In Her Rival's Arms

CHAPTER TWO

STONE GARGOYLES SAT on pedestals, guarding the steps that led to the shop’s entrance. While Zanna fitted an old iron key into the lock and turned it, Nic took another stride or two onto the mossy pathway beneath massive trees.

Having already admitted his interest, he didn’t have to stifle the urge to look up through the branches to get another look at the house. Zanna’s distraction was fortunate because it gave him a few moments to deal with a fresh wave of the turbulent emotions that memories evoked.

It had to be his earliest-ever memory, running down a brick pathway just like this, summoned by the creak of the iron gate that announced his father’s return home. Being caught in those big, work-roughened hands and flung skywards before being caught again. Terrifying but thrilling because it was a given that nothing bad could happen when Papa was there.

He could hear the faint echo of a small child’s shriek of laughter that blended with the deep, joyous rumble of the adult.

Piercing happiness.

Nothing bad had happened while Papa had been there. Life had been so full of laughter. Of music. The sounds of happiness that had died when Papa had been snatched away from them.

The memory slipped away, screened by filters the years had provided. And he could help them on their way by focusing on the house and using his professional filter—an extensive knowledge of architecture and considerable experience in demolishing old buildings.

It really was astonishing, with the unusual angles to its bays and verandas that gave it the impression of a blunted pentagon. It was iced with ornate ironwork, intricately moulded bargeboards and modillions and, to top it all off, there was a turret, set like a church spire to one side of the main entrance, adding a third storey to the two large rooms with rounded bay windows.

A secret, circular room that begged to be explored.

Especially to a small boy who had gazed at it from over the fence.

The shaft of remembered longing was as shiny as that moment of happiness had been. The filters were like clouds, shifting just enough to allow a bright beam to shine through. Bright enough to burn.

The emotion behind this current project would be overwhelming if he let it surface. Not that his mother was here to see it happen but that only made it more important. This was going to be a memorial to the one woman he’d ever truly loved. To the man she’d loved with all her heart. To the family he’d had for such a heartbreakingly short breath of time.

He swallowed hard.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Zanna had joined him on the path. ‘The most amazing house in the world.’

A leaf drifted down from one of the trees and landed on Nic’s shoulder. Zanna resisted the urge to reach up brush it off.

‘It’s certainly unusual. Over a hundred years old. Queen Anne style.’

Had she been right in guessing that he was a specialist in old houses? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an architect?’

‘Used to be. Plus, I’ve done a lot of study. The style was taken up in the 1880s and stayed popular for a long time. The Marseilles tiles on the roof make it a bit later because they weren’t introduced until about 1901.’

The brief eye contact as he glanced at her was enough to steal Zanna’s breath for a moment. The connection felt weird but gave her hope. He knew about old houses. Would he fall in love with her house and help her fight to save it?

‘I didn’t know about the Queen Anne style until recently,’ she confessed. ‘I had to do some research to apply for the historical protection order. It’s all about the fancy stuff, isn’t it? The turret and shingles and things.’

It didn’t matter if he didn’t admit that consideration for protection was the reason he was here. Zanna was asking the question partly because she wanted him to keep talking. She loved his voice. It reflected the dark, chocolate quality of his eyes. And that faint accent was undeniably sexy.

‘It was also known as free classical,’ he told her. ‘The turret is a bit of a signature. Like those dragon spikes on the roof ridges. It looks like it was designed by an architect with a strong love of fairy-tales.’

‘Or magic?’ Zanna suggested quietly.

He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion, but the huff of his breath was a softer sound than she might have expected. ‘Typical of New Zealand to adopt a style and make it popular only after it was considered passé by the rest of the world.’

‘So you’re not a kiwi, then?’

‘By birth I am. My mother was French. A musician. She came across a kiwi backpacker who’d gone to Paris to trace his own French ancestry. She found him sitting in a park, playing a guitar, and she said she fell in love with him the moment she heard his music.’

Why was he telling her this? Were memories coming at him so hard and fast they had to escape? No. Maybe it was because he’d had more time to process these ones. They’d been spinning and growing in his head and his heart for days. They’d inspired this whole project.

‘She came back here to marry him and I was born the same year. He...died when I was five and I got taken back to France a year or so later.’

Turning points. When life had gone so wrong. He couldn’t fix that, of course. But he could honour the time when it had been perfect. Not that he could share any of that with Zanna. Maybe he’d already said too much.

‘I still have a home there,’ he finished. ‘But I also live in London.’

Zanna’s eyes were wide. ‘I’ve lived here since I was six. My parents got killed in a car accident and my aunt Magda adopted me. I’ve only recently come back, though. I’ve been in London for the last few years.’

The point of connection brought them instantly that little bit closer and Nic was aware of a curl of warmth but then, oddly, it became an emotional seesaw and he felt disappointed. So they’d been living in the same city, oblivious to the existence of each other? What a waste...

Another leaf drifted down. And then another. Zanna looked up, frowning.

‘I’d better get some water onto these trees. It’s odd. I didn’t think the summer’s been dry enough to distress them.’

‘Maybe autumn’s arriving early.’

‘They’re not deciduous. They’re southern ratas. They don’t flower very well more than once every few years but when they do, they’re one of our most spectacular native trees. They have bright red, hairy sort of flowers—like the pohutukawa. The street was named after them. And the house. But they were here first and they’re protected now, which is a good thing.’

‘Why?’

‘The trees are big enough to make it harder to develop the land—if it’s ever sold.’

‘You’re thinking of selling?’ Maybe this mission would end up being easier than expected. Done and dusted within a few days, even. Strange that the prospect gave him another pang of...what was that? Like knowing that he’d lived in the same city as Zanna without knowing about it. Not quite disappointment...more like regret?

Yet he knew perfectly well that the world was full of beautiful women and he’d never had trouble attracting his fair share of them. What was it about Zanna Zelenksy? Her striking colouring? Those eyes? The strong character?

She certainly wasn’t feeling it. Her face stilled and he could see a flash of strong emotion darken her eyes.

‘Not in my lifetime. This is my home. My refuge.’

Refuge? What did she need to run and hide from? Was there a streak of vulnerability in that strength? Yes...maybe that was why his interest had been captured. But Zanna ignored his curious glance and began walking down the path.

‘It’s part of the city’s heritage, too,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Only the council’s too stupid to recognise it. They’d rather see it pulled down and have some horrible, modern skyscraper take its place.’

It wouldn’t be a skyscraper.

It would be a beautiful, low building that echoed the curve of the river.

The Brabant Academy. A music school and performance centre, funded by the trust that would bring brilliant musicians together to nurture young talent. A serene setting but a place where dreams could be realised. A place of beautiful music. And hope for the future.

Nic followed her along the path. Heritage was often overrated, in his opinion. A smokescreen that could hide the truth that sometimes it was preferable to wipe out the past and put something new and beautiful in its place.

And this was one of those times. A final sweeping glance as he reached the steps leading to the main entrance of the house revealed the cracked weatherboards and faded shingles. Peeling paint and rust on the ironwork. Poverty and neglect were stamped into the fabric of this once grand residence and it struck deeply engrained notes in Nic’s soul.

A new memory of his father surfaced.

‘Why on earth would we want a grand old house that would take far too much money and time? We have everything we need right here, don’t we?’

The tiny cottage had contained everything they’d needed. It had been home.

The shock of moving to the slums of Paris had been all the more distressing. The smell of dirt and disease and...death.

Yes. The hatred of poverty and neglect was well honed. Memories of the misery were powerful enough to smother memories of happier things so it was no surprise that they were peeking out from the clouds for the first time ever. Maybe he would welcome them in time but they were too disturbing for now. They touched things Nic had been sure were long dead and buried. They had the potential to rekindle a dream that had been effectively crushed with his mother’s death—that one day he would again experience that feeling like no other.

The safety of home. Of family.

* * *

Zanna found she was holding her breath as she turned the brass knob and pushed open the solid kauri front door of her home.

First impressions mattered. Would he be blown away by the graceful curve of the wide staircase with its beautifully turned balustrade and the carved newel posts? Would he notice that the flower motif on the posts was repeated in the light switches and the brass plates around the doorknobs—even in the stained glass of the windows?

Maybe he’d be distracted by the clutter of Aunt Maggie’s eccentric collections, like the antique stringed instruments on the walls above the timber panelling and the arrays of unusual hats, umbrellas and walking sticks crowding more than one stand on the polished wooden floorboards.

He certainly seemed a little taken aback as he stepped into the entranceway but perhaps that was due to the black shape moving towards them at some speed from out of the darkness of the hallway beneath the stairs.

Three pitch-black cats with glowing yellow eyes. Siblings that stayed so close they could appear like one mythical creature sometimes. She could feel the way Nic relaxed as the shape came close enough to reveal its components.

‘Meet the M&Ms.’

‘Sorry?’

Zanna scooped up one of the small, silky cats. ‘This is Marmite. The others are Merlin and Mystic. We call them the M&Ms.’

‘Oh...’ He was looking down at his feet. Merlin, who was usually wary of strangers, was standing on his back feet, trying to reach his hand. He stretched out his fingers and the cat seemed to grow taller as he pushed his head against them.

Artistic fingers, Zanna noted, with their long shape that narrowed gradually to rounded tips. If Aunt Maggie were here, she’d say that this man was likely to be imaginative, impulsive and unconventional. That he’d prefer an occupation that gave him a sense of satisfaction even if it was poorly paid.

He’d said he used to be an architect. What did he do now? Consulting work with organisations like the historical protection society? It certainly seemed to fit.

Those artistic fingers were cupped now, shaping the cat’s body as they moved from its head to the tip of the long tail. Merlin emitted a sound of pleasure and Zanna had to bury her face in Marmite’s fur to stifle what could have been a tiny whimper of her own. She could almost feel what that caress would be like.

It was Mystic that started the yowling.

‘They’re hungry,’ Zanna said. ‘If I don’t feed them, they’ll be a nuisance, so would you mind if we start the tour in the kitchen?’

‘Not at all.’

She led him into the hallway—shadowy thanks to the obstructed light and the dark timber panelling on the walls. What saved it from being dingy was the large painting. A row of sunflowers that were vivid enough to cast an impression of muted sunshine that bathed the darkest point.

She knew that Nic had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw it. Zanna stopped, too, but not physically. Something inside her went very, very still. Holding its breath.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What anybody else thinks...

The involuntary grunt of sound expressed surprise. Appreciation. Admiration, even?

Okay. So it did matter. Zanna could feel a sweet shaft of light piercing what had become a dark place in her soul. Not that she could thank him for the gift. It was far too private. Too precious.

Opening the door to the sun-filled, farmhouse-style kitchen—her favourite part of the house—accentuated the new pleasure. The knowledge that Nic was right behind her added a dimension that somehow made it feel more real. Genuine. Even if nothing else came of this encounter, it had been worth inviting this stranger into her world.

* * *

The surprise of the stunning painting had only been a taste of what was to come. Nic had to stop again as he entered the huge kitchen space, blinking as he turned his head slowly to take it all in. It should be a nightmare scene to someone who preferred sleek, modern lines and an absence of clutter. It was only a matter of time before he experienced that inner shudder of distaste but at least he knew it was coming. He would be able to hide it.

Cast-iron kettles covered the top of an old coal range and the collection of ancient kitchen utensils hanging from an original drying rack would not have been out of place in a pioneer museum. The kauri dining table and chairs, hutch dresser and sideboard were also museum pieces but the atmosphere was unlike any such place Nic had ever been in. Splashes of vivid colour from bowls of fruit and vegetables, unusual ornaments and jugs stuffed with flowers made the kitchen come alive.

The shudder simply wasn’t happening. Instead, to his puzzlement, Nic found himself relaxing. Somehow, the overall effect was of an amazingly warm and welcome place to be. It felt like a place for...a family?

Abandoning his helmet on the floor, he sank onto a chair at one end of the long table as Zanna busied herself opening a can and spooning cat food into three bowls. When she crouched down, her jeans clung to the delicious curve of her bottom and the gap between the waistband and the hem of her orange top widened, giving him a view of a smooth back, interrupted only by the muted corrugations of her spine. He could imagine trailing his fingers gently over those bumps and then spreading them to encompass the curve of her hip.

Oh...Mon Dieu... The powerful surge of attraction coming in the wake of those other bursts of conflicting and disturbing emotions was doing his head in. He needed distraction. Fast.

Maybe that curious object wrapped in black velvet on the table, lying beside a wrought-iron candelabra, would do the trick. Lifting the careful folds of the fabric, Nic found himself looking at an oversized pack of cards.

Witchy sort of cards.

The shaft of desire he was grappling with morphed into a vague disquiet. It was very rare to feel even slightly out of his depth but it was happening now. There was an atmosphere of mystery here. Of eccentricity that had an undercurrent of serenity that had to come from someone who knew exactly who they were. Or something, perhaps, because he couldn’t be sure whether the vibe was coming from Zanna or the house.

Weird...

‘We keep them wrapped in black.’ Zanna’s voice was soft. And close. Nic looked up to see she had a pair of wine glasses dangling by their stems in one hand and a bottle in the other. She held it up in invitation and he nodded.

‘Sure. Why not?’

The wine was red. Blood red. His disquiet kicked up a notch.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘It just seemed like a good idea.’ Zanna wasn’t meeting his eyes. ‘A glass of wine is a nice way to wind down. We could go into the garden, if you like.’

He followed the direction of her gaze. French doors provided a glimpse of a bricked courtyard between the kitchen and a tangle of garden. An intimate kind of space.

‘I’m fine here.’ Nic cleared his throat. ‘I meant why do you wrap those cards in black?’

‘It’s a neutral colour that keeps outside energy away.’ Zanna had filled her own glass and she sat down at right angles to Nic.

‘It’s black magic, right? Witchcraft?’

The flash in those extraordinary eyes was enough to make Nic feel unaccountably apologetic.

‘I don’t believe in witchcraft,’ Zanna said, her voice tight. ‘And calling any of this black magic is an insult to my aunt. Her family can trace its roots back to the sixteenth century. They travelled around and made their living by things like fortune-telling. Aunt Maggie has a very strong affinity with her heritage. I’ve grown up with it and I love Maggie enough to respect it. I see it as another dimension—one that adds some colour and imagination to life and can help people cope with the hard stuff.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Sorry...I get a bit defensive. We’ve had people try and twist things into something they’re not and then use it against her. Against us.’

Nic said nothing. He had a feeling he knew who those people might be. But they were out of the picture now. He was the one who got to decide how things would be handled from now on. Except that he had no idea. Yet. He stared at the cards.

‘I’ve always thought of it as a load of rubbish,’ he admitted. ‘The fortune-telling, that is.’

‘Depends on how you look at it.’ Zanna reached out and touched the pack of cards with her fingertips. ‘It’s about symbols. They demand an active response. You have to think about how you really feel and trying to relate to an unexpected symbol like the picture on a card can make you consider a totally new dimension to a problem. I like to think of them as a tool for self-knowledge. A way of centring oneself, perhaps.’

‘Seeing the future?’ He couldn’t help the note of derision but she didn’t seem to take offence.

‘I don’t believe the future can be seen...but I don’t believe things are necessarily fated to happen either. There are choices to be made that can radically alter the direction you take in life. Big choices. Little choices. So many that you don’t even notice a lot of them but it pays to be aware. Some people think they have no control and they blame others when things go wrong. If you’ve made an active choice and things go wrong, you can learn from that experience and it’s less likely to happen again.’

Like falling in love with the wrong person...

Inviting a complete stranger into your home...

‘If you don’t believe the future can be seen, how can you tell a fortune and say something’s going to happen? Like a new job or overseas travel or...’ he snorted softly ‘...meeting a tall, dark, handsome stranger?’

Was that a reference to himself? Was he flirting with her? Zanna knew the rush of heat would be showing in her cheeks. Did he know how good looking he was? Probably. Nobody could be out there looking like that in a world full of women and not find it incredibly easy to get whatever he wanted. Maybe toying was a better word, then. It made her remember the way he’d been looking at her when he’d been playing with that crystal in the shop. It made her remember the way he’d made her feel. That reawakening of desire.

How far could that go?

How far did she want it to go?

‘Okay...’ She avoided meeting his eyes. ‘First off, I’d probably say that there was an opportunity of a new job or travel or something. You might not have been thinking about it but the idea would be planted and you’d be more open to new ideas because of that suggestion. You might recognise an opportunity and then you’d have a choice. Something would change. You’d either take that opportunity or be more content to stay where you were.’

‘Do you tell your own fortune?’

She smiled. ‘Occasionally. If I have a problem I want to think through. I prefer to have Aunt Maggie read my cards, though. It’s great fun and the best way I know to have a really meaningful conversation. That’s how this whole business started. Way back, before my time here, but I’ve had plenty of people tell me about it. They came to have their cards read and Maggie became a magnet for anyone with a problem. And she’s such a warm and loving person she would offer them tea and cakes at the same time and it all just grew into a way she could make her living.’

She took a sip of her wine and Nic couldn’t look away. He watched her bottom lip touch the glass and the way her throat rippled as she swallowed. He picked up his own glass to find it contained a surprisingly good red wine.

‘Back then,’ Zanna continued, ‘before the city centre spread and the houses gave way to office blocks and hotels, there were streets and streets of cottages. Houses that had big gardens with lots of fruit trees. People kept chickens. Mr Briggs down the road even kept a goat. So many people. This was the big house but everyone was welcome. They all adored Maggie and this place was like a community centre. I remember it being like that when I was young.’

‘But the houses have gone. There’s no community now.’ Okay, it was sad but things changed. Progress happened.

‘Some of the people still come back and talk about the old days. They can’t believe that the house and Maggie are just the same as ever and they love sharing the memories. She always promises she’ll still be here the next time they come.’

She wasn’t here now. If she was, Nic might have been tempted to ask to have his cards read so that he could see if she was as amazing as Zanna made her sound. Had she really helped solve problems for so many people?

‘Can you read the cards?’

Her eyes widened. Surprise or shock? ‘I’ve grown up with them...yes... I’m not as good as Maggie but I can certainly read them.’

‘Would you read them for me?’

The hesitation was obvious. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’

So that they could have a really meaningful conversation? So that he could sit here a while longer and put off thinking about why he was really here? Maybe even find a solution to his own problem?