Page 62 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

Fraser clears his throat. Then he picks up a roll, slices it in half, opens it, and starts filling it with some of the sliced lamb.

“I don’t regret it,” he says. “You tasted better than anything else they’re serving at those tables.” He takes a big bite of the roll, his eyes gleaming.

I glare at him. “Don’t think flattering or embarrassing me will change my mind. I know how bad this is. How can you be so unrepentant and dismissive?”

His eyes blaze then as he lowers his roll and turns to me. He speaks quietly, but his jaw is tight with barely contained frustration. “Nobody tells me what to do,” he states, each word chosen and placed precisely, as if he’s laying tiles in a mosaic. “And when I want something, I’m not going to have anyone tell me I can’t have it.”

At first I think he’s talking about the letters. His respect for his father has always been obvious, and Isabel’s disregard for her father’s wishes has hit him hard.

But the fire in his eyes speaks of another desire. It reveals the resentment simmering beneath the surface at the leash that Whina has placed on him. It’s a constant reminder of how little control he has over his personal life. And it’s only now that I understand. He knows he shouldn’t feel anything for me. He’s not supposed to care about me or want me. But he’s just risked everything for one taste of me.

His determined tone shocks me. He’s usually so laid back, so diplomatic and tactful, that I forget he’s also the most ambitious, driven, and tenacious guy I know. His words ring with his upbringing, his privileged position, his money, and his self-confidence, and I have no doubt he means what he says.

“Fraser,” Wiremu declares, “tell us about the new exhibition you’re planning for Valentine’s Day.”

Fraser holds my gaze for a few more seconds, leaving me in no doubt as to the strength of his resolve, before he switches to the other guests at the table and smiles as he begins to describe his plans for the exhibition. It’s as if Sauron’s eye has finally turned away from the Hobbits, leaving me gasping with relief.

What was he saying? Just that, at that moment, he wanted me, and he was determined to have me, like the spoiled, upper-class brat he is? As if he’s seen an oil painting in an auction, and he resolves to outbid everyone else in the room, no matter how much the price rises, just because he can?

Or was he suggesting something more? That he’s willing to risk his job to have me permanently?

My head spins. There’s no way of telling. I know him well enough to be convinced he wouldn’t play with my emotions. He’s not the type of guy who’ll sleep with a girl, knowing she likes him, when he has no intention of taking it further.

But he’s also a man. Talking to my girlfriends suggests that many of them can be clueless about emotions. Maybe he thinkssleeping with him was a flight of fancy for me, a momentary lapse, and that I can forget him as easily as he can forget me.

When I want something, I’m not going to have anyone tell me I can’t have it.

I shiver. Those words are like multiplematau—Maori fishhooks, that are sinking into me and refusing to let go. But I can’t afford to let him land me like a kingfish. Slowly and methodically, I need to unpick them and keep myself safe, or I’m going to end up with a broken heart. Again.

For the next hour or so, I concentrate on my meal, which is excellent, and on the conversation around the table. Fraser, as always, is entertaining and funny, and the others are keen to discuss Sebastian’s role in preserving the history and culture of the area, so there are few gaps in the conversation, and for that I’m thankful.

When we finish our mains, Fraser asks whether he can fetch me a dessert, and I let him bring me some chocolate profiteroles, glad of a few minutes to myself to breathe.

The woman next to me—Abby, the wife of the head of the Rotary Club—leans close to me with a smile and whispers, “You’ve caught yourself a fine man there, Hallie.”

My face burns. “He’s not… I mean we’re not…”

She notices, and her eyebrows rise. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a husband-and-wife team.”

“No, not at all—he’s my boss.”

Her lips curve up. “I’m not sure that’s all he wants to be, judging by the way he was watching you just now.”

“Oh… goodness… we can’t… we work together…”

She smiles. “Many couples meet at work. It’s where we spend most of our day, so it’s not surprising. As long as you declare it to HR, what’s the problem?”

I can’t go into Whina Cooper’s instructions, so I just give a small smile and change the subject before Fraser returns to thetable. It must be true that many people meet at work. But that’s not the same as a boss having a relationship with a subordinate, which I am, much as I don’t like the word.

Fraser arrives with our desserts and places mine in front of me before sitting. He has a portion of the panna cotta, which he proceeds to polish off in double quick time.

“I don’t know how you can eat so much and not put on weight,” I grumble.

“I am,” he says, scraping around the bowl. “I have a paunch.”

“You do not,” I scoff.

“You’d know,” he says with a smirk.

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