Page 71 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“Yes. The wall next to Pania’s portrait was oddly constructed of square panels bordered with wooden batons. I investigated them, and discovered a button at the base. When I pressed it, a panel opened out, and there was another portrait.”

My jaw drops. “What was it like?”

His lips curve up a little. “Provocative. Her gown hung off her shoulder, and she’d hitched the skirt up to show her thigh. It would have been very shocking at the time.”

“Did you find any others?”

“I didn’t have time. Isabel came into the room.”

“While the panel was open?”

He nods. “She was very upset.”

“Ahhh… Fraser…”

“I tried to explain that the paintings weren’t just works of art, that they were important historical documents. But she pointed out that Pania was only fourteen when Richard did the paintings.”

“Fourteen!”

“And she said it would still cause a scandal today if the paintings were seen, because Pania was so young, and Maori, and it could be argued that Richard coerced her into marriage against her family’s wishes.”

“But he loved her,” I protest, “the letters make that clear.”

“Well, we know that… But there are always people ready to cause trouble.”

I can’t argue with that because I know he’s right.

“She’s worried about the family’s reputation,” he continues. “About her father’s memory. That’s why she doesn’t want the paintings out there. And who am I to argue with that? She should be lauded for being honorable, not criticized.” He looks back out at the view, stiff and angry. And I realize then that he’s furious with himself, not with her. He tried to convinceher to go against her principles, and he’s ashamed of himself for that.

And that’s the major difference between him and Ian. My ex would have been furious with me, or with the person who had upset him. But Fraser is angry at himself for not meeting the high standards his father instilled in him.

“And she asked you to leave?” I ask him.

“Yeah. She said she’d call the police if I didn’t go. She even had a bouncer escort me off the premises.” He runs a hand through his hair, turns from the window, and walks over to the bed. Then he sits and flops onto his back, covering his face with his hands. “I’ve been so stupid,” he says, his voice muffled. “Such a fucking idiot. So incredibly arrogant.”

“Fraser…”

“Looking at the letters without her permission, getting caught in the bathroom, and then finding the portraits she didn’t want anyone to know about. Why was she ever going to entrust me with the letters? I’ve lost the one chance I had to save the museum. I’d say that Whina will murder me, but I know she’s going to play the disappointment card, and man, that’s going to sting.”

He sees her almost as a mother figure, I think, and certainly as a kind of mentor. He looks up to her. No wonder he’s angry at himself.

“All right,” I say matter-of-factly, “let’s keep some perspective on this. You haven’t lost the only chance to save the museum. I don’t think Isabel was ever going to give us the letters. And anyway, something else will turn up, it always does.”

He just sighs, his hands still over his face.

I study him for a moment, my heart going out to him. He’s absolutely devastated. Tears prick my eyes again, because I understand why he’s angry, and there’s nothing I can do aboutit. I can’t make Isabel change her mind, and I can’t force him to forgive himself.

The only thing I can do is try to make him forget.

I bend and take off my sandals and put them to one side. Then I go over to the bed. I lift my long skirt in both hands—which makes me think briefly of Pania, bearing her leg to her lover as he wields his paintbrush—and then I climb astride him.

The bed dips beneath my knees. He doesn’t complain or push me away, but he doesn’t move his hands either—he won’t allow himself the comfort of a kiss. So I touch my lips to them, kissing his fingers, then slowly down his arms.

Sitting upright again, I undo the buttons of his waistcoat, then pull the bow tie so it unravels. I fumble at the tight top button of his shirt, then work down, until all the buttons are undone, and push the two sides apart. His chest gleams in the moonlight. I admire it for a moment—the muscles of his neck and shoulders, the shape of his ribs, the hair on his chest that narrows to a thin trail leading down beneath his trousers. It’s like an arrow, suggesting the direction I need to go.

Obeying the instruction, I kiss his neck, then down his throat to the hollow at the base, touching my tongue there before continuing down. Slowly, I kiss over his ribs and down his belly, until I reach the waistband of his trousers.

I shift off him as I undo his belt, dropping to my knees on the carpet, and at that point he moves his hands, letting them fall onto the bed above his head as he gives another long sigh.

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