Page 67 of Midnight Enemy

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Then why is it so surprising?”

“Well, you’re an old man for a start…”

He gives a short laugh. “Thanks.”

I feel oddly breathless. “But you’ve lived with someone?”

“No. Not permanently.”

“They’ve stayed over at your apartment though?”

His lips slowly curve up. “Scarlett…” he says, drawing the word out, “are you jealous?”

“No. Not at all. I wouldn’t… I’d never… Goodness. How can you even say that?”

He chuckles. “No other woman has been to my current apartment.”

“Really?”

“I’ve only been there six months.”

“You haven’t dated for six months?”

“I haven’t dated for nearly a year.”

“Why not?”

He just shrugs. “Been busy.”

“You really don’t go on Tinder or have one-night stands?”

He shakes his head. Then he slowly smiles. “You like that?”

I shrug, but I have a warm feeling inside.

He looks out of the window, then says, “Here we are.”

We’re right on the waterfront, not far from busy Queen Street, with Queens Wharf on our right and towering buildings on our left. We get out and he takes my hand again, then leads me past a hotel to an apartment block that glows like a jewel in the dusky evening. I look up, and up, and up. It’s cube-shaped, but the bottom half has an interesting twisted façade.

“It’s inspired by the Maori Pikorua motif,” he says.

“Oh…”

“It’s New Zealand’s tallest residential tower. There’s a gym, a pool, a library, resident lounges, an entertainment hub with a small cinema, and a restaurant with a twenty-four-hour kitchen for room service.”

“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s like an extremely exclusive hotel. He actually lives here?

Glass double doors slide open as we approach, and we enter a large lobby. Wood-paneled walls and a natural stone floor make it look classy and spacious, while green plants in white pots give it a natural touch. A couple of young businessmen sit on a leather suite in a small lounge near to the front desk, presumably waiting for a friend. Orson nods at them and says, “Evening,” as we pass, and they smile back.

“Ahiahi marie, Mr. Cavendish,” says the Maori guy standing behind the reception desk. It means good evening.

“Kei te pehea koe, Rawiri?” Orson asks, surprising me with the way it rolls off his tongue. It means ‘how are you?’

“Kei te pai ahau,” Rawiri replies, meaning I’m good.

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