The Old Colonial Hotel was proving one long headache from start to… he couldn’t even see the finish.
‘Don’t worry, Chris,’ he said, finally cutting in — he couldn’t bear another minute. ‘I realise the clock is ticking, but you have everything else you need.’ He shut his eyes as the mayor launched into another spiel. ‘Sure, sure. And that’s where the Old Colonial Hotel comes in. It’s all about community. I can assure you that box will be ticked.’
After a few closing niceties, he ended the call and tossed the phone aside, swearing under his breath.
He made a mental note to get his assistant pushing harder on the plan to minimise the requirements around community consultation. While the mayor was adamant the consultation box had to be ticked, in Oliver’s experience money greased the wheels of commerce — and, he suspected, councils too — even in New Zealand.
Community, community, community. God, how he hated that word.
He strode to the window and stared at the stretch of land he wanted to reclaim for his family. His father had sold it, and Oliver had bought it back in the only acquisition he’d ever made driven by emotion rather than calculation. Develop it properly, and he could bury his father’s shame and honour his grandparents.
He couldn’t fail. Not here. Not on this.
He’d been raised to believe life was a battle. A competition with only one winner. That winner had never been his father.
It would be him.
A lot depended on the seduction of the proprietor of the Perching Parrot.
* * *
Lucy paused at the top of the restaurant steps and took in the view. Spread out below, Wellington’s city lights glittered across the still, inky harbour.
She’d forgotten how beautiful it was.
She rarely made the half-hour trip into the city anymore. Too many bad memories. The last time this view had taken her breath away she’d been too young to recognise a predator in teacher’s clothing.
She pushed open the front doors and stepped inside.
‘Good evening,’ said the maître d’. ‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘I’m meeting…’ Lucy paused, feeling slightly awkward that she could only give the maître d’ a first name. ‘Oliver.’
But, she had a feeling one name would be enough. He certainly looked the type. From the man’s reaction, he was indeed known here.
‘Certainly, Miss. May I take your jacket?’
Lucy brushed a hand down the faux-Arctic fur and shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’
She wanted to make an entrance. Dressed all in white — pantsuit, camisole, heels — with platinum-blonde hair and dramatic, dark eye makeup, she knew she looked striking.
She followed the maître d’ through the softly lit room to a table by the window where Oliver sat waiting. She was gratified to notice he was watching her — not his phone, not the view. Her.
Her steps slowed unconsciously. He sat back, openly appraising her.
‘Oliver,’ she said as the maître d’ hovered, letting him wait a heartbeat longer. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’
Oliver rose. He took her hand, brushed a light embrace against her shoulder, and kissed her cheek.
‘Lucy. No need to apologise. Sometimes one must wait for something —’ his gaze slid over her ‘— or someone, so beautiful.’
She tipped her head and gave him a small, knowing smile as she slipped off her faux fur. It had done its job; she was roasting. The maître d’ took it and pulled out her chair.
‘I didn’t take you for someone who waited,’ she said.
He didn’t sit until she did. ‘That suggests you thought I might not be here.’
‘Indeed.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, silver jewellery clinking, and rested her chin in her hands. She had thought exactly that. Men like him weren’t in the habit of waiting for anyone.
