Page 30

I stare at her. “Sorry, what?”
“Scarlett!” A guy in his early sixties with grey hair approaches us and smiles.
“Hey George,” she says. “Orson, this is George Bush—no relation to the US President—he’s the commune’s financial expert. George, this is Orson Cavendish.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, and we shake hands.
“Scarlett giving you the tour, is she?” he asks.
“Yes, I asked if I could have a look around.”
“You’ve been to the Waiora?” He glances at our wet clothes.
“And surveyed the water,” I say cheerfully.
He chuckles. “So Scarlett has mentioned our request?”
She glares at him. “No, I haven’t had the chance yet.”
“Request?” I ask.
“He’s talking about your offer,” Scarlett says stiffly.
“We’re interested,” George says. “But we don’t think it’s enough.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You don’t think that offering five million more than what the land is worth is enough?”
George clears his throat. “Developing the Waiora would be financially beneficial to you and your resort, and it would also smooth over any issues with the local iwi.”
I hold his gaze for a moment. We both know that fifteen million was more than generous.
I look at Scarlett, irritated at being blindsided. Why didn’t she tell me about this earlier?
“Do you support this?” I ask her.
Gradually, her face matches her name, and she lowers her lashes to shield her eyes. Oh… George’s outspokenness has embarrassed her. She didn’t want to sell to the Cavendishes anyway, and it looks as if the thought of haggling is causing her to curl up and die inside.
But she says, “Yes.” No doubt duty is forcing her to back them, even if she disagrees. “We need the money,” she adds. “For the commune.”
George frowns, clearly annoyed that she would share that.
“It must be tough having to organize all the finances of the commune,” I say. “Do you have any help?”
George meets my gaze and holds it for a moment. Then he looks away and says, “I don’t need help. I know what I’m doing.”
“Well,” I say softly, “I’ll think about it and talk to Scarlett.”
“The decision will be made by the Elders of the commune,” he says, looking back at me.
“The land is Scarlett’s,” I point out.
His cheeks flush. “That’s just semantics.”
“Not really. It’s the legal position.”
“Please,” Scarlett says, “don’t argue. George is right. The Elders have the final say over what happens here.”
George nods. “I’m going to the city. Scarlett, do you want anything?”