Zana Bell - Tempting the Negotiator

“You’d better be careful,” he said. “The sun here is fierce and you’ll soon fry with that white skin of yours.”

Her eyes met his. “Thanks for the warning, but I’ve come prepared for things to be pretty hot down here.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about the sun.

“Wise,” he said. “Foreigners get burned very quickly.”

Jake thought he saw her eyebrows arch slightly, a smile of challenge flitting across her face, but it might only have been the effect of sun and shadow from the overhanging trees flashing past.

“Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Finlayson. I can take care of myself.”

With that, she captured her flying hair and somehow twisted it into a knot, untidy but tamed.

“Jake,” he corrected. “Where’s your name come from? I’ve never met a Sass before.”

“It’s a nickname from Sasha.”

“As in sassy?” he hazarded.

She laughed. “No, as in pain in the proverbial. I had two younger brothers who resented their bossy older sister. Our mom didn’t allow cussing.”

Their gazes met again. For a second he saw humor glimmer in her eyes, then Jake looked back at the road. He wasn’t about to start liking her—Miss Pain-in-the.

They fell silent, and instead of trying for more lame conversation, he switched on the stereo, letting the Chili Peppers take them down the length of the harbor. Just as they were about to swing onto the dirt road leading to Aroha Bay, she called out, “Stop.”

It sounded like “Staap.” Jake pulled over and waited as the lawyer took stock. It was, he resentfully acknowledged, an idyllic location for a resort. The Jeep sat on the top of a long, narrow ridge that flattened and rounded into a small peninsula, ending in a long sand spit. The view was almost three-sixty, looking down the harbor on the right-hand side and over the open ocean on the left. It would suit all types of holiday-makers. Aroha Bay below them was flat and tranquil, offering safe swimming all year round. On the seaward side, waves unfurled with lazy uniformity right along the coast. On both sides p hutukawa clung to the cliff faces while flax bushes fanned the sands. The only sign of habitation was his dilapidated house near the beach. Jake wondered what Sass saw—the bay as it was now or some future travesty of it in her head.

“Aroha Bay is a pretty name. What does it mean?”

“Aroha is the M ori word for love.” He sounded curt, but couldn’t help it.

She just nodded and asked, “What’s that?” pointing to where the ridge ended in a hill with grassy terraces.

“The p —an old M ori fortification. M ori used to have p up and down the coast, but this one is particularly significant.”

“Oh?” It was hard to read her expression. “Kurt never mentioned it.”

“He was too busy finding out where the nearest nightclub is.”

Jake saw Sass give a faint, disparaging smile—no love lost between those two, then—and wondered why the p site had caught her attention. Most visitors barely noticed it.

“Shall we go?” he asked at length.

She drew her eyes away, clearly pulling her thoughts back to the present. “Sure.”

Jake spun the wheels a little as he took off, and ground the gears as they drove the last kilometer down the steep, rutted track to the bay. Bringing the enemy right into the heart of paradise.

SASS’S HEART SANK as they drew up in a whirl of dust between a run-down old house and what appeared to be a shed. It was nothing like the hotel room she’d been hoping for.

“This is the sleep-out,” said Jake, leaping from the Jeep and waving at the shed. “You’ll be comfortable here, I hope.”

There was not an ounce of sincerity in what he said. Wordlessly, Sass wriggled out of the backseat and dropped onto her heels, which immediately embedded themselves in the dusty driveway. Jake hauled out her bags and led her up the steps onto the deck of the “sleep-out” and into the room.

It might have been a shed once, but now its walls were painted a pale yellow that echoed the late-afternoon sun. The front wall had been replaced with glass doors that overlooked the grassy reaches of the garden to the sun-spangled bay beyond. The view was a million bucks, but the furniture had a knock-kneed look. There were no drapes at the windows. The place was big but smelled musty.

“Here’s the bathroom,” he said, opening a door to the side. “You can use the house’s kitchen. I was going to move some of the boys out here but thought you’d prefer to have some privacy with five blokes around.”

“Five!”

He smiled at her shock. “It’s a bit of a bad boys’ home—not that the kids are bad as such, just a little wild. They’re with me for six months as an experiment in early intervention.”

His tone implied that a lawyer might not understand the concept, but she glanced at him in surprise. Jake didn’t look like a social worker. In fact, he seemed a little wild himself with his tangle of tawny curls. There was an exotic slant to his high cheekbones and a honey tone to his deep tan. His legs were long and muscular—not an office worker, she decided. The battered shorts were, of course, another clue.

She looked around. “Can I get on the Internet here?”

Jake shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve never bothered getting it. Cell phones are pretty useless, too, most of the time. Reception is patchy. You can get all that in Whangarimu, though. Come on, I’ll show you the house. Like a cup of tea?”

“I’d love a coffee if that’s okay.”

“American. Of course.”

Sass was impressed. There was nothing in his tone, but she’d just been insulted. Silently, she followed him to the house, her heels sinking into the shaggy lawn.

The building had excellent bones, with a wood exterior and deep veranda. Going inside, however, was like walking into Man Zone. The lounge was beautiful, with French doors and a generous windowseat in the eastern wall, but it was cluttered with sagging furniture and DVDs and PlayStation games. A large television and Xbox dominated one corner. The dining room had a huge table sadly in need of a polish and buried in books and papers.

In the kitchen, cupboards hung open, dishes were piled in the sink. The breakfast things were on the table. For a brief, horrible moment Sass flashed back to the chaos of the trailer home she’d grown up in, a far cry from the immaculate order she surrounded herself with these days.

“Place is a bit of a tip, I’m afraid,” Jake said, not sounding the least apologetic. “Now, coffee, did you say?”

She looked around for his coffee machine as he put the kettle on. Then she watched as he opened a tin of instant, chipped at it for a second—God, how old was it?—then heaped a teaspoon of lumps into what she was relieved to see appeared to be a clean mug.

“Where are the kids now?”

“Should be back from school any minute, but they won’t stop to talk—the waves are too good. They’re all mad keen surfers. That’s why they’re with me. They’re preparing for the nationals and this location is unbeatable. Milk? No—just black? There you are, pull up a chair if you like.”

“No thanks, I’ll take the coffee over to the sh—sleep-out?—and start settling in if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself. Dinner around eight okay for you?”