Page 95 of Midnight Enemy

“He won’t give you any trouble,” Orson says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure that the pup has the strength to confront the leader of the pack. Spencer’s manner commands respect, and I’m convinced his haughty disdain would subdue any confrontation in the workplace. I’m sure he would have discouragedany challenges from his children while they were growing up, and that would naturally have led into adulthood. Orson has his own business with Kingi, and he’s obviously successful in his own right, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to take on his father.

There’s no point in worrying about it, though. Both Mum and Dad are gone, and all I can do is follow my heart and do my best, even if I make a complete hash of things in the process.

Orson swoops around the drive in front of the resort and pulls into a parking space right out the front of the main building that has his name on it. Oh, that’s flash.

“Come on,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt. “Try not to worry. You look amazing.”

Somewhat mollified by his comment, I get out of the car and go to retrieve my bag, but he shoulders it and takes my hand. I decide not to argue and let him lead me up the steps to the lobby.

“Hey, Ash,” Orson says to a young porter who comes out to greet us. “Could you take this up to my suite, please?” He hands him my bag and says to me, “Do you need anything from it?”

I have a clutch, so I shake my head. Ash agrees to take the bag up without batting an eyelid, although I’m sure he’ll be telling the rest of the staff shortly. I wonder how often Orson brings girls to the club? He insisted he hasn’t dated for nearly a year, but I can’t quite believe that. He’s too handsome, too loaded, and too irresistible not to be fighting girls off with a stick. Surely he must parade a succession of beautiful young things through these doors?

The lobby is busy with guests, some checking in, others sitting having a coffee or an aperitif by the windows overlooking the gardens. A couple of businessmen are heading for the doors to the club. As the doors open, the enticing beat of dance music makes my heart race, and colored lights spill onto the gray carpet as if someone’s knocked over cans of paints. My heartbeat rises; I’ve never been to a nightclub and have no desire to go to one, and if Orson leads me over to it, I’ll have to run off in the opposite direction.

But he doesn’t—he takes me to the other side of the lobby to a set of doors marked ‘Gardens and Pools’ with a sign that announces the area is ‘Closed for private function’. I guess most of the guests will be at dinner or heading to the club.

The automatic doors slide open, and we go outside. It’s a beautiful evening, close to sunset, the air still holding late-summer warmth.There’s a lane pool at the far end, but the one closest to us is huge and kidney shaped, with steps leading into a shallow area at one end and a deeper area at the other. The place is paved with attractive light-pink and white paving slabs, and there are numerous palm trees to give the place a tropical feel. The bar I saw beside the pool is open, with bartenders carrying cocktails and other drinks to the guests who are sitting on loungers or at the round tables. A couple of staff are working at a barbecue that stands in front of the main kitchen, filling the air with the smell of cooked food. The sliding doors that lead to the Midnight Club are open although roped off, so the music is audible, but not too loud to make conversation difficult.

“Kingi,” Orson says, and I turn to see the birthday boy approaching with a smile. Orson has previously made the comparison to Bigfoot, and now I can see why—the guy is huge, taller than Orson by a couple of inches, and with big shoulders and a wide chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless tee, and he has a full Maori tattoo on his left arm from shoulder to wrist. He has amazing shoulder-length wavy dark-brown hair, and a thick beard. His eyes are an attractive amber color, almost orange.

“You must be Scarlett,” Kingi says, his voice deeper than Orson’s, like a lion’s growl. He holds out a big paw and shakes my hand. “Good to meet you at last.”

“Happy birthday!” I take a small parcel out of my purse and hand it to him. Orson’s eyebrows rise.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Kingi protests.

“It’s nothing elaborate,” I admit. “I made it myself.”

He tears off the paper and reveals a miniature canvas attached to a tiny wooden easel. On it I’ve painted the words ‘Te Aranui Developments’ and a stylistic landscape of a road disappearing into the distance—the long road.

“It was just for fun,” I say bashfully. “You don’t have to keep it.”

“I love it,” he replies, astonished. “I’m going to put it on my desk. Thank you so much.” He gives me a big bearhug, grinning as he releases me. “I’m glad you could make it. I don’t know what I’d have done with him if you’d decided not to come. He’s beengrouchy asall day.”

“No I haven’t,” Orson insists.

“Moping,” Kingi adds. “Pining like a lovesick teenager.”

I giggle, glowing with pleasure at the thought that he’s missed me.

Orson rolls his eyes. “Where’s Marama?”

“She was here a moment ago.” Kingi looks around, spots her by the bar, and gestures for her to come over.

“It’s Kingi’s older sister,” Orson murmurs to me as she approaches.

She can only be older by a year or so, because she looks a similar age to me. She has flawless light-brown skin. Her dark-brown hair is long and sleek, and like me she’s small and slight, with high cheekbones, a pretty smile, and a Moko Kauae—a traditional Maori tattoo on her chin. A Moko Kauae isn’t just a decoration—it’s a sacred expression of a woman’s connection to her whanau or family, and also illustrates that she has leadership and status within her community.

She also has a tattoo curling around her lower left arm. At first glance it looks like another traditional Maori tattoo, but as I look closer I can see it includes the phases of the moon, maybe because her name, Marama, means ‘moon.’

She looks nothing like Kingi, and briefly I wonder if they’re adopted until I see she has the same startling amber eyes. I guess she must take after their mother.

“Orson!” She goes up to him, and they exchange a serious hongi, pressing noses in the Maori fashion, exchanging the ha or breath of life. Then she laughs and flings her arms around his neck, and they have a big hug.

“And who’s this?” she asks, smiling at me as they move back.

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