed content with nothing more than the simplest pleasures.

  Some of her reasons for being here were obvious. Someone from Duvall Development had to evaluate this, the most peculiar of their vast real estate holdings. Despite her father's resistance, she had felt that person should be her, because in some strange way, this place was part of her heritage.

  And then there had been her need to get away from everything familiar and find herself again.

  "Are you there, Paige Duvall?" she asked, leaning over to pour herself a shot of brandy. "If you are, please show yourself so I can pack up and go back home."

  In the resulting silence, the brandy spread like indolent fire through her bloodstream. Paige tried to concentrate on her body's response, because it was better than concentrating on her loneliness. And she was lonely. Soul-shuddering, dead-center-of-the-bones lonely. Lonelier than she had ever been in a life where loneliness had been the status quo.

  Only now, for some reason, it felt different. If loneliness had hurt before, she had been able to tell herself it didn't matter. Now it mattered, and no incantation to the contrary could help.

  "So what did you expect?" she asked herself, sipping the last drops from the glass. "You just lost your best friend."

  Strangely enough, that part hurt more than losing the man she had planned to marry—even though they were one and the same person. Granger Sheridan, friend, lover, confidant. Granger of the warm gray eyes and the easy grin. Granger with whom she had believed she had a chance to build a life.

  Granger was gone now, reunited with the woman he had loved for ten long years, and Paige was left alone, her heart unbroken but somehow... emptied. She had loved Granger, but she had loved his friendship most of all. And Granger had loved her, but it had been Julianna he had burned for, Julianna for whom he had almost given his life.

  Somehow Paige didn't inspire that kind of devotion in men. She hadn't inspired it in Granger, and she hadn't inspired it in her ex-husband. She was a woman men thought they wanted to possess, but once they discovered how impossible that was, they lost interest. Only Granger hadn't wanted to own her, and perhaps that had been because he had loved another.

  That thought made her add another inch of brandy to her empty glass. No, she wasn't a woman who aroused great passion. Nor was she a woman who stimulated male bravado. Not usually, anyway. Of course, there had been the strong, silent man who had rescued her today.

  "Adam Tomoana." Spoken aloud, the name had all the smoky warmth and full-bodied texture of the expensive brandy she was drinking. It was civilized, with just a hint of earthier, untamed pleasures beneath its cultured surface.

  Paige doubted Adam's actions in the thermals qualified as risking his life. He had been perfectly at home amid the steam and smoke, and leading her to safety had seemed almost more of an excuse to get rid of her than to protect her. She had been an intruder, even though the land belonged to her family, and Adam, who had no legal claim to the land, had seemed to belong to it.

  He had called her "cousin." She wondered what he had meant. She was no more his cousin than the New Zealand prime minister was her uncle. She had no relatives in New Zealand, and she certainly wasn't Maori, although Adam probably wasn't fully Maori, either. She remembered reading that many New Zealanders claimed Maori blood, Maori mixed with Pakeha, as they called white-skinned New Zealanders. The Kiwis claimed to be proud of their mixed heritage. If they truly were, it was a model the rest of the world might want to take note of.

  Cousins, though? No, she was as alone here as she could possibly be. That was part of the reason she had come. No family, no one to ask questions, no one to give her advice, no one to tell her they were sorry that her life had taken another downward spiral.

  Paige looked at her empty glass and wondered when the brandy in it had disappeared. Lately she had begun to enjoy the taste of liquor too much. Was this how her mother had started? Had Ann Duvall looked down at her glass at the beginning of her slow slide into alcoholism and wondered when the liquor in it had vanished? Paige shook her head, repressing a shudder, and screwed the top back on the bottle. She had grown up watching the agonizing deterioration of the mother she adored; it had been the ultimate lesson on the merits of sobriety. There were no solutions to life's disappointments at the bottom of a bottle of brandy.

  In all probability, there were no solutions to life's disappointments period.

  She was immediately ashamed that she was giving in to the sadness that had been trying to claim her since she had said goodbye to Granger in Honolulu two weeks before. She gave herself a mental shake. She stood, stretching her cramped body.

  "And on that note of self-pity, Paige Duvall stands, gathers her four quilts around her as protection against the New Zealand night and calmly finds her way to bed."

  It was early; she didn't really feel like sleeping, but since the Waimauri nightlife consisted of one hotel pub that closed its doors at ten and a public hot bath that showed movies while families lounged in steaming outdoor pools, her choices were limited.

  Limited, but apparently not as limited as she had first thought. The timid knocking on her door proved that. Paige dropped her quilts and straightened the cotton-silk-blend sweater that Adam Tomoana had reviled. She brushed her hair back from her face as she strolled through the three-room cottage to the door.

  A little boy stood on the front steps, surrounded by the mists of the chill night. Paige guessed he was no older than four, a sturdy little cherub with curling wisps of black hair framing a dark, serious face.

  Since her conversation with children had been limited to "Hello," "Goodbye," and "What's your favorite television show?" she cleared her throat and tried the first.

  The little boy's answer was to hold out a package wrapped in brown paper.

  Paige was puzzled. "Is that for me?"

  He nodded.

  "I didn't order anything."

  He moved backward without answering.

  "But then, you're not the standard delivery boy type, are you?" She took the package from his hands. As he stepped backward again she tore the paper, lifting out an ivory sweater replete with intricate, twisting cables and honeycomb designs. The wool was soft as a cloud and as heavy as the New Zealand dew.

  Paige squatted down so that she and the little boy were at eye level. He promptly stepped backward once more, as if he were afraid she might grab and shake him.

  Although his expression hadn't changed, Paige sensed his fear. "Did I scare you?" she asked softly. "I'm sorry." She tried to think of something else to say to reassure him, but she had no idea how to comfort a little boy. "Will you tell me who sent this?"

  "Granny."

  She nodded. "Does your granny have a name?"

  "Granny."

  Paige smiled. "And a lovely name it is. Can you tell me why she sent the sweater to me?"

  He pretended to shiver, wrapping his arms around his chest.

  Paige understood the pantomime. "She was afraid I was cold?"

  The cherub nodded.

  Paige cocked her head, searching the boy's angelic features. "And how did she know?"

  There was no answer, no pantomime. The little boy just turned and stepped off the porch. In a moment he had vanished into the night mists. Paige started to go after him, but she knew it was useless. The little boy knew where he was going. She didn't. After a minute she climbed the steps of the porch and went inside.

  In the tiny bedroom she shivered, wishing, not for the first time, that her
mother's cousin had left an electric blanket as part of her bequest. Her hands clenched on the little boy's mysterious gift; then she shrugged. Whoever had sent it wanted her to wear it. Paige slipped off her expensive designer sweater and let the ivory wool slide down over her silk blouse. Almost immediately she was more comfortable, so comfortable in fact that she actually felt sleepy. Suddenly the bed looked more inviting than it had in days.

  As she lay down, fully clothed and warmer than she'd been since stepping off the plane in Auckland, Paige realized that for the second time in one day she'd been rescued by a beguiling male stranger.

  Chapter 2

  Adam listened to the soft click of his grandmother's knitting needles as they transformed wool from the sheep he'd raised into a garment a princess would be proud to wear.

  "I'm waiting, Adam."

  "What is it you want to know, Granny?"

  "Tell me again how she looked."

  "She has blond curly hair and big blue eyes," he began.

  He waited for the fluid, softly spoken words of condemnation to cease. He smiled fondly at the old woman and began again. "Dark hair, black, I suppose. She wears it short. It tickles her cheeks, but not her forehead."

  "You noticed a lot," the old woman said slyly.

  "She has dark eyes, too. They're Maori eyes, big, tilted a little."

  "Like her mother's," his grandmother interrupted. "Ann had eyes that made my heart sing."

  Adam's heart hadn't sung a thing, but he went on, knowing Mihi Tomoana wouldn't let him rest until he'd finished. "She had pale skin, but not Pakeha pale, creamier. She's tall and slender.”

  "Pretty?"

  Even Adam had to admit that pretty wasn't on the same list as the words describing Paige Duvall. She was stunning, breathtaking, elegantly dazzling. "Pretty? I suppose."

  "And, of course, you didn't really notice," the old woman countered, looping a small ball of gray wool over the ivory wool already on her needles.

  Adam bent and kissed her forehead. "She'll wonder where the jumper came from. I should imagine she'll be here tomorrow to thank you for it. It won't take her long to hunt you down."

  "Ekoree ngaro, he takere waka nui."

  Adam straightened and smiled. "But unlike the proverb, you're not a canoe, only a woman who doesn't want to stay hidden, anyway."

  A smile merged into the countless wrinkles around the old woman's mouth. "And you are only my grandson who wants to stay hidden forever," she said in English. "Perhaps Paige Duvall will change your mind, ne?”

  Adam felt a tug at his pant legs. He glanced down, knowing who he would find. He held out his arms, and his son climbed unhesitatingly into them. The little boy smelled like soap and toothpaste, warm milk and sunshine. He rested his shining black curls against his father's shoulder and slipped his thumb in his mouth.

  "We have company," Adam told Mihi.

  "You think you must tell me Jeremy is out of bed again?"

  "What should we do?" Even as he asked the question, Adam moved toward the hall that would take him to the little boy's bedroom.

  "Just love him," Mihi Tomoana answered. "I promise you, someday it will be enough."

  * * *

  "An electric blanket for a double bed and a pair of those wool socks in the corner." Paige pointed to a shelf behind the shopkeeper's head. The woman held up a pair of light blue knee socks, and Paige nodded. "And do you have raincoats?"

  Paige followed the shopkeeper's directions to the far side of the store and riffled through the oiled canvas slickers. She had awakened that morning determined to stay in Waimauri until plans for selling the thermals were settled. Until that moment, she had contemplated transacting all further business from the comfort of her New Orleans condominium, but something about the early morning birdsong and the sunshine flowing like the purest clover honey through her window had made her decision.

  She had come to New Zealand for more than real estate transactions. If she went home now, the temptation to throw herself back into the fast lane would be overwhelming. She didn't need a return to the frantic pace she had kept before Granger had come into her life. If she didn't know what she needed instead, at least here she had the time and the space to think about it.

  "Anything else?"

  Paige handed a navy slicker to the young woman and shook her head. At least now she was going to be comfortable while she contemplated her navel. "Oh, there is one thing," she said as the shopkeeper added up her purchases on a cash register that belonged in a museum. "I wonder if you might know the origin of this sweater." She held the ivory wool away from her blouse. "It was given to me by a little boy last night, but I don't now who he was or why he gave it to me."

  The shopkeeper leaned over the wooden counter. "It's a lovely jumper, isn't it? Hand knit. Turn around, won't you, and I'll just have a look."

  Paige turned, filing away the term "jumper" as she did.

  "Ah yeah. Just as I thought. It's one of Mihi Tomoana's, from Four Hill Farm. When you take it off, look at the back, Mihi always knits four hills—actually they look like pyramids—on the backside of all her jumpers. You're lucky to have one. Sometimes she sells them in the shop across the way. They cost a pretty penny."

  "Do you know who the little boy might have been?"

  "Probably Adam's son, Jeremy. Curly black hair? Shy?"

  Paige nodded.

  "Fetching little fellow, but he's seen some bad times. I'm surprised he got close enough to you to give you the jumper."

  Paige realized she was more intrigued than ever. She would have liked to ask more questions, but she knew better than to gossip in a town as small as Waimauri. There was only one more thing she had to know. "I'd like to thank Mrs. Tomoana. Could you tell me how to get to Four Hill Farm?"

  With the directions in her head and her parcel under her arm, Paige left the shop and started toward her car. Halfway there her path was blocked by a six foot, blond obstacle.

  "Miss Duvall?"

  Paige lifted her eyes to meet the obstacle's. His were blue and admiring under expensive, lightly tinted glasses. "Yes?"

  "My name is Hamish Armstrong. I was just on my way to your house when someone pointed you out."

  Paige was surprised that she was so well known, but then, Waimauri was a small town in a small country. And she was a stranger.

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Armstrong?" She moved to the edge of the sidewalk to let a group of schoolchildren pass.

  "This might take some time. Would you have some tea with me while we talk?"

  She cocked her head, assessing the man before her. Besides Aryan good looks, Hamish Armstrong had a smile that was so perfect she suspected an orthodontist's intervention. He was probably in his late thirties, although his tanned, tennis-pro body seemed to belong to a younger man. Only the fine lines around his eyes and the hint of a receding hairline betrayed his true age.

  "Would you mind telling me what this is about?"

  "Certainly not. I work for Pacific Outreach Corporation. We're interested in property your family owns."

  "The thermals?"

  "Right."

  "Tea sounds like a good idea, Mr. Armstrong."

  Minutes later, settled in the Waimauri tearoom, Paige waited for Hamish to bring a tray to their table. After a childhood spent in Europe she was readjusting to a nation that faithfully took leisurely breaks for morning and afternoon tea. Teatime was nothing like the coffee breaks the Duvall Development staff had always taken. Here no one gulped down a steaming cup of coffee at their desk while munching a candy bar. There were probably places in New Zealand—Auckland and Wellington, perhaps—where the fast pace of the Western world had intruded and people cheerfully ruined their health in the name of progress. In Waimauri, however, tea was a welcome pause in the day's routine for nourishment and relaxation.

  "I'm afraid this probably isn't what you're used to," Hamish apologized, setting a pot of tea in front of Paige. "The scones are hot, though, and the jam here is homemade."


  Paige realized she was starving. "It looks wonderful. I'm probably going to embarrass myself." She reached for a scone and broke it open, inhaling the fresh-from-the-oven aroma.

  Hamish removed his glasses and folded them into his shirt pocket. "Are you enjoying New Zealand?"

  Paige had to stop and think. "I don't know," she said finally.

  Hamish laughed and took a scone for himself. "All business, huh?"

  "Actually, I'm afraid I've been hibernating."

  "Have you been to see the thermals?"

  "I've seen enough to know I need a guide."

  "They can be tricky." Hamish offered Paige the raspberry jam and watched as she spread it on her scone. "Try some cream on it, too."

  Paige smiled and spread thickened cream over the jam. "Like this?"

  He nodded. "Now you can say you've had a real Kiwi-style Devonshire tea."

  "What's your interest in the thermals, Mr. Armstrong?"

  "Still all business. I understand why Duvall Development sent you," Hamish said with a flash of his perfect teeth. "Call me Hamish, won't you?"

  Paige nodded. She waited for him to get to the point.

  "Have you been to Rotorua, Miss Duvall?"

  "I came through Rotorua on my drive from Auckland." Paige sipped her tea and thought about that trip. She had gotten off the DC-10 from Honolulu to discover an airport like many she had been in and a lovely, medium-size city that could have been plopped down intact in the United States and not seemed out of place.

  She had spent that night in Auckland in a well-run modern hotel and rented a car the next morning to take her to Wai-mauri. It was only on the long drive south that she had begun to take in the essence of New Zealand.

  New Zealand was green, sheep-covered hills—irregular sweeps of emerald velvet trimmed with zigzagging rows of trees. New Zealand was an absence of fast-food restaurants and shopping malls, and a proliferation of rural towns, each with its own distinctive character. New Zealand was upside down and backward, from the side of the road she drove on to the numbers on the telephone dial. And yet as she'd driven on the wide, modern highway toward Waimauri, she had wondered if "backward" was the best word to use. This was, after all, the nation that had proclaimed itself a nuclear-free zone.