Found (Not Quite a Billionaire Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “That’s your baby,” I said, and smiled at him.

  He kissed me there, and the tenderness in it tried to bring tears to my eyes even through my excitement. Then he stroked over my belly, up my side, until he finally reached my breast. I jumped, and he asked, “Are they sore?”

  “Yes. Tender. Feels good,” I managed as his hand traced carefully over the swell of my breast and grazed a peak that had been hard for what felt like hours. “Just . . . tender.”

  “Mm.” He got onto a knee on the bed, and then he was over me, kissing his way from my neck to my breast, exploring me with so much gentleness, reading my sighs, taking it slow, taking it easy.

  I said, “I need to feel you. I need to see you.” My hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and I began to unfasten them, to stroke my way over his broad chest, and felt his instant reaction.

  How could a man have as much self-control as Hemi? How could he do all this without needing anything for himself? So I told him so. “You’re the most amazing lover,” I said. “You make me feel so good. But right now, I need to feel you inside me. I need to feel you taking your own pleasure. I want you to do everything that feels good to you. Everything you want. I want you to tell me what that is, and to show me what you need. I’ll do whatever you say, because obeying you excites me. Please, Hemi—let me please you now.”

  I shoved his shirt off his shoulders, and he finished taking it off, then stood and got rid of the rest of his clothes. After that, he stood there, and I drank him in. My Maori god, all muscle and sinew, controlled strength and powerful intent. And all of it was for me.

  After that, he did just what he’d said he would, and he did what I’d asked. He took his pleasure, and he did everything he wanted. He told me what to do, and I did it. And whether I was on my knees, taking him deep in my mouth, obeying every gasped command, or lying on my back with his hands on the backs of my thighs, feeling him stroking deep, or on my elbows and knees, his hand at the back of my neck holding me down, my forehead on my hands, my entire body jerking hard at every thrust . . . wherever I was, and through everything he did to me—he was heartbreaking careful, he was breathtakingly thorough, and he let me know that I was absolutely and completely his.

  And just for now, just for tonight . . . I let myself be that and nothing more. Sometimes, your will truly isn’t your own, because giving it up is such exquisite pleasure.

  Independence matters, and autonomy is a wonderful thing. But sometimes . . . sometimes, surrender feels so good.

  Hope

  I was nearly dozing, wrapped in Hemi’s arms, when he asked, “Hungry?”

  “Mm.” I rolled over and pushed myself up. “Yes. How did you know?”

  There was no smugness, no calculation in his smile. All I saw was contentment when he said, “Hang on, then, and I’ll fix your dinner.”

  I tried to fall asleep again, but as exhausted as I was, I really was too hungry. Hemi was back in less than five minutes, though, with a plate and a mug that he set on my bedside table.

  “Oh,” I said, and tried not to be disappointed. Three crackers, topped with bits of cheese, and a cup of herbal tea.

  He laughed. “No worries, baby. That’s your snack, so this doesn’t become another emergency.” He went to the closet, pulled out a soft flannel shirt in a green and black plaid, picked up my thong from the floor, and handed them to me. “So you stay warm. Dressed for dinner, eh.”

  When he came back again fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray this time, he stopped in the doorway and said, “I could sell a few pairs of undies with that picture.”

  “What? Me in your shirt, with my hair a mess?”

  “Yeh. You in your pretty thong and a man’s shirt five sizes too big for you, your hair all mussed and your gorgeous mouth looking like it’s been well kissed, sitting cross-legged on rumpled white sheets. That’d sell some undies.”

  “Well,” I said, “you might do the same.” He was wearing only one thing, but it was a good one: a pair of black boxer briefs that didn’t do much to disguise the substantial Te Mana assets. “All that tattoo, and all those muscles? But this is a private viewing. One customer only.”

  He handed me my plate, and we ate like that, sitting up against the headboard. Delicate white fish in a whisper-thin golden coating that Hemi told me was beer batter, chunks of potato and kumara roasted to perfect crunchy goodness, and a salad of baby greens that he’d tossed in olive oil, lemon juice, pepper, and a little bit of mustard. All the savory flavors I craved most now, and who’d known Hemi could do that, or that he’d be willing to?

  Afterwards, I had just about enough strength to brush my teeth before I was crawling back into bed. I’m not sure when Hemi got in beside me, but at some point, I woke and he was there. I fell asleep again with his arm around me and his hand on my belly. Holding me, and holding onto the life inside me. Letting me know he was going to keep holding on. Letting me believe it.

  I fell asleep feeling safe.

  I woke the next morning to find that it was already seven, and I’d nearly slept the clock around. And I also woke to find a couple digestive biscuits on a plate by my bed. I ate them before I got up, and that made it easier. How had Hemi known?

  I found him working, of course, but he shut his laptop when I came in and smiled at me. “Morning, beautiful girl.”

  “Morning.” I leaned down to give him a kiss, and he pulled me gently into his lap, bent me back over his arm, and gave me a better one.

  “Thanks for my biscuits,” I said when he finally let me up again.

  “Mm.” More smile, then. “I talked to Tane this morning. He said they’ll keep Karen over there till it’s time to collect Koro. He also told me about the biscuits. Teaching me to be a good husband, eh.” The hand stroking over my hair told me he meant what he said.

  “What about Koro?”

  “Rang him as well. He said he’ll be released at eleven, and he wants us to come then. He said no sooner, because he’d have a roomful, and all the company was making him tired. Grumpy old bugger. Sure you’re ready to take that on? You can still come home, and I’d rather you did.”

  I kissed his cheek, then ran a hand down it, loving the morning-smoothness of it as much as I’d loved the faint roughness against my skin the night before. “I haven’t changed my mind. I love you more than I can say, but I need to do this. We need it. And of course I’m ready. He’s only out of sorts because he hurts, and he’s not at home, and he feels powerless. I’ve done a little bit of nursing, you know.”

  He sighed. “Right, then. And I do know. First your mum, then Karen. Too much nursing.”

  “No. The right amount. It’s always better when you can do something to help, and it’s best of all when the person will be getting well.”

  We cooked breakfast and ate it together, and then we took a walk down through the kiwifruit orchards toward the sea, stopped into the same café to pick up a coffee for Hemi, and walked back up the hill again. The late-winter breeze was chilly, but the sun was warm, and surely there was no sky as blue as New Zealand’s, no clouds whiter, no air as clean or invigorating. Or maybe that was just Hemi, and sex, and love, and . . . Hemi.

  “You’re all good,” I said when we were back in the house and I saw him reach for the phone in his back pocket, then stop himself. “If you have something to do, go ahead and do it.”

  His smile was rueful. “I’m trying to focus on you, but I do need to take a wee look at this.”

  “That’s fine. I have a few things to do myself.” My resume, mainly. I wasn’t sure I’d be applying for the kind of job that required it, but if I did, I’d be ready.

  It was actually strangely compatible, sitting there. Hemi had given me his attention and his time, and now, we could both be busy. Parallel play, like two toddlers. He’d put on a pair of headphones and was wearing his fiercest look of concentration, clicking at his laptop, staring at it, then clicking again. I sneaked peeks at him, but I couldn’t guess what had him so . . . up
set? Focused? Something.

  I finally hit “Save,” sat back, and took a breath, and Hemi took the headphones off and said, “Would you want to give me your opinion?”

  “Uh . . . sure. About what?”

  “The launch of the Colors of the Earth line. You had some good ideas at the meeting. Thought you might have an opinion now, and I’d like to hear it.”

  I was so surprised, I about fell over. I almost asked him if he really meant it, if he truly wanted to know what I thought or if this was some sort of ploy in the Get Hope Back campaign, but I thought better of it. Hemi didn’t say things he didn’t mean. “Sure,” I said instead. “I’d love to.” I bit back the words “for what my opinion’s worth.” I had a feeling that didn’t meet Te Mana Negotiation Standards.

  Hemi unplugged the headphones, shoved the laptop closer to me, and clicked again to start a video. A driving rock beat, that fashion show staple, filled the room as a series of slides flashed before me. Design drawings of dresses on models, and finished garments. A simulated show, in other words.

  I listened and watched until the end, then said, “Huh. Can I see it again?” and did.

  “These are the ads,” he said when the show had finished and I still hadn’t said anything, because I was still thinking. He clicked another few times, and I read the copy and did the rest of the clicking through myself.

  A lot of it, I recognized from my proofreading duties, but I was seeing it matched with the photographs for the first time. The lush greens and exotic vegetation of the New Zealand bush, the empty sweep of spectacular golden, crescent-shaped beaches and azure water so clear and pure, it stabbed you to the heart. Beautiful women of all colors and shapes and sizes, wearing headdresses made of flowers and leaves. Long hair and big eyes and, most of all—clothing in vibrant shades and lush, gorgeous fabrics. Dresses and tops and trousers that any woman’s hands would itch to stroke, that she’d yearn to drape herself in because if she wore them, she’d be beautiful.

  “The images . . . they’re breathtaking,” I said slowly.

  “But?” Hemi’s eyes were intent on mine.

  “Well, two things. I saw this copy before. I thought it was too florid then. Now, I really think so. You’ve got all these long sentences, all this over-the-top copy, when the images really speak for themselves. I feel like you need more . . . contrast. Like . . . choppy and sweet. Tender and tough. You know? The clothes are really so gorgeous. I can’t believe you did this. At least,” I hurried to add, “I can believe it, but I think they’re your best work ever. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He made an impatient gesture. “Never mind my ego. Go on.”

  “Well, don’t you think it might be more effective if it were more . . .” My hands moved, wanting to try, wanting to write, and Hemi slid a pad of paper and a pen over. “Like this,” I said, and wrote,

  Too much is never enough.

  Beautiful is a state of mind.

  Taste the color. Hear the movement. Feel the life.

  “I mean, those are just ideas,” I hurried to say when Hemi said nothing. “Off the top of my head. But sort of staccato, you know, but in an italic font, maybe. So the contrast again. And I feel like the show . . . like it needs more of that, too. More contrast. More edge. Like . . . you’re doing that now, with the hard music, but it feels wrong, doesn’t it? Isn’t that why you were frowning, why you asked me? See, I think you could go bold with that, like you are with the models. Bold, but not in a hard way. In a different way. In your way. The way a feminine woman can be bold, can be strong, and still be soft. Gentle but strong, like you last night. Gentle, but so sure.”

  I was carried away now, and I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to. I was going for it. I was putting it out there. “One of the first things I noticed about you was that you never, ever raised your voice. The more emotional you get, especially the more angry you get, the more quiet and still you become, and what happens? Everybody turns to look. Everybody stops talking and holds their breath. I’ll tell you, that is seriously scary. Serious power. It’s like a whisper is more powerful than a shout. And that’s these clothes, too. They don’t have to be bold and edgy to be powerful. They just have to be more beautiful, like they’re not afraid to be feminine. Like they can whisper.”

  “They can whisper,” Hemi said slowly. “She can whisper.”

  “Yes. Yes. So . . . Maori music. I’ve listened to some of it, doing my research on you, you know.” I tried to joke, because I still wasn’t sure what he thought, but I needed to express myself, to tell him, and the words kept tumbling out. “And some of it . . . like the bone flute, especially . . . it’s so haunting. It grabs you. It compels you. You have to pay attention. When you hear that loud rock music, you almost want to curl up, to go inside, to hide. The bone flute, it brings you out. It’s like what you’d play to make the animals quiet, to calm them and open their hearts.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t stop me, either, so I went on. “And another thing. The clothes. That’s where you could do the edge. I think, maybe . . . like, boots. In the show, she could have on funky leather boots, you know, with cutouts, maybe? Sexy, tough, rocker-girl. Nature isn’t always beautiful. It’s tough, and it’s tender. That’s where you see the softness best, when it’s against the hardness.”

  He sat still as stone, and I said, “Those are just ideas. Just my ideas for tweaks. I mean, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong. Everything’s so beautiful, and with the diverse models? It’s going to be a hit. It’s going to be wonderful. But just . . . tweaks,” I finished lamely, then trailed off. “Wow,” I finally said, then tried to laugh. “Bet you’re sorry you asked. Never mind. Henry said the worst thing in a marketing assistant was somebody with no experience, but with delusions of grandeur. The kind who wanted to plan strategy and write copy without any idea what she was doing, and what did I just do? Exactly that. But maybe that can give you some of your own ideas.”

  I waited, and then I waited some more. The seconds ticked by, and I found that I was holding my breath. Finally, Hemi did what I’d never have expected. He smiled like the sun coming out, and then he laughed out loud and picked me up out of my chair and off my feet. He swung me in a circle, right there in his Koro’s tiny living room, and I was twirling, spinning, and laughing, too.

  When he set me down at last, he kissed me, but not with the calculation he’d shown the night before. This came from his heart, and I put my hands on his cheeks and kissed him back, his joy coming straight through from his body to mine, as if we were one flesh, one spirit.

  Finally, he stood back, but he still had his arms around my lower back, was still holding me so close. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I knew there had to be more than one reason I loved you so much. Because you are brilliant.”

  “I . . . I am?” My heart was pounding, and the happiness in him was a golden thing, a shining thing. I wanted to stay in this moment forever, watching him feel that. Knowing he was showing it only to me, and that I’d helped him find it.

  Soulmates. That’s what it felt like. His soul touching mine. Something sacred. Something powerful, but not in a solemn way. In a bright way, a beautiful way.

  He said, “There’s a Maori word. Wairua. Spirit. The immortal principle, the shining essence. It’s not a separate thing, or even a religious thing. It’s the foundation, the most sacred part of who we are, the part that lives on after our body is gone. It can bubble to the surface, or it can glow beneath, shining out in our eyes, in our voice, in our deeds. And sweetheart—your wairua, it’s . . . it’s a light that shines so strong in you. And it’s beautiful.”

  I was crying now. I couldn’t help it. Tears of joy, not sorrow. Tears of gratitude that wouldn’t stay inside me, that had to come out, that had to be shown, to be seen. I was holding Hemi, I was crying, and there was so much love there. So much love, my body couldn’t contain it. It had to come out in my tears.

  “I love you,” I told him. “Because you listen. Because
you hear. Because you’re so much more than what you show the world, but you show it to me, and I’m so grateful to see it.”

  He looked at me, his face for once perfectly open, perfectly joyful. The face he must have shown as a boy, before the hard realities of his life had closed him off and shut him down.

  And if life has perfect moments, the ones you’ll remember forever? The sweet, precious pearls of joy you can hold in your heart, the treasures that will still be yours when you’re too old for anything but memories? Surely this was one. Surely this was mine.

  Hemi

  All too soon, Karen was home again. No time to take Hope back to bed, no matter how much I needed to do it. No time to show her all the things that, no matter what she thought, I knew I could tell her so much better with my willing body than with any clumsy, halting words I could dredge up. No time to make her own body hum and shudder and convulse until all she could do was sigh with satisfaction and fall asleep draped across my chest, or to make sure she’d remember exactly what she was missing when I was gone.

  Instead, it was time to drive back to the hospital and bring Koro home. Time for me to go home myself, where I’d have the space I needed to handle all the problems closing in on me, unhampered by distractions and untidiness of any sort.

  If that didn’t sound as good as it once had, I needed to adjust my attitude fast. I did what I had to do, and just now, this was it. Otherwise, I could lose most of what I’d spent a lifetime building, and lose Hope along with it. Despite what she’d said, I knew that no woman wanted a loser. My dad was proof enough of that.

  When we walked back into the hospital room late that Sunday morning, it was as crowded as I’d expected. Three vases of flowers crowded the meager table space, and a couple of bright helium balloons bounced against the ceiling. And then there were all the people. Tane and June and their kids, together with Auntie Flora. And for the first time since I’d been here, my cousin Matiu, leaning against the wall checking his phone.