Page 12

A shiver runs down my spine. I feel as if the big cat has dragged me back to his lair, and now he’s about to have me for dinner.
I’m really in trouble.
Chapter Four
Orson
Scarlett looks at me as if she’s completely baffled as to why anyone would ever want to drink a glass of champagne while it’s still daylight. She’s obviously never drunk alcohol when she ‘shouldn’t’—never snuck a bottle of vodka out with her friends for a camping trip, never stolen a third of her dad’s whisky and watered the rest down; in fact maybe she doesn’t drink alcohol at all. I can’t imagine growing up in a community that’s so restrictive.
The commune isn’t closed doors exactly, but it is very private. In its early days, while they were in the process of setting up, they came under a lot of local media scrutiny, and after a reporter wrote a scathing article mocking their hippie ideology, they tightened their ranks and created a set of rules to keep their structure and systems private. There are lots of rumors. Some people say that newcomers have to take a vow of silence about anything that happens within its walls. Others are convinced that some rules are only revealed once a member reaches a specific level of trust.
Because of my father’s dismissive attitude toward Blake and Kahukura, I assumed it was just a group of long-haired unwashed vegans who sat around chanting ‘om’ and making flyers about global warming, and as a consequence I’ve never paid the commune much attention. However, after Scarlett revealed the true nature of its purpose yesterday, I did a little research. The retreat is highly praised for the work it does with victims of domestic and family violence. It works closely with the Women’s Refuge to provide sufferers with a place to heal and recover, while also helping with accessing healthcare and counselling, giving legal assistance and obtaining protection orders if necessary, finding a place for the victims to live, and even meeting basic needs like food and clothing.
I confronted my father about it last night and asked him if he knew what the commune actually did at Kahukura. It turns out that he did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, furious that I made a fool of myself in front of Scarlett. The Midnight Circle gives millions to charity, and the commune is right next door to our club. I’m stunned that he’s never put it forward as a potential recipient for donations when I assume it relies on them to survive.
“Because I knew you’d want to go riding in on your white horse and I didn’t want you to have anything to do with Blake Stone and his family,” he snapped.
“What the fuck?” I yelled. “You made me think he was a delusional religious freak! But the guy set up a place that’s helped thousands of innocent people.”
“Just because he helped people doesn’t mean he wasn’t a lunatic,” Dad stated flatly. “Blake always claimed he could heal, but just like Jim Jones, he was never able to offer any real proof. Don’t forget that even the Peoples Temple helped the poor.”
“Do you have any evidence?” I asked, shocked that he was comparing a harmless living facility to a destructive cult. “Have you actually seen them drinking the Kool-Aid? It’s a harsh accusation to make if it’s unfounded.”
“I don’t need proof that Blake was a fucking nutcase. I know it to be a fact.”
“We should consider giving them some money,” I told him heatedly.
“I’m not giving that man’s family a single cent,” he replied, and turned away.
I walked out then. I knew there was no point in asking him why he was so bitter toward Blake because I’ve asked him before, and he always refuses to answer. Their feud goes back to their teenage years. It continues now, even though Blake has died, and I have no doubt my father will hate him until he also eventually leaves this mortal coil.
But I’m secretly fascinated. Although once again she has a red rosebud in her hair, Scarlett doesn’t sound like a lunatic country bumpkin who’s part of a crackpot community where men can have numerous wives and cousins can marry and have six toes on each foot. She might not possess a mobile phone, but she sounds smart, educated, and hardworking. Has my father got it completely wrong? And if so, why?
“How about I get us a takeaway coffee to have while we walk back to the Waiora?” I ask Scarlett.
“That would be very nice, thank you,” she says stiffly.
“What kind? Is a latte okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
I buzz for Anne, my PA, and say, “Can you ask the barista to make us two lattes in takeaway cups, please?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll collect them from the bar in a few minutes.”
“No worries.”
I end the call. I turn back to Scarlett and stop. She’s opened the front of my jacket and tipped back her head, eyes closed, to feel the rays of the sun that are slanting across her. Her long brown hair, free from yesterday’s braid, tumbles over her shoulders like chocolate-colored silk. Splashes of water across her white dress have turned much of it transparent, and… holy fuck… I can see the lace of her bra on her left breast, and through it a glimpse of light-brown nipple. She’s also slipped off her flat sandals, presumably because they’re wet, and she’s resting the balls of her feet on the coffee table, curling her toes over the edge. Her feet are small and clean, and the toenails are neat but unpainted.
Despite not having a foot fetish, I immediately get an erection and, as she opens her eyes, I grab a folder from the desk and hold it in front of me.
I clear my throat. “Are you okay? You didn’t hurt anything when you fell?”
“Just my pride.” Her lips twist. “It’s been a while since I used the stepping stones. I suppose I can see that a bridge might be a useful addition. Although I wouldn’t want your guests to think it means we’d be allowing access to our land.”