Page 94 of Freckles

It’s a moment before I see he’s joking. “Oh, funny. You’ll be sorry when he murders me and I haunt you every night.”

“Sounds like someone’s infatuated. Can’t even stay away when you’re dead.”

“Be serious.”

“He knows I adore you. He’d only hurt you if you threaten our family, and hopefully you’re past your call-the-police-on-Ezra phase. You’ll be disappointed at how boringly normal he is.”

Except every time Kincaid mentions the man, his spine stiffens, and if his nephew is wary, my nerves are fully justified. “If you say so.”

“And if I’m wrong, I look forward to visits from Francesca the thirsty ghost.”

A suited chauffeur meets us inside the terminal, leading us to a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. He holds the door open, and I slide into the back seat like a movie star. The drive into central Auckland takes almost the same time as the plane ride and I’m just as entranced, noting all the differences between the large city and the smaller towns I’ve lived in down south.

The moment we enter the hotel lobby; I see Lance Tana and my stomach is in knots. His resemblance is unmistakable. Apparently, giants run in the family.

Despite Kincaid’s more recent reassurances, the threats he initially issued still hold more sway in my mind. It’s far too easy to imagine the man deciding I’m not worthy of his nephew’s affection and dispatching me with a single gesture to his equally enormous bodyguard, stationed by the door.

“You must be Francesca,” he says in a voice softer than I’m expecting. He extends a hand and, when I move to shake it, he lifts it to his lips instead, softly pressing a kiss to the back before releasing me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. You’re every bit as lovely as King described.”

I blush, tongue-tied, and when I grab onto Kincaid’s arm for support, he covers my hand with his. “Thank you. Are you staying at the hotel, too?”

The two men quickly discuss logistics, and I’m surprised at how formal they are with each other. It sounds more like a conversation between polite strangers than family, and Kincaid doesn’t relax until his uncle nods and takes his leave.

After the internal build-up, to find him normal leaves me vaguely unsatisfied, just as Kincaid predicted.

My sense of excitement builds again during check-in. Even though we’re only here for the one day, Kincaid booked a room, so we have a base. By the time we reach the hotel suite, I’m out of adjectives. There are four smaller rooms for the kitchen, lounge, bathroom, and dining, then a bedroom the size of all four combined. A balcony runs the full length of the suite, offering a spectacular view overlooking the harbour.

I step outside and am instantly swept up in the noise and bustle of the big city; pedestrians, clogged traffic, honking horns and the jackhammer of construction fill the air while the mouth-watering scent from a dozen breakfast cafes compete with the salt tang of the ocean.

When I return to the room, sliding the door closed, the muffled noise is like holding hands over my ears.

“Do you want to relax or head out straight away?”

“Where are we going?”

Kincaid takes that as an answer and whisks me out the door and over to an exclusive clothing boutique, lounging on a wide robin-egg-blue sofa while a saleslady takes my measurements, then brings out a variety of dresses to try.

“Long,” he orders, sending half back with one word. “With a loose skirt and high neck.”

“Hey! You told me I could pick my ball gown.”

“You can. These are for the harbour cruise this afternoon, and I have a lot of opinions on outfits for the upcoming rugby games you’ll be attending. They’ll be the complete opposite.”

When the saleswoman returns, he nods in appreciation. “Next, could we see outfits so short they’ll make the world her gynaecologist?”

I cover my face with my hands, groaning in embarrassment. The assistant’s expression doesn’t change one iota.

Soon racks of clothing to meet his specifications appear and he searches through the assortment. “You really suit this dark blue.” He holds it up to my neck, then turns to the assistant. “Could we have some more styles in the same colour?” When she leaves to select them, he slips the silky fabric from its hanger. “Try it on.”

I take it from him, looking for a cubicle.

“This whole area is our changing room,” he explains. “Nobody else can see.”

He takes his seat, an arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other on the rest, and one leg bent so his foot lies atop the opposite knee.

I clutch the dress to me, already blushing, then lay it on a stool while I slip off my jeans and t-shirt. Even for my height, it’s alarmingly short.

“You can’t wear a bra with it,” he says, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Take your panties off as well. The shine of the fabric shows everything.”

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