Page 2

“Here.” The guy in the suit gets up and strides across the floor to help me. He presses a hand against the door, somehow managing with super-human strength to both keep it open at an angle and move back to let me pass.
I lift the bike over the small step, positioning myself between him and the bike, because I don’t want it to touch his suit. There’s not a lot of room, and my back brushes against his chest as I squeeze past. He’s a lot taller than me—I almost fit under his arm. His suit is beautiful, navy blue and fitting snugly to his body, very elegant. He’s wearing a white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. His tie pin bears a silver eagle. I can smell his cologne, something vastly different from the natural scents the men tend to wear on the commune. It’s sensual and spicy. It makes my mouth water.
I glance up at him. He’s clean shaven and extremely handsome, with dark hair that has unusual white flashes at his temples, even though he’s only young. He has a large graze on his right temple, amongst his hair, that looks maybe a few weeks old and has nearly healed. He looks down at me, and his eyes are a breathtaking, startling blue, the color of the Pacific in the morning sun.
Dropping my gaze, I make it past him unscathed, say, “Thank you,” over my shoulder, wheel the bike over to the wall, and lean it there. Keeping my back to him, I unzip my bag, take out my dress, quickly pull it over my head, and let it slide down my body. Then I slip off my trainers and socks and replace them with the sandals.
Finally, I stuff everything back in the bag, zip it up, then go over to the waiting area. As I sit on a seat in the middle of the row, the guy in the suit, who’s been at the water cooler, comes over with a cup and passes it to me. “Thought you might be thirsty after your bike ride,” he says.
“Oh, thank you. That was very thoughtful.” I take it from him and drink it as he takes his chair, two seats away. When I’m done, he holds out a hand. I put the cup in it, and he tosses it in the bin next to him. I smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t smile back. But he does stare at me with those intense blue eyes, and for a second I can’t look away. Wow,he’s so handsome. His eyes bore into me, and I’m conscious of my heartbeat speeding up, and my pulse racing in my throat. I get a funny feeling in my stomach too, a flutter, the kind I get at home when I’m about to jump off the waterfall into the Waiora—our healing pool.
With difficulty, I tear my gaze away and study my hands where they sit in my lap. He doesn’t say anything, but he shifts on his seat, lifting an ankle to rest on the opposite knee.
We sit there in silence for about twenty seconds. I can feel him watching me. He inhales and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but at that moment he turns his head as footsteps echo along the corridor. I look up and see an older, gray-haired man approaching. He looks at the guy, then at me, and says, “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Jack Carter.” He holds a hand out to me. “You must be Mahuika.”
I get to my feet and shake his hand. “Everyone calls me Scarlett,” I say, conscious of the guy next to me getting to his feet too. Why’s he standing?
“Then I’m pleased to meet you, Scarlett,” Jack says. To my surprise, he then turns to the guy in the navy suit and says, “And you must be Orson.”
“Good to meet you,” the guy says, shaking his hand. His deep voice brings goosebumps out on my skin.
“And have the two of you been introduced?” Jack asks.
The guy, who appears to be called Orson, turns to me and says, “No, not yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jack says. “Scarlett, this is Orson Cavendish. Orson, this is Scarlett Stone.”
Orson holds out his hand and looks me in the eyes. He still doesn’t smile, but something tells me he’s amused. He knew who I was. “Ms. Stone,” he says, “I’m pleased to meet you.”
I don’t lift my hand. I stand frozen to the spot and just stare at him. “Orson Cavendish? You’re Spencer Cavendish’s son?”
He nods, lowering his hand slowly.
Fury spreads through my veins like lava. I turn to Jack and snap, “What’s he doing here?”
Jack looks from Orson to me, clearly confused. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Orson was the one who arranged the meeting today. He wants to discuss the sale of the Waiora.” The large pool sitsbetween our lands. The Cavendishes have been after it for years, but my father always refused to sell.
I glare at Orson. He doesn’t look amused anymore, but he meets my gaze evenly.
I’m so angry, I can barely form words. “My father died two weeks ago,” I say, the words falling from my lips like sharp stones. “We’ve only just buried him. And my mother died just two weeks before him. I’ve lost both parents within a month, and now you swoop in thinking you can take advantage of my grief to get what you want? How dare you ask me here for this reason!”
The Elders told me that the lawyer’s email requested a representative of the commune to talk about land ownership. Did they know that the Cavendishes wanted to discuss the sale of the Waiora?
“I’m very sorry for not being clearer,” Jack says quickly.
My eyes blur. “Really? Because it seems to me that you were purposefully vague because you knew I wouldn’t come here if he was here.” I jab a finger at Orson, who just lifts an eyebrow. Then I say, “Well, it looks as if we’ve all wasted our time.”
I spin on my heel and march over to my bike, intent on leaving. As I turn the bike, though, Orson moves to stand in my way. “Please,” he says, “come and hear what I have to say.”
“Get out of my way.” My chest heaves with emotion.
“Scarlett, please. I just want to talk.”
“I don’t. I want to leave.” I try to steer the bike around him, but he moves to block me. I change direction, but he blocks me again. Now I’m starting to feel panicky. One rule we have in the commune is that if someone wants to walk away from any situation or conversation, nobody is allowed to stop them, and this feels like a huge invasion of my privacy.
“Please move out of my way,” I demand.