Page 147 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

“Eat your dinner,” he says. “You need to keep your strength up if we’re going to go at it a hundred percent.” He tries not to laugh at the look at my face.

“You’re so romantic,” I say sarcastically, trying not to tremble as I have a bite of the sandwich.

“Sorry.” He has a sip of Champagne and waggles his eyebrows. “I mean when we make luuurv.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m totally going to mock you. That’s part of the hundred percent power dynamic.”

That makes me laugh. “We’re not in the bedroom yet.”

“I’m warming up.”

I continue to laugh while I finish my half of the sandwich and the fries and sip my Champagne.

When we’ve finished, Linc pours us both another glass, and we take them outside onto the deck. He lights the citronella candle on the table to keep away any insects, and then goes inside and brings out a throw from the sofa. It’s summer so it’s not icy cold, but the breeze blowing over the river brings a freshness to it, and I’m grateful for the throw as he opens it out and places it across us both where we’re sitting next to one another on the wooden bench.

I bring up my knees and huddle down, while he stretches out his legs and rests a hand on my thigh.

It’s quiet out here. The lodges are separated by fences, so we can’t see any other guests, and I can’t hear anyone either. The call of a ruru—a New Zealand owl—sounds from the trees behind the lodge, sounding like its English name—morepork! morepork! but I know we won’t be able to see it.

“Are you?” Linc asks.

I look at him, frowning. “Am I what?”

“In love with me?”

Our gazes meet, and lock.

“Yes,” I say eventually. I don’t need to elaborate or tell him that I’ve been in love with him since I was fourteen; I’m sure he knows that.

He takes my hand in his. Then he sighs and brings it to his mouth so he can kiss my fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“That I’ve made things difficult for us.”

“We have,” I correct. “Not you.”

He tips his head from side to side. “I’ve got something else to admit.”

My stomach flips. Oh God, he’s married, and he’s got four kids… I remove my hand from his. “Okay…”

“I knew you worked at the museum. I went there hoping to see you.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Part of the reason I came back to New Zealand was to meet you again.” He hesitates. “Your social media is private, so I haven’t been able to follow you, but I’ve Googled you often through the years, and last year I saw that big article about the museum on New Zealand’s Archaeology News.”

My jaw drops. When Fraser took over the museum, he spent a few years gradually refurbishing it. Last year the final section was completed, and we had a grand re-opening, with a big party. He invited lots of important guests—MPs, heads of organizations, prominent people in the community—and photographers took hundreds of photos. I did go, although I tried to stay in the background, but it was inevitable that a photographer would catch me in a shot. I was standing with Fraser, and they posted it right on the front page of their website.

“That dress,” Linc says. “Man. I nearly got on a plane and flew straight here.”

I wore a long black dress that was very understated, but I guess it clung in all the right places.

“I’d already been invited to the conference,” he continues. “I wasn’t going to go, but I accepted the day after I saw that photo. Dad—Don—dying was just a coincidence. I was already coming here to see you.”

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