Text copyright 2018 Rosalind James

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

Even a hard man needs a soft side.

Marko Sendoa isn't a beach man. He's not an Auckland man. He's a hard man. Born Basque, raised in the heart of New Zealand's Southern Alps, and bred on hard work, discipline, and getting the job done. It's not easy for a rugby flanker to make it to age 32 at the top of his game, but he's done it. Next year is the Rugby World Cup, and he'll do whatever it takes to be on the field in the black jersey when the anthems are sung.

He doesn't need a kitten.

He doesn't need a pregnant cousin.

He definitely doesn't need a too-short, distractingly curvy, totally unimpressed Maori barista and part-time pet portraitist who fills his house and his life with too much color, too much chaos, and too many secrets.

He's getting them anyway.

We are only visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through.

Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love, and then we return home.

—Australian Aborigine Proverb

Sir Andrew (Drew) Callahan, Hannah Montgomery Callahan. JUST THIS ONCE. Drew, a former blindside flanker (No. 6) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, and the two-time Rugby World Cup-winning captain of the All Blacks, is coaching rugby in the Bay of Plenty; Hannah is a marketing executive for 2nd Hemisphere knitwear. 3 children.

Hemi Ranapia, Reka Hawera Ranapia. JUST FOR YOU. Hemi, a former No. 10 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, coaches with Drew in the Bay of Plenty. 4 children.

Koti James, Kate Lamonica James. JUST GOOD FRIENDS. Koti is a centre (No. 13) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Kate is an accountant for the Blues. 2 children.

Finn Douglas, Jenna McKnight Douglas. JUST FOR NOW. Finn, a former No. 8 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, is strength & conditioning coach for the Blues; Jenna is a teacher. 4 children.

Nic (Nico) Wilkinson, Emma Martens Wilkinson. JUST FOR FUN. Nic is a fullback (No. 15) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Emma is a knitwear designer for 2nd Hemisphere. 2 children.

Liam (Mako) Mahaka, Kristen Montgomery Mahaka. JUST MY LUCK. Liam is a hooker (No. 2) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks; Kristen (Hannah’s sister) is a fashion buyer. 1 child.

Nate (Toro) Torrance, Allison (Ally) Villiers. JUST MY LUCK. Nate is a halfback (No. 9) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks, and captain of the All Blacks; Ally is a climbing instructor.

Hugh Latimer, Jocelyn (Josie) Pae Ata. JUST NOT MINE. Hugh is an openside flanker (No. 7) for the Auckland Blues; Josie is a TV star and model. Raising Hugh’s two half-siblings: Amelia and Charlie.

Will Tawera, Faith Goodwin. JUST IN TIME. Will is a first-five (No. 10) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Faith is a novelist. Getting together during this story.

Iain McCormick, Sabrina (Nina) Jones. JUST STOP ME. Iain is a lock (No. 5) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Nina is an international model. Getting together during this story.

Kevin (Kevvie) McNicholl, Chloe Donaldson. JUST SAY YES. Kevin is a wing (No. 11) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks. Chloe has a 3-year-old son. Getting together during this story.

(Selected for every series from the five New Zealand Super Rugby teams, they play other international squads both at home and abroad, in the Southern and Northern Hemispheres, as well as the Rugby World Cup every four years. Past selection is no guarantee of inclusion.)

Forwards:

No. 1 (prop) – Chiefs player

No. 2 (hooker) – Mako (Liam) Mahaka (Hurricanes) – JUST MY LUCK (Kristen)

No. 3 (prop) – Crusaders player

No. 4 (lock) – Kane Armstrong (Crusaders) – Nyree’s stepbrother

No. 5 (lock) – Iain McCormick (Blues) – JUST STOP ME (Nina)

No. 6 (blindside flanker) – Marko Sendoa (formerly Highlanders, now Blues)

No. 7 (openside flanker) – Hugh Latimer (formerly Hurricanes, now Blues) – JUST NOT MINE (Josie)

No. 8 (No. 8) – Chiefs player

Backs:

No. 9 (halfback) – Nate (Toro) Torrance (Hurricanes) - JUST MY LUCK (Ally)

No. 10 (first-five) – Will Tawera (Blues) – JUST IN TIME (Faith)

No. 11 (wing) - Kevin McNicholl (Blues) – JUST SAY YES (Chloe)

No. 12 (centre) – Highlanders player

No. 13 (centre) - Koti James (Blues) – JUST GOOD FRIENDS (Kate)

No. 14 (wing) – Hurricanes player

No. 15 (fullback) - Nic Wilkinson (Blues) – JUST FOR FUN (Emma)

Strength & conditioning coach – Finn Douglas (JUST FOR NOW). Former All Black. (Jenna)

You had to understand one thing about Marko Sendoa. What you saw on the paddock wasn’t what you saw off it. He didn’t lose his temper, however it looked to the fans. During a rugby match, at home, or anywhere else.

Right. That was two things. He also didn’t stay out too late, drink too much, or party too hard. Not anymore. Twenty-year-olds could afford that. Thirty-two-year-olds, not so much. Which was why he didn’t do it.

That was three… four… five things. All of the above.

So why, instead of lying up with a few Panadol and a cold pack, nursing his aching ribs after a brutal loss to the Highlanders, was he bashing Tom Koru-Mansworth with a knitting bag in a Dunedin bar at two o’clock in the morning? Not to mention seeing the flashes of a dozen camera phones exploding like starbursts around him?

Some match days were brilliant. Other days, you couldn’t catch a win with both hands and all your teeth. And this day? This day was going to end up in a class all by itself.

Morning came too early. A bare couple hours of sleep later, and he was following the dark-blue tracksuit in front of him onto the plane and stowing his backpack in the overhead bin of the commuter jet for the two-hour journey to Auckland, his new team’s home base. He ducked into the seat, ignoring the protest from his ribs, slewed his legs around to create some semblance of “fitting,” pulled out his phone, and considered whether he actually wanted to look at it.

Did Tom, saved from a public relations nightmare, sit down beside him to say, “Thanks for your help, mate?” He did not. He was sprawled across two front seats with a cold pack on his head and didn’t look like he’d be getting up anytime soon.

How about a “well done” from Hugh Latimer, Marko’s new skipper and third-row scrum partner? That wasn’t happening, either. Instead, Aleke Fiso, the human fireplug who was the Blues’ head coach, was easing his considerable bulk into the aisle seat next to Marko.

Brilliant. Trapped.

A hundred watts of Samoan stare. A pregnant pause. Then Fizzo’s deep baritone. “Suppose you tell me about it.”

Marko considered saying, “Tell you about what?” But judging by the phone Fizzo was holding in his oversized mitt, a phone that undoubtedly contained some choice shots of a disrupted pub interior, some rugby players in various states of unkempt abandon, and nothing like “conduct becoming a senior player,” resistance was futile.

Marko carefully didn’t sigh. Instead, he said, “It didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned. I needed to do something to get them out of there, though, and Kors wasn’t going quietly. It was a situation.”

“So you’re saying,” Fizzo said, “that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Better than actually going in with my fists,” Marko pointed out. “Or possibly a chair, for less damage but more spectacle. It occurred to me.”

Fizzo wasn’t smiling. The last thing from it. But he’d had a bit of a reputation himself back in the day. That was how he’d earned his excitable nickname, along with the most spectacular cauliflower ear known to rugby and a nose flattened beyond recognition. A hooker wasn’t always a brawler. Just usually. He said, “Your fists would have been a very bad idea. And yet you bruised the hell out of his jaw all the same.” He held out his phone. Marko didn’t look at it. “Somebody got a good snap of him falling across a table. Maybe you should’ve used the chair. How did that happen?”

“I was going for the element of surprise with the knitting bag,” Marko said. “Humor, maybe. Shock him out of it when he was batting away knitting wool, with something pink and lacy draped over his ugly head. How was I to know she had two full-sized pairs of sewing scissors in there? The bag looked soft. It was flowered. That was why I chose it. And what the hell was somebody’s mum doing knitting in the pub at two in the morning, anyway? When I was twenty-one and out on the razzle, I don’t remember there being any knitters in the picture. What are women coming to?”

“Careful,” Fizzo said. “My wife knits.”

“So does my mum,” Marko said. He preferred this topic to a discussion of his reckless nature. “She knits in the pub, now I think about it. But she isn’t there at two in the morning. And she isn’t armed with enormous steel scissors. I call that unfair. And yes, I apologized for borrowing the lady’s bag. Checked whether I’d broken the scissors and picked up the spilt wool. Gentlemanly, that was me. Bet that won’t make the papers.”

“I hear that you turned up in your jandals and a possible pair of PJ trousers,” Fizzo said, changing the subject. “After a call from the pub to your hotel, maybe, as you were rooming with Kors, meant to be looking after him. Riding to the rescue, were you?”

“They knew I’d be sober. And in bed. I was glad they rang me. Still am.”

“Thought you’d get Kors out of there discreetly, I reckon,” Fizzo said. “Pity it didn’t work out that way. How bad was he?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Going after somebody’s girlfriend,” Fizzo said. “Ready to fight the boyfriend. Or so I hear. Backs, eh. Think they’re hard men.”

“If you know,” Marko said, “I’m surprised you’re asking me.” Too narky for your head coach, but it was barely seven in the morning, he’d spent half an hour last night talking to the police after somebody had got much too excited and rung them, and he’d had his photo taken too many times, for all the wrong reasons, on his former home ground. The Blues had lost the match with his family in the stands, he’d be splashed across the Otago Daily Times, if it hadn’t already happened, bashing his teammate in the face with a knitting bag, and he was tired. And most importantly, if he hadn’t done it, scissors and all—what then?

Fizzo seemed to agree, because he said, “It’s going to end up in the papers, and you’ll come off worst. All about perception, eh. The ref always goes after the second bloke in a fight, and you know it. Expect to do some rehab on your reputation.”

“Fine,” Marko said with relief. Not as bad as it could’ve been, then. “Visiting kids in hospital, maybe. I can do that.”

“We’ll see,” Fizzo said, heaving his bulk out of the seat. “Stop and see Brenda in PR after training tomorrow. She’ll think up something good. Her job, isn’t it.”

As long as he still got to play, nothing else mattered. The plane was in the air now. No WiFi to check what exactly was out there this morning, but he’d know soon enough.

Hugh Latimer came forward and took the seat Fizzo had vacated. “Mate,” the skipper said on a sigh.

“Yeh,” Marko said. “Tell them to ring you next time.” He held out his phone for Hugh to see. “Text from my mum.”

Hugh frowned over the photo of a brightly colored card. “The Fool,” he read aloud, then raised a dark brow at Marko. “Seems a bit harsh.”

“It’s my Tarot card of the day,” Marko said. “In case I was wondering.” He scrolled down and read aloud to Hugh.

Chin up, baby. The Fool isn’t always foolish. Just willing to take a chance and learn from it. Not every unexpected leap is too far, and not everyone who strays from the path is lost. I’d bet on your judgment every time. There are more important decisions coming your way. I’m guessing you’ll choose right again. Love you.

“Good to know,” Hugh said. “Next time I face the decision of whether to chuck a bag containing sharp objects at a mate’s head, I’ll consult the Tarot first and hopefully discover that it’s a brilliant idea. Nothing like a mum, is there?”

“You aren’t the one whose changing cubicle will be stuffed with knitting wool tomorrow,” Marko said.

Hugh stood up and put a hand on Marko’s shoulder. “Well, you know,” he said, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Nyree Morgan came to life slowly.

It wasn’t really “coming to life.” It just felt like it. Or like swimming her unwilling way up from the depths of the darkest sea, finally breaking the surface and wishing she hadn’t.

Her cheek was stuck to something. A piece of sketching paper. She peeled it off with a grimace and sighed. From the light coming in through the garage’s windows, it was already mid-morning.

She didn’t have a drinking problem. She had a painting problem. She was lying on what passed for her couch, and the substance on her cheek, she discovered after some exploratory work, was burnt umber.

This had to stop. If she were going to achieve her dreams, she needed to stop putting the work off and start dredging up some good old-fashioned Kiwi grit. Get stuck in and get it done. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it, and that somebody was her.

Painting Pookie.

She’d prepared the canvas two weeks ago, but had avoided starting on Pookie, Savannah Calloway’s overfed dachshund, until last night. She’d told herself she was turning Pookie over in her mind until she got his personality right. It sounded good. It just wasn’t true.

The truth was, she hated Pookie. She shoved a hand through her unkempt mass of black hair, yawned, and eyed the notice board next to her easel without enthusiasm. Twelve shots of Pookie in various stages of fat, irritable, thoroughly spoilt dogdom. And next to it, the canvas on which a slimmed-down, friendlier Pookie, the Ghost of Pookie Past, was taking shape.

Right. She needed to finish the painting within the next week, because Savannah was planning to unveil it at Pookie’s wedding in exactly four weeks, and that would be barely enough time to apply the varnish and allow it time to dry. If the portrayal favored Pookie enough, she had a feeling she could be asked to paint the bridal couple.

Pookie and Precious.

Who was a Chihuahua.

In her wedding gown.

And veil.

She thought about it while scrubbing at her face with rubbing alcohol, wrinkling her nose involuntarily at the smell, then going to work on her hands. She’d finished painting at four this morning—or rather, she’d sat down, paintbrush in hand, to contemplate her work, and had apparently fallen asleep where she sat. Now, it was after ten, and she had a shift at Bevvy at four.

She thought about it some more while she was pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail and finding her running skirt and bra in the washing basket. They were clean, so there was that. She laced up her trainers, bounced on her toes a bit, rolled her head on her neck, considered a coffee, stuffed her EFTPOS card into the pocket of her skirt instead for after, and went for her car.

She’d get alert. She’d get inspired. She’d get fit. She’d think of a way to make Pookie beautiful, to draw out his better doggy self. The self he could have been with a little more training and a little less hand-feeding. It wasn’t Pookie’s fault he was a terrible dog. He could be a wonderful dog. She could make him into a wonderful dog. She just had to believe.

And clap her hands, if she believed in fairies.

She was out of the garage on the thought, into her Beetle, and through the Sunday-morning glorious-New-Zealand-day traffic, all the way to St. Heliers, home of so many of Auckland’s rich and famous. On her way toward the best sea views available to a person living in a garage in Mt. Wellington, a person who needed to be painting again by noon.

Light, sea, sky, and greenery to ease the mind and lift the heart. Endorphins, clean air, and caffeine. And, hopefully—Pookie-inspiration.

Marko dumped his bags inside the door of his new Auckland house and looked around with less enthusiasm than the place deserved. He still missed Dunedin, and his less glamorous but comfortable house there. He should buy something to hang on the walls, take advantage of the light. Art, maybe. How did you buy art? No clue. The question hadn’t exactly come up in his life before.

After that, he thought about a second breakfast. He needed to loosen up first, though. A jog, a feed, and this afternoon, he’d play a round of golf and loosen up some more, then cook a steak and a baking tray of veggies. Start replacing the six thousand calories he’d burned last night, then get to bed early so he was ready for training tomorrow.

For now, he made a quick smoothie with broccoli, blueberries, and oranges, added an extra scoop of protein powder and a couple organic eggs, and drank the whole mess down while unpacking his bags and pulling off his tracksuit. Finally, stripped down to a singlet and rugby shorts, he headed out the door and toward Dingle Dell, the bush reserve that stretched out behind his house.

He’d take in a little birdsong and bush, then run up to the headland, down to the beach, and along the sand until his calves burned and his legs let go of the stiffness, then turn toward home, a shower, a soak in the spa tub, and second breakfast.

It only took a block for the plan to go pear-shaped.

She’d parked at the side of the road, in a yellow VW Beetle that had to be fifteen years old. A slam of the door, and she was off. Close to two blocks ahead of him, but you could say she caught his eye.

Why? Couldn’t be the body. He went for tall, tanned, athletic blondes, and she was the last thing from any of it. She was running as slowly as a person could go and still call it jogging, in fact. Call it “walking while jumping.” She was far too short for a six-foot-four-inch man, her skin was nothing but pale, and her hair was black and messy.

He passed her car, realized with relief why he’d noticed her—he hadn’t gone mad after all, knitting bag notwithstanding—and ran a bit faster.

It wasn’t much effort to catch up. His legs were about twice as long as hers. She was all the way into the reserve, though, by the time he got close on the shadowy path. A tui called from somewhere to the left, the liquid notes answered by another bird on the right. A mate, or a rival, because this one was showing off. Clicks, then cackles and groans, the sound nearly eerie here amongst the fern trees and palms that draped the reserve in cool shade.

Ahead of him, the girl looked tense. The running was new, probably. Felt too hard. That had to be it, considering the speed she was going. He caught up and said, “Excuse me.”

She whirled on him so fast, he started running backward out of habit.

“I have Mace!” she announced, all but baring her teeth.

Oh. She’d heard him coming up behind her. He blinked, realized he was still jogging backward, stopped, and said, “Uh… no, you don’t. But no worries. You don’t need it.” There wasn’t room to conceal more than a car key in that kit she was wearing. A flippy little zebra-print skirt, and a black sports bra that dipped low enough in front to show some cleavage. She was a curvy little thing and no mistake. Not that he was looking. She was advancing on him like the stroppiest terrier in the litter, and despite her aggression, he could see the fear underneath.

First the pub, and now this. He didn’t scare women. He was careful. He put up both palms and said again, “No worries.”

She seemed taken aback for an instant, but recovered fast. “I’m not worried,” she said. “But maybe you should be, eh.” A hint of a Maori accent there. He considered explaining that he liked blondes, but she opened her hand, and bloody hell, but she did have a tiny metal canister laced between her fingers, together with her keys. An older couple was coming towards them with a Golden Retriever on a leash, and Marko had a sudden flash of his photo in another newspaper. Staggering around, tears streaming from his eyes, Maced on a bush track after attacking a jogger. That would be a good look.

Brilliant.

He said, “Gidday” to the couple, who nodded back at him with a “Morning” and a curious look at his new non-friend, who was on her toes, like she was deciding whether to stand her ground or make a run for it.

She apparently decided, because she told him, “Make it easy on yourself. Keep running.”

The older couple hesitated, then turned back. Wonderful.

Marko said, “Don’t flatter yourself. I caught up with you to tell you your lights are on. On your car. You can go back and turn them off, or you can let your battery run down. Your choice.”

“Oh.” She looked disconcerted, as well she might. Then her pale face tightened again. “That can’t be. When you set the parking brake, it automatically disables the daytime running light switch, and I always set the parking brake. It’s an old car.”

He said, “Right, then. Suit yourself.”

He would run on, that was what he’d do. No point in this, no matter how much he wanted to stay and… what? Get Maced?

It was her face. And, yes, the rest of her. He could see cleavage in the vee of that black sports bra, and it was pale and perfect. Those bras were meant to be unsexy. He’d been told so. This one was sexy, no matter what anybody said, or maybe it was the body beneath it. And then there was that little skirt.

She wasn’t any hardbody. She had curves a man could cuddle. Which wasn’t what he looked for, so what did he care?

That wasn’t it, either, though. It was the story, one of many his mum had read to him and his sisters every night before bed. Fairy stories as often as not, to his male disgust. The stories must have sunk in, though, because he remembered this one.

The queen was doing her needlework by the window one winter’s day when a raven flew by, startling her so that she pricked her finger. A single drop of blood fell onto the snow outside, and as she looked at it, she said to herself, “How I wish I had a daughter with lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, and hair as black as a raven’s wing.”

Remembering it, he thought, Wait. Why was the queen sitting by an open window in winter? Stupid, especially with no central heating. But still.

Snow White. This girl’s skin was pale, her lips were rosy and all the way full, taking up too much space in her square little face, and the hair pulled back into the messy ponytail shone blue-black and wavy, shiny as a… tui’s wing, more like, with that blue in it.

It was her eyes, though, that held him fast and sent… something… down his spine. A chill. Or a thrill, like someone you remembered from a past life. His mum would’ve had something to say about that, no doubt. The Six of Cups crossed by some Major Arcana card. He wasn’t proud he knew that.

Those eyes, though. They weren’t the brown ones he’d have expected. Instead, they were a pale sea-green with darker flecks, fringed by sooty black lashes. It wasn’t mascara, because this girl wasn’t what you’d call “ornamented.” She just was. Even her hair seemed to be crackling with life, like you couldn’t contain her.

Was she beautiful? Probably not. Maybe she was just different. He couldn’t decide. He knew for sure that she wasn’t blonde and athletic. Also, the brows above those startling eyes were straight and black, sending a completely different message from her lush mouth. She had something brown smeared along her neck, too, like she’d been careless with the chocolate. Messy all the way around.

Snow White? Not so much. He didn’t think she’d be singing to any animals. Or doing the housework for seven men, either. This one would put you through your paces and no mistake, and he didn’t have time for difficult women.

Not that she was asking him to. Those eyebrows were practically drawn into one long line across her face, and he said, not knowing quite why he was doing it, “I’ll run back and switch them off for you if you like, so you can keep doing your run. Take me five minutes.”

The bloke with the Golden Retriever said, “Marko Sendoa, isn’t it?” Probably clued in by the dark bruise on his right cheekbone and the matching ones on his arms, or maybe the taped-together fingers and the Adidas singlet. He’d gone with the sponsor today.

“Yeh,” Marko said, and mustered up a smile. “How ya goin’.”

“Pity about last night,” the man said. “I was hoping for a better outcome straight up to the end. The tackling was pretty average. But then, the season’s young, and that’s why you actually have to play the game, eh. New blindside flanker for the Blues,” he explained to his wife. “Drew Callahan’s position. A real replacement at last, one hopes. Just moved to Auckland from the Highlanders.”

“I know who Marko Sendoa is,” she said. “For heaven’s sake, Walter. I do look at a newspaper occasionally. Never mind,” she told Marko. “I’m sure you players—and the coaches—know what you’re doing better than the punters.” Her husband opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but she was talking again, telling the young woman, “You could give him your keys, surely. He’s an All Black, isn’t he? If he steals your car, we all know where he works.”

“I know who he is,” the girl said without looking at Marko. “And thanks, but I’ve got it.” And off she went, back toward her car. The world’s slowest runner.

White skin, black bra straps. Zebra striped skirt. A Coke-bottle shape to her, and the kind of waist you wanted to put your hands around just to see how close they’d come to touching. Lifting her down from something, maybe. That’d be nice.

Yeh, right.

The bloke looked at Marko pityingly and said, “That’s twice you’ve been shot down, I reckon. Some days are like that.”

He clearly hadn’t read about the knitting bag yet.

On the bright side, Snow White hadn’t actually Maced him. There was that.

He hadn’t recognized her. He certainly hadn’t wanted her. The man was so not her fated mate.

And, yes, she’d been in her teens most of the times they’d been around each other. Slightly chubby and all the way awkward, not to mention felled by the most massive of crushes. It still wasn’t much of an ego boost that he didn’t remember.

Never mind. Heaps of men found her attractive. Some men, anyway. All right, a few men. Normal men, not men who went through blonde sport stars and TV presenters like chocolates in a box. And rugby players weren’t special. They were just blokes, and blokier than most. Entitled blokes, too.

Her stepbrother Kane had told her once, “Half dog, and the other half not much better. If you’re tempted—ask me about him first. Or say ‘no’ up front and save yourself the trouble.”

By the time he’d said that—because sex ed always came too late—she’d already been well aware that there were players out there who were quite happy to have an excuse to score against her stepfather and stepbrothers, to tick the “winner” box in the most elemental way there was. She’d also discovered that a photo gallery of rugby WAGs tended to look like you’d stumbled into a blonde convention, and that she wasn’t long-term material.

So it wasn’t like it was any surprise. Still. He might at least have remembered her.

It was hard for her not to remember how a nineteen-year-old Marko had looked through the eyes of an almost-fifteen-year-old girl trying to fit in with a new stepfamily and desperately ill-at-ease in her new posh school, new city, new island where it was always too cold and nobody seemed to be Maori.

Come to think of it, it was just as well he didn’t remember her. Not necessarily her finest moments.

The first time she’d seen him up close, it had been at a barbecue at her stepfather’s house, a preseason get-together to welcome the new forwards to the Highlanders. Her stepfather Grant had just been appointed forwards coach, so it was an icebreaker for him, too. You’d never have known it, though, from his manner, as in-charge as it was possible for a man to look without saying more than ten words at a stretch.

Her mum Miriama, already pregnant with Nyree’s sister Kiri, had moved around the hillside terrace that day as serene as if she’d been born to it, as if the shabby little flat outside Whangarei had already faded far into the distance and Dunedin was where she’d always been meant to be. The hulking mass of muscle that made up the forward pack of a rugby squad had eaten, talked, and joked, on their best behavior in front of the coach. And Nyree, the only other female in the place, had sat taking nibbles at her hamburger from her spot on the concrete wall at the edge of the semicircular terrace, imagining that she was looking thoughtful and mysterious.

She was rewarded for her efforts when a lanky young giant sat down beside her.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s a nice view, eh.” His dark hair had been too long, his nose too big, his body all arms and legs. He’d seemed like a prince out of a Disney movie all the same, recognizing her as his princess and coming to her rescue like it was meant to be. She’d had that kind of imagination at the time.

Almost-fifteen wasn’t the easiest age, especially when you were short, still carrying too much baby fat, and could fit your entire fist into your enormous mouth like a trout. If a trout had a fist. She’d sat, frozen, and wondered how she could eat her burger without showing him the new braces on her teeth. Wishing she’d left her spectacles off, too, although her mother would have noticed and made her put them on. “Yeh,” she said. “Nice.” And then wondered what to say next.

“I’m Marko,” he said. “I guess you’re Grant’s daughter.”

“Stepdaughter. My mum just married him a few months ago. I don’t really know him.”

His black brows rose, and he said, “Sounds like a change. Have you always lived in Dunedin?”

“No. Northland. I mean, we were in Northland. Before.”

“Different.”

“Yeh.”

Again, she was stuck, but he wasn’t. He said, “New school as well, then. I remember when I came down at first for boarding school. Dunedin seemed like LA to a kid from a sheep farm in the Southern Alps, from all the way out in the wop-wops. Nowhere to run away to when you needed to be alone, no place to take a breath deep enough.” He grinned at her. “I even missed my sisters. That’s desperation.”

“You have sisters?” Ask about him. She’d read that in a magazine. Oh, no. What if she had bits of hamburger stuck in her braces? He was close enough that she could see the dark shadow on his cheek where he’d shaved, and she got a shudder she’d never felt before, and a thrilling twist of something low and hot in her belly. She thought she could even smell him, and his scent, a little bit spicy, was making her dizzy. He was so… so manly, and he was talking to her. Out of everybody here.

“Three,” he said. “All younger. One of them your age, I’m guessing. Thirteen?”

She could tell she was turning red. “Nearly fifteen,” she mumbled, and looked down at her plate.

“Oh. Sorry. And no sisters?”

“No. Just, uh… I guess, stepbrothers. You know. Not really brothers.”

“Luke and Kane,” he said. “They seem like good blokes. What? They’re not nice to you?”

“Yeh. I mean, no. Kane gave me his room. He didn’t want to, though. He had to move in with Lukas so I could have a room.”

“Well, why shouldn’t he?” Marko answered. “Luke’s up with the Crusaders now, eh. What does he need a room in Dunedin for? When you leave the house, your parents get the room back. It’s the rule.” He grinned again. “Ask me how I know. When I went home for Christmas this year, I slept on the couch. Course, that suited me. The beds are too small. I’m a bit of an oversized fella, like your stepbrothers.”

“No,” she answered, knowing she must be beetroot-red. “I mean, I know. It’s fine. Everybody’s nice to me. They’re all…”

She trailed off, because Marko wasn’t looking at her anymore. A shadow fell over her untouched plate, and she looked up to see Kane standing over them. Six foot eight and still growing, not quite eighteen, and even more gangly than Marko. The expression on his face wasn’t friendly.

Nyree scrambled to her feet, and her hamburger slipped from her plate. She watched as if in slow motion as the whole mess fell to the stones of the terrace in a mini-explosion of tomato sauce and salad. Onto Marko’s shoes.

Oh, bugger.

She crouched down to pick it all up as best she could and shove it back onto her plate as best she could. She couldn’t do anything about the tomato sauce, a splash of red on Marko’s enormous white trainers, and she wished she could sink straight through the stones.

Marko hadn’t noticed. At least, when she stood up again, he was facing Kane, ignoring her.

Kane said, after a long moment, “My dad would like a word. Now.”

Marko’s face hardened to match Kane’s. He looked at Nyree, then back at her stepbrother. “You’re joking. Mate. She’s a little girl.”

“I know,” Kane said. “That’s the point, isn’t it.”

“Fine,” Marko said. “Whatever.”

So much for her fated mate.

Today, once again, he’d shaved, the aggressive jaw free of black stubble, allowing his deep-set dark eyes and strong nose, with its hump that said, “Broken! The hard way!” to send their ferocious message all by themselves. She happened to have noticed over the years that he normally played with a week’s worth of scruff, possibly to look more intimidating, as if that were necessary. She guessed he shaved after the match. But there were still the two hundred forty pounds of muscle, another thing that had changed between nineteen and thirty-two. In a singlet, so you got the full benefit of all that shoulder and arm. Almost indecent, a raw display of power completely unsuited to this genteel beach suburb.

She was rattled, and she shouldn’t be. She was used to tall men. Tough men. Rugby men. A supersized man wasn’t any kind of sexy treat. She knew better. They ate all the eggs and left you with the empty carton, drank milk straight from the bottle and put it back in the fridge, left their size sixteen shoes out for you to trip over, watched too much sport, and talked too much about cricket and not enough about anything interesting. No treat.

She’d known all that for years, and yet she hadn’t been able to shake her unfortunate crush until her final year of school, after which she’d left home for Christchurch and university. Maybe because Marko always gave her a smile when he saw her, as if he felt something special for her, too. A dream she may have held too close to her heart for too long a time. And maybe because he’d stopped being gangly, eventually.

Until she’d found out that he wasn’t any different, and he certainly wasn’t special.

And now? She couldn’t escape seeing his photo from time to time, especially when she was in Dunedin. If he wasn’t on a rugby field, though, he had his arm around a blonde every time. A different blonde.

As for her? She’d moved back to the North Island, to Auckland, after uni. She had her own life, and it didn’t include rugby. Not anymore. She didn’t watch unless she was in a pub and couldn’t avoid it, or was watching her stepbrothers, sometime when it really mattered. Marko could move to the Blues if he wanted. It might make a difference to her stepfather, but it made no difference to her. She was over it.

When she got to the car, her headlights were on. She muttered something that would have shocked her mother, turned them off again, and set out once more. It was all exercise, even if she did some of it a couple times over. And running was good for her. She hated it, but she was doing it, see? For clarity, for inspiration, and hopefully for a tighter, smaller bum.

She knew it was two kilometers to Achilles Point. She didn’t look at her watch to see how long it was taking. The point was, she made it. She puffed her way up the final incline, which felt more like a mountain, tried to tell herself, Gorgeous sea view, and failed. Maybe it was the black spots that were swimming in her vision. She bent over from the waist to haul in a few precious breaths and focused on not being sick.

When she stood up again, she saw him. He’d just run the stairs from the beach. She didn’t even want to walk the stairs from the beach. And he wasn’t breathing hard.

Bastard.

He dropped to the boardwalk, began doing press-ups in a leisurely manner, and said, “I’ll take your apology now.”

“P-p-pardon?” It came out wrong. She still couldn’t breathe.

“I didn’t blame you at the start,” he went on, sounding as if twenty press-ups were nothing but a warmup. Which they probably were. He started them over again, then said, “I ran up behind you. Startled you. Fair enough. But afterwards? Did you thank me for my generous offer? Did you give me a dignified way out? You did not. You ran away and left me with a bona fide footy expert. I’m not even going to comment on the fact that if you’d let me turn off your headlights, you’d have been up here ten minutes faster.” He eyed her more closely. “Maybe fifteen.”

The sun was too hot, and her face was still dripping with sweat and probably flushed to beetroot state. Still, she felt a bit better. “Your new mate had something to say about your performance last night, did he? Could be you just lost to a better side.”

He hovered for a long moment at the top of a press-up, then leaped to his feet in one smooth movement. “Now, I call that cruel. And if you knew who I was, why did I get all that talk about Macing me? I was sweating.”

“You were not sweating. It takes more than that to make you sweat.”

He grinned at her, lifted the collar of his singlet, and wiped his face, exposing a flash of taut, ridged midriff in a quite possibly delicious shade of golden brown. And a thin line of dark hair leading south from his navel, straight into the top of those black shorts. “Could be you’re making me do it,” he said. “But I’m happy you’ve noticed.”

She tore her gaze away and back up to his face fast, but not before he’d caught her looking.

At fourteen, she’d thought he was her knight on a white horse. At seventeen, she’d learned better. Ten more years had done him some favors in the body department, but she wasn’t sure they’d improved his character.

She smiled back at him, saw the answering smile get cockier, and said, as sweetly as she could manage, “I’m so impressed by that, I’ve come over a bit faint. Time for me to go.”

“If you’re faint,” he said, “I reckon I’d better buy you lunch.” So confident, like he had only to offer himself up, and the world and all its women would be his. She wasn’t fourteen anymore, though, and she didn’t have any illusions about the romantic intentions of rugby players. Even All Blacks weren’t necessarily all they were cracked up to be.

“Cheers,” she said, “but no. I need to go. Thanks for telling me about my headlights. Goodbye.”

Sometimes, if you were very lucky, you got a second chance. You might still be able to fit your fist into your mouth, but at least the braces were gone, you hadn’t dropped any food, and you definitely didn’t feel like slinking away and dying.

Not anymore.

At three-thirty the next afternoon, Marko tugged his T-shirt over his chest, picked up his bag, and tried to make an inconspicuous exit.

He failed. “Off to learn your fate?” Koti James asked with a grin.

It would be easy to hate Koti. At this moment, in fact, Marko would swear the fluorescent lights of the changing room were gleaming off Koti’s too-perfect teeth and too-perfect abs like they’d been specially aimed there. As if his whole life were a movie starring Koti James.

It was easy to discount the man’s workrate if all you saw were the flash body and the oh-so-casually-flash skills. When you were in the gym with him, though, you saw how much grunt it took to keep both body and skills at that exalted level, especially once your odometer rolled over at thirty. Marko should know. It had taken him a full year to grind his way back from injury this time.

When he’d lain on the damp grass in New Plymouth last February, barely twenty minutes into a preseason match that wasn’t even meant to matter, he’d known too much was torn. There was no mistaking that pain. Worse than he’d ever felt, like his leg had been ripped straight off. He’d lain there, forcing himself not to scream, had thought, Months, and had fought the black despair.

The difference between a champion and everybody else, though, was that a champion didn’t give up. So when the doctor told him he’d ripped three ligaments in his knee, torn his right quadriceps straight off the bone, and, at thirty-one, would likely never play again? He’d set out to prove him wrong.

And he had. He’d fought his way back through every white-knuckled treatment session and every agonizing hour of training, and had impressed Fizzo enough along the way that the coach had taken him on at the Blues, a team sorely missing its own departed champion at Number 6, a team where he could make his mark. He was starting every match, and he intended to keep on doing it. Straight through the Rugby World Cup next year.

He knew that as things stood now, he was the number three choice in the 6 jersey when the All Blacks took the field in June, and he also knew the selectors would leave Number Three at home. If he were going to be standing on the field in the black jersey when the first ball was kicked off, he was going to have to do something special to get there.

Those other fellas wouldn’t step aside, so Marko was going to have to win that black jersey the same way Koti kept winning his, the same way every player did, up to and including the captain. One gym session, one match, and one disciplined day at a time. The knitting bag hadn’t been a misstep. It had been necessary for the team, and so was whatever he had to do next.

Focus on here. Focus on now. The casual banter, as always, lay atop that other, unspoken thing. The competitive drive that burned in every man who made it to this level, and that pushed him on toward the next. But the casual banter was necessary, too, the mortar between the bricks that built a team.

“Yeh,” he told Koti. “Off to see the PR. Any tips? Who is this woman? Should I be scared?”

Koti said, not one bit helpfully, “Definitely. You may think you’re the player and Brenda’s the PR, but nobody sent her the memo. You’re nothing but grist for her mill.”

Hugh had one massive foot on the bench, tying his laces. “Nah,” he said, apparently prepared to be lenient now that he’d shared his opinion on Saturday’s loss with the squad. “If she’s dreamt up something awful, I’ll do it with you.” He raised his voice enough to be heard over on the other side of the room, where the younger fellas were changing. “Seeing as it could’ve been me with the knitting bag, though I’m not sure I’d have been that inventive. Probably just have clocked you, Kors, which you well and truly deserved, you silly bugger.”

Tom Koru-Mansworth was still coming up with an answer to that—and failing—when Hugh asked Marko, “What’s your Tarot card of the day, mate?”

“Death,” Marko said.

“Ouch,” Hugh said.

“My mum,” Marko explained to Koti. “Hard to ask your mum not to send you her helpful, loving message every morning, but did I need to see Death on a white horse today?”

Koti was laughing, as well he might. “At least it wasn’t a match day. What’s Death, then? Other than, you know, Death.”

Marko pulled out his phone. It was a challenge to find his spot on this squad after thirteen years with the Highlanders, and if his role was entertainment? At least it made a change after a decade as the enforcer. He said, “Hang on. I’m reading. Ahem. ‘Sometimes you need an ending in order to create your next beginning. Change is always a shock to the system, but a reality check can be just what you need most.’” He looked up. “There you have it, though I’ve already made my fair share of changes, and I wouldn’t have said I needed a reality check any more than the next man.”

“Course you do,” Koti said. “You’re single. Hugh and I get our reality checks the old-fashioned way. At home.”

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Hugh said.

“Yeh, right,” Koti said. “You forget I know Josie.”

Could be. Hugh had recently married Jocelyn Pae Ata, one of New Zealand’s most glamorous TV stars. Marko had barely met her, but since her most famous role was as the most beautiful Black Widow a man had ever lost his mind to, he found he could believe it. He said, “Much as I’d love to hang about and hear more, I’ve got this PR to see.” He zipped up his bag, found another ball of pink knitting wool inside to go with the tangled streamers that had festooned his cubicle when he’d arrived, and chucked it in the bin on his way out with a look for Hugh.

“Don’t blame me,” Hugh said. “I didn’t even give them the idea. Some scenes write themselves.”

When Koti stepped into the lift behind him and stood looking at the floor indicator, his hands clasped before him, Marko could only look at him and sigh.

“Can’t wait,” he said. “What.”

“What?” Koti asked, the picture of innocence. “Nah, bro. Just along for the ride, you could say.”

He followed Marko into the open-plan business office of the Blues, waving and calling his hellos as they walked past the mostly female staff, and Marko said, “Do you ever turn it off, mate? And don’t they get sick of it?”

“Yeh, nah,” Koti said. “Don’t seem to. And it’s this way.” He took the lead, stopped in front of a desk with a seating cube in front of it, and said, “Brenda, meet Marko. He’s been bad.”

“Geez, Koti,” Brenda, a lively-looking blonde, complained. “I was going to tell him that we wanted to introduce him to the public up north. Useful for sponsorships and all. New blood, because you’re getting old. That was meant to be the idea. Positive, you could say.”

Koti laughed, cheerful as ever. “Nice try, but Marko was born older than I’ll ever be. Serious, that’s the word. No show pony to take over my spot. Just another boring forward. Now, if you’d brought Kors up here instead, the contest would’ve been on. Right body, right tattoo, mad skills.”

As he said it, a tiny brunette came around her desk and said, “Hey, buddy. It’s not nice to talk about yourself like that.”

“Nah,” he said. “Talking about Kors. I’m too old and got too many kids to be the glamour boy. Time for the old master to step aside.”

She sighed. “Fishing expedition. How many times have I told you that foreplay works best the other way? You’re supposed to tell the girl she’s pretty, not that you are. And I told you five o’clock.”

“Nice,” Koti said. He put his arm around her, lifted her off her feet, gave her a kiss, and said, “Could be I missed my wife.”

“In the office,” Brenda said to the air. “Lovely.”

“Never mind,” Koti said. He set his wife down and said, “We’ll do a contest, hey. Who can point out the highest number of wonderful attributes in the other person. I’ll win. You’re a better counter, but I’m a better noticer. But right now, you’re distracting me at work.” He grabbed another seating cube from in front of his wife’s desk, shoved it over to Brenda’s, and said, “You remember Marko. And Marko, this is my wife, Kate, who’s as thrilled as ever to see me. I’m just here to help my mate, baby. Moral support.”

Marko had met Kate. She and Koti had been married some years. But she worked for the Blues? That was unusual. “Uh-huh,” Kate said. “Your insatiable curiosity. Nice to see you, Marko. I’m going back to work.”

“You do that,” Koti said, then put an elbow on Brenda’s desk and said, “Let’s have it. The dirty deal.”

Brenda said, “Always the drama. No worries, Marko. Easy-peasy. Like I said. Introducing you to Auckland. Showing your softer side.”

“Doesn’t sound good, cuz,” Koti said, which Marko didn’t need to hear. He could have decided that for himself.

“I thought about ballet,” Brenda said, and Marko’s world may have gone a little dark. “Gave me such a giggle. But Koti, we need you for that as well. You, and a couple forwards. Marko’s too pretty to be one of them, unfortunately, so that idea’s out for now.”

“I am not,” Marko said, “pretty. And I’m not doing ballet on camera. There are limits. That’s mine.”

“Too pretty for this,” she said, unfazed. She studied him dispassionately. “Though you shouldn’t be. You’re not actually handsome, at least not in any way that would bring Hollywood to the door. Your nose is too big, your jaw’s weirdly squared off, and you have too much brow ridge. And up close, your arms are too long and your hands are too big. You don’t look normal. You’re too intense as well. Frightening, even.” She considered him some more, then shook her head. “And you won’t work for my ballet idea. Pity. I need a couple big boys. The good-natured ones, though. The kind who’ll lumber about amiably, not somebody who looks like he’s about to start smashing the place up. A lock, maybe, and a prop. Some really good mashed noses and ears. And Koti—or Nic, maybe—anyway, a pretty back who’ll be able to dance and will make the others look bad. Never mind. Project for another day. For you, Marko, it’s simple. Animals. You aren’t allergic, are you?”

“Uh… no,” Marko said. He didn’t look normal? He was thankful beyond words all the same that the conversation had shifted from ballet. He couldn’t dance. He could get to a rugby ball, and he could get there fast. He could tackle hard enough for a man to feel it all the way through to his spine. But he couldn’t dance. “Not allergic.”

“Good.” Brenda tapped a couple sheets of paper in front of her, banged the corner briskly with her stapler, and handed them over. “Any day this week, and then—oh, call it once more over the next couple weeks, and you’re all done. They said they’d like a couple sessions to get everything they need. Easy-peasy, like I said. A hop, skip, and a jump away, and you’re off home again. Just give them a ring and set it up.”

Then she waggled her fingers at him. In dismissal.

Koti was right. He was clearly replaceable. A cog in the machine.

“Set what up?” Marko didn’t look at the paper. He didn’t have a good feeling.

“Animals,” she said. “SPCA. Adopt-a-shelter-pet campaign. Your softer side. Like I said.”

“I am not posing shirtless, holding puppies for some calendar,” Marko said. “I’m not a bloody firefighter. Just no. Just hell, no.”

“Course you’re not,” Brenda said. Soothingly. “Who said anything about shirtless? And if I wanted somebody for that, no worries, I’d have been asking Koti. He may be old, but he has the tattoo, and he has the magic. That’s what the ladies want to see. Anyway, you’ll want to get your skates on and get started. Soonest started, soonest done.” She gave him a cheery smile. “Easy-peasy.”

When Marko left the room, Koti was still with him. “You’re going to be holding puppies,” the other man informed him as they walked down the passage. “And no matter what Brenda says, you’ll be lucky to get out of it without taking off your jersey. They always want you shirtless. And women complain that men are shallow. It’s not the fellas who’ll be pinning that photo to the wall.”

“Nobody’s going to be pinning it anywhere,” Marko said, “because it’s not happening. And why are you still here?”

“To see what happens, of course.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I could go with you,” Koti said. “If you wanted to start today. Could help break the ice.”

“Thought you were meant to be collecting your wife.”

“You heard her. Five o’clock. She’s just started back to work. Two days a week. She wants her days. Says we’re all too demanding. New baby, eh.” Which made no sense to Marko, but he guessed it didn’t have to. “I still have an hour to go.”

“If I’m doing this,” Marko informed him, “I’m not doing it with an audience. No.”

Koti sighed. “Cuz. You’ll be doing it with an audience one way or another. I know the Highlanders’ idea of a PR opportunity is the boys touring the freezing works and taking a few whacks at a steer carcass with a cleaver, but you’re in the Big Smoke now. You’ll be lucky if they don’t oil you down for it.”

Marko didn’t deign to respond to that. He actually had done a couple PR appearances at a freezing works. What of it? You supported the local industry, like they supported you, and Dunedin wasn’t a glamour destination. “I’ll ring up and schedule it,” he said. “I’m not doing it today. I’m easing my way into it.”

“Don’t like puppies?” Koti asked. “Mate. Everybody likes puppies. You could get a dog out of it, too. Dog’s good. Companionship.”

“I don’t want a dog.” They were in the lift again, and Koti wasn’t going anywhere, so Marko said, “I like dogs fine. I grew up on a sheep farm. But I don’t want one. I live alone, and as you may have noticed, I travel. If you want a dog so much, you get a dog.”

“Maybe I will,” Koti said. “My daughter’s nearly three. She’d like a dog.”

If Marko weren’t such a disciplined man, he’d have his hands in his hair by now. Instead, he stepped out of the lift, pulled his phone out of his pocket, leaned against the wall, and rang up the number Brenda had given him. When he rang off three minutes later, he told Koti, “Five-thirty Thursday evening. You want to choose a dog for your daughter? You can come with me and do it. They can photograph you instead. With your jersey off. Oiled down. You’re welcome.”

That was why, on Thursday evening, he walked through the doors of the SPCA and into an echoing passage, tiled for easy cleanup, with Koti by his side. They stopped at a reception desk, and Marko told the middle-aged woman behind it, “Marko Sendoa. Here from the Blues to talk to Iona Corburt.”

The woman said, “I’m Iona. Stayed on specially tonight to introduce you to the photographer. Thanks for coming. And your friend’s welcome as well, of course.”

Marko said, “Cheers. His name’s Koti. He came to look at the dogs. Makes him happy.” He leaned closer and said in a confiding tone, “He enjoys the simpler things, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” Iona said, then added, a shift in her tone, “Of course you can look at the dogs, Koti. Do you play rugby as well?” As if she were talking to a five-year-old.

Mission accomplished.

“Yeh,” Koti said, for once appearing lost for words. “I do.”

Iona said, “If you boys will hang on a moment, I’ll run and find our photographer. She’s a volunteer, like me, but she’s accommodating your schedule anyway, which was kind of her, wasn’t it? Once I get you sorted, Marko, I’ll show your friend where the dogs are.” She smiled at Koti kindly. “You can stay and look as long as you like.”

Marko kept his composure until she’d left the room. Then he fell against the wall and began to laugh.

“Mate,” Koti complained. “That was cold. Am I meant to have taken one too many head knocks, or am I naturally a bit slow? It’d be good to know.”

“Never mind,” Marko said. “It’s lost half its sting. She didn’t know who you were. Bugger.”

He stopped laughing when Iona came back out again with somebody else behind her.

He wished he’d worn something more exciting than his warmups over his Blues uniform. Also that he’d shaved. He hadn’t wanted to give anybody any illusions that he was some kind of poster boy.

Maybe he should have paid attention to his mum’s message this morning.

The Chariot.

Exciting times ahead. The contest begins. It’s time to be strong and in control, to focus all your efforts on the task at hand. You can win this one. You know how. But it’ll take all your power and self-control to do it, and you can’t afford to take your eye off the ball.

I don’t think this is about rugby, baby. Good luck.

Nyree walked through the door behind Iona and just about walked back through it again.

Koti James. Fine. She could have predicted Koti James. She could have dealt with Koti James. Easily. The man couldn’t take a bad photo. But nobody had said anything about Marko.

Iona said, “This is, uh…” She waved her hand in a vague manner. “Matt, ah, Sender. And his friend Koti. Koti’s here to look at the dogs,” she informed Nyree.

Did Marko have the grace to look as discomfited as Nyree felt? He did not. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only indication of his amusement. “Marko Sendoa,” he said. “How ya goin’. Reckon this means we’re destined.” He told the others, “I met this lady on Sunday under completely different circumstances. And they say Dunedin’s a small town.”

Koti put his hand out and said, “Koti James. I didn’t get your name.”

“Nyree Morgan,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Ah,” he said with satisfaction. His smile wasn’t a twitch. It was more like a blinding flash. “Kia ora, Nyree.”

“Nau mai, haere mai,” she answered automatically. Settle down. A nice Maori boy with a bit too much personality, and a caveman, rugby-style. You are twenty-seven years old and have a new life. Photos. Campaign. Go. “Welcome, both of you. Come on back.”

Iona said in a too-chirpy voice, “Would you like me to take you to see the puppies, Koti? You could look at them with me until your friend is finished. I’ll stay with you.”

Nyree thought, What? Who did Iona think Koti was? He was famously sharp. Was it just that he was a rugby player?

Koti didn’t seem to notice, fortunately. He just said, “Thanks, but I’ve decided to stick with Marko for a bit longer. Maybe Nyree has some puppies for me to look at. Although I do enjoy cuddling a kitten. I hope Marko doesn’t get all the kittens.”

Koti James was a major tease, was what he was, and apparently he’d decided to tease Marko. Suddenly, Nyree felt more cheerful. Two on one was always better. “We’ll get into it straight away, then,” she said, “since I’m sure you boys don’t have time to waste. Come with me.”

Marko said, “Nice to meet you, Iona,” but other than that, he just stood there looking dark, fierce, and unenthusiastic.

Nyree led him and Koti down the corridor and into a small, bare, windowless room with two chairs in a corner, where she’d already set up a camera on a tripod. A pet-meeting room, but the bright light and gray walls were tailor-made as a photography studio.

Koti wasn’t saying anything himself, but the expectant look on his face reminded her of some mischievous god. Loki, maybe, sticking to his more serious brother Thor like a burr in his side.

She had to say something, since neither of the men was helping. “Sorry about the mix-up with your name,” she told Marko, doing some more fiddling with her camera that it didn’t strictly need. “Iona’s been reaching out for PR opportunities, and somebody suggested the Blues. I doubt she follows rugby.”

“Somehow, I got that,” Marko said. He still looked… not tense, because he wasn’t that. Intense, more like. He was all here, every bit of him, standing in the middle of the room, his oversized feet planted and his thick forearms crossed, a midweek scruff of black beard adding a touch of the outlaw to his already tough-as-nails face.

It was more than his size, she decided from behind the camera. She’d have sworn it was his energy field that was sucking up all the air in the little room. Dark? No, not dark. Not exactly.

Koti shone silver, everything about him bright and wide-awake. Marko radiated something entirely different. The first time she’d met him, all those years ago, he’d been a brilliant red. He was still red, but his hue was deeper now. Stronger, but more grounded.

If she’d been painting him, she’d have painted him in his uniform. But that uniform needed to be black, so she’d have painted the background with his red, layering into it every bit of complexity she could coax out of the paints. She’d have painted him confident. Physical. Sexual. The energy—and him—all but pulsing out of the black uniform and off the canvas.

Whoa. No. Red and black were Crusaders colors. He wouldn’t thank her for that. Besides, she didn’t do portraits. Not of people.

He was still talking. She needed to focus on that. “Never mind,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Koti. He was looking at her. “I said I’d do it, and I’m doing it. Though if you want to use Koti instead, I’m quite happy to watch.”

Koti said, “Nah, mate. The public’s getting to know you, that’s the idea. They already know me. Other than Iona, of course. Besides, you’ve got the contrast thing going for you, doesn’t he, Nyree?”

“He does,” she said, deciding she liked Koti. “Big, hard man, cute little baby animals.” Sounded breezy. Casual. She added, “But both of you have contrast going for you, actually. With each other, I mean. So as you’re here anyway, and we’ve got the room…” She looked Marko over again. “You know what would be brilliant? You’re both more photogenic than I was expecting, so if you could sort of, ah, hold the babies against your chests, that would be perfect.”

“Let me guess,” Marko said. “Our bare chests.”

“Well, yes,” she said, and tried a smile. Professional. That was what this occasion required. It was about getting animals adopted, not about wanting to see anybody’s bare chest. “I’ll bring in the puppies and show you. I don’t think you’ll be able to resist.”

They could resist, unfortunately. She got them stripped down to Blues jerseys and rugby shorts—tight and short, respectively, which wasn’t what you’d call ‘terrible’—but that was as far as it went in the unclothed department. Pity.

She told them, while the half-dozen tumbling, floppy-eared puppies in various shades of black, brown, and white did their exuberant best to escape the confinement of their box, “These are your subjects. Their mum came in here half-starved and filthy, but she’d taken good care of her babies. Dug them a den in a bank and kept them alive. After all her hard work, seems the least we can do is find them homes.” And then she got behind her camera and waited to see what would happen. The puppies were fairly irresistible to her. Maybe they would be to these fellas as well. If not, she’d think of something.

She’d expected Koti to be the one to dive in. Instead, Marko did. He went straight for the male with the brown patch over one eye who was doing his best to climb out of the box on the backs of his brothers and sisters, his tail wagging his entire back end and his round belly hanging half over the side, and picked him up in a hand so big and so assured, Nyree may have experienced an estrogen surge. After that, he stroked the wiggly little body and took a good look, eye to eye.

Camera, she thought after a stupefied second, and got behind it fast. She got the shot, got a few more, then lifted the camera off the tripod. Posing wasn’t going to be happening. This was candid all the way, and it was gold. She snapped as quickly as the camera would respond, and when Marko picked up another puppy, then another, so he had three of the little creatures nestled into the crook of his brawny arm? Oh, yeh. She got that shot, too.

He turned to Koti, smiled with absolutely no hard edges, all of the guardedness gone, and said, “Mate. Get in here. They won’t break.”

“Never had a dog, actually,” Koti said.

“What was all that, then,” Marko asked as an emboldened little girl, white with black spots and a brown patch on her muzzle, put her paws on his broad shoulder and Nyree kept snapping, “about coming with me to look at the puppies for your kids?”

“Ah…” Koti scratched his perfect cheek and grimaced. “I may have been looking for some entertainment. I wouldn’t know how to choose a dog. Also, Kate could have a thing or two to say if I brought home a puppy, so there’s that.”

“Here,” Nyree said, tearing herself and her camera away from Marko with a major effort. “We’ll do an easy one. Pick this little girl up like this, see?” She demonstrated on the final puppy left in the box, the runt of the litter. “You can roll her over onto her back and hold her in your palms. There. Just right. Perfect.” She took the shot and kept talking, kept him there. Muscular arms, Maori tattoo, tiny puppy looking adoringly up into that famous face? Yes. “That’s a puppy-choosing test, so you know. Whether they’ll let you do that. No worries here, as she’s a quiet one. You’d want a puppy with more confidence, really, but it makes a lovely photo.” She lifted her camera again and got a couple shots of Koti holding his little friend to his bronzed cheek.

But there Marko was, too, on the floor with a lap full of wiggly puppies and a grin on his normally hard face. Choices, choices.

She got lucky again. Koti set the submissive puppy down at last, Marko picked her up, rolled her over in his hand, scratched her belly, and—

Sometimes, life gave you a pure gift.

Yes, the dog did it. She took a wee on him. The liquid dripped between his fingers, he made a face that had Nyree laughing even as she shot, and she thought, Good on ya, little miss. We’ll be using this one.

Marko didn’t say anything. He set the puppy carefully back down in her box, went for the roll of paper toweling hanging on the wall, wiped his hands, and wiped the floor.

Koti, though, didn’t hold back. “Reckon she didn’t like you, cuz. Never mind. Some girls have no taste.”

“No,” Nyree said, deciding with reluctance that the puppies, currently trying to chase each other across the shiny, slippery floor, had had enough and putting them back into their box with their sister. “She liked him too much. Some dogs, especially submissive females, can get a little overwhelmed by certain men. Urinating when he turns her over is her way of saying, ‘You’re big and strong,’ and acknowledging his dominance. Keeping herself unthreatening, keeping herself safe. Sounds appealing, I’m sure,” she told Marko, “but in fact, a dog like that can turn out too fearful. And, of course, you may not want her weeing on you every night when you come home. There’s your carpet to consider.”

“A downside,” he agreed gravely. “It’s interesting that you’d think it’s appealing to me. Why is that, I wonder?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shouldn’t be antagonizing him, and she definitely shouldn’t be flirting with him. She didn’t want a rugby player. She didn’t want him. “Could be I was reminded of the way some men expect women to fall into their lap, even if the woman is doing nothing but having a run, getting her exercise. Excuse my assumption.”

“Knew there was a reason I’d come,” Koti murmured, not quite under his breath. “Finally.”

“When did I say that?” Marko asked, completely ignoring Koti. “Seems to me I asked you to lunch, and that was all. Maybe I was hungry, did you think of that?”

“Or maybe you were lonely,” Koti put in. “And as you don’t have a dog…”

“Not helping, mate,” Marko informed him, but he kept those dark eyes fixed on Nyree. That was some fixing. More like “pinning.” The man could stare.

She picked up the box of puppies, who’d suddenly decided, in the manner of puppies, that they had to go to sleep right now, and said, “I’ll be back in a second. One more quick thing, and I’ll let you go.” Then she escaped.

She’d catch her breath. And yank her mind back under control again.

Definitely.

Koti said, “You’re toast, mate.”

“I told you,” Marko said, looking at the door Nyree had just walked through. “I don’t want a dog.”

“I wasn’t talking about the dog.”

Marko said, “I’m going to wash my hands. If she comes in before I get back, don’t get excited and take off your jersey. Control yourself.”

No excuse today, he thought as he scrubbed his hands and arms and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was over the knitting-bag brain freeze and its aftermath, and Nyree wasn’t wearing a bra and saucy little skirt. Any man would have had trouble dealing with those. She was showing almost no skin at all, in fact. So why was he still staring that hard?

It could be the pair of gray jeans that clung to every curve. There was also the deep-purple top with its billowing sleeves, its tightly fitted waist, and some lacing between her breasts that was doing him no favors at all.

He guessed it was meant to be a gypsy motif. It was working for him.

Not much less effective than the running clothes, actually. Same thick mass of dark hair, out of its ponytail today and tumbling to her shoulders. Same square little face, same sea-green eyes, mostly behind a camera, unfortunately. Same assurance. Same mouth.

She said she wasn’t interested. He’d swear she was. Or maybe that was him. In any case, something was taking him back into that room, and it wasn’t his promise to Brenda.

He got to the door the same time as she did. She was carrying another cardboard box, a smaller one this time. There were two kittens in the box, sitting on a towel. A tiny gray one, and a larger white one with long hair.

He eyed the white kitten with misgiving. A man could just about get away with cuddling puppies. Cuddling a white kitten that looked like it should be in a Disney movie, though? That might be a bridge too far.

He could have decided he’d spent long enough here and left. Instead, he opened the door for Nyree and ushered her through, carefully not putting his hand on the small of that back. No right. Professional obligation. Professional situation.

That indentation, though. That spot just above a woman’s tailbone, where her soft skin curved into that sweet little dip, creating a couple of irresistible dimples either side of her spine. Her gypsy shirt barely missed meeting the low waistband of her gray jeans, leaving a few centimeters of skin visible. Unfortunately, they included that spot that, if you stroked it exactly right, would make her shiver and go liquid inside. And his hand was so close.

Once he had the door closed, she set the box carefully on the floor, which made her shirt ride up some more. The white kitten promptly leaped out and did the cat thing, strolling around the room looking aloof, then jumping up on one of the chairs and prowling its arms and back as if testing its balancing skills. The gray kitten was too small to get out. Instead, it sat in the box and stared up at Marko with big blue eyes.

He didn’t have a good feeling. Well, he did, but not about the cats.

Koti looked at his watch and said, “Whoops. I’ll have to miss this one out. Time for me to go.”

“I thought you were my moral support,” Marko said.

“It’s all relative,” Koti said. “I’ve got a baby and a two-year-old at home, and Kate’s looking at the clock right now.”

“Which makes one wonder,” Marko said, “why you came at all.”

Koti grinned, not a bit abashed. “To have something to entertain her with, of course.” He asked Nyree, “Think you could email me a couple of those snaps? My daughter Maia would like the one of me with the puppy, and I’d like the one of the puppy weeing on Marko. That one would be choice.”

“Of course,” she said. “Happy to help.”

He gave her his address, then said, “Seeya, mate,” to Marko, and was gone, but Marko wasn’t looking at him. He was watching Nyree.

He said, “So.”

“So,” she said, then blinked. Slowly. It was an extravagant thing, all sooty black lashes and sea-green eyes with dark flecks. Changeling eyes.

“Cats,” she said, shaking him out of it. “I thought a white kitten. With the… ah… blue jersey. Contrast again. If you’d just… pick it up.”

Now that Koti was gone, the room seemed too quiet. A faint hiss from the ventilation system, the imagined sound of Nyree’s soft breath, and that was all. She picked up her camera, which she’d had on a strap around her neck, as if arming herself. But he could still catch her scent.

Cookies. That was what it was, odd as it sounded. She smelled like a cookie, and she looked like she’d taste like one, too. Absolutely delicious.

She didn’t even come to his shoulder. Too short. He wasn’t going to say “too curvy” again, because he wasn’t thinking it. But definitely too short.

“Kitten,” she reminded him, seeming to get her assurance back along with the camera.

“Right.”

Except not. He approached the chair where the white kitten was perched, and the kitten drew back. He came closer, and it hissed, its ears flattened, its sharp little teeth showing. It lifted a paw, claws extended, in case he hadn’t got the message. He looked at the claws, looked at the teeth, turned to Nyree, and said, “Maybe not.”

“But it’s friendly,” she said. “Here.” She reached down, scooped the kitten up, and offered it to him.

The kitten spat.

Nyree said, “All right. Maybe not,” and put it back into the cardboard box. Where it hissed at Marko some more.

The tiny gray kitten was still in there. Colored like a puff of smoke and just about as substantial, staring at Marko out of big round eyes. He picked it up, maybe because he wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, and the tiny animal curled into the palm of his hand. He put his other hand over it all the same and lifted it carefully to his chest.

“Not as good a contrast,” he told Nyree, “but more cooperative, eh.” He held the little thing close to his body, and before he quite realized what was happening, it threaded its delicate way carefully along his forearm, its claws digging into his jersey and his skin, until it got to the crook of his elbow, where it settled in.

“Well, bugger,” he said. “I think this one likes me.” He stroked its head, just because it was impossibly soft, sweetly curved, and so small.

Nyree didn’t answer. She was focused all the way in. His face wasn’t going to be in these. Instead, it would be a speck of a gray kitten against a dark blue jersey and some anonymous bicep. Worked for him.

“Did you have cats?” she asked, still shooting.

“No. I’m more of a dog person. As you saw.”

“Mm-hmm.” The kitten was exploring again, clinging to his jersey. Climbing his chest. “I don’t think she cares.”

“It’s a she?” The little claws were sharp. “Oi,” he said, picking her off his shirt and holding her a bit away from him. “Mind your manners.” A tiny vibration came through to his hand, and he realized she was purring. He put her back in the crook of his arm, because she liked it, and possibly to keep her claws out of him.

“She’s a bit of a special case,” Nyree said, still snapping away. “Brought in all alone a couple weeks ago, not even the size of my palm. She’s been bottle fed at the front desk ever since. That’s why I brought her out, because she’s a cuddly one. Confident, too. She was my backup plan.”

“So do you work here all the time?” he asked. “And what?” he added when she lowered the camera and looked at him. “That was smooth. Followed straight on from what came before.”

“No,” she said. “I volunteer every week or so to photograph the animals, that’s all. Call it my good deed. Nobody can take a proper photo, and the poor things end up looking like they were shot from Mars, or like they have an enormous head. Nobody’s going to adopt them like that.”

“In between your work as a photographer?”

“No.”

“Paratrooper?” he suggested. “Cage fighter? Heart surgeon?”

The hands on the camera stilled, and the curvy little body stopped moving. “I don’t have a worthwhile occupation? Why not?”

He sighed. “I’m asking myself, am I here because this is hard work? Or in spite of it?”

“You’re here,” she said sweetly, “because of the knitting bag. I know how New Zealand Rugby thinks.”

“Bugger,” he said. “You know about that.”

She was still snapping, because the kitten was climbing his chest again, making it all the way to his shoulder, forcing him to put up a hand to steady it just in case. Nyree said, “You could say it was a two-island sensation. Keep your hand there. Very nice bicep, and it makes the kitten look even smaller. How many centimeters is that thing? The hand, not the bicep. I know how big the bicep is. Freaking enormous.”

He said, “I’m oddly cheered that you noticed I have biceps. Not to mention big hands. Shallow of me, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “No correlation.”

He sighed. “Shot down again.”

He thought she might be smiling. “Actually, there is one. Just not the one you think. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I want to hear it.” The kitten was on the move again, prowling along the collar of his jersey and coming to rest on his other shoulder.

“Here you are, then. My gift to you for being such a cooperative subject. Ring finger.”

“Uh…” His right hand was occupied with corralling the kitten. He held out his left one. “I’ve got a ring finger, yeh. But no ring, if you notice, so if that’s what’s bothering you, you can stop being bothered. No wife, no fiancée, and no girlfriend. I pass.”

She sighed. “Was I asking? I was not. That it’s longer than your index finger. Considerably.”

He studied it. “So it is. Tell me that’s good.”

“Depends what you mean by ‘good.’ Your ring finger being longer is a marker for more testosterone. As compared to a man with a longer index finger. Something about the second trimester and testosterone levels in the womb. There’s a size correlation as well, but not the, uh, one you may be thinking.” She was blushing, he thought. “Never mind. They did a study, so there you are.”

He thought about asking exactly what the size correlation was. He didn’t. The idea was there in her mind. That was enough. He said, “There I am indeed. Cheering news. More testosterone’s a good thing, one hopes. Unless not.”

She shrugged, trying to pull off “unconcerned,” but her cheeks were still tinged with pink. Size, eh. She’d forgotten to take photos, too. “Correlated with athletic ability,” she said. “Plus sense of direction, physical aggression, and risk-taking.”

“And that’s bad?”

She lifted the camera again. “I’m just telling you. You’re used to it working on women. It’s part of the subliminal message they get from you, along with the pheromones and the muscles and so forth. A fertility marker, like a woman’s low waist-to-hip ratio is for men, though more subtle, because women aren’t aware of it. That would be our prehistoric brains talking. But as I know about it, I can discount it.”

“Unless you decide you need a man with high testosterone.” Along with the pheromones and the muscles and so forth. That sounded positive.

“Which I don’t. So, you see…”

He sighed. “Always something. No joy in life without these obstacles in the way, though. As a high-testosterone man, that is.”

The contest begins, he thought. Too right, Mum.

That was when the kitten decided to go for territory unknown. She climbed straight up the side of his head, perched on top of it, her needle-sharp claws digging into his scalp, and let out her first meow.

She’d climbed the mountain, so she roared.

Was it still a win if you went home with a cat?

He was focused. He kept his eye on the ball and his mind on the job. He was single because relationships interfered with rugby, and vice versa. When his career was over, he’d turn his attention to the personal side. Not now. If anything, he needed to double down.

And yet he still seemed to be getting a cat.

Not just any cat. The spawn of the devil. A tiny gray ball of fur who’d decided he was her man, and she wasn’t going to let him go. What could you do, though, if you put her back in the box and she meowed at you piteously and tried to climb the pasteboard walls to get to you again? How about when you put your hand on her to soothe her distress, and she climbed straight up your arm, snuggled in behind your neck, and clung on like a limpet?

“I don’t like cats,” he told Nyree, picking her off again. “They don’t like me, either. You saw.”

Wait. This was meant to be the part of the evening where he overwhelmed her with his charm—and testosterone levels—and took her away for a drink, and then dinner. Instead, he was insulting animals. He was losing his grip on the plan.

“She’s not exactly a cat,” Nyree said. “That is to say, a cat’s not ‘a cat,’ any more than a dog’s ‘a dog.’ A Chihuahua isn’t a St. Bernard, is it? This isn’t a cat. She’s a Burmese. More like a dog, really.”

“This,” Marko informed her, feeling the claws piercing his skin for the twentieth time, “is not a dog. Not a Chihuahua. Not a St. Bernard. Not a bloody mastiff. This is a cat.”

“An adorable kitten,” she said. “Who loves you.”

That was the problem. That Nyree was looking at him with those eyes, and he knew that if he left the kitten here… Well, it wasn’t an option, that was all.

“I travel,” he offered in what he knew was a weak-ass final gasp doomed to failure, like when you were driving for the tryline in the eighty-first minute, the hooter long since sounded, twelve points down but still in there fighting for that lost cause, for some reason known only to men with hard heads, too much bloody-mindedness, and possibly an excess of testosterone. “What would I do with her for two weeks at a time?”

“You could leave her with me,” she said. “Although I’m sure she’ll pine for you. She’s a pushover, clearly. Just make sure she’s an indoor cat. There’s too much danger outdoors for her, and eventually, she’ll be too much danger herself to birds. New Zealand birds don’t have enough defense against predators.”

She was lecturing him. On his cat ownership. Which wasn’t happening. “No worries,” he said. “I know about birds. And I didn’t say I’d take her.”

“Oh,” Nyree said. “I thought you were going to. Never mind, then.”

The corners of her full mouth drooped. Bloody hell. He couldn’t disappoint her. He couldn’t even seem to disappoint the kitten. He was getting soft, that was what.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take her,” he said. “Call it… call it a trial basis. I’m meant to let you photograph me twice. Not easy, but I’m going to do it anyway. Sunday morning, say, after the Chiefs match, as we’re playing at home? We could meet outdoors. Always good, photography-wise, right? You could bring whatever puppies you want me to hold, and make sure none of them come out with an enormous head. Afterwards, we could have breakfast. Work-related,” he added. You gave it everything you had. That was the only possible path.

Wait. She’d said, “You could leave her with me.” Which meant he’d be dropping the kitten off. And picking the kitten up. At Nyree’s place. Which meant a trial basis definitely worked. Suddenly, he felt much more cheerful about the whole idea.

She hesitated. Of course she did, now that he’d realized he wanted it. Bugger.

“Maybe you could bring Koti with you again on Sunday,” were the next unwelcome words out of her mouth. “If he wanted to meet a dog I know. I think he wants one but is nervous about it, and more shots of him would be good anyway. I barely got him today, for some reason.”

Bloody Koti James. Was there anyplace he kept his gorgeous self out of? Marko knew he was scowling. He couldn’t help it. “I’ll ask him.”

Koti would have an engagement, though, that didn’t allow for breakfast. Marko was sure of it. Even if he had to pay him to leave. Or push him into his car.

That was why, though, instead of charming—well, attempting to charm—Nyree over a drink the way he’d been planning, he was at PetStock in Glen Innes forty minutes later with a kitten on his neck, loading his trolley with kitten chow, cat litter, a “premium felt cat cave” lined with merino wool, and an enormous domed litter box with a special filter. And hesitating over a structure taller than himself, with platforms and perches and hidey-holes galore.

The Ultimate Cat Gym, the sign said.

It was covered in leopard print. It also cost nearly six hundred dollars.

“No,” he told the kitten, moving on with his laden trolley. “Trial basis, and I’m not the one on trial. Perform, or be cut from the squad. I just bought you a feather toy on a pole, you’re barely the size of a tennis ball, and you don’t need a cat gym. Climb a chair instead.”

An enormous black-and-brown Bernese Mountain Dog padded by on a leash held by a girl barely bigger than he was. The dog turned a tolerant eye on Marko and the fluffball, who was on his shoulder now, and Marko thought, See? That’s a dog. A man’s dog. A working dog. The kind of dog he needed, if he’d needed a dog. Which he didn’t.

A chorus of barking rushing up from behind nearly deafened him, and pinpricks of pain ran up his scalp as the kitten climbed his head again. He put a hand up to steady her and scowled at the two yapping Jack Russells, barely held back by a stout bloke. The dogs had reared up on their hind legs in an attempt to get to his kitten, the bloodthirsty bastards. Maybe he didn’t like dogs as much as he thought.

“Sorry,” the bloke said. “They have issues with cats.” He looked more closely. “Marko Sendoa, isn’t it?”

“Yeh,” Marko said over the considerable noise of the still-barking terriers. “How ya goin’.” He took his kitten and escaped.

Was he spending the evening looking his fill, and thinking about more, at a black-haired, green-eyed witch? No. Was he eyeing the waist he longed to put his hands around, and the rest of the body he longed to put his hands on, sipping on a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in an outdoor pub where the candles and the music were both soft, and watching her cheeks turn pink under his gaze? He was not.

And most of all—was he sinking into the spa tub on his patio, the warm air filled with the evening song of the birds in his back garden, with that same sweet somebody by his side, up to her pretty neck in steamy bubbles? He most definitely was not.

Instead, he was paying two hundred eighty-seven dollars for cat supplies and already thinking about Sunday. Such was the power of a woman on a man who dropped his guard.

He’d have to be much more careful.

When he pulled into the driveway in the twilight, he realized there was somebody sitting outside his front door, her back to the wall and her knees drawn up to her chest. A girl.

No, not that girl.

What the bloody hell.

The kitten had ridden home in his lap. Now, he put her carefully into the pocket of his tracksuit jacket and said, “Stay.”

Did cats know “Stay”? Could cats learn “Stay”? He didn’t know.

His cat didn’t know it, anyway, because no sooner had he loaded himself up with his first round of supplies and headed up the walk than she was climbing his back again. He said, “Don’t do that. You’ll fall off,” but she didn’t listen. She just got to his shoulder and hung on.

By the time he got to the top of the stairs, Ella had stood up. Looking even younger than her sixteen years in her school uniform of plaid kilt, green jumper, and knee socks, her blonde hair falling around her face. He still wasn’t used to her as a blonde.

She said, “Why do you have a kitten?”

He said, “I don’t have a kitten. She has me,” juggled the Premium Felt Cat Cave as Ella picked up her backpack and an ominously large duffel, and punched the key code into the pad. “Come in,” he said. “Make a cup of tea while I bring in the rest of this kit.”

“Do you have herbal?” she asked.

“No. Why would I have herbal?”

She sighed. In exasperation. “Marko. Girls?”

“Girls what?”

“Like. Herbal?”

“Oh. No. Girls are out of luck, I guess.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll have a glass of water, then.”

“You do that,” he said. “But hold my kitten.” He reached a careful hand up for the fluffball and handed her to Ella, then went back for the litter box and the rest of it.

There’d be a reason. There was always a reason. It couldn’t be for long. She was in her uniform, it wasn’t the school holidays yet, and Tekapo was fifteen hundred kilometers and an entire island—or a world—away from St. Heliers.

He came back in with the covered litter box and bag of litter, and the kitten uttered a sound somewhere between a meow and a yowl, climbed down Ella’s leg, making her yelp, and trotted across the floor to him like a dust bunny on legs. He told Ella, “Hang on. She either loves me, or she needs to use this thing. I don’t want to wait and find out which.”

The kitten followed him into the laundry room, where he scattered the litter into the tray. She hopped straight in, and didn’t give him a chance to get the box assembled before she was christening it.

“Good girl,” he told her when she was finished, and gave her a gentle pat. In response, she climbed his arm again.

“Doesn’t look comfortable,” Ella observed. She was leaning against the doorway, watching him.

“Try stopping her,” he said, continuing the assembly process with the kitten pressed against the side of his neck and wondering whether Ella would be interested in cooking dinner. Probably not. Takeaway it was, then. “She’s got a mind of her own. Which would bring us to why you’re here.”

“Because I’m up the duff,” she said, “and my mum’s throwing a wobbly about it. So I decided to come stay with you.”

Nyree had started work at Bevvy this morning at six. After that, there’d been the obstacle course her hormones had run with the Kitten Whisperer, not to mention Koti James. Though somehow, Koti had been a secondary consideration. Now, she was at a “consultation” that was testing her ingenuity, not to mention her resolve. You could say that it had been a long Thursday. She was wishing she’d made a few coffee drinks for herself during her shift.

“I just don’t know,” Savannah Calloway said, fingering the swatches of silk with long, shiny black nails, each one carefully embellished with silver studs to look like leather bikie gear. The manicure was fascinating, in an objective way. Like Chinese foot-binding, announcing, “I cannot perform any tasks at all, and I don’t have to.”

Savannah’s life, Nyree reminded herself, was why she’d gone to work at six this morning. Exactly why. The daughter of a UK manufacturer who had patented a series of rock-crushing machines forty years earlier and moved to New Zealand to enjoy the fruits of his labors, Savannah, now a banker’s wife, was a living testament to the dangers of inherited wealth and taking the easier path.

The two of them were sitting beside a long, narrow slice of lap pool under the shade of an extravagant group of palms, looking out onto sailboats bobbing gently at their moorings on Herne Bay, and at the green hills of Auckland’s North Shore rising across the water. A tray on the glass-topped wicker table held a plate of grapes, three biscuits, and two lone slices of Tasty cheese. As Nyree watched, Savannah picked up one of the slices, tore it delicately into pieces between the motorcycle-boot talons, and fed the pieces to the collection of dogs who were sitting impatiently, uttering starved little yelps, beside her chaise. None of them needed the cheese, calorically, gastro-intestinally, or otherwise, but like Savannah, they were not to be denied.

What the hell, Nyree decided, and snagged the last piece of cheese for herself, along with two biscuits. Be the artist, not the help. She slugged down the remainder of her glass of wine and said, “The ivory, not the white. I can’t paint Precious in the white. It would be painful. Entirely wrong for her coloring.” She stood up. “I have what I need, so I’ll be going.”

“Oh,” Savannah’s mouth crumpled, and Nyree nearly sat down again at the loneliness she saw there. “I thought you could tell me about the veil.”

Nyree’s stomach rumbled audibly, but she didn’t flinch. Pookie had done heaps worse than that during the past forty-five minutes. “Studded with brilliants,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. This was entertaining Savannah, if nothing else. “Not too long. You don’t want to overwhelm her.” Since the bride was a Chihuahua.

“Thank you,” Savannah said, standing up herself. “You have such an eye. The kids are so excited for it, and all their little friends will be coming. I thought—silver net gift bags with nail varnish for the girls, but I can’t think what for the boys. I want it to blend, but, well… boys.”

“A challenge,” Nyree agreed.

“And the portrait,” Savannah said. “I can’t wait to see Pookie. Can’t I have a teeny peek? Please?”

“No,” Nyree said. “Not until it’s done. It’ll disrupt my flow. And I really do need to go. Seeing Pookie again has given me an idea, and I need to get back to my canvas before I lose it.” A total lie. Pookie was finished, for better or worse, and awaiting his varnishing. But she needed pizza, and she needed it now.

You have two months. No worries for two months. She repeated the mantra as she pulled up forty minutes later and parked in front of her garage, where her tiny red table, purple chair, and rakish blue umbrella stood off to one side like a promise and a welcome. No lap pool, but it could be that lap pools were overrated. She climbed out of the car, balancing the pizza box in one hand and her camera bag in the other, and went inside.

It wasn’t locked. She owned a Bluetooth speaker, some clothes that were mostly “adaptations”—a word that sounded much better than “Op Shop finds”—paints, brushes, and canvases to the extent that she could afford them at any given moment, and the camera that she kept stuffed under the spare towels. The street was quiet, and anyway, life was meant to be an adventure.

She’d barely got inside when she heard the voice from behind her. “You have pizza. I’m eating it.”

She left the door open, dumped the pizza on the poppy-painted coffee table, shoved aside her sketchbook and a couple pieces of charcoal, and told Victoria, “Pop it in the oven to warm, then. I could use the company myself. I’m warning you, though, I don’t have wine. I’m skint until payday.”

“Ooh,” her landlady said. “Fortunately… Back in a flash.”

Nyree was already naked, turning the tap in the tiny shower cubicle to get it hotter, when Victoria called out again. “Just me, love. Small or large?”

“Large,” Nyree called back. “Absolutely large. Enormously large.”

She emerged five minutes later feeling more alert, toweled off, pulled on a dressing gown, and said, “Don’t say it,” while she was still blotting her hair dry.

“Here.” Victoria, her red hair nearly as wild as Nyree’s now that it was out from under her barrister’s wig, handed her an absolutely non-regulation-sized glass of Shiraz. She stepped back from the easel, sipped at her own glass, and said, “He’s quite funny. Is he meant to be, or is he meant to send me, looks-wise? Because he doesn’t. The background’s nice, though.”

Nyree sighed. “Saying, ‘The background’s nice’ is like talking about the cinematography in a film. Death knell. If you’re looking at the cinematography, you’re not engrossed.”

“Which would be why,” Victoria said, “they give Oscars for cinematography. Eh? Eh?”

“Which would be why cinematographers give Oscars for cinematography. Never mind.” Nyree contemplated the portrait from partway down a glass of Shiraz, a much more comforting spot. “You’re right. He’s horrible. But I’m hoping that now he’s horrible in a lovable way. Comical.”

“He looks it.” Victoria folded her nearly six feet onto the car seat. “Tell. Lovely dressing gown, by the way.”

“Nine dollars,” Nyree informed her. “K Road. Silk, though. Also…” She turned around to display the back. “Dragon. Why would you give it away? People are mad.”

“Because it belonged to a kid who outgrew it?” Victoria suggested. “Bonus of being short. It needs somebody better than me appreciating it, though. I think the running’s working for you.”

“Not sure.” Nyree sank down beside her, stuck out one bare leg, and poked at her thigh. “Still a bit squashy.”

“Yeh, but you have boobs. Boobs excuse all.”

“If I lose too much weight,” Nyree said, “I won’t. A good thought. Helpful.”

“True.” Victoria unfolded herself from the car seat and went over to the toaster oven into which she’d jammed the pizza. “Better have some pizza. Just in case.”

When they were eating it, Victoria said, “Dog portrait. Let’s have it.”

“Don’t you want to talk about your day, dear?” Nyree asked.

Her friend grimaced. “Nah. I’m prosecuting an indecent assault on a minor. I want to hear about horrible dogs. Turns out I’ve wanted to hear about them all day. I just didn’t realize it. I thought you’d never get home to entertain me.”

“I was with Pookie.”

Victoria sighed with satisfaction. “Never fails. They couldn’t name them ‘Rex.’ Or ‘King.’ Something manly.”

“Does he look like a Rex? Or a King? And here’s what I want to know.” Something was working. The pizza, the wine, or the friend. Or all of them. “Why does a rich woman’s desire to have her darling immortalized on canvas rise inversely—conversely—”

“Inversely,” Victoria said, “if it’s going in the opposite direction. Go on.”

“Right. Why does it rise inversely with the size and, uh, rise in the same way—” She gestured, then gave it up. “Why is it that the littler and nastier the pet is, the more she wants him painted? Pookie has a horrible bark, and he’s gassy, though that’s not his fault. Savannah feeds him cheese. Do not feed a dog cheese.”

“No worries.”

“I’m only at Dog Number Four,” Nyree said, “and I’ve already had to teach myself some new phrases. ‘It’ll be a challenge to do justice to all that personality.’ That’s a good one. Also, ‘Hmm. It’s not just the looks, it’s the protectiveness. I’m really too booked, but that combination. I’d like to squeeze her in. Let me check my calendar, because she has something special.’ And then the owner says, while her Pomeranian is trying to bite my ankle, ‘It’s true. She is special. So protective of me. So if you can do it…’ And then there’s this wedding. Pookie’s mummy is having a dog wedding. I am not joking.”

By the time she’d finished explaining, Victoria was holding her belly. “Oh, my God,” she gasped. “Pookie and Precious. In her gown. And her veil. Under the arbor. Oh, I can’t. Take me as your date. Please. So you were there all this time?”

“No. Taking photos at the shelter. With a couple Blues players.”

Victoria sat up straighter and stopped laughing. “Really? Who?”

“Koti James.”

“Married,” Victoria said, “but bloody fit. Who else? And I know rugby players are just another day at the office to you, but leave me my illusions. So few men are taller than me. So who?”

“Marko Sendoa,” Nyree said reluctantly. “Publicity shots for the shelter, that’s all. The boys were fine. Good. Well behaved. Like you say, another day at the office.” She waggled her toes across the poppy-painted table. “What do you think about cherry-red toenails? Good? Or too much?”

Victoria levered herself off the couch. “Good, I guess, but what do I know? Ask a woman who doesn’t wear a robe and a wig to work.” It was light, but it wasn’t. “And whose partner likes nail varnish.”

“Who cares what Seb thinks? You’re wearing it for you, not him.”

“Yeh, nah,” Victoria put the plates into the tiny sink. “Anyway, got to go. Big day tomorrow. Jury summation, and I want this bastard put away.”

Nyree sobered. “Sorry. I should have asked.”

“Nah. I didn’t want to talk about it. Why d’you think I came over? I wanted to hear about Pookie, and about Marko Sendoa. Much nicer spot to put my thoughts for the evening.” Victoria ran water over the dishes. “I hear what you’re not saying, too. Don’t think I don’t. I’ll shout you a couple months’ rent, and you know it. Stop worrying. Trade me a painting for it.”

The second glass of wine was so often a bad idea, and not just for your thighs. Nyree had to force the breeziness. “You’ve bought too many paintings. I’m good for two more months, if I’m careful. No worries. If I don’t have a show by then, or really get the dogs going, I’ll have to find a graphic design job again, but that’s not the end of the world.”

Victoria leaned against Nyree’s meter-wide “kitchen” and studied her. “Except…”

“Just…” Nyree swallowed. “I need to see people, that’s all. In order to do good work. Even if they’re funny, or messy, or sad underneath. It doesn’t matter. People, and real light, and shadow. Working at a computer takes my colors away. It’s… it’s scary. But that’s why,” she said, trying for cheerfulness, “I’m doing the dogs, right? If I get to paint Pookie and Precious on their wedding day, I can charge fifty percent more, because two. Plus—wedding guests. Dog fanciers. Rich people.”

“Mad people,” Victoria said with a smile that Nyree wished didn’t look like it was meant to cheer her up. “I’m leaving the wine with you. Who knows? Maybe I’ll need it tomorrow, and your company, too. See ya.”

She closed the door behind her, closing out the warm darkness, and Nyree sat back, listened to the scrape of a tree limb against the metal roof, contemplated her easel, and said aloud, “Why is it, Pookie, that I’d rather paint a horrible dog like you than make money in a flash office doing a job I’m good at? And why doesn’t Victoria give Seb the heave-ho?”

Pookie’s pink tongue hung out of his mouth, he cocked his head at her, but he didn’t answer.

Nyree didn’t ask him why, once she’d pulled off the black silk robe, climbed into bed, and pulled the blue velvet coverlet over herself, she didn’t see her bank balance, and she didn’t see a dog wedding. She saw Marko Sendoa. Arms folded, legs planted, nose broken, and his energy pulsing red.

She didn’t have to ask. She already knew the answer. That nothing was ever over.

She didn’t want to close her eyes, because it would be right there. She’d be seventeen again. Humiliated again.

Face it. Face it, and move on. You’re not seventeen anymore. You didn’t do anything wrong except trust too much. Like nearly every other teenaged girl, until she learns the hard way.

She’d been halfway through her final year of school on the night when the Highlanders had won the semifinal against the Chiefs. She’d been on the field afterwards along with her family, the victorious players, and their partners, and the cameras had flashed and the microphones had come out. Not for her. She hadn’t had a partner. She’d just thought she did.

A long, puffy coat with a hood and tall boots kept her fairly anonymous, which was fine. The stadium was outdoors, her toes were freezing and her nose was running, and she was wondering how bloody long her mum would hang about before they could go home. What she wasn’t doing was looking at Josh Daniels. Not at his good-looking face. Not at his perfectly proportioned body.

She hadn’t wanted to come, but if she stayed away, he won. That wasn’t happening, so she was standing here even if she froze. Showing him he didn’t matter.

When she’d rung him after the match in Christchurch the week before and a woman had answered, she’d told herself she could’ve been anybody. That it was only eleven, and the boys were probably at a bar. Celebrating, that was all. When she’d rung again at midnight, though, nobody at all had answered. Or at one. Or the next morning. And when she’d texted, she’d got nothing back. Six times. For days on end.

Ghosted.

A wiser woman would have known what was happening days earlier, but she hadn’t been a wiser woman. Not then, because she’d done the whole bit. Curled in the corner weeping until her eyes had puffed up and her face had been blotchy. Cut the coasters from the bar where he’d taken her into tiny pieces and burned them in a bowl.

Now, she was over it. She was here. Josh was ignoring her? She was ignoring him. Besides, he might be good-looking, but he hadn’t even played tonight, so what good was he? Not that he showed it. Instead, he was on the field with his teammates, laughing like he was somebody instead of a bloke wearing street clothes because he hadn’t been selected for the second most important match of the year and probably wouldn’t be selected for the final, either. Standing with a blonde.

A blonde who was clearly his actual girlfriend, from the way they had their arms around each other, and the way she was chatting with the other WAGs.

He wasn’t looking at Nyree. Anywhere but at her. The hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach, the burning shame that kept trying to reach her cheeks so it could fly its red flag—all of it made her want to stalk over there and slap his face. Hard. She wanted to tell his girlfriend, too.

Except that she didn’t want her stepfather to know.

She knew she’d been stupid. Stupid to have sneaked out to meet him around the corner from the house. Stupid not to have realized that sex in the team hotel and his car wasn’t glamorous and dangerous, it was proof that you were the girl on the side. Stupid not to know that men lied.

They hadn’t known she was behind them. That was how invisible she’d been. Angus Hamilton, the halfback. And Marko.

“Coach’s daughter,” Angus said to Marko. “Little Nyree. Would you bang?”

“Mate,” Marko said. “No.” Like he was repulsed.

She stood stock-still for fear they’d notice her. That they’d know she’d heard. Somehow, it would be so much worse if they knew that.

“I hear you,” Angus said. “I’d bang, though. Great tits. Weird face, but that’s why they invented doggy style. Danno was in there, did you hear? A for enthusiasm, he says. Ugly girls work harder, eh. If he’s not back next season, it’ll be even sweeter for him. Consolation prize, eh. Can’t unpop that cherry.”

They’d moved off, and Nyree had edged her way back behind the photographers as her feet had grown colder and the shame had burned hotter. She could still feel that creeping dread, the darkness that had dragged at her. In her jaw. In her chest. In the pit of her stomach.

She could feel it, but it was time to let it go.

Nothing was ever over? This was. It was ten years ago, which was too long to hold onto poison. It was over. Josh Daniels wasn’t playing rugby anymore. The fact that she’d once had sex with him and that he’d told all his teammates about it so they could discuss her ugly face, her disgusting body, and her clumsy performance? That would have long since ceased to be anybody’s titillating gossip nugget.

As for her? She was nobody’s pawn and nobody’s fool. Not anymore. She was done.

Ella was still leaning against the door of Marko’s laundry room. Still trying to look tough, too, but she was running her thumb across the tips of her short fingernails. Back and forth, back and forth.

Calm, Marko told himself. Steady. He finished putting the lid on the cat box, shoved the bag of cat litter into one of the underutilized cabinets next to the washer, and said, “Right. Let’s go have that cup of tea and order a takeaway, and you can tell me about it.”

“I can’t drink tea,” she said. “Caffeine. It said on the pamphlet. Bad for the tadpole.”

“I’ll have a cup of tea, then.” He made it in his perfectly appointed, absolutely streamlined kitchen, phoned in an enormous order to the Thai takeaway, heavy on the meat and veggies, put kitten chow and water into two saucers for the furball, and thought, Cat dishes. After that, he sat on one of the swiveling chrome barstools beside his cousin, picked the kitten up when she decided she was lonely on the floor by herself and complained about it, and said, “First question. Does your mum know you’re here?”

“No.” Ella had lost some of her bravado. She had one elbow on the marble kitchen bench and was pleating her school jumper between her fingers, stretching it out of shape.

“Where does she think you are?”

“At your house. With Caro.” Marko’s youngest sister, still at school and still at home.

The call could wait fifteen minutes, then. “Does she know you’re pregnant?”

“Yes. I told you. And she’s doing her drama llama bit all over the shop, no worries.”

Marko wasn’t quite sure where to go next, so he started with the easy one. “So. You’ve been seeing some bloke, and…”

She gave a huff. “Well, obviously. Julian Mafutoa, but it’s not like he’s the love of my life. And before you get excited and start waving your hands in the air like Mum—he didn’t pressure me, or anything else Mum thinks. She thinks men are evil, that they’re all out to get you, just because my dad was a loser. She gave me all these warnings. It got really old.” When Marko didn’t answer straight away, because he was still trying to work out exactly what to say, she said, “It was my idea, all right? I’m the one who said we should go ahead. With Julian.”

“Have I ever waved my hands in the air?”

“No. But you never know.” She was giving him some side-eye like she expected him to leap from his stool and start shouting.

“Not happening now, either,” he said. “But I’ll say this. Birth control’s a thing, in future.” There. Something he was sure of.

“He said he heard it didn’t feel good.”

“Condoms, you mean.” When she nodded, he said, “It feels just bloody fine. Is it exactly the same? No. But if it’s a choice between doing it or not, a man’s going to take doing it with a condom over not doing it every single time. It feels good enough, trust me. And if you don’t want to use them, you go to the doctor, get birth control, get tested, and stay exclusive. That’s the choice. Not use them or don’t. Especially as I’ll bet it wasn’t just the one time.”

She’d got over her distress, because she wasn’t pleating her jumper anymore. Instead, she had her arms crossed. “Thanks. You’re super helpful. Because you used them every single time when you were sixteen. That’s why everybody gets to lecture me. Because they were all so careful. And perfect.”

“No,” he said, and got a pang of pure terror. Was there a little somebody running around in the world with his eyes? He’d been more careful once he’d been playing professional sport, of course, after he’d been given The Talk a time or two. Or a hundred. “It could’ve happened to most of us, I reckon. So when did you find out? And how far gone are you?”

She shrugged, not looking at him. “Four months or so, the doctor said, but I guess I find out later. I thought that couldn’t be it, because Julian didn’t, you know, finish. But then I couldn’t button my skirt for ages, and it was getting worse, so I thought I should check.”

“And you did check, I’m guessing.” He didn’t tell her that “I’ll pull out” were the other three little words that girls should take with a grain of salt. She’d probably sussed that out by now.

“Well, yeh,” she said. “Of course I did. I wouldn’t come all the way up here for nothing. I took the bus to Timaru on Sunday, because I thought, well, this isn’t going away, but maybe I just got fat, or cancer or something. I got one of those kits there. I couldn’t do it in Tekapo, could I, not with everybody seeing me buy it. So I did it in the ladies’ at Pak ‘N’ Save, and then I went to New World and tried there, in case the first test was from a faulty batch or something. And then I rang Caro and told her, and she said we should tell your mum, because she’d know what to do, and she wouldn’t throw a wobbly like my mum, but I didn’t, because I wanted to check first. And anyway, I know what the choices are. Not like there are so many of them.”

“To check…” he said slowly.

“So I went back to Tekapo,” she said, “and I went to Julian’s house, and we went for a walk, you know, and he wanted to go to the same place as before, to do it, but I said ‘Wait,’ and told him. He said maybe it was wrong and I should check again, and I said I didn’t need to check again, because I’d already checked twice, and he said, ‘My mum and dad are going to kill me,’ and then he said we’d talk later and buggered off. So that was that.”

The kitten was curled up asleep in Marko’s lap, and he had one hand over her to keep her from falling off, but he wasn’t feeling tender. He was feeling fairly murderous, in fact. Cowardly bastard. “Wrong fella, then,” he said, when he had himself under control again.

Finally, he saw the shine of tears in Ella’s dark eyes. “I get that he was scared,” she said. “But can’t he see that I’m scared, too?”

“Yeh,” he said. “He should’ve. He should.”

He put an arm around her and pulled her into his chest, and she laid her cheek against him, took a deep, wavering breath, and said, “It’s just… a bit hard, you know?”

He ran a hand over her back. She didn’t pull away, but her shoulders only shook a few times, even after a journey that must have taken all day. Buses and a plane and buses again, and holding those fears inside for weeks. He felt the woolen fabric of her school jumper under his fingers and thought, She’s still just a baby herself. Even though she could fool you on that. Too much adulting required, living with Jakinda. One person allowed to do the drama, and it wasn’t Ella. It had never been Ella.

He’d been sixteen himself when she’d been born. He only realized now how young he’d truly been. In the months and years that had followed, he’d been aware, now and then, of an urgent, quiet conversation between his parents, but had been consumed with his own concerns like every other young bloke. Until he’d learned what it was all about.

It had been windy that night. He remembered the eerie feeling as the wisps of cloud were driven across the face of the full moon, and the bleakness in the air that said snow was coming. And he remembered the silence.

He and his dad had driven nearly three hours, down from the Southern Alps and across the Canterbury plain, without speaking. His dad because he was coldly, quietly furious, and Marko because he was a hot mess of feelings and was trying to conceal it. They’d ended up in the outskirts of Christchurch at a shonky little house with doors made of the cheapest plywood, and locks that wouldn’t take more than a boot to burst.

He could still feel the smoothness of the cricket bat in his hands, the wood so familiar and yet so oddly heavy. He could remember the fear, too, that had gripped his shoulder muscles and tightened his fingers around the bat, and the coppery taste of it in his mouth.

Not the fear of being hurt. The fear of failing. Of not being able to hold Drake off if he came bursting through that door. Or worst of all—of freezing at the critical moment.

He remembered, too, how glad he’d been that his dad had been there. What a relief it had been to know that even if he failed, even if he froze, his dad wouldn’t. Not possible.

The two of them had stood guard, his dad at the front door with his deer rifle, Marko between the back door and the bedroom with the bat, and he’d watched his father’s baby sister pack her things. Hers, and her daughter’s.

He’d seen the tears dripping from an eye that was swollen shut, the hands that shook as she yanked clothes from drawers and closets and stuffed them frantically into rubbish bags. And all the while, Ella had sat on the floor between the bed and the wall, her Barbie in her hand, and waited. Silent. Still. Hidden. Like she’d done that before.

Five years old.

That time, Jakinda hadn’t gone back. Because that time, Drake had hit his daughter, too.

Give Jakinda some credit. She’d left, and she’d done her best to keep Ella safe ever since. And now? Maybe she’d seen it all happening again, and she couldn’t bear it.

That was then. This was now. Ella was sitting back, sniffing away the few tears she’d let fall, and Marko got up, tore off some paper toweling from the roll on the counter, and thought, Have to buy some tissues.

The doorbell rang. The kitten, woken from her nap, was on his shoulder again. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and told Ella, “We’ll get it sorted. But first, we’ll eat. When did you eat last?”

She shrugged and blew her nose. “Dunno. I had to wait for the bus at Britomart for ages, and then you weren’t here.”

“Door,” he said when the bell rang again, and went to get it. Food would help.

Ella seemed calmer, although silent, when they were eating vegetables and chicken. Finally, she took a long drink of water and said, “Crying sucks.”

He laughed out of sheer surprise. “Yeh. Does. And no worries. It’s a situation, that’s all. We’ll get it sorted, and you’ll cope.”

“Wish you’d tell Mum that. I thought she was going to have a stroke. First thing she said was, ‘We’ll get you an abortion. No other choice.’ I thought I was a bad Catholic. So first thing Monday, we were at the doctor’s. You have to see two, did you know that? And they both have to say your health would be in jeopardy if you stayed pregnant. Which they do say. That law’s stupid.”

“I did know that,” Marko said.

“The doctor was quite happy to say it, of course. ‘Because she’s sixteen,’ he said. ‘No good for her, and no good for a baby.’ Like I’d be some monster mum or something. Worse than those ones you see screaming at their kids in the Countdown carpark? Yeh, right. And he talked to Mum, not to me, which was annoying. He told her to hurry and make the appointment with the second doctor because it looked like it was almost too late, because I had to be seventeen or eighteen weeks already, and Mum said, ‘No worries. She’s doing it.’ And when I said it was my choice, she started to cry, there in the exam room, and said, ‘I’ve tried so hard. Am I going to be punished forever? I made a mistake. I paid. My little girl. My baby.’ Like it was about her. I’m the one who’s pregnant! And then she got all quiet and asked me, ‘How did this happen?’ Like it was a big mystery. And when I said, ‘Well, you know, Mum, the usual way,’ she said, ‘Oh, my God’ again, like it helped, and then she asked, ‘Did he force you? Is that why you didn’t tell me? Because if he did, and that’s why you didn’t say anything sooner—we’re going to the police.’ Like it would’ve been better if I’d been… you know. All in front of the doctor. Awkward much?”

“Awkward heaps,” Marko said. “But you haven’t been to the second doctor yet.”

“No. I came here instead. The weekend was rubbish, and Monday, too, but on Tuesday, I thought—well, at least I know, and I can make a plan. I didn’t want to leave school, but I didn’t want to be in school. Not my school. It’d be awful, and Mum’s over the top. Round the bend. You weren’t there, or you’d know. I talked to Caro, and she said I should come to you and go to school here, so I could go home afterwards without all the drama. And I thought—brilliant. So that’s my plan.”

She looked like she thought that should explain it. His head was spinning more than a little. “You might have rung me first.”

“Well,” she said, “then you might’ve said no.”

“It’s possible.” He had a feeling he was about to get much more than he’d bargained for. “What are you doing about this baby, then?”

“There, you see,” she said. “That’s the brilliant part. That’s the other reason I came. They have a whole system. You get to choose. Caro and I looked it up. The parents fill out papers telling you all about them, and you choose which ones. They’re vetted before, so you know the baby’s going someplace safe where they’ll love it, and you don’t have to worry.”

“Ah. We’re doing an adoption?”

“Well, yeh. Obviously. Because then I’d be doing a good thing for somebody else, which would make it right that it happened, or at least not like some tragedy. And the baby could seem like anything the parents were, as long as they’re not gingers or blondes or something. Because Julian’s Samoan, and I’m all mixed. And besides, here I am, doing well at school, not using P or being an alcoholic or in prison or on the dole. Julian’s all right, too, got good parents and all. So that’s all good, because genes, right? Other than my dad, of course, but what are you going to do. And my mum, maybe, but she’s not horrible, just all emotional and involved. And at least I’m not weeping all over the shop and panicking every time something happens, so that must be a recessive gene. Heaps of people would want the baby, I’d think, and it would be good. Like a service. Like a good deed.”

“It would be that,” he said, feeling his way. “Not an easy road, though. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I know Mum thinks I’m sixteen, and that I don’t know. But I do. It wouldn’t be easy no matter what I did. I thought, though—it could be almost like a gap year, if I came to Auckland for it. Maybe it could be like… an adventure, if I thought of it like that. It’s not like you’d have to do some kind of caring for me like you may be thinking. Mum isn’t always the best about going to the shops and cooking tea or paying the rent, you know. I’d just be a housemate. And it won’t even be for that long. I got through almost half of it already, and I didn’t even know! I thought I had a nasty tummy bug, that’s all. And then that I had cancer. So—you see.”

Marko had a feeling it was going to be tougher than she thought. A journey? Yes. An adventure? Maybe not. “Have you spoken to somebody about that, then? About adoption?”

“I thought—better to do it all up here. So I’ll be far away. After.”

“Find adoptive parents in Auckland,” Marko guessed.

“Yeh. Better, I thought. For when I go home. To be far away.”

She was running her thumbs over her nails again. Looking too young for all of this. Looking sixteen.

He could send her back. To Tekapo, which didn’t just mean Jakinda. It meant Marko’s parents as well, and his little sister Caro, and their grandmother. That would be the smart thing to do. It definitely would be the easier thing as far as he was concerned. But as hard a road as Ella would face in Auckland, would it be any easier in Tekapo? She didn’t think so. And it was her road to walk, for better or worse.

Two possible answers. He couldn’t have said which was right, but maybe his answer had been written a long time ago. Maybe when he’d been given three younger sisters. And maybe on the night his dad had stood in front of a door holding a deer rifle.

“Good as gold,” he said.

“Yeh? Seriously? Brilliant.” Ella smiled, and he saw all the bravery in it, and all the terrible, unseeing youth. “You’ll see. It’s a perfect plan.”

There were just a couple problems with Ella’s plan.

First, Marko’s new house wasn’t exactly guest-ready. He’d been planning to get to it over time. By which he’d probably meant, “When the season’s over.” Next December.

Second… well, everything else. Just taking on a kitten had seemed like a major change in his routine. What was this going to be?

Play what’s in front of you. It’s not forever. She’s not an elephant. Maximum gestation nine months. And she was looking too much like that five-year-old clutching her Barbie.

“Bedroom,” he told her. “Unpack. And then you can ring your mum.”

“I thought…” She looked up at him like the big brother he almost was, and there was that tug again, the strings his family had around his heart. “I was hoping you could do it. You could explain. She’ll listen to you.”

“No.” This, he knew for sure. “I’ll sit with you while you do it. Start as you mean to go on. This is your start. But first…” He got off the stool, put his kitten back into his pocket, and picked up Ella’s duffel. “You unpack.”

She followed him up the spare modern staircase and into an expansive bedroom, where he set her duffel on the bed and said, “Here you are.”

“Uh, Marko…”

“I have sheets,” he said. “A towel as well. Somewhere. Hang on.” He found them on a high shelf in his closet, then thought a second and dug out his sleeping bag. When he came back, Ella was sitting on the bare mattress, her shoulders drooping. He dropped a white towel and facecloth, a set of white sheets, and the sleeping bag beside her and said, “There you go. Oh. Hangers.” Another trip to his bedroom. He found five extra. “Right,” he said once he’d put them on the bed with the rest of it. “Sorted.”

“OK,” she said.

It didn’t sound all that cheerful. He said, “I told you. We’ll talk about the rest tomorrow. One step at a time. For now, unpack, get yourself…” He waved a hand around vaguely, and the kitten shifted on his shoulder. “Settled. Showered, or whatever, and then come down so we can ring your mum. Last thing, then bed. You’re almost there.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just…” She looked around.

“Oh.” He considered that. “Huh. You mean that it’s not decorated.”

“I mean that it’s not anything. Sorry, but… Caro said your house was flash, and it is, but…”

He could’ve been offended, but he’d heard his share of female commentary and female expectations. So he just said, “A bed, four walls all your own, a window, a ceiling light that works, because I put the bulb in myself, and a private bath. With towels. Also a million-dollar view of the sea. You should’ve seen my flat in Dunedin when I first went to play for Otago. A mattress on the floor, a couch that probably had to be burnt when we moved out, and a bath shared with three mates, each of them filthier than the last. Took my showers on tiptoe for fear I’d catch something disgusting. Consider yourself lucky. Besides, we can do a bit of a shop on Sunday.”

He sighed a little inside. He was seeing his gypsy on Sunday morning, his one full day off. He’d planned for an entire uncluttered afternoon, in case their breakfast morphed into… more. Now, unless Nyree’s dream date was shopping for furnishings with a pregnant schoolgirl, that wasn’t going to be happening.

He wondered if Ella still liked Hello Kitty, and got a bona fide shudder down his spine.

Comfortable, yes. Of course she should be comfortable. But he was going to draw the line. It was his flash house and his money, and it was going to be done to his taste. No pink. No flowers. No mouthless cats.

He made the bed himself, in the end, while Ella was in the bath. If he hadn’t, he’d had a feeling she would have lain down on the bare mattress. She looked that knackered. After that, they sat side by side there, Ella in pink flowered flannel PJs that promised nothing good, future-décor-wise, and Marko with his kitten, and she rang home.

“Mum?” she began, and Marko could hear the rapid, high-pitched sounds on the other end with no trouble at all. “No,” Ella said. “I’m with Marko. Didn’t Caro tell you?” Another minute, then, “Well, I am. Yes, in Auckland. That’s where he is.” Another pause. “With my birthday money, of course. Yes. I’m fine.” And after a long few minutes of quacking, “I want to finish school. That’s the point. I’ll come back after. After winter term, I guess. Sometime in there.”

Finally, she held out the phone with a sigh. “She wants to talk to you. Dunno why I had to do it. She never listens to me anyway.”

Marko recognized that for the narkiness it was. Too tired, too young, and too scared. He took the phone and told his aunt, in his calmest, most in-control tones, “Hi, Jakinda. She’s here. She’s all good.”

“I rang her up after school,” Jakinda said, her voice missing all the lower-register tones. This was going to be fun. She was only five years older than Marko, but at times, he felt that much older. “Because she ran out of the house this morning like it was the last time. I didn’t have a good feeling. No answer. Ever. And when I got that robocall they do from the school saying she’d bunked off all day, I rang your house, because she’d said she was going there, but she wasn’t there, and Caro was so odd, I rang the police. They said she’s sixteen, and she’s allowed to leave home and stay on her own as long as she isn’t in danger. How did I know she wasn’t in danger? How did they know? They didn’t, that’s what. Your mum and dad have been just as frantic. You might have told me sooner. I’ve been beside myself. And Caro knew? Why would she keep it a secret, when she saw how worried I was? All she would say was, ‘She has a plan.’ Some help that was. Imagine what the two of them might have thought was a good plan.”

Marko would’ve been willing to bet that his mum and dad hadn’t been as frantic as all that. “As it happens, though,” he said, “she did have a decent plan.” He brought the intensity levels down the same way you did in a match. By breathing in, breathing out, and refocusing on—yes. The plan. Then you communicated it. Calmly. Settled everybody down and gave them the belief, and no panic stations. “They decided she should come stay with me until the baby’s born, go to school here away from the gossip, and have the baby adopted here as well, so she won’t be running into the mum and dad—and the baby, too—on the street. Then go home with a fresh start. Sounded reasonable to me. How does it sound to you?”

He got her to pause, anyway. “The gossip will still be there,” she said. “Mackenzie College has two hundred pupils. They all live here. They all know her. There’s no outrunning this. You did your school in Dunedin. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“I was born there. I went to primary school there. I know what it’s like. It won’t be a secret, but it won’t be the same as if she’d stayed, either. Nine days’ wonder.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jakinda said. “When it could have been done and dusted already and everything back to normal. Say what you like, it would be better than this. She’s sixteen.”

“Not so easy for me to say,” he said. “I’ll be the one dealing with it, won’t I, while she’s here. But it’s for, what? Five months?” he said to Ella as much as to his aunt. “You can do anything for five months. Anyway, this is her choice, not mine.” Or yours.

“You can’t want to take that on,” Jakinda insisted. “And I certainly can’t come stay with her. I can’t leave the practice, not during breeding season.” His aunt was a vet tech for a large-animal clinic, and there were a lot of sheep in the Southern Alps. “Maybe one of the girls could have her stay. Otherwise, she’ll have to come home. Like it or not, uncomfortable or not. If this is her choice, it is.” She didn’t say, You made your bed, you lie in it, but he had the feeling it wasn’t far off.

“I’ll check about the girls,” Marko said, although he doubted that his sisters would be volunteering. Terese, four years younger, was remotely possible, he guessed. Living across the Ditch in north Queensland with her husband and two little boys, she had only two bedrooms and the noisiest flat in Australia, but she’d know heaps more than Marko did about pregnancy and girls. Sabine, third in line, was studying to be a doctor in Dunedin. Probably not an option. Sabine was very good at focusing on one thing at a time, but not so good at paying attention to anything else. “If not, we’ll cope.”

“You wouldn’t have the first idea,” Jakinda said.

He knew better than to react out of male ego. He did anyway, of course. “Oh, I dunno. I expect I could figure it out. The occasional man has hung around to help a woman during her pregnancy before. It’s only for a few months.”

“If it’s his baby,” Jakinda said. “What reason would you have to do it?”

Marko took a breath before he answered. Always wise. “That she’s my cousin. That she’s sixteen. She needs a place to stay and somebody to stay with, and here I am.”

A textbook example of how a man got in over his head.

By the time he rang off, Ella was hugging her pillow to her midsection. Marko couldn’t tell how much chubbier she was there. Must be a fair bit, if she couldn’t button her skirt.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yeh,” she said, but she didn’t sound it. He sat still and waited, and she finally said, “I should’ve asked first. I didn’t think of everything there’d be. When I was thinking maybe I was pregnant, I tried to put all the things in order like I’d normally do, the baby and school and all, but there are just… it’s so many, and…”

She’d started to rock with the pillow. He thought for a minute, then said, “Can you use the internet?”

“Wh-what? Yeh. Of course.”

“Use a phone?

“Uh… Marko.” The panic had receded. “I just used a phone.”

“Then I reckon you can do this. We’ll make a list, add things to it as we think of them, and you’ll use the internet and the phone, make some calls, and start ticking them off, the most important ones first. One at a time. If you can’t find the answer, you’ll ask me, and we’ll look for the answer together. But you’ll look first, because it’s your life and your choice.”

She swallowed. “Yeh. It is. My choice. But…”

“Yeh?”

She hugged her pillow more tightly. “What about money? For the clothes and all? I used most of my money to get up here. I started thinking about it on the plane, though, and I think… I’ll need a whole uniform. And new jeans and all. And if I have to go to school on the bus… Fares. All that.”

“I think I can run to a few clothes, and whatever else you need.” That was enough of that. He stood up. “We’ll start getting that list sorted tomorrow morning. I’ll wake you at six.”

Suddenly, she looked like every teenager in the world. “Six? That’s, like, barely morning.”

“Can’t be helped, though. I’m at work at eight, and I have a routine.”

“But you don’t work. Not at a real job.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Unfortunately, it startled the kitten enough that she dug her claws into his skin. “That’d be a nice idea if you could get it. The trouble is—you can’t get it.” He headed to the door, taking the furball with him. “Six. No worries. You don’t have any curtains, and that window faces east. I’m guessing you’ll be awake.”

Nyree may have watched some rugby on Saturday night, even though it was only Week Four in the season and nothing but a match against the Chiefs was on the line.

On the other hand, Victoria had it on the TV. If she glanced at it from time to time, that was because TV was distracting.

At this particular moment, Marko was hitting the ball carrier so hard, the other fella bounced off him and went down in a heap. Considering that the other man was Samoan and had thighs like trees, that was some feat. Afterwards, the color commentator shouted “Boom-fa!” exactly as Nyree had known he would. She’d watched enough rugby by this point in her life that the soundtrack played in her head automatically.

The camera lingered on Marko, standing up again from a ferocious contest of bodies and wills at the breakdown, and it stayed there as he wiped an enormous hand over his jersey, set his black-shadowed jaw, and readied himself to go again while the announcers kept talking about him. Specifically, about his “massive engine.”

“. . . a bloody enormous prick,” Victoria said beside her.

That got through. “Pardon?”

Victoria looked startled. “Why? It’s true.”

“How do you know what size he is?”

Victoria sighed. “I didn’t say he had one. I said he was one. The judge in my sex crimes case, before he summed up like he was representing the defense.”

“Oh,” Nyree said. “Sorry.”

Victoria went on, “And I know Seb’s right. When we went to dinner last night, he said, ‘Let it go. It’s over. It’s one case.’ But sometimes, that’s harder to do. Because it’s also one damaged little girl.”

“I think you realize it’s over,” Nyree said. As always, she longed to shout, “Dump him!” And possibly do a ceremonial dance, in case it helped. Seb was just so… smug. “Being sorry for one day isn’t exactly marinating in the loss. I’d be sorry, too. I am sorry, and it wasn’t my case. Go ahead and be sorry.” She finished her drink, picked up the basket of washing she’d been folding, and stood up. “Got to go, though. I have some work I need to think about, and an early date tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Victoria sat up straighter. “New work? Painting work? And what date?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking, on the date. Photographing the rugby boys again. I’m not… I can’t talk about the work yet.” An idea she had, tickling at the back of her mind. If she talked about it, she’d lose it. She had to find her way through to it with a charcoal pencil.

Victoria glanced at the television screen, where Koti James was powering his way through one tackle with his freakish upper-body strength, going down at last under the pressure of two more, and somehow flicking the ball away one-handed, without looking, in the split second before he hit the turf. The wing, Kevin McNicholl, plucked the ball out of the air as if he’d known it would be there, put his red head down, and charged for the tryline. Another tackle, and there Marko was again in the breakdown.

You couldn’t see much of him. It was a rear view.

Which was enough.

Time to go.

Victoria said, “I could come with you. I could look, at least. I know you don’t like them, but I think I could see my way.”

That was good news. Non-Seb good news. Of course, a rugby player might not be any better than Seb, since Victoria’s attraction would be based on the same things, the things that also made them arrogant. Height. Muscles. High testosterone levels. Money. Et cetera. And then there was their disturbing tendency to be twenty-two, or married.

Marko wasn’t either, though. And he wasn’t Seb. He was kind to puppies and kittens. Seb probably kicked them. In short, Marko could be the best thing that could happen to Victoria.

And yet, somehow, Nyree was saying, “It’s better if I do it alone, sorry. I’m trying to keep it low-key so I don’t spook them or come off like a fan. And, no, I haven’t told them who my stepdad is, so don’t ask. I don’t need the complication. It’s business.”

It’s business, she repeated to herself at nine the next morning as she found a carpark on Tamaki Drive not too far from the Mission Bay fountain and opened the crate. They had a perfect day for it. Glorious sun, puffy white clouds, and the patented sparkle to the turquoise waters of Waitemata Harbour. Perfect.

For business.

She headed to the fountain, where the Art Deco urn and the three bronze sea monsters sent their sprays of white high into the early-autumn sky. Not too busy out here, she saw with satisfaction, thanks to the early hour. A fair number of kids, though, running and shrieking around the playground, which gave her an idea. If she could get Marko posing with a dog and a couple kids? That would be good. She’d brought photo releases just in case.

One of the kids, a little girl of two or so, was running towards her right now, in fact, followed by a couple with a baby in a pushchair. She’d be perfect, because she was adorable. Marko’s harsh face showcased beside that golden skin, those shiny dark curls, and all that life? The little girl was waving her hands in excitement as she ran, then looking back at her father, who was pretending to chase her.

Oh. Well, yeh. Dad was Koti James, his glorious body resplendent in shorts and jandals. She’d told Marko, “No uniforms. We’ll go with mufti this time, the casual look,” and he’d evidently passed along the message.

He’d brought his kids as well? Better and better. She dropped the leash to the ground, stepped on it fast, told the dog, “Stay,” and got out her camera with her heart beating faster. This was manna from heaven.

“Already focused on the show pony,” the deep voice behind her said. “And here I brought the kitten and all.”

She was already smiling when she turned, and then she wasn’t.

It wasn’t because of how Marko looked. He’d shaved today, which wasn’t about her. His usual post-match routine, that was all. He looked good scruffy, and he looked good cleaned up. Tough both ways. He had a gash on his forehead covered with surgical tape, and that didn’t hurt his looks, either. The fluffy gray kitten sat on the shoulder of his black T-shirt, which stretched over the acreage of his arms and chest as per specifications. It all created a nice contrast. Aesthetically speaking.

It wasn’t that. It was the girl.

“How ya goin’, Nyree,” Koti said, and Nyree turned to face him again, feeling like a human fidget spinner. Focus. Koti, who as usual looked as if he’d only watched a rugby match, had the curly-haired toddler in his arms now, a shot that would make any newspaper editor sing for joy. He said, “Marko said you were bringing a dog. I made the mistake of telling Kate about it in front of my daughter, and here we all are. This is Maia. She longs for a dog with every beat of her heart. You can probably tell.”

The little girl was indeed leaning out of her father’s arms, stretching her hands out for the dog and making urgent noises. Koti tightened his grip on her and said, “Oh, sorry. My wife Kate, and that lump under the blanket is our son Mikaere. Asleep, which is a lucky thing, as you’ll be able to hear yourself think. This is Nyree, baby, who’s doing the thing for the SPCA.”

“Hi,” said the brunette with the pushchair. She was even shorter than Nyree, and her accent was American. “Right upfront—Koti can get his picture taken, but we’re not going home with a dog today, so nobody”—she cast a meaningful look at her daughter—“should get excited.”

Koti flashed the famous grin and told Nyree, “Our bad cop, eh.”

“I want to pat the doggie,” Maia announced.

Nyree said, “You’ll get to pat her, I promise. And no worries,” she told Koti and Kate. “You have to do some paperwork to get one of our dogs. This is a meet and greet, that’s all. And a few photos, of course.”

Koti glanced at Kate, then back at Nyree, and said, seriously for once, “No photos of the kids, OK? We try to keep them out of the press.”

“Of course.” Disappointing, but understandable. Surprisingly private of him, considering his own exposure in the media, but surprisingly thoughtful, too. If he kept on like this, she was going to have to admit that more rugby players than her stepbrothers were OK.

Just not the one behind her.

Professional, she reminded herself. No matter that she’d had a truly embarrassing dream about him just last night.

They’d been on the coast. Not like here, where a sweep of golden sand met the barely ruffled waters of the harbour and the sun shone mellow on it all. No, this had been the west coast, clearly. A bluff above a wild, rocky coastline, with the hiss and roar of the waves hitting the rocks below filling her head, and the wind blowing her hair like streamers. She’d run the track along the edge of the cliff, too close to danger and knowing it, and he’d run after her. When she’d looked back, the wild wind carrying her along, she’d seen him catching up, nearly there, his face dark with purpose or passion, had felt the thrill of danger, fear, and desire all down her body. And had stepped into nothing.

A frozen moment when her mind had tried to catch up and resisted knowing. A very bad moment.

He’d caught her. His long arm around her waist, sure and strong, plucking her out of midair. Their momentum carrying them to the ground, away from the cliff’s edge, and Marko twisting to take the impact of the hard ground. Even as he’d hit, as she’d felt the jolt all the way through her body, he’d rolled with her on the tough, wet, wild grass until he was above her. He’d held her fast, not letting her up one bit, and there’d been nothing tender in his touch.

“You bloody little fool,” he’d snarled. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Not the most romantic dream. Her subconscious appeared to think Marko was either a threat or a savior. The minute she’d seen him with the tall, pretty blonde, she’d realized which. Or you could say that she’d woken up again. The girl—whose blonde came from a bottle, because her skin was too naturally brown for it, as well as flawlessly unlined and poreless, damn it—was wearing a bright-blue crossover-front top she was nearly bursting out of and a short skirt that showcased her barely-legal legs. She was, in fact, everything Nyree wasn’t.

Nyree thought, At least all I did was nearly step off the cliff.

No harm done. None at all. She fixed Marko with her coolest, most remote gaze, the one she used on fellas at Bevvy who wouldn’t take “No” for an answer, and said, “Morning. Thanks for coming. I’ll try to make it short, and then everybody can get on with their day.”

This morning, Marko’s mum hadn’t contented herself with a text. She’d rung instead.

“First of all,” she’d said, “your dad says ‘Well done’ for last night. I thought you were very strong.”

Since she always thought that, he didn’t get too excited. “Thanks,” he said. “And tell him thanks as well.” It was after eight already, which meant his dad would have been out with the dogs for an hour.

“Now that we’ve got that taken care of,” she said, “how’s Ella? And how are you?”

“All good,” he said. “Getting it sorted.”

“I don’t know who’s less communicative, you or your father. It sounds like Ella was level-headed, in the end. And by that, I probably mean, ‘She acted like me.’ After all, I went ahead and had you, didn’t I? Not the right time at all, and believe me, I considered the alternative. Your dad came through in the end, of course, but if he hadn’t, who knows?”

He sighed. “Thanks for sharing, Mum.”

“What? That’s hardly a surprise, not once you got old enough to count the months between our wedding day and your birthday, so why should it be a secret? None of us was born to be a martyr. Your dad and I are very proud of you, but it doesn’t sound easy. Jakinda says she can’t get away, so do you want me to come and help get Ella settled?”

“You can’t, surely. Not with the breeding season well underway.” Which was enough all by itself, with two thousand sheep to see to. “And the lodge as well.”

“Nobody has time for a crisis,” his mother said. “That doesn’t stop the crisis from happening. You cope, that’s all. Just like you’re doing. If you need me, I’ll come. Your grandmother offered to take care of the guest side for a few days. We’ll make it work.”

“No,” he said instantly. “Amona hates it. She feels like they’re all staring at her.”

“Baby.” His mother sounded startled. “How do you know that? She can’t have told you. That woman wrote the book on ‘stoic.’”

“She didn’t have to tell me.” If somebody had to suffer in all this, it wasn’t going to be his quiet, patient grandmother, but he didn’t know how to explain that. Instead, he said, “I’d say I’ve got it, but really, I think Ella has. We’ll cope. But I’ll let her fill everybody in. It’s her story.”

“You’re anxious to get on with your day off,” his mum said. “I’ll let you do it.”

He didn’t sigh. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“The King of Swords,” she said. “Not much ambiguity there. Time to take charge. You’ll be faced with a decision, and you’ll know the answer. Trust your judgment. Same kind of reading I’ve had for you all week. It’s odd, though. I thought you’d already done it. On the other hand… when I drew the Chariot for you on the day Ella came, I didn’t see that. I saw love, and struggle, but mostly—sex. It was passion I was getting, not your usual overdeveloped sense of responsibility.”

“Mum,” he said. “Please. No.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not discussing your sex life with you. I’m giving you my impression in general terms. And the impression was passionate. Which, whether you like it or not, you are. I should know. I’ve known you since before you were born.”

Maybe his mum had been right, because at this moment, facing all that blankness from Nyree, he didn’t feel one bit responsible. She wanted Koti after all, and when she’d seen Kate with him, she’d lost interest in the whole thing?

He’d promised, and he was here. He’d fulfill his promise, and he’d move on. Acting on a decision, like his mum had said. Generally not that difficult for him. “Nyree,” he said, “this is my cousin Ella. Ella, this is Nyree.” He didn’t look at her after that. He looked at the dog. She was lying patiently on the concrete beside the fountain. No beauty, her coat black and dull, her muzzle stubby, and her ribs clearly visible, but she thumped her tail gently when he made eye contact. She’d had puppies recently, he saw, maybe the ones he’d handled. She didn’t seem fussed by the kitten so far, but just to be sure, he closed his hand around it.

“Your… cousin,” Nyree said.

“Yeh. Staying with me for a few months while she goes to school here.”

Ella was looking between the two of them. “What?” she asked Nyree. “Did you think I was his girlfriend? He’s old, though. Plus my cousin.”

Nyree suddenly looked much more relaxed, and Marko may have felt that way himself. Or maybe not. “She’s sixteen,” he told Nyree. “Interesting opinion you have of me.”

“Wait. Really?” Ella asked. “I look like I could be a rugby WAG? Like I seriously could be Marko’s girlfriend? That’s so cool.”

“It is?” Marko asked. “What happened to ‘old’?”

“I don’t mean I’d think you were hot,” she said. “Ew.” And Nyree laughed.

Koti said, “Not trying to rush anybody, because this is fascinating, but if we don’t get our skates on here, somebody’s going to get hungry or need a nappy change or both, and that’ll be me gone.”

“Oh.” Nyree did that slow-blink thing again, and Marko watched again like the fool he was. Then she gathered herself with an obvious effort and said, “Right! If everybody’s ready, let’s take some pictures.”

Marko was still thinking about why he’d want to chase somebody who was making him work this hard when Nyree said, “We still have a few weeks to go before dogs are allowed on the beach for autumn, but we’ll live dangerously and take her down there anyway.” Her gaze landed somewhere beyond Marko when she said, “I’d love to get some shots of you two boys running with the dog, or in the water. And then I’ll get you with your kitten, Marko.”

Koti said, “Fine by me.” He carried the pushchair down to the beach with Kate, pulled out a bucket and shovel, and told Maia, “Daddy’s going to come to play with you in a bit, but first I have to play with the dog. You sit here with Mummy and see how big a hole you can dig.” Then he gave the black dog a few scratches around the ears and asked Nyree, “What’s her name?”

“They’re calling her ‘Shadow’ at the shelter,” she said, unclipping the leash. “Some people have no imagination.”

“Too right,” he said. “Come on, then, Shadow. We’ll show the forwards how it’s done, eh.” And then he ran into the water.

Ella asked Marko, “So are you just going to stand here and watch? Or what?”

He would have answered, except that Nyree was handing him the camera and saying, “Hold this a sec. And by the way… this is not about you.”

“Uh… what isn’t?”

In answer, she pulled off her cotton dress and tossed it to the sand. “Stay here if you’d rather.”

“You have to be joking,” he said.

She was wearing a bikini. There wasn’t much of it, and the deep red color did the Snow White thing for her all over again. She wasn’t any cartoon princess, though. She had genuine, no-excuses, oh-baby-do-me-like-that curves. And he hadn’t even seen the rear view yet.

She said, “I could be insecure about that comment. Or I could decide I’m here to do a job, ask for my camera back, go out into the sea, and take some photos.”

He handed it to her, she headed off, and he detached the kitten from his shoulder and gave her to Ella. “Hold my kitten,” he said. “It’s manly man time.”

Ella rolled her eyes, of course. But Marko was watching Nyree walk away, and it looked just about like he’d have imagined. She might be short, but that body was rocking and rolling. After that? It wasn’t even a choice. He stripped off his T-shirt, tossed it to the sand, and ran into the sea.

So he’d get his photo taken shirtless after all, like the kind of poster boy he’d never been. You had to ante up to get into the game.

If you were going to go, you might as well go big. He ran straight past Nyree and out into deeper water, dove under a wave, and strode back out again slicking his hair back, his shorts riding low.

Koti? What Koti? Pretty Boy hadn’t even taken off his shirt. Marko might not have the smile and the tattoo, and he might have a stitched-up forehead, but he had a good inch and twelve kilos of muscle on Koti. And he was shirtless.

He’d call it a win.

Nyree was watching, too, which was good. The dog, though, wasn’t cooperating. She was running back and forth in short little sprints along the shore, barking at the three of them like she wanted to be out there, but it was awfully wet. Finally, Koti dropped to his knees so he was hip-deep in the water and called to her. She hesitated a moment more, then came wagging up to him, picking up her feet with every step like sand was very odd indeed and water was worse. But when she got there, she settled in for a cuddle, her tail wagging hard, and Nyree started snapping like mad.

She did manage to break off long enough, though, to look at Marko with something like challenge and maybe something like heat in her eyes and say, “That’s working. Stay wet for me, will you? You look at the camera like you’re looking at me right now, and we’ll take some photos that have the ladies coming into the shelter to see if you’re up for adoption.”

You could say that the water suddenly didn’t feel nearly as cold.

By now, Koti was soaked but laughing, the dog was wet through and no more beautiful for it, and still, Marko could see that the pair of them would telegraph, “Rescue a dog today and get a lifelong friend!” in a way that was going to work.

Fine. As long as Marko got his turn. While Nyree was still in the bikini. He could come across as dark and tough and fierce as she’d ever hoped for if he were looking at that.

It was all good. Better than good. Until Maia stopped playing in the sand and went running out into the sea.

It happened fast, and it happened slowly, as those moments always did. The little girl moving unevenly over the sloping sea bottom, her father and the dog both heading towards her, and her mother standing up with the baby in her arms, calling out something incoherent. And the instant when Maia tripped, fell, and landed face-first in the water.

She didn’t come up.

The dog got there first, faster even than Koti. She grabbed Maia’s tiny shirt with her teeth and began tugging her towards shore—at least for the few seconds it took Koti to reach his daughter, scoop her out of the water, and hold her close to his chest.

Maia hauled in a breath, about to cry, and Koti, his voice nearly steady, said, ’“Monster.” He waded to shore and swung her high overhead until she shrieked, but with laughter this time. “We don’t go in the water alone,” he said when he brought her down. “That was very, very naughty.” But when he had her cuddled up close again and was peeling off her wet shirt, his face told a different story. And so did Kate’s. She was right there with him now, pulling off the little girl’s soaked leggings as the baby, deprived of his feed, wailed.

“I have a spare outfit in the diaper bag,” she said. Her voice was level, too, but her face was white. “Let’s go, miss. Daddy’s right. Stay with Mummy.”

“Doggie,” Maia said, reaching down again.

Koti asked Nyree, who, like Marko, had headed to the beach fast, “Can she pat her? Is it safe? I think it might help.” He laughed, and—all right, now he didn’t sound so steady. He’d be having nightmares tonight. “Not help her. She’s fine. Me. I know the dog didn’t save her life. It just felt like it.”

“Oh, yes,” Nyree said. “Do have Maia pat her. That’s why I brought her.” She was holding it together as well. Ella, though, had a hand over her mouth, and Marko could hear her saying, “Oh, my God.”

Nyree went on. “She’s gentle with little ones, and you just saw why she’s so special. She kept her puppies alive through some pretty rough times. She’s a black dog, and black dogs don’t get adopted. But she has a beautiful soul.”

“We’re getting her,” Kate said. She was at the pushchair, holding her daughter on one hip and searching in the diaper bag with the other hand. The commotion inside the pushchair announced that the baby had headed into full Scream Mode, and Kate’s hands were trembling on the bag. The dog had followed her, though, and was sitting at her feet for all the world as if she were checking on Maia.

Koti took both the bag and the soggy-diapered little girl out of her hands and told his wife, “Let’s go sit by the fountain. I’ll get Maia dressed, she can pat the dog, and you can feed Mikaere. Then we’ll go home. It’s all good, baby. No worries. She’s safe.” He put a gentle arm around Kate and said, his voice barely low enough to hear, “Ka nui taku aroha ki a koe.”

The baby was still crying, and Kate said to Nyree over the noise, “We want the dog. Can you please have them save her for us? And can we borrow her for a minute? Koti will bring her back before we leave.”

“Of course I’ll make sure they save her for you,” Nyree said. She stood still, her camera clutched to her chest. “And of course you can have a few minutes with her. I’m so sorry. I wish I’d seen.”

“No reason you should’ve,” Koti said. “Not your job. No worries. We’re good.”

“Right,” Nyree said, watching Koti carry the pushchair up the beach, complete with crying baby, while Kate clutched a diaper-clad Maia and the black dog followed behind. “Strangest adoption ever.”

It had been nothing. A few seconds. Koti had been right there. But still.

Marko had come to stand beside her, and she had the oddest feeling, as if he had his arm around her. “It’s the imagination,” he said quietly. “It’s brutal, eh.”

“Yeh.” She did her best to shake it off. “Could we take a pass on the kitten pictures? I think I’m about photo’d out for now.”

It had been a joke, but not really, because Marko looked at her too keenly and said, “Course.”

“What did he say to her? Koti?” Ella asked, and Nyree nearly jumped. She’d almost forgotten the girl was there. Still holding the kitten in two hands, clutching it close to her chest. Looking sixteen. How could Nyree have thought anything else?

“‘I love you,’” Marko said. “I think.”

“Ka nui taku aroha ki a koe,” Nyree said. More like, ‘My love for you is limitless.’ Comforting her. Sweet, eh.”

Marko was putting on his shirt again, the red of him shining deeper than ever. Strong. Alive.

She should have done the photos, except she couldn’t. She went to find her dress and bag instead, and when she came back, Marko said, “You’re cold. Why don’t you go shower off while we’re waiting for your dog to come back? Bet they’ve got hot water in the showers here. We can pop across the street afterwards and have that breakfast.”

“You must be cold, too,” she said. “And you don’t have another pair of shorts.”

“Nah. I’m a pretty tough bugger, and they’ll dry. Go on. Ella’s hungry, and I’m guessing you need a coffee.”

“Uh, Marko,” Ella said. “Where’s your wallet?”

His face changed. Completely. He started patting his pockets. “Bloody hell. I may have got a bit carried away there. Wait. Here. Brilliant.”

Or not. The slim black-leather folding wallet looked like it had cost something. Now, it was absolutely, positively soaked with salt water.

Marko stood and looked at it for a long moment. “Destined, that’s what I am,” he finally said. “And not in a good way. I’m texting my mum back to tell her she’s losing her touch. At least I left my phone in the car.”

“What?” Nyree asked, trying not to laugh. She should be sympathetic, but he looked so nonplussed.

“My Tarot card of the day. Which somehow always seems to show that I’ve got this. Never mind.”

“Ah. What were you meant to be today?” she asked. He was pulling a couple slips of paper out of the wallet. Or more like—a couple ragged, limp ribbons of paper. It was awfully hard not to smile. Girls’ phone numbers? If they were, he was out of luck. She shouldn’t feel so pleased about that.

“King of Swords,” he said. “Competent. Logical. In control.” He shoved the mess of paper into his back pocket, then froze. He was patting his backside again, then checking his front pockets, which forced Nyree to look at his front pockets. His thin shorts were still soaked. Still clinging, too. And his long ring finger hadn’t lied.

Testicle size. That was the correlation, and the evidence was right there. It wasn’t only that, either. He had plenty of everything.

She looked up fast. She did not need that information.

“Well, bugger me,” he said in resignation. He hadn’t noticed her momentary lapse, fortunately. “My car key would seem to be in Davy Jones’s locker.”

“Should we have a look?” Nyree asked. “Maybe we could find it.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “Tide’s going out, and searching futilely for my key isn’t the image I was hoping to leave you with. No worries. I’ve got another key at home.”

“House key?” Nyree asked.

“He has a key pad,” Ella said. “Good thing. I can’t believe you did that, Marko. It’s awesome. He’s always so perfect,” she told Nyree. “He never does awkward things. I can’t believe you jumped in the sea with your wallet. Wait till I tell Caro.”

“My sister,” Marko told Nyree. “Not my girlfriend. For the record, I’ve got heaps of sisters, so if you hear another name, she won’t be my girlfriend, either. And it could be,” he told Ella, “that my mind was elsewhere.”

“Oh,” Ella said. “You mean because Nyree took off her clothes? That’s even worse, when you just gave me that whole lecture about thinking ahead and not getting carried away. Like you’d never done it. I told you,” she said again to Nyree, “he’s perfect. This is great.”

“Consider me humbled,” he said. “And if we’re all done battering my ego, maybe Nyree could get that shower and let me see if my plastic still works to buy her breakfast, so my world could go right side up again.”

There was a bubble of laughter in Nyree’s chest, trying to get out. She said, “Why is it that before, I was nervous about it, and now, I suddenly want to go to breakfast with you fairly desperately?”

He started to smile. Slowly. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ll take it.”

“Did you think Marko was, like, bad or something?” Ella asked. “Just because he looks like that? He’s boring. I’m telling you. He’s responsible. All he does is train and eat.”

The laughter bubbled over. “I believe she’s your cousin,” Nyree told Marko. “I’ll go take a shower, and I’ll take that coffee, too.”

“Maybe you could tell me why,” Marko said to Nyree when they were seated outside the Mission Bay Café with the dog’s leash around her chair leg and the kitten on his lap, “my spectacular failure at being the King of Swords worked for you.”

She’d taken her shower, and her mass of black hair was more tumbled than ever, blown about by exertion, wind, and water. The pale-blue cotton dress had tiny sleeves, showed some very nicely rounded upper arms and a swell of pale breast if you happened to look down the front, and reached only halfway to her knee when she sat down. Which she was doing now, her bare thigh centimeters from his.

Not a hardbody, no.

He was carefully not looking at any of it except the hair and the face. It wasn’t easy. When she’d laughed, before… that had been a midnight laugh. A little bit sweet and a little bit dirty. He wanted to hear it again.

“Taking notes, are you?” she asked, a saucy smile hovering at the edges of her mouth. Her emotions moved across her square face like the Auckland weather. “For your romantic career?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe taking notes on you. Tell me what I did right, and I’ll do it again.”

She drew in a breath, and he thought, Oh, yeh. I’ll do it again, and then I’ll do it some more. I’ll do it until I get it right.

Ella sighed from across the table. “Guys.”

Marko said, “Can’t be helped. I bought your breakfast. Reckon that’s the price.”

“You buy everything, though,” Ella said, “so that isn’t saying much. It doesn’t mean I want to be in the middle of your love life.”

Marko ignored her. “So why?” he asked Nyree.

She was spinning her coffee cup on the table with one hand. Not a big hand, but not the slim, graceful one you might have imagined. Capable and square, the nails short and unpainted. “It wasn’t that you did something awkward,” she said after a moment. “It was what you did afterwards. That you didn’t try to blame anybody. Didn’t lose your temper.”

“Well, you see,” he said, “I try not to do that. Sounds like you’ve known some blokes like that, though. So have I. Sign of weakness.”

“Like my dad,” Ella said. “He used to hit my mum,” she told Nyree. “Like you said. Off his nut about whatever else it was and taking it out on her. At least that’s what my mum says. He was pretty scary. He must have been, because I still remember, and I was little.”

“Oh,” Nyree said. “Good job he’s gone, then.”

“Nah.” Ella was working her way through a breakfast as big as Marko’s. His food bill was going to double, that was for sure. “We left. Marko and my Uncle Ander came and got us. And I think Marko gave him a hiding once, when he came back. He didn’t come back again.”

Marko wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. Ella wasn’t meant to know about that. Nyree asked him, “Did you?”

“Could be,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?’

“Twenty-one.”

“Ah.” It was a sigh. “Well, yeh. See?”

“I see,” he said, “no, I know that fellas who can’t look honestly at what they did wrong, fellas who blame the ref or their teammate instead, don’t get very far.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Oh,” he said, “I think it is. Self-discipline. Self-control.”

“I told you,” Ella said. “Boring.”

“Mm.” Nyree lifted her cup to her lips, but slid her eyes on over to him. It was a sexy little look. “Taking in your cousin and all, too.”

“Could be. You can think it was my noble nature. Instead of that she turned up.”

Nyree asked Ella, “Where were you before?”

“Tekapo,” she said. “Same as Marko. I didn’t want to turn up without telling him. I was afraid he’d say no, though.”

“Ah,” Nyree said. “But Marko said you’re here to go to school. So… sudden decision?”

“No,” Ella said. “Yes. I guess. I had to a bit, you know. Change. Schools. I thought I had to. So I came up to Marko, because he’s responsible.”

“Oh.” The weather chasing over Nyree’s face now was of the “clouds” variety. “For what?”

“Because I’m pregnant.” She took a deep breath. “Whoa. Hard. I’m practicing saying it for later.”

It took Nyree a moment to work through that, but after she did, she wanted to smile again at the expression on Marko’s face. Gobsmacked, she’d call it. She couldn’t smile, though, because of Ella, whose own face was slowly flushing dark. She put a hand over the girl’s for an instant. Her blue nail varnish was chipped, and the nails looked chewed. “Not easy,” she told her.

“Yeh,” Ella said. “Not so much.” And took a deep breath. Better. Calmer.

“The look on your face, though,” Nyree told Marko, letting the moment pass. “The King of Swords? Yeh, right.”

He smiled himself. Reluctantly. “Didn’t sound good, eh.”

“What?” Ella asked.

“It sounded,” Marko told her, “like you were saying that I was responsible for your pregnancy. You may want to be careful with that.”

“Oh. You mean— Oh. Whoa. No. I told you,” she said to Nyree.

“That he’s old,” Nyree said. “And dull. And your cousin. Yes. You did. So tell me when you came.”

“Thursday.”

“This Thursday? The day I photographed you?” Nyree asked Marko. “You got a cat and a cousin on the same day?”

“It’s been quite a week,” he said. “Played a rugby match as well. I’m throwing that out there in desperation. I feel I could be coming off as more of a hard man here.”

“Why?” Ella asked. “She has to know you’re an All Black. Everybody knows you’re an All Black. That’s why everybody’s been taking photos of you since we sat down. And it’s all good,” she told Nyree, “except that he doesn’t have any furniture. I came with him because we were meant to be going to Sylvia Park after. Can’t go straight away anymore, I guess, because of the car keys.”

“I could take you,” Nyree said. “As long as I drop off the dog at home first. I live quite close to Sylvia Park, and I don’t have to be at work until four. I can spare an hour or two. Shop, then take you home, as long as you don’t live up the North Shore or on the dark side of the moon.”

Ella opened her mouth, but Marko said quickly, “That’d be brilliant.” He finished his last bite of sausage and egg and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Oh,” Ella said, then, to Nyree, “Really? You’d come shopping? That would be so much better than going alone with Marko. He’s hopeless as.”

“Oi,” the man himself objected.

“You are,” Ella insisted. “You know you are.” Sounding a little giddy now that her secret was out there, and who could blame her?

Marko sighed. “Because I pointed out one duvet cover. As a suggestion.”

“But the one you wanted was brown,” Ella said. “I know it’s your money. I know I should be grateful and all that. I am grateful. I just said maybe it could not be ugly.”

“Brown’s not ugly,” he said. “It’s neutral. Goes with everything. Doesn’t show the dirt.”

“See?” Ella asked Nyree.

“Well, yeh,” she said. “I do. Life’s too short for brown.” She finished her own coffee, which she may have been nursing a tiny bit, because she also may have been looking at Marko. “Let’s go.”

Nyree didn’t walk any faster than she ran, Marko found. They were meant to be going to her car, but she stopped to look at the notices in the realtors’ window and pointed out a pretty house. When they walked past the ice-cream shop, she asked Ella which flavor was her favorite. When a couple who had to be in their eighties passed them, because, yes, they were walking faster, she said, “I need a big hat like that. Good for sun.” When she stopped to let the dog sniff around the curb, Marko said, “Are we going to get there anytime soon, d’you think, or should I duck into a café for extra supplies?”

Was she fussed? She was not. She smiled at him and said, “Why? Are you in a hurry? We’re at the beach. We’re relaxing.”

“We’re walking to the car.”

“Exactly. Which is a lovely moment on a lovely day. People travel from all over the world to walk along a pavement like this and look at a view like this. You’ve missed it all this time, living in Dunedin, but today, you have it. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Dunedin has beaches.”

She made a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort. “Yeh. And the water’s ten degrees, too. You know what they call the day when you can wear shorts with your thick woolly jumper in Dunedin? Summer.”

“Sounds like you know.”

“Because I do. And look, here we are. We made it, see? Relaxing walk and all. You could’ve jogged instead. It would’ve saved you five minutes. How would you have used them instead of walking with Ella and Shadow and me looking at the sea?”

She had a point. Maybe. She also had a VW Beetle. As he now remembered.

“And I saw you wince,” she told Marko, giving a tug to the little car’s door to open it, because, naturally, it was sticky. “I happen to know that a man taller than you fits in this car, if he squashes up. But if it’s too small for you, feel free to ring for a taxi. Oh, wait. You can’t. Your phone’s in your car.”

“I did not wince,” he said as she shoved his seat forward to get access to the back seat. She started to put the dog into her crate, which involved getting on one knee and climbing in, and if he wasn’t supposed to look at her… well, he failed. She fastened the latch, climbed back out again, and tugged her skirt down and her neckline up, and he watched her do both.

Fortunately or unfortunately, she wasn’t looking at him. She told Ella, “You’ll have to squash up as well, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind,” Ella said, and climbed into the back. “As long as Marko doesn’t shove his seat back.”

“Marko,” he said, folding himself into the passenger seat with his kitten, “is all good.” Marko wanted to know how she knew that a man taller than him fit in this car, who he was, and how much she liked him. He failed as a modern man in so many ways.

Nyree didn’t answer, just hopped into the driver’s seat, pulled out, and executed a screaming U-turn. The bus behind her hooted as she accelerated off, and she said, “People are so impatient.”

“Bloody hell,” Marko said. “I think my life just flashed before my eyes.”

“And other people,” Nyree said, “need to loosen up.” She made a quick right in front of a blue sedan onto Kohimarama Road and said, “You didn’t die that time, either.”

He put his hand over his eyes. “Wake me when it’s over.”

“Ha,” she said. “I’m not the one who gets bashed in the head for a living. So what did you name her?”

“Pardon?” he said. “I couldn’t hear you over the pounding of my heart.”

“The kitten. What’s her name?”

She’d climbed his shirt again. “I’ve just been calling her ‘Cat.’ She seems to like it.”

“You have to give her a name.”

“I know,” Ella said from the back seat. “She’s going to get a complex.”

“She is not going to get a complex,” Marko said. “She’s a cat. I’ll give her a surname, though. Cat Cat. Happy?”

“You,” Nyree informed him, “need to learn to embrace the pleasures of life.”

He considered telling her that he had a plan for that. He decided to work up to it.

After only three or four more near-death experiences, she pulled, with a dramatic screech of tires, into the driveway of an absolutely unremarkable single-story brick house that didn’t have nearly enough personality to be hers. It must be, though, because she hopped out, repeated the performance with the dog crate and the dress and the thighs, and waited while Shadow took a wee on the grass. Marko let the kitten down to do the same, and she picked up her paws and leaped about as if the blades of grass were stabbing her.

“She doesn’t like it,” Nyree said, and Marko said, “Got that, didn’t I,” took her over to the bare patch of earth near the fence, and said, “Cat box. Go.” And fortunately, she did.

Nyree said, “Come inside a minute while I get Shadow settled. You may want to leave the kitten here while we shop. You could bring the crate in for me, Marko.”

She didn’t go into the back door of the house. She went into the garage. And if her driving was an assault to the senses? This was more.

It wasn’t that it was untidy, because it wasn’t. Quite. It was just… crowded.

Ella said, “Do you live here? Seriously? Only here?”

“Seriously,” Nyree said. “Put the crate by the couch, please, Marko.” She was at the sink in the tiniest kitchenette he’d ever seen, pouring water into two bowls, and setting them on the floor. In the only space there was. Both animals had a drink, and the dog went into her crate and snuggled down. The kitten took a leap up Marko’s leg, dug in, fell back, and meowed, and Marko picked her up again and said, “You’re meant to explore, Cat. Failure at being a wild animal.” In answer, she crawled up to sit on his shoulder.

Ella said, “Is your couch a seat from a car?” It clearly was. Gray. It had a blue shawl flung over the back as if that would make it better.

“Yeh,” Nyree said. “Rear seat from a Honda. Makes you wonder why people spend thousands at the furniture store when there Car Wreckers is, and they have them just lying around.”

“Not as comfortable, though,” Marko said.

“Oh?” She widened her changeling eyes at him. “No good? Never lain down on a car seat?”

He was considering the wisest answer to that when Ella said, “Where do you sleep?”

“Here.” Nyree took three steps to the back corner, beside a door that had to enclose the world’s smallest bathroom, and pushed aside a trifold screen. It had probably been meant to look Japanese, but only half the white paper inserts remained. The other half had been replaced with thin wood, painted white, covered with pressed flowers, ferns, and leaves, and lacquered over.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” Ella said. “Did you make the screen? And the bed.”

“The screen was in the rubbish,” Nyree said. “I rescued it. Why would you buy something in a shop when you could make it your own?”

Her bed was a non-regulation mattress, laid across the corner of the room and barely raised off the floor. It didn’t look much like his own in that long-ago Dunedin flat. Hers was a… nest. Throw pillows in white fur, in deep blue velvet, in orange satin. More blue velvet on the coverlet, an orange throw that cascaded onto the floor, and swaths of orange gauze stapled across the corner of the wall. A piece of old wood nailed to the wall held a collection of antique doorknobs hung with necklaces and scarves. There were hooks on the other side as well. The same type? On the same level? Of course not. Scattered all over, and hung with lingerie.

It was mad. It was the last thing from spare and simple. Color. Texture. Everything.

Pinpricks ran down Marko’s arm, and then the kitten jumped onto the bed and was picking her dainty way across the velvet.

“Sorry,” he said, and scooped her up.

“No,” Nyree said, “leave her. This bed was made for a kitten to curl up in.”

Marko could imagine that without any trouble at all. There were two nighties hanging from those hooks. They were silky, they were short, and the ice-blue one was edged with lace. There was a black silk dressing gown as well.

“It’s all amazing,” Ella said. “You do painting, too.”

“I do.”

That would be hard to miss. It wasn’t that there were so many paintings on the walls. There wasn’t room, not when you considered all the hooks holding clothes hangers, the boxes nailed next to the tiny kitchenette crammed with mismatched dishes, cereal boxes, even vegetables. But there was a painting on an easel, and one hanging over the Honda seat. It was of mandarins, some in a bowl and others, still on the branch for some reason, in a shabby white enameled pitcher set against an orange wall. It wasn’t flowers or anything you’d normally see, but it was quite nice. Cheerful. At least it wasn’t random blobs of color, or scribbles. You knew what it was meant to be.

He couldn’t decide if she’d done it or not, though, because the thing on the easel was so different. He was going to have to say something nice about it, too. You respected a woman’s ambitions.

Bloody hell.

Nyree took a look at Marko, then sighed and said, “You may want to cultivate your poker face.”

“What?” He was still gazing at Pookie like he couldn’t tear himself away. Or like he was horrified. “It’s a dog. Dachshund, right?”

“I think it’s adorable,” Ella said. “Funny, too.”

Nyree took a good long look at Pookie. She’d painted his younger, better-natured self lying on his back, emerging halfway out of a studded motorcycle boot, with his tongue hanging out and a paw draped casually over the front edge like a boy racer hooning around with his elbow out the car window. His long ears flopped around him, and he had an “I’m too cool” expression on his face. “He’s meant to be a badass dog,” she said. “As he’s black. His owner and her husband have Harleys and think they’re badass, and he was cuter as a puppy. To say the least.”

Marko seemed to be groping for a response, and she said, “You’re thinking it’s one step away from cigar-smoking dogs playing poker. It’s a commission. It’s psychology. Not of the dog. Of the person paying for the painting.”

“I thought artists were meant to be, like, all hung up on artistic integrity,” Ella said.

“Yeh, well,” Nyree said. “Rent. Rich people don’t have enough ways to spend their money, I make them happy, and I stay out of an office for one more month.” She added, just in case Ella needed to hear it, “Not always easy to support yourself even with a degree, eh.”

“I thought you had a job,” Ella said. “You said you had to go to work today.”

Marko was watching her too closely, and Nyree was starting to feel narky about that. “I’d love to hear what you’re thinking but not saying right now,” she told him.

He gazed at her for a long moment, then said, “I reckon everybody does what they have to do.”

It took her a second to switch out of combat mode. “Yeh. They do. So I paint dogs. And have a job. I need to be at that job today, so if you’re looking for a lift to Sylvia Park, we’d better go do it.”

When they arrived at the enormous shopping mall, though, and headed into Hunter Furniture, Ella wandered the aisles silently, walking more and more slowly. Five minutes. Ten, as she picked up price tags and dropped them again. Marko was standing back, not helping, and Nyree suppressed a sigh. Couldn’t he see?

Finally, she asked the girl, “What do you have already? What do you need?”

Ella shrugged. “A bed, that’s all, so I need… a tallboy, I guess. A table for beside the bed. One, anyway. A desk, too, and a chair. Some sort of carpet, because it’s a wood floor. But it’s only for a few months, and…” Her voice dropped. “Some of these tallboys are thirty-five hundred dollars. And they look like they were designed for an orphanage. Like all your walls are gray, and you eat lumpy porridge for breakfast, because pretty things are bad for your character. Marko probably likes them, though. That’s what his furniture looks like. What he actually has.”

She looked around glumly, and Nyree had to agree. Orphanage for sure. “Besides,” Ella went on, “even if I got the very cheapest ones, it would be thousands, and then there’s a duvet and sheets and all, and the carpet. He only has one pair of sheets for my bed. White. Also two extra towels. White. And I need a desk, because he doesn’t even have a kitchen table. I’m going to need other things, too. Clothes. All new school uniform. Which is more money. D’you think he saw the prices on this stuff?”

Marko said from behind them, “I don’t need a table,” and Ella jumped and looked guilty. “I have the kitchen bench for that,” he said. “And stools. I’m all good. I saw the prices, yeh. Pick out what you need, desk and all, and we’ll get your duvet cover that isn’t brown and the rest of it, and we’ll be done. When you need the special clothes and the new uniform, we’ll buy those as well. We don’t need to talk about it. You just need to do it.”

“What about when I leave?” Ella asked.

“Then I’ve got a guest bedroom furnished. Choose, and we’re done with this and can move on.” Marko didn’t appear to lose his temper easily, and he wasn’t doing it now. He was definitely getting more curt, though, and Ella was starting to look agitated.

Nyree put up a hand. “Hang on. Stoppage of play.” Ella was running her thumbs over her fingertips in a way that Nyree guessed was meant to stop her biting her nails. “Here. We’re going to sit down.” She led the girl over to the bed display—Ella was right, a starker and more dreary collection of furniture could not be imagined, however much it cost—sat on a plastic-covered mattress, and pulled Ella down beside her. Marko didn’t sit, but since he didn’t look like he was about to cry, that was fine. He could stand in front of them and glower. “Tell me what the plan is,” she said to Ella. “You’re pregnant, and you’re here to go to school. That’s all I know. Here for how long?”

“Until the baby,” Ella said. “Is it OK to sit on their ugly beds?”

“That’s why they’ve got plastic on. When is the baby due?”

“September sometime. Probably. They won’t know until they do a sonogram, they said. With a midwife, I guess. I have to find somebody.”

Where was this girl’s mother? “Which means you’re, what, four months pregnant?”

“Uh, yeh,” Ella said. “Somewhere in there. I don’t remember exactly.”

When her last period had been, Nyree guessed. “And when the baby comes,” she asked, “what happens?”

The thumbs were working overtime. “It gets adopted. And I go home. That’s the plan.”

“So,” Nyree said slowly, “you’re worried that you’re asking Marko to buy you all this, and that you should get what he wants. But you don’t know exactly what he wants, and this stuff is more expensive than what anybody you know could afford. And then there’s the fact that it’s horrible.”

“Oi,” Marko said, but she ignored him.

“It’s just that… “ Ella took a deep breath. “That the room’s so white. Like somebody’s going to do surgery any minute. All right, I know it’s ungrateful, and it has a beautiful view and all, but I wish it could be a place like yours. More cozy, to hang out in. Not so…” She swept an arm around. “Land of the Future. Android World.”

“I know what you mean,” Nyree said. “I need my nest. Place to hide, eh.”

“Yes.” Nyree thought she might be seeing some tears, and then not, because Ella blew out a breath and said, “But maybe it won’t look so bad if I get colored sheets and some cute pillows. I should just pick, I guess. Sorry.”

She stopped talking and stood up. In her too-tight shirt and too-short skirt, because she’d outgrown her bra and her clothes and hadn’t known what to do about that. And Marko said, seeming to choose his words with care, “You should get what you want. If you don’t like this, we’ll go somewhere else.”

“Except that you don’t know where,” Ella said. “And I don’t, either. Besides, you like this, and it’s taking too long, and it’s your day off. I can’t pick, though. I just can’t see anything that looks… any better. So I wish you’d pick something instead. Get it over with. And then we can go to the Warehouse and buy a duvet cover. White. Better than brown, at least.”

Could anybody look more miserable than a sixteen-year-old girl? Could every little thing matter more to anyone than it did at that age, even if she weren’t facing pregnancy and a new school?

As she always did at times like this, Nyree thought, What would Nan do?

Just now? That was easy. “Cup of tea,” she said, and stood up herself. “Food court. I need to go find the toilets first, though. Come with me, Ella.” She told Marko, “We’ll come join you. Cup of tea. Herbal. Get one for you and me as well.”

It took her a second to realize why he was standing there staring at her. Because she’d ordered him.

He went, though. So oh, well.

When Marko saw Nyree next, she was alone. Which was good, because he needed to talk to her. And bad, because he’d swear she was going to talk to him. And that he might not want to hear it.

He’d just loaded up the tray, and she said, “Over here,” and led him to a quiet corner. “Ella needs a few more minutes. I think she cried in the stall. Not a crier, I’m guessing. She could need some recovery time.”

“No. Girls get odd, though. Emotional. She’s normally much calmer than this.”

“Well,” Nyree said, and he didn’t miss the dryness in her tone, “she is pregnant. Hormones, eh.”

“I’ll take your word for it. And I don’t care what furniture she gets, although that looked fine to me. Not if it’s going to make her miserable. How can furniture make somebody miserable? It’s a bloody tallboy, not a Dementor.”

“Harry Potter. You’re a man of many surprises.”

“A man of three little sisters, that’s all. But misery-inducing furniture?”

“Because it’s hideous. I’d be miserable, too.”

“Cheers.”

“You’re welcome. Beyond the furniture, though—she needs maternity clothes. She needs them now. Where’s her mum?”

“Got a job.”

“Still. Having the baby and giving it up? Not the usual path. Was that Mum’s idea? If it was, why is Ella here?”

“No. The opposite. Jakinda’s a bit dramatic, I guess you’d say. And a crier. That’s why Ella’s here. For some calm, maybe. I don’t know why she decided on this, but she did, and she seems sure.” He took a sip of his tea and said, “It’s not what you may be thinking. This morning, when it sounded like she was saying I was responsible…”

She sighed. “I know you’re not. It’s obvious.”

“Well, cheers. But it sounded bad, and I know it, and after all—here I am buying her bedroom furniture. Why is it obvious?”

A long silence while she stirred three packets of sugar into her tea and he tried not to wince. “I see people in color,” she finally said.

He blinked. “What?”

“What I said. It’s called synesthesia. Where you stimulate one pathway in your mind or your senses, and it stimulates another. Mostly, it’s seeing letters or numbers in color. Or musical notes.”

“This is a thing?” he asked cautiously. “Sounds…”

“Like your mum’s Tarot cards,” she finished. “Like the kind of rubbish you’d expect from somebody who fancies herself an artist. But I was doing it well before I could read, so whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t true. But what you’re thinking? That’s why I don’t tell people.”

She sounded more than defensive, but then, he could imagine why. “Since you were a kid?” he asked.

A long pause, and some of the tension left her. At least, she stopped ripping her empty sugar packet into pieces and dropped them on the tray. “Yes. I didn’t know everybody didn’t do it. Then one day when I was five or six, I asked Mum why her boyfriend was brown.”

“Ah. Bet that went over well.”

“Got a long lecture about pride in being Maori. And I said, ‘But Mummy, he doesn’t match you, because you’re blue.’ She was confused, as you’d imagine, but eventually, I managed to explain.”

“What did she say?”

“Took me to the doctor to see if I had a brain tumor.” She laughed. “I didn’t. But that’s why I knew about you.”

“Huh.” He considered that. “What about the boyfriend? Your mum’s?”

“Ah, well. Cleaned out her bank account and buggered off. So there you are. He was brown after all.”

“And you knew I wasn’t lying because I’m…”

“Red. You’ve always been red.”

“Always?”

“Oh. I mean, both times. All the times.”

“Red doesn’t sound so good, either.”

“It’s not what you think. Your color is what you are all the time. It’s not a mood ring. If you were angry all the time, hostile—you’d be muddy green. Black. Something else. Red’s just passionate. Physical.” She looked up at him from under her dark lashes. “Strong. Et cetera. And too direct to be a liar.”

He’d have been quite happy to keep talking about his strong, passionate nature, but Ella would be coming back any moment. “Right,” he said instead. “I’m seeing that this situation I’ve got is going to be more complicated than I realized. Especially as I’m here this week, then off to Aussie for two weeks, and it goes on like that. Rugby, eh. Meanwhile, you’re living in a garage and worrying about paying your rent.”

Those green eyes were staring into his. It would be hard to lie to those eyes. She was right about that. “I am.”

“And painting horrible pictures of dogs.”

“If that was meant to soften me up,” she said, “it didn’t work.”

“Right. Sorry. What are you paying for the garage?”

He could swear he could see her heart pounding. He could definitely see her breasts rising and falling. It seemed the King of Swords was making his move. She said, “Two hundred a week.”

“For that? Auckland housing, eh. Still not used to it.”

“It can happen. When the place is actually attractive to people.”

“Someday,” he said, “we’ll have to talk about what you have against Dunedin. But not now. I’ll pay you two hundred fifty dollars a week to move to my house for the next five months instead and help out with Ella. Cover your whole rent with some left over. I’ll buy the food as well. An even better deal.”

It took her a minute. Finally, she said, “That’s a cheap housekeeper.”

“How did I know,” he said with a sigh.

“I like Ella,” she said, “but it sounds like you need more than a companion, and I don’t want to be a housekeeper. That’s why I live the way I do. Well, one reason. Besides that I can’t afford anything else. I also have a job.” She lifted her chin. “In a restaurant, and you can go on and say it. You’ve talked about my art already. Go on and slag off my job as well.”

“I’m not saying anything. I have somebody who does the heavy cleaning every couple weeks, and you don’t have to cook for Ella. Or for me, either. Just cook something with her, maybe, like you’d do anyway. Go to the midwife with her. Help her find furniture she likes. A couple hours a day max. Look at it that way. She likes you, too, and I won’t be here enough. I’m not going to be good leaving her alone, so I either need to get her some company or send her home.”

Nyree sat still a moment, and he sat and wondered why on earth he’d be this reckless. And had a feeling he knew exactly why.

“Where is it?” she asked. “Your house?”

“St. Heliers.”

“As in,” she said slowly, “next door to where you left your car. As in, you probably could’ve run home for your keys in twenty minutes.”

“As in maybe I wanted to take you up on your offer. Could be I wanted to spend more time with you. Though right now, I can’t imagine why.” She just looked at him, and he sighed. “Three hundred a week. You’re killing me here. I’m not even getting a cook.”

“No strings. No sex,” she added, because he must have looked blank. “You’ve got a separate room for me.”

All right. That was just insulting. “Of course I do. And I don’t pay for sex.”

“Goody for you, because I don’t have sex for pay. And I have to be able to paint.”

“Dogs.” Wait. He should probably have spelled out the sex thing a bit more. Was she saying no sex? Or… Wait. She had said “No sex.”

Well, bugger.

“Yes, dogs,” she said, and he struggled to get back to the point. “Dogs are what will keep me out of an office. Dogs are my only hope.”

“Did you paint the mandarins? In your garage?”

A long couple seconds. “Yes.”

She’d said it cautiously. Completely differently. He said, “And that’s the kind of thing you want to do. Not dogs.”

“It’s one thing I want to do. I can put a tarp down, but if I can’t paint, I can’t come. I’d want to come, because Ella does need somebody, and I need the money. But I can’t.”

“Oh, now you want to do it. Now that you’ve squeezed three hundred from me.”

She smiled. Sweetly. “Does your mum think it’s good for you to have everything your own way? Or doesn’t that come up, Tarot-wise?”

He shouldn’t answer. He did anyway. How did she do that? Draw the truth out of people? “Maybe,” he found himself saying. “She told me this week that I needed a reality check. What color are you, so I know? I’m hoping you’re not brown. Could be you’ll empty my bank account. I’m taking a risk here as well, you know.”

“I don’t know. I can’t see myself.” She looked over his shoulder. “Ella’s coming. Better decide.”

“What? I decided.”

She fixed him with her stare, and he thought, Snow White was never like this. And then he gave it up. “You can paint. Anything. Just help me.”

“And be your reality check.”

“Maybe not that.”

What color was she? Whatever color spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E. And it looked like he was jumping straight in.

“I’ll help Ella find some bedding, for today,” she said. “And a carpet, maybe. As a favor and as a friend, not for money. We’ll collect your kitten, and I’ll drive you home. I’ll take a look, and we’ll talk. And then we’ll both decide.”

When Marko got to his car on Monday afternoon after training, there was a cat on his windscreen. It was white. Also fluffy.

He didn’t swear, because he was a disciplined man. Instead, he located Koti’s flash car in the players’ carpark and stuck the cat under his wiper. Then he went back to his own car, found the bonus cat stuck in the roof rack, and put that under Koti’s other wiper.

They’d done both photo shoots together, which he’d reckoned would reduce his exposure mightily. But whose image had been on the front page of the Living section of the Herald on Sunday with a kitten on his head, a grin on his face, and enough bicep in the frame that it looked like he’d meant to show it? Not Pretty Boy’s.

And whose cubicle had been filled with stuffed cats today? Not Koti’s there, either. Marko wasn’t being presented to Auckland as any kind of hard man, that was for sure. The SPCA had better get a few more animals adopted in return for his sacrifice, that was all he had to say.

On the other hand, he wasn’t driving home to an empty house. He may even have pushed the speed limit a bit when the motorway opened up. One thing he was certain of—he’d be moving furniture tonight, and he’d be hearing something that made him laugh and a couple things that confused him. Because Nyree was moving in.

That was two things he was sure of, actually. He was on St. Heliers Bay Road now, and somehow, instead of thinking how different Auckland was from Dunedin and how much worse the traffic was, he was noticing a huge pohutukawa on a corner, a tire swing tied to one of its giant limbs. An old-fashioned white bungalow glowed in the mellow early-autumn sunlight, its garden lush with palms, fern trees, and purple agapanthus. Below him, the sea sparkled with every shade of blue there was, and white sails scudded across the harbor; weekday sailors who’d got off work and taken the boat out, letting the wind blow away the cares of the day in time-honored Kiwi fashion. Marko buzzed his window down on the thought, stuck his elbow out of it, let the wind in, and felt twenty-two.

Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

He rolled up the driveway to the house, but couldn’t get into the garage. A certain yellow Beetle was in the way. And a gray Toyota SUV with a mattress tied on top of it, and an upside-down coffee table and tallboy on top of that. Nyree had the door of the SUV open and was standing on the edge and reaching overhead, tugging at the rope. Her shorts were… well, short. Also, she had a smear of sunny yellow paint on one upper thigh that extended all the way to her bum. Which he could see, because the shorts were riding up. That just-visible crease, and all that… roundness.

It took him a second to tear his eyes away enough to notice the tall redhead who stood opposite Nyree, tugging at her side of the rope while the precariously balanced load teetered overhead.

The whole lot was going to come straight down on Nyree’s head. He could see it happening now. He got there fast. “Hang on,” he told Nyree. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ve got it,” she said, still tugging at the knots.

“Well, no,” he said. “You don’t. That load’s going to slip and fall bang on top of you. And you stacked all these things instead of doing two journeys? Why? I told you I’d come help as soon as I got home from training.”

She’d hopped down, at least, but was still standing next to him, monitoring his unloading progress as if she’d resume her untying at any second if he proved unsatisfactory.

It wasn’t just the shorts, which were denim cutoffs, not the sort of thing to set a man’s imagination alight at all. No, that wasn’t enough. She was also wearing a little white blouse with some kind of ethnic-type embroidery on the front and a scoop neck. It fastened with a drawstring in the center. He wished she’d stop with the shirts that tied. Also with the shorts. And the hair that wasn’t in its ponytail this time, either, but was falling over one eye, so she had to brush it back.

She didn’t seem to notice that she was interfering with his concentration. She said, “You’re right, Captain Careful. We didn’t make two trips. And we made it here all the same.”

“We did have to stop once, though,” the redhead said. “To tighten the ropes,” she told Marko. “One of them started flapping in front of my windscreen. I practically had a heart attack. Had this vision of the tallboy and the table smashing into the car behind me. Multi-vehicle accident. Evening news. Police investigation. Et cetera.”

“None of which happened,” Nyree said. “Stop being a lawyer. And stop giving him fuel. He doesn’t need encouragement.”

Marko removed the last of the rope and told the redhead, “Hang onto the table while I take the tallboy off, will you? What I actually don’t need is another concussion. I’m Marko, by the way.”

“Victoria,” she said, following his perfectly reasonable directions and holding onto the table. “Pleasure.”

“Vic owns the house where my garage is,” Nyree said. “My landlady, who’s very excited about the rent she is now sure of receiving for the next five months. She was dreading having to pretend to want more paintings or evict her favorite tenant. Two unpalatable alternatives.”

“Untrue,” Victoria said. “And you’re my only tenant.”

Marko set the tallboy on the ground and pulled the coffee table off the car’s roof, getting it balanced over his head before setting it down, the way a careful person did it. The table was painted. He hadn’t noticed that before. He’d been overwhelmed by the rest of Nyree’s décor, probably. Red poppies, huge and exuberant, on a black background. One guess who’d painted them.

Victoria took the mattress down from the car, so that was all fine, until Nyree had to say, “See? Five minutes and we’re unloaded, instead of forty-five more of driving back and forth, because that’s the lot.”

Marko straightened up, looked down at her, considered which answer would (a) adequately express his feelings, and (b) make her listen, and decided that there was no possible statement that would satisfy both conditions. So he just concentrated on not looking down her shirt. If she weren’t so short, it would be easier to avoid. Or possibly if her breasts weren’t so bloody pretty.

The front door banged, and Ella came out, moving fast. “Hey, Marko,” she said, grabbing a couple rubbish bags out of the Beetle’s boot. “You should see my room. Already so much better, because Nyree spent her whole day off helping me. Also I’m enrolled in school, or I will be once you and Mum sign the paperwork. New uniform’s hideous. Pity you didn’t buy a house on the other side of St. Heliers instead. Glendowie College has at least heard that there might be a wedge on the color wheel other than navy blue. Too late now, I guess.”

He’d have answered, but there was a dust bunny rolling along behind Ella. Or a tiny gray kitten, meowing for all she was worth, then charging straight up his leg. He grabbed her and said, “You’re an inside cat, Cat. Stay inside.”

“Sorry,” Ella said. “She must have heard you coming and sneaked out. She’s been pining for you all day.” Then she headed inside with her bags.

“She’s a cat,” Marko told her departing back. “Cats don’t pine. If they meet you at the door, it’s because they want their dinner.”

“I told you,” Nyree said. She was starting to pick up the coffee table now, like she was going to carry something almost as tall as she was, and twice as wide, up the stairs. “She’s a Burmese. More like a dog, really. Take the other end of this.”

He said, “No. I’ve got it. Take something else. Here. Take my kitten.”

She ignored that and started removing drawers from the tallboy, and he said, “Not that. Some… bags, or something. Stop it.”

“You do realize,” she said, “that I’m a fully grown woman.”

“Not grown much,” he said, and Victoria sucked in a breath and said, “Ooh.”

Nyree turned to face him. Slowly. And said, “Try again, boy.”

“Oh?” Marko said. “Was that too authoritative for you? Could be that’s the way I am. Or could be I’m narky because somebody gave the Herald a photo of me with a kitten on my head.”

She smiled, and he stood and watched her do it. That smile was choice. That smile was the sun coming out and every dirty dream he’d ever had, all rolled into one. “Yeh,” she said, drawing the word out while the smile got a little sweeter. A little hotter. “Didn’t it come out great? You looked so good. I heard that calls to the shelter were up by twenty-one percent the past two days. What’s wrong? Did the other fellas take the piss?” She must have interpreted his expression correctly, because she started to laugh. That bedroom laugh of hers, dark and heady as whisky. “Aw. Poor baby. They did. What happened?”

“Little matter of some stuffed cats. I’ll get over it sometime, I’m sure. I may need to carry heavy things for you, though. Part of the recovery process.” He handed her the kitten and picked up the coffee table. “I’ll see you upstairs. And if you’re carrying drawers when I do, I’ll have stern words for you.”

He went inside the house without looking back, carrying the heavy coffee table as if it were a box of matches, and Nyree stuck the kitten in a carrier bag full of bedding and reached for an armful of clothes on hangers.

Victoria had a hand over her chest and was patting it. “Sorry,” she said, and used the hand to fan her face. “Can’t… breathe. Much… hotness.”

“That’s because you aren’t used to them.” Nyree may have been having a few issues with her own heart rate, but she wasn’t admitting it. “The muscles are standard equipment. Just another rugby boy.”

“That’s no boy,” Victoria said. “That is a man.”

Nyree didn’t answer that, because she’d have to acknowledge that it was true. The kitten was making some noise at being separated from the love of her life, and she needed to get the cars unloaded anyway.

“If you actually want him, and you’re protesting for the sake of your principles,” Victoria said, “tell me now. Because it’s not just the muscles, and I want it.”

The kitten was still meowing, but Nyree stood still. “What about Seb?”

“When we went to that lunch yesterday,” Victoria said, pulling out her own armload of clothes on hangers, “he said I’d dominated the conversation. Because I talked about my case.”

“All right. That’s it.” Nyree’s arms were aching. She set the bag down, juggled the clothes, and then had to grab for the kitten, who’d got tired of waiting for her prince and was trying to escape. Which caused half the clothes to slip from their stack and spill onto the driveway. “Bugger. Right. I know you’re not supposed to bash the boyfriend because if you get back together again, blah blah, awkwardness ensues, but I don’t care. Seb is a gold-plated, purebred, eyeless, slimy pink worm. Break up with him.”

Victoria sighed and shifted her own armful of clothes. “Never become a lawyer. You’re temperamentally unsuited. And yeh, that’s the plan. Which would be why…” She inclined her head toward the house.

“No,” Nyree said. Wait. Where had that come from?

“Oh.” Victoria digested that. “All right. Girl Code’s a thing. Next question. When are you telling him who you are?”

Nyree started picking up the clothes she’d dropped. Not easy with one hand, so she put Cat, still loudly protesting the tortures of separation, back into the carrier bag. “Not now, anyway. It would only complicate things.”

“How?”

“How about ‘in every way possible?’ Besides, I really will be helping here, because Marko’s going to be gone too much, and Ella’s going to need somebody. As long as I’m not sleeping with him, what does it matter? My family won’t know, because I still have the same address, Marko won’t know, because I’m here for Ella, not for him, and it’ll be fine. He’ll be focused on other things. I’ve lived with rugby players before, remember? They care about rugby, cricket, possibly fishing, and sex in its more recreational forms. With women not like me. And that’s generally all.”

“Huh. What about the ones who are married? And how do you know about the sex? Never tell me your brothers shared that with you. Or did they?” She peered at Nyree more intently. “Something you haven’t shared?”

“Could be I’m psychic. And all right, the married ones are married. Granted. Marko’s not. He’s never even lived with anybody, and he’s thirty-two. Proof positive.”

“Uh-huh. And you know this how? Oh, right. You picked it up during all that time when you had no interest in him.”

“Look,” Nyree said. “It’s a business arrangement, and a caring-for-Ella arrangement, which is fine. But he doesn’t like anything I like, and vice versa. His house may be—all right, pretty bloody spectacular—but it’s not me. You’ll see when you go in. Also, he hated my Pookie painting.”

“Well,” Victoria pointed out reasonably, “you hate it, too, a bit.”

“We don’t match,” Nyree said. “And if I slept with him, I would have to tell him who I was, and it would all blow up. It would create a whole big pile of awkward, which neither of us needs, and neither does Ella. And—yes, I need the money. I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do. It’s business. It’s Ella. It’s my life.”

She started for the house and tried not to think about the three or four contradictions she’d just tossed out, and the approximately zero likelihood that Victoria wouldn’t be adding them up.

She was all the way up the stone stairway when Marko came out the door again. So fast that, if his reflexes hadn’t been so good, he’d have bowled her over. Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned with her, his momentum carrying them in a half-circle. When her back hit the wall beside the door, though, he didn’t let go right away.

His hands were so big, it felt like he had hold of her entire upper body. His shoulders were so broad, she couldn’t see around them. He was so tall, she was looking up the entire length of his muscular neck to his black-shadowed jaw, which was set into rugby-hard lines. And he smelled like leather and darkness.

She knew rugby players. They’d never felt like this.

Finally, he stepped back, dropped his hands, and said, his voice absolutely level, “Nyree. We need to talk.”

“Sure,” Nyree said, getting her breath back. “But I need to put these away.”

Marko gave her some more of the burning eyes, but he took the bag from her, which helped. The hanging clothes were getting heavy.

She headed into the house, since he wasn’t actually chucking her out. His kitten was silent at last, probably gazing up at his hard face in rapt adoration. Ingrate. Who’d got her this sweet adoption in the first place?

It was unfortunate that Marko was behind her on the stairs. First, because she couldn’t see exactly how angry he was, and second, because her shorts were riding up. She’d made them years ago when the pair of ancient jeans, worn too thin even for fashion, had finally expired. Or more accurately, had ripped under the bum while she’d been running for a bus. A memorable moment, especially since she’d been wearing a thong at the time. Unfortunately, she’d added a couple extra kilos since then, and at this moment, it felt like all of them had gone to one spot.

Which was bad enough, but the worst part was that she cared what he thought. Her body wasn’t there for his approval. If she liked pizza too much and running too little? He was just going to have to deal with it. If he’d wanted a skinny blonde TV presenter as his housemate, he’d come to the wrong place. And if he were about to tell her the deal was off, she really didn’t care. So she slowed her pace and twitched her hips a little more, like she’d grown her bum this size on purpose. If he didn’t like it? He didn’t have to look.

She got to the top of the stairs, edged around the pile of rubbish bags in the wide passage, dragged her armful of clothes around Ella’s mattress, which had somehow only made it halfway through the door of the second guest bedroom, then turned and said, “What.”

“You’ll want to hang those up,” Marko said. Still level. Still controlled. But she could see his chest rising and falling, and it wasn’t because he’d walked up a flight of stairs.

“You’re right.” She shoved the clothes onto the rod in the closet, turned again, and said, “What. And here.” She took the carrier bag from him, pausing while he removed the kitten, and thought, The best defense is a good offense. “If you’d brought my tallboy up instead of getting emotional, I’d already be putting things away, which would mean your flash house could be restored to underfurnished perfection that much sooner.”

He still wasn’t talking. She said, “By the way—who lets somebody move into a house like this and gives them an EFTPOS card without a credit check and a look at their arrest record? How do you know I’m not going to be stealing your identity? Or, worse, selling drugs out of your house, inviting disciplinary measures by New Zealand Rugby? Of course, you can say you had no idea, but there the stream of cars will be, coming and going as mysterious plastic bags are exchanged for cash. That would be a bad look for you.”

Some kind of expression finally crossed his face. Frustration, she’d call it. He said, “I told you I’m only going to keep a few hundred dollars in that account, and that I’d be checking it. You’re not going to fund your new business venture that way. Are you done talking?”

“Possibly.” She folded her arms under her breasts. “Go.”

His eyes dropped, then returned to her face, and he seemed to be gathering his thoughts again. “When I said you could paint, what could possibly have made you think I meant ‘my walls’?”

Ella chose that moment to come into the room, followed by Victoria with another armful of clothes. Victoria took the clothes across to the closet, and Ella said, “Did you see Nyree’s awesome tallboy, Marko? See, that’s home décor. Non-orphanage. Like, with a personality. She’s going to show me how to decorate the front of my drawers like that, too. We bought a used one off Trade Me, and we’re going to collect it on Wednesday. Reward for doing my first day of school. They wanted three hundred dollars for it, but she got them down to two hundred. Which is still too much, since it’s almost as ugly as the ones you liked, but it’s sixteen hundred fifty percent cheaper, which shows you how shocking those prices were yesterday. They have heaps of maternity clothes as well on there. Nyree says that everybody puts their maternity clothes on Trade Me, because they’re so sick of them by then, and they only wear them for a few months, right? So it’s almost like new. I did a budget, and we can get everything, including the clothes and the furniture and all, for less than sixteen hundred dollars. And since your way, with the Android World furniture, would have been about six thousand, that’s almost the whole cost of paying for Nyree, so you see? Plus, the room will be furnished and will actually look good.”

Marko looked stunned, and Nyree had to smile. Whatever his problem was tonight, one thing was for sure. He was outnumbered. Out-femaled. And definitely out-talked.

He got his laser vision back, unfortunately, and directed it at her before informing her, “Ella’s room is yellow.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is. But it’s not going to stay that way.”

He raised his black brows. He had a scar on his temple, she noticed. It was a good look on him. “Oh?” he said silkily. “Please. Explain. You’re painting it white again? This was merely an exercise?”

“Just… going,” Victoria said. “Unloading. Come help me, Ella.”

Nyree waited until they’d left the room to answer Marko. “No. We’re going to do purple accents, like the duvet cover we bought yesterday. It’ll be pale yellow and deep purple. Quite lovely, really. Charming.”

“Painting can’t possibly be good for the baby,” he tried next. “Fumes.”

“Weak,” Nyree said. “Try harder. I did the painting. And bought zero-VOC paints. She’ll sleep in here with me tonight, and the windows are open. Painting is my profession, remember?”

“Not house painting. And in case you haven’t noticed, yellow and purple isn’t exactly to my taste.”

“Fortunately,” she said sweetly, “your female guests will have a refuge.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “As long as you aren’t painting this room.”

“Oh, but I am. I have to live here for five months. I can’t live in black and white. All right, it has a sea view. But still.”

“Maybe you can put in a big mirror,” he said. “I’m fairly certain you’re a rainbow.”

It took her a minute. “Unworthy of you,” she finally said. “After I told you my secret. And that I can’t see myself.”

He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Tell me what color, so I can brace myself for the worst.”

“Orange. I’ve always wanted an orange room.”

She didn’t have any trouble interpreting that expression. “No. Absolutely bloody not.”

“Marko.” She took a step closer and put a hand on his forearm. The bunched muscles tensed even more, and she took her hand off again. Whoops. No touching. She went on fast. “We’ll paint again, Ella and I, before we both leave. After the baby. This room, and hers, too, if you really hate the yellow. The painting will be good for her, a good step. It’ll mark the transition, be a way for her to know she’s moved on, that she’s entered into a new phase. And you’ll have white walls again.”

“I’d think she’d already have a fairly good idea that she’s moved on,” he said, “considering that there’ll be one less person inside.”

“I don’t think it happens that fast. Change is a process, right? Your mind can be the last part of you to complete it. You were injured last year. How long did you take to adjust to that?”

He went even more still before he said, “Not long at all. I’m used to being injured. And is that what it’s going to be like with you here? Are you going to be saying things like, ‘change is a process?’ Bloody hell.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s going to be just like that. Unless you give me the sack.”

What would a man actually have to do to impress her? Or even to make a bloody impression? He was intimidating. That was his job.

He didn’t want to intimidate her. Not exactly. He just…

He stood there, dimly aware that the kitten was kneading his shoulder and purring like she had a motor under there, and did his best to gather his wits.

He should sack her. Advertise. Get some older lady with spectacles. On one of those beaded chains. Who would cook. She’d cost more, but she’d be guaranteed not to walk up the stairs in front of him with the curves of the most bite-worthy arse he’d ever seen in his life showing under her tiny shorts. Not to mention that she wouldn’t put her hand on his arm, lean in close, look up at him with those eyes, and push his self-control all the way to the screaming limit.

Which would be why he said, “Of course I’m not sacking you. And cheers for the suggestion about the background check. Although if I do it now, I’m removing all the satisfaction from it, since I’m pretty sure it won’t turn up anything exciting.”

“You’ll turn up that I’m skint,” she said. “And that my car’s fifteen years old. Both of which you already knew.”

“Right, then.” He put his hands on his hips, looked around, and sighed. “Going downstairs for the tallboy and the rest of it. Make me happy and tell me you cooked my tea and it’s waiting in the fridge.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been painting all day. Not a good housekeeper, remember? Ella went to Eden Foods and picked up a few things, though, when she registered for school. Which she did by herself, by the way, so you might mention it. She got yoghurt, I think. Apples, too.”

He definitely needed the lady with the spectacles.

When he went back upstairs an hour later to collect the two of them, things didn’t look much better. Ella’s mattress was out of Nyree’s doorway and on the floor together with Nyree’s smaller one, and the tallboy stood in the corner where Nyree had directed him to put it, but the passage was still crammed with boxes, bags, and a rolled-up carpet.

He didn’t say anything, because there was no point. Instead, he said, “Tea’s ready.”

Ella bounced off the mattress and said, “Awesome,” and Nyree said, “Give me five minutes.” Victoria had left a while ago.

When they came downstairs, Nyree had changed out of the shorts. Unfortunately. She must have taken a shower, because her hair was wet and pulled back in a ponytail, from which tendrils were already escaping like nothing could contain her energy. She’d changed, too. She was dressed in a pair of black leggings, a thin purple jumper that clung to her breasts and revealed a lace-edged something, and the black silk dressing gown he’d seen in her bedroom before.

This was bad.

Did she notice his reaction? She did not. Instead, she joined him at the sleek black induction cooktop and said, “Smells yum. I was afraid to touch this thing. You have a seriously scary house. What did you make?”

“Venison stew. Extra veggies. Greens. Bread, if you like.” He dished up a heaping bowl for himself, and put it on a plate.

The bowl and plate were both white, because it had been easier than figuring out anything else. He was sure she’d say something about that, but instead, she just asked, “No bread for you?”

“Nah. Not tonight. I’ll have extra of this instead. Nutrition, eh.”

“Oh.” She considered that for a minute, then said, “Guess you won’t be eating any of Ella’s and my ice cream, then. Always a bonus, especially as it’s chocolate.” Then she hacked off a slice of ciabatta loaf, buttered it extravagantly, and took her plate to the third stool in line.

Ella eased herself onto the middle stool, pulled out her phone, held it in one hand and her spoon in the other, and started to text. Nyree put down her own spoon and said, “Well, no.”

“Pardon?” Marko asked.

“You know what?” Nyree hopped off her stool. “Would you carry my coffee table downstairs for me again? Please?”

He stopped in the act of taking another bite. “Now?”

“Yes, please.”

Of course he did it. When they were upstairs, though, and he was carrying furniture once more, he said, “I reckon you’ll explain eventually.”

“Yes,” she said. “And yes, it’s your house. If you want to eat dinner at your perfect marble breakfast bar and look at your high-tech phone, that’s OK. But I need Ella to do something else, if I’m here to make things better.”

“That’s what you’re here for.”

“Awesome.” She gave him that wide smile again. “Let’s go.”

Downstairs, she directed him to set the poppy-painted coffee table down in the absolutely empty dining room, its glass walls reflecting only darkness now, distributed three of her ridiculously furry orange cushions around it, then picked up her plate and glass from the breakfast bar and said, “We’re eating dinner over here, Ella.”

Ella looked up at last from her screen. “What?” And when Nyree picked up her plate from under her hand, she said, “Oi. Why?”

“You know what my rules are?” Nyree said. “The ones I made up for myself?” She transferred her silverware to the coffee table, then sat on her knees on her cushion and waited until Ella joined her.

“What?” Ella asked.

“No screens at dinner,” Nyree said. “I can read a book, or a newspaper. I can sketch. I can think. I can look out the window, or sit outside and look at my flowers. If I’m lucky, I can talk to a mate. But I can’t look at a screen. It’s too lonely anyway, eating side by side like that, staring at the cupboards. I’ve never understood why people think that’s better. Talk about Android World.”

Marko said, “Huh. I can go along with no screens, I guess.” He’d moved his dish over as well, and now, he sat at the end of the table, where the kitten instantly jumped into his lap.

“Also,” Nyree said, “no screens once I go to bed. That’s my other one. Just anticipating you,” she told Ella. “Since we’re sharing tonight.”

Ella sighed. “When am I supposed to text Caro, then?”

“Between dinner and bed?” Nyree suggested.

Ella gave another exasperated sigh, and Marko said, “Not watching telly in bed, then, Nyree? Texting the boyfriend?”

As a subtle information-gatherer, it failed. But then, he’d never been good at subtle. “Hurts your sleep,” was all she said. “And…” She hesitated a moment, then added, “Not good for communication, either.”

Ella said, “If you mean sex, just say sex. I’m already pregnant. The damage is done.”

“Right, then,” Nyree said after a moment. “Bedrooms are for sleep and sex. That’s what they say. And talking. That’s what I say. Lying in the dark, facing the person you love, telling him your secrets, there where it’s safe, and hearing his. Connecting.”

“You’re a romantic,” Marko said.

There went that chin again. “What’s wrong with that?”

That you aren’t going to be sleeping with me. “Nothing, I reckon. If you can handle the disappointment. Men, eh.”

“I’ve tried it the other way,” she said. “I’d rather be up front and get my disappointment out of the way early. Life’s too short not to be the person you are.”

Ella was asleep. It had happened during the five minutes Nyree had been in the bathroom. So much for texting her cousin.

Nyree hesitated, then headed down the stairs again. Marko was still down there, she was fairly sure. Light glowed from the asymmetrical, nickel-accented sconces in the entryway, and she could hear soft music from somewhere. He was watching telly in the lounge, probably, sitting on his black leather couch with his bare feet on the chrome-and-glass coffee table, getting in that screen time.

His house was intimidating enough, all echoing spaces, enormous windows, dramatic curves and angles, breathtaking views, and high-end materials. And he was intimidating the rest of the way. She needed to get used to co-existing with him, and there was no better time than tonight.

No light from the lounge, but the music was definitely coming from somewhere. Beyond the kitchen, she thought. She padded across acres of pale hardwood, laid on a diagonal to the white walls in thoroughly modern fashion, to the dining room where they’d eaten. One of the trifold doors was shoved to the side, and the music was louder.

Discreet lighting illuminating the greenery beyond the deck. Smooth teak under her bare feet, two minimalist black iron chairs. And a tall, long-legged figure in one of them, his bare ankles crossed on the deck rail.

And the music. Liquid notes falling into the dark.

He didn’t see her until she was leaning against the rail herself.

“Don’t stop,” she said when he looked up.

He didn’t smile, just looked at her as his nimble fingers flew over the strings of the guitar. His big body was relaxed, nothing moving but his hands. He was playing finger-style, so every note landed distinct, pure, and mellow.

Minor chords, those had to be. Melancholy. Beautiful.

“Sit down,” he said, “if you like. Get yourself a beer.”

“D’you want one?”

“Nah. I’m all good.”

“Me, too.” She sat in the other chair, scooted it closer to the rail, and put her feet up next to his.

“Tired?” he asked. Still playing, soft and pure and complicated.

“Maybe. Painting all day, eh.”

“Mm.” More of the slow, sweet melody, then he said, “Moon’s coming up. Nearly full tonight. I still like to watch the stars come out. Even though you can’t really see them here. Shock to me, when I first moved to the city.”

She leaned back and let the music wash over her, let it draw out the kind of wordless yearning that made your chest hurt and your heart fill, and saw what he saw. The curve of cool white edging its way up over the horizon, and a few pale pinpricks of stars beyond its glow. “I know,” she said. “Same for me, when we moved from Northland.”

“I didn’t know you couldn’t always see the Milky Way,” he said. “Or that blaze of stars. Thought it would be like that wherever I went, I guess.”

“Tekapo’s famous that way, I know,” she said. “I’ve never been. Seen photos, though. Beautiful as Northland, but in a different way.”

“A wilder way.”

The song rose, fell, ended, and she was sorry. “I didn’t know you played the guitar. What was that?”

“Still Loving You, by the Scorpions. Sounds different like this, I guess. Not so metal, eh.”

“You’re good.”

“Nah. Just played a lot.” He started again. Haunting, this time. Hurting. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Basque dad, hippie mum. Grew up on a farm. No choice. Family time was music time. We can all play something. Turned out all right, though.”

“Helps you unwind,” she suggested. “To process, maybe. Things that are hard, or things that are new.”

“It does.”

“You play more after a loss, maybe.”

“Shh. Secret.”

She smiled, tipped her head back, found the Southern Cross, and surrendered to the music and the night. Let it wash over her skin, seep into her bones. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, “that it hurts.”

“Mm. Love the Way You Lie. About hurting, I guess. About being willing to hurt.”

“So that’s why you took Ella. Farm family. Close family.”

“Maybe.”

“Nobody else available to help, with all that family?”

“Nah.” The music went on, and his voice did as well, deep and slow and easy. “Mum and Dad are in the midst of breeding season. Merinos. Mum’s doing a lodge now as well. A cross between a farmstay and a luxury B&B, I guess you’d say. Still busy, at the edge of summer.”

“No helpful grandmother?”

His fingers stilled on the strings for a moment, then started up again. “Yeh. My Amona. My dad’s mum. She’s not so mobile anymore, though, and she doesn’t like leaving the farm much. Never been off the mainland since she married my grandfather. Sixty years ago now.”

Something different in his voice. “Your granddad’s gone, I guess. I’m sorry. But doesn’t she come see you play?”

“A few times. Christchurch, Dunedin. But she never liked going. Never mind. She doesn’t have to.”

Protectiveness. That was what she heard. “I think,” she said, “that I may have been wrong about you.”

“Nah. Probably not. Any South Island boy’s likely to be a family man. A quiet man. In the blood, isn’t it.”

“Basque.”

“Among other things.”

The song ended, and he didn’t start another one. She stood up, gathered her silk dressing gown around her, shook back her hair, and said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Maybe for not chucking me out. Maybe for letting me take a wee peek inside that locked box.”

“Best not look too long,” he said. “Could be dangerous.”

“Like looking at the sun.”

“No,” he said. “That’d be you.”

Something squeezed in her chest, and the tears pricked behind her eyes. “I’ll say good night, then. See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” he said. “Nyree.”

Marko was late getting home the next evening. He’d run a couple errands first.

At least he could get into the driveway tonight. He was hauling his burdens up the stone steps when he had to retreat again, because there was a whole family coming out his front door.

“Hi,” he said. “You took the plunge, eh. Evening, Kate.”

It was Koti’s family. He had the black dog on a leash and Maia by the other hand. The little girl concentrated on getting to the bottom of the steps, then told Marko, “We gots a doggie. His name is Blackie. I can pat him over and over, ’cause he is mine.”

“Sweet as,” Marko said. “Going to be your good mate, sounds like.”

Koti told his daughter, “She’s a girl doggie, remember?” He told Marko, “And don’t say it. I didn’t get a vote on the name.”

“That’s what you get,” Kate said, “for letting Maia and me choose.”

“Stay on for a bit, if you like,” Marko said. “We could do a takeaway.” Why were they here?

“Nah,” Koti said. “Bedtime. We just came by to show Nyree that we got, ah, Blackie, and to get some advice. I didn’t realize she’d be exactly here. With you. Color me surprised, cuz. That’s some fast work.”

“She’s staying with Ella,” Marko said. “As my cousin’s come to live with me for a few months, and she needs the company.”

Koti exchanged a look with Kate that Marko didn’t miss, then said, “Right. Moving on. Am I old enough to know what that thing is, or am I going to wish I hadn’t asked? At the moment, my mind’s boggling.”

Marko had long since set it down. It was heavy. “Cat, ah… gym. Cat gym.”

“Cuz,” Koti said. “That cat isn’t big enough to need a weight bench, let alone an entire gym. I’d call that two meters tall. And it’s leopard print. That’s just sad.”

Marko was getting narky, especially since he was clearly going to be a conversational topic in Koti’s car on the way home, in so many wonderful ways. And he wasn’t one bit sure Koti would keep his mouth shut about any of it around the boys. He said, “I’m not the one with a dog named Blackie. The cat won’t let me sit down without her. Right now, I’m the cat gym.”

“I saw the photo,” Kate said. “Of her on your head. That was great. I laughed so hard. I’ll bet everybody did.” That was wonderful news. She shifted her hold on the baby, who was in a carrier, and told Koti, “Time to go, buddy. The natives are restless.”

They headed for the car, and Marko picked up his Cat Gym, wrestled it into the house, kicked off his trainers, and tried to pretend that his pulse rate hadn’t kicked up.

Did he get a warm, affectionate female greeting? He did. Was it a soft, deliciously curvy Nyree putting her arms around him and snuggling up close until she got lifted off her feet and kissed breathless, with his hands all over her? Not even close. Instead, the kitten, alerted by some cat-sense, came skittering and sliding across the polished floor, meowing all the way, and did her best to climb his bare leg.

He plucked her off him and put her onto one of the Cat Gym’s many leopard-printed platforms. “Alternative destination,” he told her. “Good for your fitness.”

In answer, she launched herself through the air at him, forcing him to reach out a hand to grab her so she wouldn’t fall. As soon as he did, she climbed his shirt and headed for her favorite destination. He hadn’t adopted a kitten so much as a limpet. He put her back on the gym, on a higher platform this time, and said, “Look. You climb the ramp and go through the tunnel. Then you sit up there and act aloof. It’s a cat thing.”

In answer, she meowed at him, and she kept on doing it. When he walked away, the meowing got more urgent. He turned and said, “Right. You don’t want to exercise? Climb down, then.”

If a kitten’s face could be said to be woebegone, that was how she looked. The meowing grew louder, until she was making a truly astonishing amount of noise for something the size of your basic lab rat.

He sighed. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a cat. Harden up.”

She put a tentative paw on the ramp, then drew it back again and sat, a huddled, pathetic, fuzzy tennis ball, until he said, “This is the last time,” and picked her up. Then she climbed his shirt once more and curled up happily on his shoulder, and he went upstairs to find the rest of his girls.

Easy enough to do, because of the music. Upbeat pop. The song ended when he reached the landing, and somebody laughed. Ella. It wasn’t coming from her room. It was coming from Nyree’s. He heard the lilting Maori accent and was moving faster, already smiling, when he heard something else.

Another laugh. A man’s.

Nyree didn’t realize he was there until the music stopped. She was stretching overhead, pressing the sponge into the wall with care, when the song cut off in the middle of a word and Ella said, “Hi, Marko. Check it out.”

Nyree turned, pulled down her paint-spattered T-shirt, and said, “Hello, honey. How was your day?”

He looked… she wasn’t sure what. Confused, maybe. She said, “Joke. Hi.” Did he think that she’d fallen in love with him over his guitar playing? Maybe she had, a tiny bit, but cooler heads had prevailed in the light of day.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he said, “Kors. What are you doing here?”

Tom set the paint roller in the pan, then straightened. And didn’t answer.

“Whoa,” Nyree said. “Tom came by with Koti and Kate and stayed to give us a hand.”

Marko was leaning against the door frame, the only vertical surface in the room that wasn’t wet with paint. His arms were crossed, his ankles were, too, and he had a kitten on his shoulder. He still didn’t look casual. “Yeh,” he said, his gaze not moving from Tom. “Thought it must be something like that. I’m still wondering why.”

Tom Koru-Mansworth, who until that minute had seemed like a nice Maori boy who reminded Nyree of her younger cousins, had folded his own arms. That would have looked more menacing if they hadn’t been liberally speckled with orange, making his brown skin look like a kid’s autumn splatter painting. He said, “Giving the girls a bit of a hand with the painting. I was invited. If I’m not invited anymore, I’ll leave.”

Nyree put her sponge down and told Ella, “Keep going, would you? And Tom, I’d love it if you’d finish that wall.” After that, she headed for the door. When she got there, she gave Marko a little shove in the chest to get him going and said, “Come on, boy. Come talk to me.”

She walked down the hall to Ella’s room like she was sure he’d follow her. Fortunately, he did. She couldn’t hear him, exactly. She could feel him, though. When they got there, she turned around and said, “What?”

He wasn’t looking any happier. “What d’you mean, ‘What?’ I asked him why he was visiting. Fair question, seeing as he’s in my house.”

“Uh-huh.” She sat on the bed like a woman she wasn’t. A casual woman. “He went to look at dogs with Kate and Koti, as he’s interested in getting a dog himself, then got a lift here with them. To get closer to home, not because he anticipated being bowled over by my beauty.”

“How’s he getting home, then?” Marko didn’t look any happier. “Flying?”

“I expect you’ll find he’s taking the bus, or even walking, the same way you would. He lives in Mission Bay. He’s lonely, I’d say. Sharing a flat with a couple other boys, far from the whanau. In the Big Smoke and feeling the pressure. Looking for some family time.”

“Yeh, well,” Marko said, “he can pick somebody else’s family to have it.”

She laughed. His head jerked back, and she said, “You must be joking. You think he’s here for me? Flattering, I guess, except that that boy can’t be much more than nineteen. I’ll bet that not having his mum to do his washing anymore looms large in his life. And if I’m not allowed to have a mate stop by, you’d best tell me now.”

“Do you happen to remember,” he said, “whose head I bashed with the knitting bag?”

“No. Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.” She considered that. “No, I didn’t remember. I mostly saw you. You were impressive. In the photo. Drew the eye. Compositionally.” That explanation still wasn’t quite working, so she moved on. “But let’s consider that. You were the one doing the bashing, eh. Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

“You’re not sitting here with me. You’re sitting, and I’m standing over you being intimidating.”

“With a kitten on your shoulder? Nah, boy. Not so much.”

He reached up, took the kitten off his shoulder with deliberation, set her on the floor, and came to sit beside her on the bed.

He wasn’t touching her. But she felt him. And she couldn’t get her breath.

“Better?” he asked.

“From an—” Her voice cracked. “Intimidation standpoint? Yeh.”

A muscle moved at the corner of his mouth. “More intimidating, or less?”

“More.”

“Good.”

“You don’t want to intimidate me, though.”

“I wouldn’t have said so. And yet… maybe. Or could be I just want you to notice.”

“You could…” Her mouth was dry. “Assume I’ve noticed. So. Tell me what the bashing was about.”

She couldn’t smell his scent today, the spice and leather of him. She’d been painting too long for that. But she could feel him. His heat, and his color.

He didn’t answer the question. He asked another one. The last one she expected. “When you say I’m red, what does that mean? How do you see that?”

She drew in a breath and tried to get her pulse rate under control. “I don’t… it’s hard to explain. You don’t glow or anything. I’m just… aware. I see you and I think, Red. I feel the color, I guess. Or I sense it. I just know it, like when you touch something lovely and smooth or when it’s something rough and hard. Your brain knows which it is even if you aren’t looking. It’s like… instead of five senses, I have six.”

He wasn’t laughing at her. He was listening. And surely nobody listened with more concentration than Marko. Surely nobody gave off as much energy even when he was still, like when you struck a tuning fork and didn’t just hear the humming tone, you felt the vibration, too.

“What color is Ella?” he asked, which wasn’t what she’d expected.

“Uh… green. Grounded. Whole.”

“Ah. Good, then.”

“Yeh. She is. Both of you are very… real.”

She was staring up at the squared-off lines of his jaw and chin. Three days’ worth of scruff, and the outlaw in full force tonight. His corded forearms and swell of biceps showed dark against a white T-shirt, and his chest was broader and more solid than ever this close up. Or maybe she was just more aware of it.

He raised one of those huge hands. Not fast. Slowly, like he was waiting to see what she did. Or like he couldn’t help it. He drew his fingers along her jaw, then cupped her face, brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, and said, “You can’t see yourself. That’s a pity. But today, you’re orange.” He smiled. “Paint, eh. It suits you.”

One moment, she was staring up at his mouth. Which was very… nice. Firm. Determined. The next, Ella was in the room, then practically backpedaling. “Whoops,” she said. “Sorry.”

Nyree had already jumped up. “No. We were just, ah, talking.” What was she doing? Two days in, and she was about to kiss him? Disaster. “All done now.”

Ella came back into the room one careful step at a time. “It’s just that I wasn’t sure what to do next. I didn’t want to sponge the color on, chemicals and all, but…”

“No,” Nyree said. “I’ll come do it.” She told Marko, “We’re sponge-painting in my room. Getting some richness into the color.”

Tom had shown up now. He glanced fast between Marko and Nyree, then said, “I’ve done all that orange coat for you, Nyree. Show me how to do the brown, if you like, and I’ll sponge it on and let Ella do her bit with the water. We could finish those three walls, anyway.”

“An even better idea,” Nyree said. “And maybe Marko and I can make dinner. Tell me pizza’s an option,” she said to Marko, trying her best to keep it breezy. “Make my knees weak.’

He was doing his stare that could melt steel again, and she wouldn’t swear that her knees weren’t weak this very second. All he said, though, was, “I can put a couple steaks and some veggies on the barbie. Pizza as a side dish. That would work.”

She sighed. “I guess KFC’s out, then.”

He smiled. Incongruously sweet, transforming his hard face into something else, becoming the man who’d played his guitar in the dark and talked to her about the stars. “Yeh, it is. For me. But you can have it. No reason you can’t have what you want.”

Making dinner with Marko, for some reason, wasn’t bad at all. Maybe because her part of it was calling for a pizza delivery, chopping a few veggies, then going out to the deck, where he had the barbecue warming up. She took a couple opened beers with her. It had been another long day.

He was sitting on one of the black chairs with the kitten in his lap and his feet on the rail, and she handed him a bottle. “I took a chance you’d want it,” she said. “Pizza in forty minutes or so. I got a veggie one. Turns out pregnant women aren’t meant to have processed meats. I got extra cheese, though. Ella’s hungry all the time, and you can see some of her ribs above that belly.”

“Good to know. Cheers.” He took a long swallow, and she sat in the other chair and looked out at his back garden, which extended in an unbroken sea of green all the way to the edge of Dingle Dell Reserve.

“This must be the view from the master bedroom as well,” she said.

“Yeh. There’s another deck up there. Spa tub, too.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t buy a house where you looked out at the sea. That’s the usual preference. The view from my room’s choice, by the way. Painting heaven. So much light.”

“Yeh. I saw this house, and it was nice up there. Treehouse, I guess you’d say. It looked…” He trailed off.

“What?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I was probably giving you stick about it earlier because I can get a bit defensive about success. Money that comes from success. Et cetera. There’s nothing wrong with your house, other than a serious lack of ornamentation.”

“People in your life don’t approve of… what? Painting?”

“I’m meant to have a real career.”

“Ah. No worries here. That’s not how I judge.”

“How do you judge, then? And what was it you liked about this place? You never answered that one.”

Another pause, then he said, “That it feels open, I guess. The light. And it’s nice at the back, with the bush out the window like this.”

“Peaceful,” she suggested. “Relaxing. A retreat.”

“That’s it.”

Most men would have offered a slightly creepy suggestion at this point that she check out the view from his bedroom, not to mention his spa tub. When he didn’t, she said, “You don’t judge by money and success? Hard to believe, since you’ve got both.”

He shrugged. “What I said. Hippie mum. Farm family. It tends to stick. Wherever you go, there you are, as that hippie mum would say. The money’s nice, but it’s not why I do it.”

“Why, then?”

He twirled his beer bottle in one huge hand. “Because I’m good at it. Because I like it. And because I want to win. I want to be the best before I hang up the boots. That’s not too hard to measure in my line of work. Everybody has a driving force, I guess. What’s yours?’

He was rattling her. Again. “Not…” She started, then stopped.

“Yeh,” he said. “Not so easy to say. Here.” He handed her the kitten. “Time to put those steaks on. You can think about your answer.”

She needed her armor, but right now, it was hard to find it. She sat and watched the setting sun tinge the clouds an impossibly soft pink, the color of a baby’s blanket, sipped at her beer, bitter with hops, stroked the kitten’s velvety fur, and felt the rumble of her purr as the birds called from the trees and a tui swooped overhead, its plumage gleaming blue and black.

He was right. It was relaxing. And she wasn’t even in the spa tub.

She heard the sizzle behind her, smelled the rich, heady scent of meat on a grill, and he sat down again. “Five minutes,” he said, “before I turn them over.”

“What was your card of the day?” she asked.

“Temperance.” He took another sip of beer. “If I’d been eighteen, I would’ve had a couple more of these just to show her.”

“So is that what it means? ‘Don’t drink too much tonight, love?’”

“Nah. She never goes with anything that obvious. Seems I’m being guided by my better angels to find the right outcome, and it’s within my grasp. I didn’t even know I had better angels. ‘Remember your priorities and work toward your perfect balance,’ was the actual message. ‘You’re on the right path. Eyes on the prize, baby.’ Which, considering it’s the story of my life, and also considering it’s the sort of encouraging text she always sends me no matter what card it is, isn’t front-page news. What’s yours, though? Story of your life?”

“My driving force? I guess… showing the world, or at least some tiny part of it, what I see and how I see it. Sharing my colors. It’s not a practical ambition. Hence the restaurant.”

He was silent a minute, then said, “Not practical doesn’t mean not possible. That’s why it’s called a driving force and not an ambling-along-aimlessly force.”

“Crawling force. Creeping force.”

He laughed. “Maybe the strength of the force is up to you. What time did you leave for work this morning? You were gone when I got up, and it was early.”

“Five-thirty. I went to work, I painted my bedroom orange, and that was my day. Not much driving force involved, sad to say. What did you do?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Lifted heavy things. Bashed my body against a scrum machine. Performed impressive feats of footwork.”

“I see what you did there,” she said. “Very nice. I notice you bought this cat of yours a present, too. An enormous present. I’m not going to tease you about that. Much.”

The doorbell chimed, and Marko said, “You go get the pizza, and I’ll turn these steaks over. Get Ella and Kors as well, will you? Reckon we’re eating on the floor again.”

Dinner was on the floor. But then, Marko had exactly two chairs. Tom had said something about heading home, and Marko had said, “Nah. Cooked you a steak already, mate. Better eat it.” Which showed either that his bark was worse than his bite, or that he hadn’t been jealous after all, just momentarily affronted by an uninvited guest. Nyree was going to have to figure that one out. Later.

For now, she ate pizza, listened to Ella explaining about sponge painting to Marko, and thought about the space she was in. The dining room was different from the rest of the house. Closed off by French doors from the kitchen, and fully open to the deck, if one wanted, via retractable multi-fold glass doors that would allow indoor/outdoor living in the summer. It needed a table, of course. Pity the one it would get would be chrome and glass.

A silence fell, and she remembered her manners and roused herself enough to ask what she should have from the start. “Where’s your whanau, Tom?”

“The Far North,” he said. “Near Kerikeri. I’m Ngatiwai. And you?”

“Whangarei,” she said, and smiled. “Ngatiwai as well. Small world, eh.”

“What does that mean?” Ella asked.

“Same iwi,” Tom said. “Same tribe. Ngatiwai. Different hapu—subtribe—or we’d probably know each other. Not cousins, or we’d know that as well.”

“I know what iwi is,” Ella said. “But not too much more. Not so many Maori where I am. Tekapo, same as Marko. On the mainland.”

“Going to school in Auckland, though, eh,” Tom said. “For sport, or what?”

Nyree wanted to jump in, but she held herself back. Opposite her, Marko looked exactly as ready to leap into battle to defend his cousin. He might not be Maori, but some things weren’t so different.

“I’m only here for five months or so,” Ella said. Her color was rising again, but she heaved in a breath and said, “Because I’m pregnant. I’ve come up here to have it, and have it adopted after.”

“Oh,” Tom said. “Cool.”

Ella laughed, but it sounded more like a release of nerves than anything else. “Not so sure about that. I start school tomorrow, though, P.E. and all. As soon as they see my belly, they’ll know. Or if not, they’ll know soon enough. I reckon it’s better to tell them first. I’m practicing.”

“Too right,” Tom said. “If you say it first, it’s not a secret. It’s just another thing about you. Maybe more interesting, that’s all.”

He smiled at Ella, and it was so sweet, it may have taken Nyree’s breath away. Had she stumbled upon the last remaining habitat of Hard Men With Hearts of Gold? Just in case she hadn’t, she said, “Maybe don’t share that with the rest of the team, Tom. Unless Ella says it’s OK.”

Tom looked confused. “Why would I do that?”

“Yeh, well,” Nyree said, “talk in the sheds.”

“Not about—” Tom said, and stopped.

“Somebody’s sister,” Nyree guessed. “Somebody’s cousin. Never mind. I get it.”

“You can tell them,” Ella said. “In the sheds or anywhere else. So I had sex and got pregnant. It’s not 1960. I’m not ashamed. How does anybody think babies happen?”

Marko hadn’t said anything. Time to change the subject, so Nyree said, “Speaking of embarrassing things that aren’t secret, Marko, I saw a couple carrier bags beside your Cat Gym. If you tell me you bought that cat a pink princess bed, I will laugh.”

“The best part about that giant leopard thing,” Ella said, “is that I don’t feel guilty anymore about costing him money. Geez, Marko.”

“Go on and laugh,” Marko said, picking up the cue. “And no, I did not buy this bloody nuisance of a cat a princess bed. Already bought her a luxury bed, didn’t I, and woke up to find her in my bed instead the first night. I put her out, and she meowed outside the bloody door until I let her in again. She won’t use her gym, either. Catch me buying her anything else.”

“Big talker,” Nyree said. “When I find the cat dishes with her name specially printed on them, I’ll remind you of that.”

“Since her name is ‘Cat,’ Ella told Tom, “it could happen.”

Marko said, “Do you want a present or not?”

“What? Me?” Ella sat up straight. “I definitely want one.”

“Hang on, then.” He got up from the table, came back a minute later, dumped two plastic carrier bags beside her, and said, “There.”

As a gift-giving ceremony, it left something to be desired. Ella didn’t seem to mind, though. She just opened the first bag and pulled out two sets of towels and facecloths. Which were yellow. Too yellow, perhaps, closer to gold than the pale shade of Ella’s bedroom, but definitely yellow.

“Marko,” Ella said. “Thank you.”

“As you couldn’t find the right color on Sunday,” Marko said, “and there was a shop next to the pet place and I was there anyway, I popped in. Thought it would make the bath more friendly for you and Nyree. Keep you from having to paint it, is the dream, though I won’t get my hopes up. There’s another bag as well.”

“Oh.” This time, there was no question that it was right. The sheets were lavender. “Oh, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Yeh, well,” Marko said. “Nyree said you were doing the room in yellow and purple. I thought they were good, in a girly sort of way.” He looked at Nyree. “I didn’t buy orange towels. First off, they didn’t have them. Second, there’s a limit.”

Hard man? Maybe not so much.

Tom went home after tea. Once he’d helped with the washing up, that is. Marko had to concede that at least he’d done that. He’d chatted to Nyree, but he hadn’t actually done anything Marko could object to. Pity.

After he left, Ella took her new towels and sheets out of the bags, cut off the tags, and said, “I’m going upstairs after I wash these. So you know. All done for tonight. Closing my door and all. Announcement.”

What? Marko thought. Nervous about school tomorrow? Texting friends? Sending nudes to some forty-five-year-old pervert in Los Angeles who got off on pregnant schoolgirls? How much was he meant to supervise, and how would he even start? He decided to address the simplest issue and work up to the rest. “No need to wash them, surely. They’re new.”

“They have chemicals on them,” Ella said.

“What, towels are sprayed with dangerous chemicals before sale? No. You can’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

“Excuse me,” Ella said. “Sizing? It’s a thing. And the tadpole’s systems are still developing. Do you want it to come out with a hole in its spine because I didn’t wash my sheets?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, just headed for the laundry room bearing an armful of linens, and Marko asked Nyree, “Seriously?”

“Yes,” she said, still drying her hands on a tea towel. “About the sizing, anyway. About the rest of it, she probably knows more than I do. It’s good that she’s doing her best by the baby, at least.”

“Hopefully not because she’s thinking of keeping it.” He said it quietly, so Ella wouldn’t hear. “What was all that announcement about closing her door, though?”

“Dunno,” Nyree said. “Statement of boundaries? That I can’t tell her not to use her phone in bed? Something like that, I’d guess. I doubt she’d decide to keep the baby. She seems more realistic than that. But then, I’ve never grown a human inside me. First midwife appointment Friday, by the way.”

“Whose idea?”

“Hers. She said she needed to know when it was due so she could start looking at parents, so that’s a positive sign. I sat beside her while she researched her options and chose a midwife, but she did the rest. She rang the office up, too, explained her situation, and asked if they could deal with it.”

“That’s good, then.” He wasn’t even a week into this, and his life was already more complicated and distracting than anything he could have imagined. It had better not get worse, that was all.

“Another good idea,” she said, “would be telling me whether you’ve got some kind of issue with my bringing friends into your house, since you seemed fairly gobsmacked tonight. Are they restricted to my bedroom, maybe? Or not at all? If that’s your idea, I’m telling you now. Too extreme, boy.”

Bang. There it was. His life getting—yes, more complicated and distracting. He needed his guitar to talk about this. The music would help him think and give him an excuse to take his time to do it. Plus, she liked it.

When he didn’t answer straight away, she said, “And, yes, it’s your house, and, yes, I still have my garage. I could go there, but it would mean I wouldn’t be with Ella, which would be—oh, yeh. Stupid. I can even go there if you want to entertain, though I can’t imagine you being that squeamish. You’re a big boy who likes blondes. That’s no secret. It’s a big house, Ella and I are big girls ourselves, and you’ve had flatmates forever.”

“How do you know I’ll be wanting to entertain?” he asked. “And what the hell does ‘entertain’ mean, anyway?”

“Oh,” she said, “I think you can probably imagine the various scenarios that could arise. Ranging from my having Victoria in for tea to you having a few blondes over to try out that spa bath while you film. Do we just shut our doors so Ella doesn’t see the ropes come out, or are we going for total privacy? Let me know. Your house. Your rules.”

“Bloody hell.” He ran his hand through his hair, and Cat let out a protesting squeak. He’d forgotten she was up there. He grabbed for her, then said, “Come sit outside with me a minute.” She was going for easy-breezy, but he was getting something else. He was getting that she cared. And that she didn’t want to. Was this about him, or about her?

“We need to talk about it,” she said. “I’m going to bring one of my mates back here, and you’re going to tackle him. And since any normal fella would be in the hospital after that, I think it’s fair to say that you’ll be going to jail.”

“We’ll talk about it. Meet me on the deck. Five minutes.” He tried an enforcer stare. Probably wouldn’t work, but at least he’d tried.

It wasn’t five minutes. More like ten. On the other hand, she’d taken a shower and was wearing her black silk dressing gown again. And something shorter under it, he saw when she put her feet on his deck railing. With lace.

“I like your red nail varnish,” he said, already feeling his mind settling as his fingers picked out the melody and his palm thumped out the rhythm. “On your toes. Pretty.”

“Thanks,” she said, stroking Cat’s head the way she liked, there where her fur was especially soft. “Although you’re just going for points now.”

He smiled. “Could be. What would you say if I told you I didn’t want to film blondes in my spa tub? Just how many of them were you imagining, anyway?”

“The imagination knows no limit,” she said cheerily. “You wouldn’t be the first man who bit off more than he could chew.”

He may have stopped playing for a moment. “I’m careful where I bite,” he said. “I can chew, too. No worries.”

“So those four women are all going home happy?”

She was still doing that easy-breezy, and he was playing something much less sweet than he had the night before, and thumping out the rhythm harder, too. His body was a mixture of frustration and arousal that would have been familiar to his sixteen-year-old self, but not so much since. He’d signed up for this? What had he been smoking? “You’re a bit curious, aren’t you,” he said, “for somebody who keeps telling me this is a business arrangement?”

“That could be, too. I’ve never been a not-quite-housekeeper before. Companion. Poor relation. It’s like an old English novel. No worries, though, on my end. I don’t go out with rugby players.”

“What, as a life rule?” He was still playing, but then, she was still sitting there. “Got a list of preferred and prohibited occupations, have you?”

“Maybe I do. Don’t you? I’d say you have a type.”

He decided it would be best not to answer that. “Bit elitist of you, maybe. We don’t all drag our knuckles. And we don’t all talk in the sheds about the women we’re seeing, either. What was that all about? You must’ve known some princes.”

She was silent for a long moment, as if this had got away from her, which it may have done. “I probably don’t need to say this,” she said, “but I don’t want to complicate your life.”

“No,” he said, “because that would be a bloody nightmare. You might paint my walls orange. Introduce unwanted livestock. Bring all sorts of random people around. Oh, wait.”

She laughed, and that was better. He smiled, started playing something softer, and said, “So. If this is about who I bring home? Let’s say I have no plans. D’you want to know how I’d feel about you doing it, though?”

Another pause, before she said, “Yes. I do.”

“I’d hate it,” he said, and saw her posture change. “And, yes, I’d be jealous. If I’m home, I’d rather you took him someplace else. Ella’s not the only one who doesn’t want to see the ropes come out.”

She sat there another few minutes, which was good, but she didn’t share any more. She certainly didn’t climb into his bed in the wee hours, wrap her arms around him, and kiss his mouth. Instead, she worked the next two nights, and he didn’t even see her. Which was fine, because she was right. This was about Ella. Who offered up something new every day.

On Wednesday, she showed him a tallboy of dubious construction that Nyree had spray-painted white. “On a tarp on the driveway,” Ella told him, “before you get all horrified about—what? White paint splatters on your white walls? And see how cool it is now?”

Contact paper on the front of each drawer, in five different swirly purple patterns. “Nice,” he said, and Ella sighed and said, “No. Awesome. You just don’t know how to appreciate it.”

He’d eyed the white net… what, draperies, he guessed, hung from two ceiling hooks near the foot of the bed and threaded through with fairy lights, and hadn’t said anything at all. There was no purpose, it was obvious. To the draperies or his comment. They’d hung window shades, too, which at least made sense.

On Thursday, Nyree had done some more spray painting, because he arrived home to the sight of a desk made up of two short purple stepladders, each holding a yellow basket across its lower rails, with purple board laid over the top. Also a purple shelf attached to the wall, and a wooden kitchen chair, painted yellow. “See?” Ella said. “So much better. Papers here, in the baskets, and school books on the shelf. It’s got actual personality, and besides—we made it ourselves. I covered a can with contact paper, see, for pens and all. Matches the tallboy.” And if Marko wondered why you couldn’t just buy a desk and chair and be done with it, he didn’t say it.

On Friday, everything changed again.

Marko was in the sheds after the Captain’s Run at Eden Park on Friday afternoon—changing, not talking about the women he’d slept with—when he got the call.

It was Nyree. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I think you’d better come,” she said. “If you can.”

He was already pulling his T-shirt over his head. “Where?”

She gave him the address. St. Heliers Bay Road. “The midwife?” he asked. “Something wrong with Ella?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve just stepped around the corner to ring you. But I think you’d better come. Please.”

He may have exceeded the speed limit again on the way there. When he could, because traffic was Friday-afternoon rubbish. Finally, though, he pulled into the carpark of MedScan Radiology, then found the waiting room.

He may have had to stop and take a breath when he saw the two of them. Ella in her new school uniform, but with her legs pulled up onto the seat like a little girl, her arms wrapped around her shins and her cheek on her knees. She was watching Nyree, who was sitting with her legs crossed and a pad of paper on her knee, holding a stick of charcoal. Sketching. That didn’t look too bad.

Nyree looked up and saw him. Everybody looked up and saw him, because he’d come in his Blues hoodie and shorts. Most people looked surprised, or excited. Ella looked… something else. She said, before he even sat down beside her, “Why are you here? You’re supposed to be at training.”

“All good,” he said. “Captain’s Run. Always short, eh. What’s happening? We waiting to take some pictures?”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “And the midwife wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Oh.” He contemplated saying that surely everything was fine, but as a veteran of more surgeries than he cared to count, when they sent you for further tests and wouldn’t tell you why, it usually wasn’t fine.

“Yeh,” Ella said. “Sucks.”

Marko looked at Nyree, who shrugged a tiny bit. It probably meant something to her, but it wasn’t helping him much. He wasn’t sure what to say next, so he looked at her sketch pad instead.

It was him. His arms, anyway, folded across his chest. The fact that she’d drawn him would’ve been nice to see under other circumstances. And if he hadn’t had Cat on his shoulder.

He said, “Entertaining the troops?”

“Yeh,” she said. “Cats and dogs. Always a good choice, distraction-wise.” She flipped back a page, and there they were. The puppies from that first day. The bold one struggling his way out of the box, his belly hanging over the edge. The little white one upside-down in his palm, a few lines under his fingers showing where she’d weed on him.

“My shining moment,” he said.

“Funny, though,” Ella said. Proving that the distraction was working.

He told Nyree, “You’re good.” There was nothing fussy about the drawings. A few quick lines, that was all, but somehow, the personality and humor showed through. He wondered how she did that, and if she could even say. Wondering about it seemed like the best place to rest his mind at the moment, since nobody was giving him any helpful clues.

The door opened to the inner sanctum, and everyone in the room looked up. Nervously, or otherwise.

“Fenella Hardigan?” the angular middle-aged woman called out, and Ella jumped up, looking like she’d been called into the head’s office. Looking sixteen. Her face paler than usual, the white uniform blouse shapeless over her billowing navy skirt, because she’d bought both of them too big on purpose. Long blue socks and chunky black shoes. A schoolgirl.

The woman led them back to a corner, where a few chairs stood beside a coffee table bearing some limp, outdated women’s magazines, and said, “You two can wait here. Fenella—”

“Ella,” she said. Quickly, because she hated her name. Maybe that was her own place to rest her mind.

The woman said, “You can change into a gown in a cubicle. Once you’re in the room, your…” She paused with an assessing glance at Marko. “Friends can come join you.”

She led Ella away, and Marko didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall instead and said to Nyree, “Fill me in.”

She wasn’t sitting down, either. She kept her voice low, so Ella wouldn’t hear. “We went to the midwife as per specifications, and she did some prodding around Ella’s inner bits and some measuring of her outer dimensions and said, “Eighteen weeks or so, but we’ll arrange for you to go next door and get some dates.” Then she put a sort of oversized stethoscope on Ella’s belly, and we heard a racing sound. She said, ‘That’s a heartbeat,’ and Ella was excited, I think. And scared. It got real, maybe. But then the midwife listened some more, and felt Ella’s belly some more, and said, ‘Hmm. Something not quite usual here. Let’s see if they can get you in right now.’ I asked if something was wrong, and she said, ‘Probably not. There’s a fetus there, yeh. We just want to check.’ And that was it.”

“Well, bugger,” Marko said blankly.

“It was. I’m guessing Ella’s wondering how she’s supposed to feel. Glad if there’s something wrong, and maybe it’ll all be over? Sad about that? Both, probably. I thought she needed you here. I was out of my depth, you could say. And misery loves company.”

“No worries,” he said. “Thanks for calling me.”

He saw some of the tension leave her. “I thought you might want to ring her mum. I asked Ella, and she didn’t even answer.”

“Not yet,” Marko said.

“Her mum not likely to be helpful? Even now?”

“Not so much. It’d be panic stations.”

They waited in silence for a few more minutes, and when the technician came back and told them to follow her, it was a relief. But when she opened a door and Ella turned her head from where she lay on a table, the white paper crackling under her, he saw something in her dark eyes that made him forget about everything else. He took her hand, sat down in the chair beside her, and said, “Eh, laztana. It’s all good.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she gripped his hand hard. “’Sorry,’ she said. “This was meant to be the easy part.”

“No worries.” He kicked the other chair to one side for Nyree and told the technician, who was busy at her keyboard now, “I’m Ella’s cousin, by the way. Marko.”

The technician looked at him too hard and said, “Oh.” Flatly. As if she’d be stepping out into the passage and ringing up the Ministry for Vulnerable Children at any minute.

“What?” Ella asked, roused into something approaching her normal self. “You think he’s the father? As if. He told you. He’s my cousin.” She didn’t add “Ew,” but Marko sensed it coming, and despite himself, he laughed.

“Life returns,” he said. “Good to see.” He told the technician, “We’re ready when you are.”

She looked affronted, but that was better than calling the police. Some more fiddling, and then she pulled up Ella’s gown and shoved the sheet down, exposing her belly.

“Whoa,” Marko said. He hadn’t realized.

“Yeh,” Ella said. “Big, eh.”

“How far gone is she?” Marko asked the tech.

She squirted some clear jelly onto Ella’s belly, spread it around with a paddle, and said, “That’s what I’m here to find out.” Snippily, like she still wasn’t convinced of Marko’s innocence, but he couldn’t be fussed about that.

After that, she was silent, moving her paddle, then typing and clicking, until Marko said, “Fill us in here.”

She didn’t look up, just said, “Hang on until I’ve done my job, please. This isn’t a video game. It’s a medical procedure.”

“How long until you share?” Marko asked. “You’ve got an anxious mum on the table.”

He heard Ella’s indrawn breath and squeezed her hand again. The word was a surprise, he guessed. But that was what she was, and the truth didn’t get any easier to handle because you didn’t look it in the face.

The technician said, “I’ll share when I’m done. I’m not here for her amusement. Once you fall pregnant, it stops being fun and games.”

Nyree was burning. She had her mouth open, and then she looked more closely at Marko and shut it again.

Something was happening inside there. Like a tropical cyclone forming, when the air pressure dropped, the dark clouds coalesced, the wind began to whirl, and the forces concentrated and intensified. It was awesome, and it was a little scary, too. His face got harder, and so did his body. It was as if she could see every muscle standing out in stark relief, right through his clothes.

When he spoke, though, his voice was absolutely controlled. Which made it even scarier. “We’ll take it as read that you’re not in favor of teen pregnancy,” he told the technician. “Yet it’s happened, and here we are. Why don’t you pretend that Ella’s as good as any other expectant mum that you’ve had lying on this table, and start treating her like it? I’m sure you can do that. You’re a professional.”

The technician’s face reddened, her shoulders stiffened, and her mouth, already pinched, tightened more. “You’ve got a cheek,” she said, “telling me how to do my job.”

“Yeh,” Marko said. “I do. I can step out that door and ask for the supervising radiologist, or you can change your attitude. I’m prepared for either one.”

A long moment when everybody seemed to hold their breath, and then the technician said, each word as stiff as if she’d formed it out of clay, “I’m finishing up the measurements. When I’m done, I’ll go find Dr. Allingham, our radiologist, and share the results with him, and he’ll be along to tell you about them.”

“Thank you,” Marko said. If it had been Nyree, she’d have added, “See how easy that was?” And possibly included a few extra words she had in mind. Marko didn’t. Probably just as well.

A couple more minutes, and the technician stood up, said, “Dr. Allingham will be in shortly to talk to you,” and walked out.

Ella expelled her breath in a whoosh. “Wow,” she said. It sounded shaky.

“Bitch,” Nyree said. “Sorry. You could say that’s been stored up.”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “She was. That was awesome, Marko.” She still had hold of his hand, or he still had hold of hers. And Marko’s hand around yours would feel like a safe place to be.

“I don’t like bullies,” he said.

“I wanted to ask her when she first had sex,” Nyree said. “Except that she’d probably tell you it was on her wedding night, and that her eleventy-seven perfect daughters are pure as well. Bet they’re not.”

“Bet her husband’s not a happy man, either,” Marko said. Both Ella and Nyree laughed at that one, and it was better.

When the doctor came back in with the technician, though, the mood got serious fast. He was genial, fortyish, and balding. Nothing wrong with him, but Ella went stiff with tension.

“So,” he said when he’d shaken Ella’s hand, sat on his stool, and rolled up to the table. “We’ve got twins here, eh.”

As bombshells went, it was a good one.

“What?” Ella finally said.

“Is that news?” the doctor asked. “Didn’t anybody tell you? Show you?” He glanced at the technician, and she opened her mouth.

“No,” Marko said before she could jump in. “We didn’t have any information passed along to us.” He was holding Ella’s hand tighter. “It’s all good,” he told her. She was shaking a little, her hand moving in his as if the tension were spilling over now and she couldn’t hold it back anymore. “It was a baby, and now it’s two, that’s all. You’re still exactly as pregnant. It’s an on/off switch, eh.”

The doctor said, “Let’s fill you in, then. Show us again, please, Carla.”

The tech pressed her lips together tighter and got busy with the jelly and the paddle again. “Here,” she said. “A and B.”

“You’ve got two fetuses,” the doctor said. “Baby A here, and Baby B nose-to-tail, see? Here’s one head, and over there…” The technician moved the paddle, and the image appeared on the screen. “Is the other one. This twin’s bigger, and more wiggly as well, I see. Arms and legs both moving. Got some personalities happening here, maybe.”

“Oh,” Ella said faintly. “Is the little one all right?”

“Not enough littler to be a major concern,” the doctor said. “It’s common for one twin to be a bit bigger. Especially where they’re sharing a placenta. Competition starts early, eh.”

“Sharing a…” Marko said.

“Identical,” the doctor said. “One placenta. Can happen the other way, where they each have their own, but usually, it’s one. It all depends on when the division happens—how many days after fertilization. Fortunately, each of them has its own amniotic sac. That makes everything less dicey.”

Ella’s knuckles were showing white against Marko’s big hand. Marko’s voice was calm when he asked, “How many months gone is she, then?”

The doctor looked at him over his half-glasses. “And you would be…”

Marko didn’t sigh. “Ella’s cousin. Not the babies’ father.”

“Marko Sendoa,” the doctor said. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeh. Consider me the family representative.”

“We measure in weeks,” the doctor said. “And we’re at fourteen weeks and three days. Forty weeks is a standard pregnancy. For a twin pregnancy, thirty-six is more likely. Forty weeks would put you at September tenth, and thirty-six at August twenty-seventh.”

“Twenty-two weeks to go, then,” Ella said, while Nyree was still trying to do the math. “Or so. Five months, same as before, if it’s thirty-six weeks.”

“You’re sixteen, it says here,” the doctor said. “Also good at maths.”

He smiled, and Ella said, “Yeh. It’s my best subject.”

“In school, then,” the doctor said. “That’s good. Have you considered your options? I’m asking because I have twins myself. I can tell you that they’re something to take on, and I haven’t done the hard parts. It’s not just the pregnancy. A baby’s not easy, and twins aren’t less than twice the work. They’re more.”

“I was planning to…” Ella’s voice was wobbling again. “Have it adopted.”

The technician muttered something like, “Thank the Lord,” which was an opinion that absolutely nobody needed, but Ella didn’t seem to hear, fortunately.

Ella asked the doctor, “Would anybody want to… do you think they’d want both? Won’t the babies need to stay together, since they’re twins? Wouldn’t they be… sad, otherwise?”

“Yes,” the doctor said, his voice gentling. “It’s a special kind of bond, twins. Ours are fraternal, a girl and a boy, but close as peas in a pod growing up for all that. Identical—more so. They’d need to be together. And I imagine somebody would want them both.”

“Can you tell what they are?” Ella asked. “Girls or boys?”

“Not to tell you with any certainty. Fourteen weeks is early days. If you’re back again in a few weeks, we should be able to give you a better answer. All we need is one who’s not shy.”

If you’re back again. “Thanks,” Marko said when Ella didn’t answer.

The doctor patted Ella’s hand, said, “It’s your choice. Don’t let anybody make it for you. No wrong answers. Hang in there,” and left. A busy man who’d made some extra time.

Marko squeezed Ella’s hand and looked at Nyree. It wasn’t a hard look to read. Help me.

“What was the card of the day?” she asked him.

His eyes lightened, and some of his tension eased. Even Ella looked interested. “The Fool,” Marko said. “Again. Short message with it this time. ‘The answer to the question is Yes.’ I may have had a different question in mind, though.”

“Maybe we should have her do Ella’s,” Nyree said.

Marko smiled. “Maybe so.”

Nyree waited with Marko once more while Ella got dressed. When she came out, he asked her, “Riding home with Nyree? Or with me?”

“I’d rather walk,” she said. “It’s not far.” Her face was shut down. Closed, and so was her body language.

Marko looked at Nyree, and she said, “Quiet time, eh. Are you hungry, though?”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “Starved.”

“I’ll make you a toastie,” Nyree said. “For when you get home.”

Ella took off, and Nyree got into her car. She had to drive slowly, because Marko was in front of her. Which was annoying, because she wanted to go fast. Preferably with the wind in her face.

She rolled the window down and wished she had a convertible. Nobody in New Zealand had a convertible, for the obvious reason that if you did, there you’d be, rolling along enjoying your carefree lifestyle, when the sky would randomly decide to dump bucketsful of rain on you as punishment for the hubris of thinking you could have a convertible. At which point you’d have a smash, and your convertible would be gone.

When she reached the house, she went into the kitchen and started working on that toastie. When Marko came in holding Cat, who’d accosted him as usual the second he’d walked in the door, she told him, “I decided to make a couple of these for us as well. If you don’t want yours because it’s not on the match day leadup diet plan, we’ll put it in the fridge and Ella can eat it later.”

“I want it,” he said. “A chicken and veggie toastie isn’t pizza. Not quite, anyway.”

“Sadly,” she said. “I guess we know why Ella’s been eating so much, anyway. Twins. Who would’ve thought? Awesome job on the tech, by the way.”

“Yeh, well. There are times when it helps to be an intimidating fella.” He smiled, then. Sweetly.

“What’s laztana?” she asked.

“’Darling,’ I guess you’d say, in Basque. Seemed right.” He looked at the door, and Nyree could tell he was restraining himself from going outside to wait for Ella. But he did restrain himself.

After a minute, when she’d laid the sandwich halves carefully into two pans with plenty of butter, she said, “I’d worry about her walking home, being alone with all that on her mind, but I think she’s wiser than she knows. Young, but not a fool, and not a coward. And sometimes, you need to walk. For ages, preferably. For me? Along the beach. Something about the sound of the waves and that ozone filling your head. Being able to let it all go.”

He leaned against the cabinet, his ankles crossed, and gave her a look of frowning intensity, all black eyebrows and broken nose. When he spoke though, what he said was, “It’s the mountains for me. Running on a track only wide enough for one, with the kilometers rolling away behind you. Looking out on open space and no people, and the wind.”

“Colder than the beach.”

“It is that.”

When Ella came in, she barely spoke, just fell on the toastie like a starving dog, then ate half of Nyree’s with a glass of milk. Finally, she sat back, sighed, and said, “I get so hungry that it wears me out. Even after I eat, I’m still tired just from being so hungry before. Guess that’s twins.”

Marko said, keeping it calm, “Reckon it is. A bit like me as a teenager, too. Eating six thousand calories a day or more, and still so hungry that waiting for lunch was agony. We may need to talk to your school about you getting snacks. What do you think about calling your mum?”

Ella stuck a fingertip into the crumbs left on her plate and put it in her mouth, and Nyree went to the pantry, pulled out a bag of crisps, Ella’s favorite snack, and handed it to her. There was a time for nutrition, and there was a time for comfort. “I guess I should,” Ella said after dumping out a pile and crunching a crisp between her teeth. “I texted Caro on the way home.”

“Helpful?” Marko asked.

Ella grimaced. “Not so much. Heaps of ‘Oh, my God’ and ‘I can’t believe it.’ Neither can I. But it doesn’t tell me what to do.” She sighed and pulled her phone out of her bag. “It definitely won’t help to talk to Mum. But I guess I have to.”

“Put her on speaker,” Marko suggested.

Ella did, and Nyree had the dubious pleasure of listening to escalation in action. Jakinda did her share of “Oh, my God” as well, following it up with, “You can’t. Absolutely not. You won’t be able to handle that.”

Nyree hadn’t been sixteen for eleven years, but she remembered enough about it not to be surprised at seeing Ella stiffen. “I’ve handled it so far,” she said. “And I’m fourteen weeks in.”

“Which is nothing,” Jakinda said. “How will you feel when you’re as big as a house and everybody at school is laughing? You think you can fix that by being in Auckland? Girls are the same everywhere. How have they been so far? Welcoming, are they? And I’m not even talking about giving birth to two babies and thinking you’ll give them away, easy-peasy, job done.”

Ella’s face tightened more. “It’s not you, though, Mum. It’s me.”

“Of course it’s me,” Jakinda said. “You’re my child. That’s how it is when you’re a mother. Everything you do affects me.”

Nyree wanted to slap somebody again. Unfortunately, this person was at the other end of a telephone line.

Marko stepped in. “Ella thought she should tell you, Jakinda. It’s been a shock for her as well.”

“You can’t want her there,” Jakinda said, shifting her focus just like that. “You have a match tomorrow. You’re meant to be preparing. How are you going to do that while you care for a pregnant teenager?”

“The same way everybody does their job,” Marko said. “I’m not that fragile. There’s a switch you flip, and I’ll flip it, no worries. I have somebody here as well, helping out. Her name’s Nyree. She’s sitting here, so don’t say anything bad about her.”

“What, some woman Ella doesn’t even know? And you think that takes the place of a mother? I’m coming up. I’ll leave work early tomorrow. Somehow. Ella’s going to need me to help her decide and cope.”

“There’s the matter of that match you were talking about,” Marko said, his tone dry as the Canterbury plain. “I can’t collect you from the airport. Sorry.”

“I’ll get there,” Jakinda said. “Somehow. I’ll text Ella my details.”

Three beeps, because she’d rung off. Nyree and Marko looked at each other. Ella ate another crisp and said, “See?”

“Well, yeh,” Marko said. “I do. Right. Time for Call Number Two. I’m ringing my mum.”

Which was why, at four-thirty the next afternoon, Nyree was pulling up in front of Domestic Arrivals and stopping beside two women waiting on the pavement. One with a good-sized suitcase beside her, and one holding a tote.

Nyree got out, but she let Ella lead the way. Ella hugged her mum, then the silver-haired woman whose bone structure and height, not to mention the calm in her expression and the directness in her blue eyes, proclaimed her to be Marko’s mother.

Ella’s mum said, “Oh, my God. You’re bigger already,” and Ella said, “Yeh, Mum. That tends to happen. This is Nyree. My mum Jakinda and my aunt Olivia.”

Nyree shook hands with both, eyed Jakinda’s suitcase, and said, “It’ll be a bit of a squash getting there, I’m afraid, but it’s not for long.” She opened the Beetle’s boot, jammed the suitcase inside, and thought, There’s Step One done. Also, That’s a lot of suitcase for two days. High maintenance much?

Jakinda said, “Let’s go, then. Climb in, Ella.”

Olivia said, “I guess we’d better get used to letting Ella ride in front. Come on, Jakinda. It’s just like my college days. It’s practically the same car.”

“You’re American,” Nyree said.

Olivia laughed. “Not anymore, but the accent never dies, even after thirty-five years. It either drives Ander crazy, or he thinks it’s cute. I’ve never been able to tell. Probably both. But if we’re going to watch Marko play, we need to get this show on the road.” She shoved the seat forward, folded her nearly six feet into the back, and said, “Yep. College for sure. I’d tell you when I was last in the back seat of one of these, but I just met you.”

Jakinda climbed in beside her after a moment’s hesitation, and Ella got into the front. Nyree said as she pulled out—carefully, because she didn’t need to hear about it later—“Here’s the plan. We don’t really have time to go home first, so we’ll battle the traffic into Mount Eden and grab a carpark while we can, spend some extra time in the pub, then walk over to Eden Park. Sound good?”

“Does to me,” Olivia said. “Lead on.”

An hour later, Nyree wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap Jakinda, or just stab herself in the eyeball to make the hurting stop. Every time anyone started a new subject, Ella’s mum shifted the conversation back to the pregnancy, Ella’s education, her future, her mental health, or her favorite: her own stress. Now, she was saying, “I don’t think I slept more than an hour last night for worrying. Did you, Livvie? I’m shattered today. Half of me just wants to climb into bed right now. I hope Marko finally has his place furnished.”

“Not so much,” Nyree said. She was nursing a second beer out of sheer self-preservation. It was lucky that she wouldn’t need to drive again for nearly four hours. Olivia was on her second as well, probably for the same reason. “He’s putting you two into his room, as long as you don’t mind sharing. It’s the biggest bed, and he’s even changed the sheets for you. A man in a million. I’m bunking in with Ella, and Marko’s in my room. And there you are.”

Which was more than a little awkward, not least because Marko’s feet would hang over the edge of her mattress, not to mention that little matter of smelling his scent and feeling all his red in her space, and what that might do to her own peace of mind, but she wasn’t going to be a princess about it. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d be sleeping on the floor after playing a Super Rugby match.

“Oh,” Jakinda said. “But surely Ella needs her mum tonight.”

“Nah, Mum,” Ella said. “You snore, and you have cold feet. Nyree’s warm as a hot water bottle. She slept with me last night and didn’t say anything, which was cool. Aunt Livvie, Marko says I should ask you to do my card of the day. He says we need all the enlightenment we can get. And when he says that, he means I do, because Marko never needs anything. And then do Nyree, please. She’s an artist, did you know? I’ll show you tomorrow. I’ll bet her reading’s awesome.” She told Nyree, “It’s not all woo-woo like you think. It’s really just Aunt Livvie being wise and pretending it’s coming from the cards.”

Olivia said, “That’s one way to look at it, anyway.” Then she pulled an oversized pack of cards out of her tote, tipped them out of the box, shuffled them, and fanned them out face-down. “It works best if you pick your own,” she explained to Nyree. “I do Marko’s for him, of course, or it wouldn’t happen. And then I don’t ask whether he reads my encouraging words. Always best.”

Ella’s hand hovered over the enormous fan of cards as if her choice mattered, and then she chose the extreme right-hand one and turned it over fast.

Everybody stared. An upside-down man hanging by one foot from a tree. In case anybody was in any doubt, the caption was there. The Hanged Man.

“Ah,” Olivia said with satisfaction.

“I’m dead,” Ella said. “Wonderful.”

Olivia laughed. “Don’t be silly. No. You’re in a period of suspension, that’s all. You’re waiting to let the truth come to you rather than rushing to judgment or being swayed by outside forces. Some answers don’t come from your head. They’re only in your heart. Look at his smile. He knows he’s there for a reason. He’s hanging out, trusting himself to find the right way, just like you are.”

“If that means I don’t know what to do,” Ella said, “then that’s it.”

Olivia beamed. “Exactly. And look at him. He’s not a victim. He’s turning his situation around and considering it from the other side.”

“What’s the other side?” Ella asked.

“That’s what you’ll discover,” Olivia said. “It’s what you’ll dream tonight, or the path you’ll see opening up before you in the morning. That’s the beauty of life, isn’t it? The scary part, too, of course. The gift of unanswered prayers, and the life you make instead. The wonder of taking the wrong fork and finding that hidden valley.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jakinda said. “When everything works out for you. And that’s a song, the unanswered prayers.”

“Mm,” Olivia said, seeming not the least bit daunted. “Well, it may be a song, and it may not even be the truth, but it’s sure a happier place to live.”

When she smiled, the skin at the corners of her eyes creased, and the lines around her mouth showed that she smiled more than she frowned. Nyree said impulsively, “My Nan says, ‘Remember that the way you look at life will be etched into your soul as you grow old the same way it’s etched into your face, so take care how you look at it.’ Same thing, or trying to keep me from getting wrinkles. I’ve never figured out which.”

Olivia said, “That’s a good one.” She rummaged in her tote again and pulled out a little notebook with a pen clipped to it. “I’m writing it down. Every little bit helps. Gratitude is an attitude and all that.”

Nyree had a perfectly good mother already. That didn’t stop her from wanting Marko’s. Especially when Olivia said, “Let’s do you, Nyree.” After which she studied her, her head a little on one side, her clear blue eyes assessing, and said, “You’re somebody special, aren’t you?”

Maybe it was the second beer. Maybe it was the recklessness of knowing she was going to watch Marko play, and that she was going to let herself enjoy it. Or maybe it was the pleasure of somebody you admired looking into your eyes and telling you that you were special. Whatever it was, ribbons of light were wrapping Nyree up and holding her close, and those ribbons glowed gold. Her throat was closing, but in a good way. She said, “I don’t know. I’m the only one of me, anyway.”

“Yes,” Olivia said. “You are.” She took Ella’s card back and shuffled the deck twice, then twice more. Her fingers were long and brown, adorned only by a single silver band with an inlay of paua shell on her wedding finger. She fanned out the cards again, smiled at Nyree, and said, “Choose.”

“I’m oddly nervous,” Nyree said.

Ella said, “I know. Even though she always makes it sound good.”

Nyree closed her eyes, set her hand on a card, then pulled it toward her and turned it over. A king on a throne, looking into the distance, holding a stick in his hand.

“I’m a king,” Nyree said. “That’s good, I guess. Better than being a serf.”

“The King of Wands,” Olivia said. “It’s a card of power, reminding you to live your life with intention. You’re facing doubt and obstacles now, maybe in more than one part of your life, but they’re just bumps in your road, put there to make you stronger. Remember that the common denominator in every situation is you. Your choices. Your goals. Your path.”

“Pressure much?” Ella said. “I’m glad I didn’t get that one. Like I need that.”

Olivia said, “And now that I’ve given you that to chew on, I’m going to visit the ladies’, and then I think we’d better be heading to the park. Seeing as I’ve got a son to watch, and I think he’s pretty special himself.”

Nyree may have had a few things to think about on the walk to Eden Park. Olivia walked beside her, but she didn’t talk, to Nyree’s relief. They found the VIP door, and Nyree thought, Just like going to watch the Highlanders, but couldn’t convince her body that it was true. There was a tingle along her arms and a buzzing in her head as they walked up stairs and around corners, flight after flight, along with the rest of the cheerful crowd, that told her this was different.

Finally, they found their door. One more flight of stairs, and then finding their row, and players below them warming up on the field under the bright lights.

No different. Except it was.

They were nearly there when Ella stopped so abruptly ahead of her that Nyree bumped into her. “Oh, my God,” she said. “That’s Jocelyn Pae Ata. It has to be. Isn’t it? With Kate, the one we met. Koti’s partner.”

“Yeh,” Nyree said. “Looks like her to me. Makes sense. She’s married to Hugh Latimer, the skipper.”

“I knew that,” Ella said. “But it’s different seeing her in person. Courtney Place is my favorite show ever, and she was my favorite on it until they blew her up and killed her. I can’t believe I’m actually seeing her. She’s even more beautiful than on TV.”

“Come on, love,” Jakinda said. “I need to sit down.”

They filed into their seats in the row just ahead of Kate and Jocelyn, who were sitting with a fair number of other pretty women who had “rugby WAG” written all over them, and a few kids as well.

Nyree told herself, You can do this. You’re not seventeen anymore. Jump in and do it. So when she reached her seat, she turned and focused on Kate. Brunette, short, and less than glamorous. Exactly like her. “Hi,” she said. “Nyree Morgan.”

“I remember,” Kate said, a smile lighting up her face. “Hi. How are you?” She told Jocelyn, “Nyree’s the photographer who was taking those pictures of Koti when I nearly drowned Maia. The one who found us our dog, too. Also known as the best dog in the world, since she’s the one who kept Maia from drowning. Nyree’s living with Marko now.”

“Well, with Ella,” Nyree said, doing her best to keep her cool. “Marko’s cousin.”

“Right,” Kate said. “Hi, Ella. Nice to see you. This is Josie Pae Ata. Oh, and Jenna Douglas. We still let her sit with us even though Finn’s a coach now.”

Nyree introduced Marko’s mum and aunt. It was a bit surreal, like she actually was this kind of insider. Of course, she’d technically been that for years, but she’d never felt like it. Not even close. She’d always felt, in the rugby world, like she was standing on the other side of the windows, looking in at the ballroom where the couples were waltzing and the party was happening. Like a stepchild, you could say.

Remember that the common denominator in any situation is you.

They were just people. Yes, Jocelyn Pae Ata had been named New Zealand’s Most Beautiful Woman last year, and was one of the country’s biggest TV stars. Also an international model. She was also married to the captain of the Blues, who happened to be a star All Black, but…

All right. Maybe that one didn’t work so well. Still, Kate seemed normal. She’d focus on her. “You didn’t drown Maia. She ran off before you could catch her, which is something that could happen to anybody, and the dog and Koti were both right there.”

“Easy for you to say,” Kate said. “Koti said it took ten years off his life, watching her go under like that. She’s a daddy’s girl. Has him wrapped around her finger, too. Geez. Kids. One way or another, they’ll kill you.”

Jenna, a redhead who, like Kate, also looked relatively normal, glanced at Josie, who was watching the players below and looking distant. Bored, probably. Jenna said, “Really? You found Kate and Koti their dog? My son Harry is dying for a dog. We’ve been waiting until the babies are a little older, but I don’t think I can hold him off much longer.”

A girl of eleven or twelve, sitting next to her, said, “He’s totally obnoxious about it, you mean. We’ve been making lists, but he keeps changing his mind.”

“My daughter Sophie,” Jenna said. “Harry’s not obnoxious. He’s just persistent. But he does have pictures pinned all over his room. Are you involved in the… the dog world, or whatever, Nyree?”

“Not exactly,” Nyree said. “I don’t know much about show dogs or whatever you’re thinking. I do some volunteer photography for the SPCA, that’s all, and I know dogs and cats a bit. That’s what Marko and Koti were posing for.”

“That’s how she met Marko,” Kate said. “Which, according to Koti, was a pretty fireworks-worthy occasion.”

Jenna said, “But that’s perfect! Harry says our dog can’t be from a breeder. It has to be from a shelter. That’s one reason I’ve been hesitating. I’d like to rescue a dog, of course, but I’ve never had one and don’t know much about training them, and like I said—babies. Finn’s had dogs—”

“And is Command Central,” Kate said, “so what are you worried about? If Finn can’t train a dog, I’ll be mightily surprised. Koti says he just about kills them in the gym. He says he’s thinking of joining the army just to have somebody go easy on him, because between Finn and me, not to mention Maia…”

“Except that I’m the one at home,” Jenna said, “so you know that’s going to be me. And I do have four kids. It’d be better to lower the challenge level.”

“You and Harry,” Sophie said. “He’s going to think he knows exactly what to do. He’s going to be so bossy about it.” She sighed and looked martyred. Ah, sisters.

Nyree said, “I can certainly keep an eye out for a good candidate, if you like. An older dog, maybe? Gentle, and with some manners already? Bigger could actually be better for you. Temperament is more important than size, especially with babies.”

“Perfect.” Jenna pulled out her phone. “Give me your number, and I’ll text you mine. I’d appreciate it.”

Josie stood up and said, “Drinks. Who’d like a beer, or a fizz? We’ve got time. Nyree?”

“Oh,” she said. “No, thanks. I’m driving.”

“I’ll take another beer,” Olivia said. “I need to get mellow to watch Marko. Too nervous otherwise.”

Josie took orders, but when she came to Ella, the girl said, “Not for me, thanks. I’m pregnant. If I drink anything, I’ll miss the whole match for running to the toilets.” She added hurriedly, “But it would be awesome to go with you to help carry them. I loved you in Courtney Place, and I can’t wait for your new show. Are you still going to be, like, evil?”

Josie smiled, which was, of course, pure perfection, and said, “The show’s still in development. But I’m very excited myself. I hope you’ll watch. Congratulations on your pregnancy. And thanks, but I’ve got it.” She turned to Kate, said, “Excuse me,” made her graceful way across the row like a royal working a reception line, and was gone.

“Huh,” Ella said. “I guess that happens to her all the time. I probably shouldn’t have said that about the show.”

“It does happen,” Jenna said with a smile. “But you didn’t say anything wrong. You’re Marko’s cousin? He’s from the South Island, Finn says. Which he approves of, of course. He’d love it if he could poach all the southern boys. I think he secretly believes farm boys are tougher. Where in the South Island, exactly?”

Ella answered, the conversation resumed, and the moment passed. So. Jocelyn Pae Ata was beautiful, and that seemed to be where it stopped. But then, TV stars didn’t have the “humble Kiwi” bit drummed into them the way rugby players did. Nobody was handing them a broom at the end of the shoot and telling them it was their turn to sweep the changing room floor. Different game, different rules. And she was here to watch this one.

Afterwards, she could only remember a few things about that match. The music blaring over the loudspeakers. The sight of Marko, his hands on his hips, staring straight ahead and doing hamstring stretches as if he were alone on the field, getting into the zone. The teams jogging off the field and back into the tunnel after their warmup. The gouts of fire spouting from torches as the announcer’s voice swelled and the team returned, and how she felt the warmth all the way from the stands.

Other than that, though? What she remembered was how different it felt from every other rugby game she’d been to. What she remembered was Marko.

Running out onto the pitch behind Hugh, looking like he had the day before, when he’d concentrated all his power on defending Ella. Looking larger than life. She couldn’t see his expression, but she could imagine it. And she could see the intention in every hard muscle and the focus in his big body as he stood, his torso canted forward, his eyes on the opposition No. 10, and waited for the kickoff. She could see the ferocity of his tackles, the power in his legs when he took the ball in a quick recycle and ground out a few more hard-won meters over the bodies of his opposition. The sheer strength in his upper body, too, that meant it took three tacklers to bring him down, and the unselfishness with which he passed the ball to the next man instead of going for the tryline himself.

Which was part and parcel of being an elite rugby player. The best ones were team men first, foremost, and always. And yet… and yet. When Marko embraced the teammate who’d just dotted down across the chalk and taken the glory? She’d swear that he felt as much pleasure as if he’d been the one doing it.

Maybe it was wrong to respond so much to his physical self. If it was, she was wrong. All she knew was that seeing his power, watching him do the thing he was best at, feeling him embrace his driving force like he was inside her, made the hair rise on her scalp and a dark tingle start up low in her belly.

He wasn’t the man who’d held his cousin’s hand, or the one who talked to her in the dark. Except that he was, because he was all of that together. It was exactly like that first day at his house, when she’d sat on the bed beside him, felt the vibration in him, and responded to it like he was a tuning fork and he resonated exactly at her frequency.

He stole her breath. He rolled her like a wave. He shook her to the core. And he didn’t even know it.

Marko pulled into the driveway, saw darkness save for one light at the entrance to the house, and was glad for it. It was nearly midnight, and when he parked the car and climbed out, he felt all the usual stiffness from the muscles seizing up on the drive home. Not to mention his body’s delayed reaction, now that the adrenaline had subsided, to the battering it had just taken.

Never mind. They’d won. And Nyree had been there to watch it.

He hadn’t thought she’d come. When he’d offered the tickets, she’d hesitated for a long moment, and he’d wondered why he’d care if she didn’t. He still didn’t know the answer. He wasn’t sure it was a question he wanted to ask.

When he got in the house, he shut the door quietly behind him, set down his bag to deal with tomorrow, when he might be able to get into his bedroom, stretched his arms over his head, and wished for a session in the spa tub.

He’d flipped the switch tonight the way he’d told Jakinda he would, but no question, it had been harder than usual. Partly because he still wasn’t as easily in sync with his teammates as he’d been in the familiar territory of the Highlanders, and partly because he wasn’t in sync, period. But that was the satisfaction in it, too. That even when it wasn’t one bit easy, you dug deep anyway to put up a performance you could be proud of.

A faint but persistent sound, growing louder, and then a gray dustball came skittering around the corner, meowing hard. He picked her up before she could launch herself at his leg, put her on his shoulder, and headed to the kitchen.

He’d like a soak in the spa tub, yeh. For that matter, he’d like to take somebody’s clothes off and put her in there with him. He’d like to look at that full mouth smiling at him across the bubbles. He’d like to carry that sweet, soft somebody to bed, and he’d like to lay her down across it, wet and warm and naked. He’d like to come down over her and cover every single inch of her with his hands and mouth until she was sighing under him. And eventually, when she couldn’t wait another minute, when she wanted it exactly as much as he did, he’d like to sink into her. Slowly, so he could feel her stretch to take him in. He’d like to feel her legs wrap around his waist, and to hear the sounds she’d make when he put his hands flat on the mattress and put some effort into it. He’d like to watch her eyes close, and to see her face twist with the force of her orgasm.

He’d like heaps of things. For now, he’d get a beer. He navigated in the dark, but when he went to open the folding doors to the deck, something stirred.

“Hey.” The voice was soft. The accent was Maori. One syllable, one turn of a dark head, the moon backlighting her cloud of hair, and he was gone.

Lowered resistance. Weary body, aftereffects of adrenaline. He thought it, and he forgot it.

“Hey.” He came to sit beside her. She wasn’t in the dressing gown tonight. A jumper and leggings instead. “Bit chilly out here, isn’t it, bare feet and all?”

“Mm,” she said. “Maybe. I could say that you don’t have any furniture, but it’d be a bit teasy. The truth is that I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to talk to you.”

“And that you’re a Maori girl from Northland who took off her shoes every day as soon as school was over and walked home barefoot. I’d like to have seen you then.”

It took her a moment to answer. “Maybe you wouldn’t. Could be I wasn’t beautiful.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll bet you were more alive than anybody else. Waiting for me tonight, though. That’s nice.”

“Could be. I may have wanted to tell you that you impressed me. I wasn’t sure I’d have a chance tomorrow, so I wanted to…” She hauled in a breath. “Get my vote in early.”

That shouldn’t make him feel so good. Girls should be impressed by blokes who saved whales or tackled child hunger, but so many of them were more impressed by blokes who just tackled, period. Sad but true. “I did, eh.”

“You must know you did.”

“Maori girl,” he said. “There’s more to a man than his muscles.”

“Yeh, well,” she said. “You’ve got that, too. That’s the stupid problem.”

“Well,” he said… yes, stupidly, “that’s good to know.”

A second when he just looked at her, and then she said, “It was good that your mum came. You could say she was necessary. She made this feel… normal. Like Ella could ride it out and come out stronger on the other side. But I’m wondering about some things your aunt said, too. About whether I’m the best person for this. You’re off to Aussie in a couple days, and Ella’s got a rough road ahead. That’s what I really stayed up to tell you.”

“She does. But isn’t that why you’re here?”

“I want it to be. But I need to say this. I’m not your mum. I can be a friend, I can be a housemate, but I haven’t had one baby, let alone twins. I can see why she doesn’t want to be with her mum. I think I’d run screaming, if it were me. But now that I’ve met your mum—if she stayed with her instead, and all the rest of her whanau, wouldn’t that be better? Couldn’t she say it was to be with her cousin or something? They text like the phones are attached to their palms. Or you could say that she needed somebody there all the time, since her mum works away from home and your mum doesn’t. You could think of a reason.”

“I could,” Marko said, “if she wants to do that. Or she could decide not to go through with the pregnancy after all. Twins change things. What did she say?”

“Oh, I think she’s going to go ahead. Your mum said some wise things, but Ella didn’t seem torn, not really. Not to me. Overwhelmed? She’s that. But every time her mum said she couldn’t do it, she shut her down. She’s steady, eh. A bit like you.”

“Except green.”

“Solid green. She went to sleep straight away tonight, and the last thing she said was, “’Your feet are warm. So much better.’ Not weeping, like you might think, when she was alone, or at least alone with me. Adjusting already. And your mum’s awesome, too, but you know that.”

“What color is she? My mum?” Nyree’s feet were warm? Why didn’t that surprise him?

“Violet and gold. She’s beautiful. She’s… a river.”

He took another swallow of beer and looked up at the moon. “But you’re not sure you should stay, even if Ella does. Even though your feet are warm, and you like my mum, and you like my cousin, and you like my cat, and maybe you even like me. But…”

“You must know why.” She was steady, too. Too sure. “That’s not any kind of surprise to you, and this could get more than awkward. What would happen with Ella if it didn’t work out? She may need somebody who can spend more time at home, too. Somebody without a full-time job who’s trying to paint on top of it. I jumped in too fast, didn’t think it through. You’re meant to be the rational one here. What’s up with that?”

“Dunno.” He’d finished the beer, and now, he put the bottle down on the deck. “Maybe it’s what my mum said. The Fool taking the leap. Sometimes, you don’t need to look. And here we are.”

“I want you to know,” she said, “that if Ella does go home, it’s all good. I’ll paint your walls white and go back to my garage, and we’ll both have our regular lives back.”

There were heaps of ways he could have unpacked that, but he needed to take care of something else first. “She seems to want to be here, so she can separate this from the rest of her life. Whether that’s better or worse, who knows. Whether I should have told her she could stay in the first place—that’s the Fool again, I reckon. And meanwhile, she can’t be alone. Stay while I’m gone to Aussie, at least.”

“Of course I will. But I’m not qualified.”

“You’ve judged all right so far. Helped her do what she needed to do, and rung me when she needed more help than that.”

“Well, thanks. It would be easier if she came with an instruction manual.”

He laughed out loud. “Now you’re going to tell me you’ve ever read an instruction manual. I don’t think so.”

“Ha. You’re right.” She swung her legs off the railing and stood up. “So. Could be she goes home, and I move out. Or she doesn’t, and I stay until you’re back from Aussie, and then we see. And tonight, you’ll sleep in a bed that’s too small for you. Sorry about that.”

“But in an orange room,” he said. “So there’s that.” She was still there, one hand on the arm of her chair, her body nearly swaying. So warm, and so close. He stood up himself, setting Cat down on the chair along the way, and Nyree watched him do it and didn’t move. He said, knowing it was a mistake to ask and asking anyway, “Something I’ve wondered. You always smell like a cookie. Why is that?”

“Uh… my lotion. Almond. It has… some orange in it, too. Rose.”

“Mm. It’s nice.” He shouldn’t touch her. He knew that, too. He’d just slip a hand under her hair, there at the side of her neck. Just feel her hair against his hand. The tips of his fingers grazed her skin, though, and she took a breath.

Maybe he was touching some. Skin even softer than her hair, fine as silk, pale in the moonlight. Snow White.

Her breasts rose and fell, there where the jumper plunged, and he’d swear she was naked under it. He stroked his fingers down her neck again, and she shivered.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

She didn’t answer, but her hand had come up to grasp his upper arm like she couldn’t help it. Her scent was in his head, and all he could see was her eyes. Huge. Dark in the night.

He shouldn’t. He did anyway. He had an arm around her waist the way he’d imagined, was lifting her onto her toes, and her arm was around his neck. He brushed his lips over hers, then did it again.

Surely those were sparks. An electric pulse, starting where his lips touched hers and moving all the way down his body. He did it again, nothing but soft, and then she had both arms around him, and somehow, she was almost all the way off her feet, pressed against his body. His hand at the back of her neck, her mouth opening under his.

It was gentle, and then it wasn’t. He settled his mouth over hers and kissed her more. Kissed her deeper. He kissed her like there was no coming back, like she was already his. And she wrapped her hand around his head, soft and strong and warm, and let him do it.

Surrender.

That kiss was all about the warrior. All about the winner. She felt it. She knew it. And what he was winning—it was her.

His jaw was smooth under her palm, and the muscles of his back, where she clutched him, were heavy and thick. He was wrapping her up in him, holding her so close, kissing her so deep, and she wanted to go further. Straight down into the dark. Right down onto her back. It was like she was already there, her head swimming, her body melting into his.

No.

The word hovered, trying to batter its way through, but how could anything get through Marko?

You’d be a liar. And he’s going to know it.

All right. That one made it. She dragged her lips away from his, rested her face against the strong column of his neck, and breathed.

One more minute. Just one, to feel those arms around her and all that hardness pressed up against her. One minute to smell his spice and leather, and to believe in that sheltering strength. Just for a minute.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t stop holding her, either. Finally, she said, “Bad… idea.”

“Oh?” he said. “Doesn’t feel like it.” His hand stroked over her back. He wanted to slide that hand inside her jumper. She knew it. She wanted that, too. You could call it “desperately.”

“I know. But we both know it is.” She’d been so clear, earlier. Moving in had been an impulsive decision that had been nothing but selfishness, or some kind of twisted revenge on rugby for a humiliation she needed to put behind her, because hanging onto it was never going to help her or anybody else. No matter how she felt about Ella, no matter how she felt about Marko—sometimes, the Fool was just the Fool. And then there had been twins, and his mother, and Ella’s mother, and this… heat. All of it jumbled together, a tangle of colors and emotions and mistakes and aching desire. Past and present.

He set her down, and she took a step back, shoved her hair away from her face, and said, “I need to… I didn’t mean to do that.”

“No,” he said. “But I did.” His hand was in her hair again, smoothing it this time, then touching her cheek. “Whatever the problem is, maybe you could tell me, eh. Could be as easy as that.”

The black water was closing over her head. Mistake. Danger. Back off. “Let’s get Ella taken care of," she said. “Two weeks before you’re back again. And it’s a long way until September.”

She didn’t have to look at him to see the frustration. “Fine,” he said.

“See?” she said, and tried to laugh. “Awkward already. Like I said.”

He didn’t look like he wanted to kiss her anymore. Not exactly. He looked like he wanted to do something, though. “You want to try to make this about Ella, or about me,” he said. “I’m not so sure it is, or not all of it. All I know is, I can’t tell what’s a green light and what’s a red. I don’t walk on a red light. I’m not enjoying the thought that I just did.”

“You didn’t. But I think… I’m sure it should go back to red. Anything else is a mistake.”

“Fine,” he said again, his voice absolutely controlled. “Stay with Ella. I’ll say thank you. Right now, though, I’m going to bed.”

So that was wonderful.

When her phone rang on Monday morning, Nyree didn’t swear.

Well, maybe she swore a little. She’d seized the chance of her day off and Marko being home with Ella—who hadn’t gone home to Tekapo—to come to the garage and do some work. Marko’s house had been much too full of emotion and energy yesterday, with Jakinda and Olivia still there. Commenting on Ella’s new decor, Jakinda asking why Marko couldn’t have bought something “actually nice, darling, because this is Op Shop all the way, and God knows he needs the furniture and can pay for it, if he bought this house,” and Olivia saying, “What a clever idea this desk was. Who thought of that?” Both of them going through the few maternity clothes Ella had bought so far off TradeMe, and Jakinda saying, “You aren’t going to want to show off every line of your bump like that, surely, not when you get huge,” and Olivia being relentlessly cheerful. They’d finally taken Ella shopping for new bras and undies, and when they’d come home again, Ella had crawled straight into bed in the middle of the day and gone to sleep. Marko, meanwhile, had gone off to play golf for four hours. Both, probably, out of desperation.

Nyree had headed to work at Bevvy with the same emotions, had come back at ten o’clock last night to the hypnotic sound of Marko’s guitar on the deck, and had gone out to sit with him. Just for a few minutes, she’d promised herself. He’d looked at her, then out into the night again, and had played for both of them, wrapping her in his music until she’d felt the calm all the way into her bones, until she could feel it resetting her brain waves. She’d known he would play as long as she needed him to, and the deck had felt like the safest place in the world.

When she’d finally left him, she’d wanted to sketch. Wanted to work. Being in the midst of that maelstrom the last couple days, not to mention her own tangled emotions about Marko, could have driven the need away, but it hadn’t. It had only intensified it. She’d only managed an hour, though, before her eyes had blurred and her hand had slowed.

Not being able to work for over a week now was driving her mad. She hadn’t had the physical space, and she hadn’t had the mental space. So this morning, when Ella had gone off to school and Marko had left to take his mum and aunt to the airport, she’d escaped. It was barely nine o’clock, and she was in her garage again, in her colors again, with the whole day stretching before her. Victoria was safely at work, and Nyree’s music was playing, a mix of Maori, world music, and some newly added classical guitar. All of it let the back of her mind loose, the place where the pictures lived. After six flipped sketchpad pages, she could feel, through her increasing frustration, that she was nearly there. And then—the idea. The big one. The starburst.

Which was when her phone rang.

She ignored it. It rang again. The thought finally made it through. Ella. She put down the sketchpad and charcoal and started looking for the phone. Not easy, because her coffee table was at Marko’s, which gave her no place to put anything.

The phone wasn’t ringing any more, of course, which made it harder. Finally, she found it. In the sink. Made sense.

The call hadn’t been from Ella. Her concentration was broken anyway, though. She hit redial.

“Morning, love,” her mum said. “Good time to talk?”

“For a minute, sure,” Nyree said.

“At work?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. Drawing.” She looked at her sketchpad again. If she switched the perspective…

“Oh, good. I’m glad I didn’t catch you at work,” her mum said, and Nyree tried not to grind her teeth. “I wanted to ask whether you want to go to Fiji at the end of September with Grant and Kiri and me once the season’s over. We’re doing eighteen days, almost the entire school holidays. A real getaway at last. You know how Grant is about taking time off, but he’s agreed to it, and I’d love you to come as well.”

“Thanks,” Nyree said. “Really. But I’ll be working.”

“You can get time off from the restaurant, surely,” her mum said. “It’s not like they don’t have heaps of servers.”

A rumble in the background, and Nyree’s mum said, her voice muffled, “Of course it’s not a real job. I can hardly say that to her, though, can I?” Another pause. “I know, darling. But I want her to have something nice, and that way Kiri will want to come, too. Surely one holiday a year isn’t enabling.”

Nyree said, “Mum. Mum.” Loudly.

“Yes, love,” her mother said. “I’m here.”

“You need to mute,” Nyree said. “When you’re talking about somebody.”

“I did,” her mother said.

“Holding the phone against your chest is not muting. I can still hear you. You need to push the button. Have Kiri show you.”

“Oh,” her mother said. “Anyway. Can you come? We wanted family time.”

“I really can’t afford the time off, but thanks. You won’t have the whole family anyway. Kane and Lukas won’t be there.” Because they’re adults with jobs and their own lives, she didn’t say. Just like me.

“Don’t be silly,” her mother said. “They’re on contract, and they can’t. You know that. Oh, and I texted you a couple job postings. Did you get them? The ad agency one sounded perfect. That’s creative, and it pays well, too. Everything you need.”

Nyree pressed her fingertips hard into her forehead, since putting her palms on her cheeks and screaming wasn’t an option. “I don’t want to work for an ad agency, Mum. You don’t need to bother to check the postings. And before you ask me whether my car’s still working—yes. It is. I’ve even got a second job added on to the restaurant, so I’m all good. It’s a sort of companion post. A caretaker, you could say.” She considered mentioning the Pookie portrait, but she didn’t think her mum would be impressed, and she knew Grant wouldn’t be.

Her mum said, “A carer? I won’t say anything, but seriously, Nyree, think about the future. You have a good degree. Some of the work you did at the firm was really lovely. Why not do that again and have the money to take care of yourself properly? Painting is never going to be a job, love.”

“Mum. You just did say something.”

“Is there somebody new on the horizon? Is that why you don’t want to go to Fiji? You could bring him, too. That would be perfect. We’d leave you two alone, I promise.” Another rumble from the background. “I didn’t say we’d pay his fare.” Muffled again, because the phone was clearly pressed against her mum’s chest again. “You don’t know that he won’t be able to. Maybe this one’s in funds.” A pause. “Well, maybe she’s changed. She knows she’s not getting any younger, and she’s looking so much prettier. You said so yourself, other than the clothes. I’m sure she can do better now.”

Finally, Nyree got her attention and was able to say, “I need to go, Mum. My break’s over.”

“Oh. Right. Well, think about Fiji. You can bunk in with Kiri if you don’t bring anybody, so all it’ll be is the tickets, so no worries about not being independent. Oh—and I’m coming up for the match at the end of May. We can go shopping.” More rumbling in the background, then, “Grant sends his love.”

I’ll bet. More like, Grant just set a budget. She didn’t want to go shopping anyway. She liked her clothes. She rang off, looked at Pookie, growled out loud, and said, “I love my mum. I do. Except when she makes me want to stab my eyeballs out. Families. Gah.” Then she changed the music to pop, turned it up loud, did ten minutes of bad dancing and mediocre singing, worked herself back to something like a more sweaty normal, splashed water on her face, and picked up her sketchpad again.

“One day off,” she told Pookie, changing her music back. “And I’m spending it in my happy place, damn it.”

She drove back to Marko’s at six-thirty with her sketchpad on the seat and her head full of plans. She’d have skipped dinner, except that she needed to equip herself with new canvas and paints before she moved ahead with her project, and, she needed to see how Ella was doing now that the shock had worn off and her mum and aunt had left. She also needed to be casual with Marko again before he left, or they were never going to make it until September.

I don’t walk on a red light. That was good, then. That was perfect. Ground rules. No more hot kisses in the dark. No more big, strong arms wrapped around her. No more being hauled against all that hard chest. No more muscular thighs…

Whoops. No.

She walked in the front door, her stomach growled, and she realized she’d forgotten about lunch. The house smelled like a Maori wet dream, if girls had those. When she reached the kitchen, Ella was sitting, Cat in her lap, crunching carrots dipped in hummus, Marko was shaking a glass jar of liquid, and the smell was so delicious, Nyree could almost bite it. He was barefoot, in faded jeans and a gray Adidas T-shirt, both of which outlined every bulge of muscle and every… et cetera a woman could long to see, and he may have been biteworthy himself. If she hadn’t sworn off that. Which she had.

Except… those arms.

“Hey,” Ella said, not looking stricken by grief or tangled in troubles. “What did you paint?”

“Can’t tell you yet,” Nyree said. “It’s still percolating. More to the point—what smells so good?”

“Lamb.” Ella sighed. “With potatoes and carrots. And salad. Still ten minutes to go, though.” She laid her forehead on the marble and wailed, “Forever.”

“But who’s counting,” Marko said. He set down his jar, looked Nyree over, smiled, and said, “Productive day, eh.”

“Oh.” Her hand flew to her face. “What?”

“Charcoal, I reckon. And some additional decoration as well. You have ten minutes, like the pregnant lady said. You could stay like that, but I can’t promise not to laugh.”

She did have charcoal on her, she found when she reached the yellow-toweled bathroom. On her arms, and on her face. And oil pastel as well. Red, yellow, and blue, which had somehow ended up on the side of her neck. How had she done that? She took a quick but scrub-intensive shower, put on a velvet shirt over her gray jeans, and came downstairs again just as Marko was slicing two racks of lamb into chops, crusty outside and succulent pink inside, then laying them on a platter around an enormous pile of tiny potatoes and new carrots. Beside that was a butter lettuce salad in a white bowl with the contents of the jar on it. “Olive oil and pear balsamic,” Marko said when she asked. “Salt and pepper. Easy. The secret’s getting the good stuff.”

“You make food like this,” she told him twenty ravenous minutes later, when they were gnawing on bones, “and then you eat it on a chrome stool off round white plates set on your marble breakfast bar in your white kitchen. Pure negative space. It’s like…” She waved a denuded chop in the air. “Hanging a Van Gogh in a museum.”

“Which is what people do,” Marko said. “And we aren’t eating in the kitchen, thanks to you. Cheers for comparing my cooking to a Van Gogh, though.”

“Yes,” Nyree said, “but they both deserve a more interesting setting.”

“Mm,” he said, his iron-dark eyes lit up by something much more like humor than animal lust. “So you know—I’ve been waiting for this moment since the first night. If there’d been a betting pool, I would’ve lost. Surprising restraint.”

“What?” Ella said. “Nyree said your stew was awesome. I remember.”

“The white dishes,” Marko said. “Life’s too short for brown and white, apparently.”

“Well,” Nyree said, “color’s good, that’s all. Or at least contrast. People are afraid of it. They think they won’t know how to match. You don’t have to match. That’s the point. Do you mind if I put a regular table in here while you’re gone?”

“Let me guess,” he said. “TradeMe.”

“Possibly,” she said. “So much cheaper. You could give me the money for the Android World one you’d buy, though, if you’d rather. I can get the TradeMe table and set up my narcotics business, and you’ll never know the difference. Paying retail for furniture is mad.”

“If Ella’s going to be pregnant with twins,” he said, “I reckon you’d better find us a table and some chairs. Otherwise, she’s going to sit on the floor at some point and not be able to get up again. If I’m not here to haul her to her feet, you could be calling the ambos.”

“Ha, ha,” Ella said, gnawing at her own chop. “You’re supposed to be being supportive, Marko. Except that it’s true. Caro and I were looking at some websites about twin pregnancy, and your belly gets freaking enormous. I’ll be like St. Heliers School’s very own cautionary tale. And I mean next month. Maybe I could go around with them when they’re showing how condoms work. They could give me a couple of free extra-extra-large uniform blouses for doing it. Ha. Joke.”

“How’s that been, then?” Marko asked. “School?” Nyree had to admire how casually he brought it up, seeing that Ella hadn’t said a word about it before now.

Ella shrugged. “Oh, you know. A bit embarrassing. I’ve had two Year 13 girls joining me for lunch every day like they’re protecting me from being ostracized or something. Obviously sent by the head, since one of them’s Head Girl, which isn’t humiliating much at all. There I was the first day, minding my own business and doing my Maths homework, when they sat down and started to chat like it was their job. They keep doing it, too. I’m like, I’ll just focus on these quadratic equations, OK? Then there’s the P.E. teacher checking in like she’s envisioning me fainting dramatically during netball. That’s not embarrassing, either.”

“Ugh,” Nyree said. “When I was in school, I just wanted nobody to notice me.”

“Exactly,” Ella said, sitting up straighter. “At my school before, I knew everybody for yonks, since kindy, mostly, and I was just me. And here I’m like… new. And pregnant. Like…” She threw both hands in the air and made a noise like a bomb exploding.

Nyree was laughing. “I shouldn’t. I know it’s awful. But I started a new school myself when I was fourteen. I wasn’t pregnant, but I’d probably have thought that would be better, that at least I’d be interesting. I either wanted to be interesting, or anonymous. Depending on the day.”

“Really?” Ella said. “But you’re pretty.”

“Ha,” Nyree said. “Not so much. Especially when everybody seemed to be blonde and tall and I was Maori and short and—well, yeh, pretty chubby. Unibrow. Hair. Spectacles. Braces. Et cetera.” Ella made a face, and Nyree was laughing some more. “Oh, it was terrible. I’ll show you photos sometime. I saw that film Carrie and thought, that’s going to be me. That’ll be my documentary. I’m going to get asked to the dance by the cute boy as a cruel prank and have pig blood dropped on me in front of the whole school, then drown in a pit of shame. OverEmoters Anonymous, eh.”

Ella said, “You’re joking. Really? Pig blood?”

“You never saw it? We’re going to have to find it and watch it. It’s awesome. At the end… but I’m not going to tell you. Best girl revenge film ever, though, that’s all.”

“Mean Girls,” Ella said.

“Better than Mean Girls. I promise.” Nyree looked at Marko’s face and had to laugh some more. “We’ll do it while you’re gone, Marko, no worries. But I promise, Ella, when it’s over, you’ll be able to say, ‘As long as there’s no pig blood, I can do this.’ Or, alternatively, you’ll imagine the ending. Immensely satisfying. If all else fails, Marko can pop by and give them the stare that melts steel.”

“I could,” Marko said. “And I would. Say the word.”

Tuesday morning on the way to the airport, and Marko was telling Nyree, who was wearing a clingy tie-dyed T-shirt that he was having trouble not staring at, “You’re being surprisingly restrained. I’m not even gripping my armrest. You’re not fooling me, though. You’ll drop me at that curb, and it’ll be Formula One all the way home.”

“They have speed cameras on this stretch of motorway,” she said. “If you’d done that background check like you should have, you’d know how I know that. You’d know that I’ve never had an accident, too. You could’ve enjoyed being horrified and then being reassured. Like riding the roller coaster, eh.”

“What d’you think I am, an accountant? Could be I have enough excitement in my life. Or could be that I don’t, but this isn’t the kind I need.”

“Fortunate, then,” she said sweetly, “that I’m being so careful with your new car. Though you could hardly blame me. Why do you think they named it like they did? It’s not a Ford Stay-In-Your-Lane, it’s a Ford Escape. And if you didn’t want me to test it, maybe you shouldn’t have got the one with the turbocharged V-6. Just asking for trouble, weren’t you.”

He should be frowning at her. He couldn’t quite manage it. If only she weren’t so bloody cute. And if only her body didn’t always seem to be reeling him in. Which was pointless, seeing as she didn’t want him. And seeing as she wasn’t his type anyway.

He could like her. He didn’t have to think of her when he was alone at night. For now, he could keep it light. Flirtation-free. “I’ve gathered that, no worries. I’m only leaving it with you because I value yours and Ella’s safety. Five-star crash rating on this thing. It could also be because otherwise, you’ll be putting that TradeMe table on the roof of your Beetle. And the chairs hanging out the windows.”

“I told you. No accidents. And how do you know I don’t have a mate with a trailer?”

“Because if you did, you’d have used it when you moved in. Which was—oh, yeh. A couple weeks ago.”

“I can’t make a mate in two weeks? Ever met Colin Murray?” At his blank look, she said, “Ha. I knew it. You should get to know your neighbors. Colin’s going to help me put a trailer hitch on the Beetle, too, so I don’t have to use your beautiful car in future. Isn’t that lucky?”

She gunned that turbocharged V-6 to shoot past the airport bus lumbering along in the left lane, then headed for International Departures in front of it, and Marko said, “Next time some journo asks me whether I worry about the dangers of rugby, I’ll explain comparative risk. Some people would slow down and let the bus go first. And who the hell is Colin Murray that he’s offering you his trailer?”

“I told you. Some people are dull.” She braked hard, swung in to the curb in front of Air New Zealand, and stopped with enough force to test his shoulder harness.

He should be getting out of the car. He wasn’t doing it. He’d told her a few nights earlier that he didn’t walk on a red light, but at this moment? Taking that walk was all he wanted to do. His body was forgetting again that she wasn’t his type, and his mind was following along. And she looked at his face and smiled. Sweetly. “Eighty-two last birthday. We bonded over the creation of Ella’s new desk. Very sound on the subject of varnishes, Colin. And you’re much too easy to tease. What are you going to do when those Reds boys start in with the sledging on Saturday night? Queenslanders aren’t known for holding back their unflattering opinions.”

“I’m going to hit them hard,” he said. “I love my job.”

She gave him that husky, sweet bedroom laugh. It sounded good. “I’ll be watching for that.”

“You’re going to watch me, then?”

“Somehow,” she said, “I just can’t help it.” She wasn’t doing as well with her teasing. He held her gaze a long moment, and he could swear she wasn’t breathing steadily. Of course, he couldn’t swear he was, either.

“Good to know,” he finally said. “I’ll try to make it worth your while.” He wanted to say more, but like it or not, he needed to get out of this car and go meet his team. Plus—red light. Instead, he said, “Let me know when you need more money in the account. And text me after Ella’s OB appointment. And one more thing. I know she said she’d wait to check out parents until after the next scan, but if she doesn’t, don’t let her go meet them without me. Somebody needs to ask the tough questions, the ones they don’t want to answer. That’s going to be me. I don’t want her having regrets later.”

“Marko. That’s…” Her expression had changed. Now, she reached out, put a hand on the side of his face, and said, “I know I tease you too much, but I’m not teasing now. You’re a good cousin. You do know that. A good man.”

It took him a moment. He put a hand over hers where it lay against his cheek and said, knowing the words were coming out hoarse and not able to help it, “Not so good. Not always. And Ella’s not going to be in my house forever.”

“No. She’s not. And you’re doing that…” He saw her swallow, and wanted his lips at her throat. If he kissed her just right, in that perfect spot on the side of her neck, she’d arch her back for him. She might even moan. He wanted to find out. “. . . that thing with your eyes again,” she finished.

He blinked. “Pardon?”

Her smile trembled around the edges. “The stare that could melt steel. I shouldn’t kiss Colin while you’re gone, is that what you’re telling me?”

“That would be it.” He answered automatically, because he wasn’t paying attention. Because he was being lured beneath the waves like the most hapless sailor there ever was.

A siren song, they called it. The pull of a woman whose voice called to yours, whose hands belonged on your body the same way yours belonged on hers. Like it or not. Resist it or not.

“Maybe,” she said, “you could be a wee bit careful yourself. In the pub, say, after the match, when the blondes and the beers come out. Maybe so.”

“Would that make you happy?”

She smiled, slow and sweet, and she wasn’t taking her hand away. “Oh, yeh,” she said. “It would. Could be a sacrifice, though.”

“Or,” he said, “it could be easy. You never know.” He took her hand from his cheek, pressed his lips to her warm palm, felt the current run between them, and knew she felt it, too. That song was playing in her head the same way it was playing in his. It had to be. He couldn’t be the only one. “I may not know what color you are,” he told her, falling into those mermaid eyes and happy to go, “but I know it’s beautiful.”

A car behind them hooted, Nyree jumped and pulled her hand back, and Marko swore inside and said, “They can wait.”

“I’d better go. But I’ll text you your Ella reports.” She was moving on, and he wanted to throttle that bloke behind him. And then she smiled, a bit of wobble to it again, and said, “If you text me your card of the day.”

He knew his mum would be more than happy to send Nyree her very own card of the day, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t want his mum texting her. He was a DIY type of fella at the best of times, and with Nyree? He could definitely do it himself.

Do not, Nyree told herself on the ride home. Don’t you dare.

Small chance of that working. Her hand still tingled. She’d swear her heart was being pulled away from her and onto that plane, as if he’d stolen it when he’d looked into her eyes and kissed her palm.

Face it. Her heart always spoke louder than her head, and now? She couldn’t hear anything else over its beat, exactly as if Marko’s music had come to lodge inside her. Since her heart insisted on dominating the conversation, and this was her day off from Bevvy, and possibly because she’d had some trouble sleeping since that kiss on the deck, she changed into her workout clothes and did the same run she’d done that first day, through Dingle Dell and up to Achilles Point. She even ran down the stairs to the beach this time, after which she took a photo from the bottom and texted it to Marko.

Recognize these? she asked him. I can’t promise I’ll run them. But I’ll ambulate up them somehow. I may even try a few pressups at the top. Depends if anybody’s looking.

She wasn’t expecting an answer. Really. And she didn’t get one. Not for hours. She was checking her work on the trailer hitch, in fact, when her phone dinged, and she was pulling it out of her pocket even as she told herself that she was busy.

Three words.

I’d be looking.

She hesitated, and then her thumbs were flying.

I did do them. Only bcs nobody was up there. I’m not as impressive as you. I know the point is exercise, not looking good blah blah. Don’t care.

I’m guessing you looked good, he texted straight back. And if you think that wasn’t why I was doing them, I’m even more rubbish at this than I thought.

Maybe you are, she answered. It didn’t work, remember?

I know. Bugger. That’s why I haven’t done them for you since. Working on my subtle moves instead. Bus at hotel though. How’s my mate Colin?

She laughed out loud, then texted, Madly in love.

Tell him to back off.

She stood there in the street and tried to haul some air back into her lungs. Beside her, Colin said, “Talking to the fella, eh.”

She jumped. She’d forgotten he was there. “Oh, no. Silly, that’s all.” She shoved the phone back into her pocket.

“Yeh, right,” he said. “Young people, eh. Always thinking they’ve invented some new step. There aren’t any new steps. It’s always the same dance.” His blue eyes were full of amusement. “Never mind, though. It’s still the best one there is.”

Twelve days later, the front of the Air New Zealand Dreamliner was early-Sunday-morning-after-late-Saturday-night subdued, and Marko’s body was sore and battered in the same old familiar way as always. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that the three hours from Sydney had never lasted so long.

He’d typed his final text a couple hours earlier from the comfort of the Koru Lounge, surrounded by big, tired bodies, male energy, and the comfort of the well-trodden path.

Can’t do anything about it, he’d written. That’s how the cards fall.

There, he’d thought. That sounded casual, like you weren’t hanging out there all alone with everything on the line. But then he’d pasted in his mum’s message and read it over again. For possibly the fifth time. Or so.

The Two of Cups. So many Cups this week. I can’t remember that ever happening with you before. All those fertility and sensuality and heart chakra cards could be about Ella, and some of them probably are. But I think they could mean something more. You can’t see the message any more strongly than you do in this one. It’s about letting yourself feel every moment, even the hard ones, even the scary ones. Even the ones that aren’t about discipline and progress. There’s more than one way for a person to move forward, and more than one kind of obstacle. How can you touch another soul when you’re shielding your own? I know how hard it is to take that leap. But remember this, baby. There’s more than one kind of courage, too. They’ll never hear the words you never say. They’ll never cherish the things you never do.

He’d hesitated with his thumb over the Delete key. He’d shared every card so far, even the embarrassing ones. Because Nyree had asked him to, and because he’d wanted to see what she sent back to him. She’d answered every time, and she always made him smile. A little flirty, a whole lot saucy, and all the way warm. But none of them had been like this one.

He could forget to send it. He had every excuse, including a few stitches in his earlobe and a deep thigh bruise that was giving him trouble. Or he could go ahead and move this conversation to where it needed to go without any cards or anything or anybody else in the wide world. He didn’t need his mum to tell him so. Everything in him was shouting it. No reason to share something this… personal.

Harden up, boy.

He pressed Send. Then he followed Koti’s jaunty back onto the plane, deposited himself in his Business Select seat, chose the orange juice instead of the champagne from the tray, put on his headphones, and pretended he wasn’t imagining her response.

The chime of the text woke Nyree. She groaned, reached a hand out for her phone, patted around a few times but couldn’t find it, fell back into sleep again, and dreamed of a sea of darkness, infinite and impenetrable.

She saw a sprinkle of lights appear in the darkness, followed by another and yet another, as if the stars had been thrown across the night sky, a handful at a time, until the black bowl was ablaze. She saw Tane, the youngest son, dressing Ranginui, the Sky Father, in a cloak of starlight, then adorning him with the brighter light of the moon, and finally, placing the sun on his breast.

She dreamed of that first-ever sunrise making Ranginui’s cloak glow pink and gold around the edges. She saw it fading and turning to blue, and then the mists rising from the primeval forest. The sighs of Papatunanuku, the Earth Mother, as she longed for the husband from whom she’d just been parted. She dreamed of the morning light softened by Ranginui’s gentle tears, falling to Earth to bless his wife, letting her know that he would be hers forever, even though he could never touch her again. Of the two of them nurturing their children, and the children of the earth, forevermore.

She dreamed of love undying, forgiveness unlimited, and a soul-deep connection that neither time nor distance could sever. She dreamed of the deepest blue, the brightest silver and gold, the palest pink, and the most vibrant green. And, always, the arrays of blues and greens and purples that made up the sky and the ever-changing sea.

She dreamed of color. She dreamed of life, of the web that had been woven, strand by strand and season by season, since the dawn of time, connecting all of Earth’s creations one to the other and back again, giving each its place in the world.

She woke with sobs ripping from her chest, tears soaking into her pillow, and an ache so deep, nothing physical could satisfy it. She rose onto all fours, arching her back and then extending it long, letting the pain and the joy of the dream, of the world, linger. She let them fill her, and then she let them go.

Afterwards, she sat cross-legged on her mattress in the nightdress she’d pulled on at four o’clock this morning, when she’d finally succumbed to exhaustion after a late shift at Bevvy, then a canvas that couldn’t be resisted. After she’d stumbled into the shower and out again, shivering with the fatigue and cold that came from using every bit of your mental energy. A bare four or five hours after she’d pulled on that nightdress, she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, then closed them again and let the colors wash across her inner vision.

Finally, she opened her eyes and looked, half-fearfully and half-exultantly, at her canvas. And sighed.

It was there. Wrong or right, bad or good, it was there. The idea had grown in her head and her heart, had flowed through her fingers and her brush onto the canvas. Halfway finished, and the rest of it ready to come. Something about connection, about being in the right place with the right people. Something about the right colors and the right feelings and the right time. Something about Ella’s courage and Marko’s funny, sweet, half-gruff texts, and something about Marko coming home. Something about her heart settling here and opening wide. Something she couldn’t resist, and didn’t want to anymore.

She didn’t bother with a dressing gown. She couldn’t remember where it was anyway. A quick stop in the bathroom, a brush of her teeth, and a trip downstairs for a cup of tea, and that was all. Ella looked up from the stove, where she was cooking an enormous panful of eggs and vegetables, and said, “Hey. Want some?”

“Nah,” Nyree said. “Thanks. All right?”

Ella smiled. “Nyree. Do you even see me?”

“Oh.” Nyree blinked. “Right. Looking. Yes. Now I do.”

Ella dumped her eggs onto a plate and started buttering toast. “No worries. Go back to work. I’m all good.”

Nyree walked back upstairs thinking about the floor. If she painted in a carpet, an Oriental one, all crimson and gold… Then she walked into her orange room, made a pretense of straightening the blankets and pillows on her mattress, looked at her painting again, and set her mug down on the coffee table.

And went back to work.

Marko hadn’t meant for his lift home to be Tom Koru-Mansworth, but that was what he got. On the upside, it meant that neither of them had to wait through the baby- and partner-kissing in the International Arrivals hall before they left.

He’d told Nyree not to come, and she hadn’t. Which was fine. He had a lift, and anyway, partners and babies were for after rugby. That had always been the plan. Focus was everything. Distraction put you on the bench.

It had been hot in Brisbane, rainy in Sydney. In Auckland, the white clouds were being pushed across the blue sky by a fresh wind, and when the car climbed the crest of St. Heliers Bay Road and headed down the other side, the sailboats were out in force in the harbour. Moving in a stately queue that looked serene from a distance, but masked the frenetic activity of a regatta in progress. The same way the best of the best played footy. Like ducks. Calm and controlled on the surface, and paddling like mad underneath.

Tom, who’d been as silent as Marko on the drive, said, “Better than Aussie, eh. Not Northland, but not bad.”

Marko said, “Yeh,” and that was all, and Tom shut up. But when he pulled into Marko’s driveway and Marko had grabbed his duffel from the back seat, he didn’t drive off again. Maybe because Ella was coming down the stone stairs from the front door.

“Bugger me,” Tom said under his breath, and Marko had to agree. And by the time Ella had made it to the bottom of the steps, Tom was out of the car.

“Hi,” she said, shoving her blonde hair over her shoulder and smiling. Nervously, maybe. Raspberry-pink top clinging to a firm, full swell of belly, short gray knit skirt, and long, tanned limbs. Not looking quite so young anymore. “Oh—well done last night. Awesome try, Tom.”

“Not my try,” he said.

“No,” she said, “you were just the one who sidestepped and made that linebreak, then offloaded in the tackle so the other fella could get in. Hardly anything at all.”

“Aw, well,” he said, in that way a man did when he was thrilled she’d noticed but was trying to hide it, “that’s rugby, eh. And maybe coming off the bench to replace Koti. Got to lift a bit for that. Big boots to fill and all.”

They looked at each other, then Ella looked down and Tom didn’t, and Marko thought, You have to be joking.

At last, Tom said, “New school going all right, then? You’re looking fit.”

Ella poked a rueful forefinger into her belly, which couldn’t have grown that much in two weeks. Except that it had. “Looking huge, you mean. Twins, did Marko tell you?”

“Really?” Tom said. “Awesome. Nah, he didn’t say.” Which was because it had been nobody else’s business. Obviously.

“Yeh,” she said. “Identical, which is cool. They couldn’t tell yet if they’re girls or boys, though. Not that it matters, I guess, since they’re not exactly mine. I mean, I’m trying to have them not be. I’m trying to make it like I’m just… carrying them. Carefully, you know. For somebody else.”

She fell silent again, and Marko thought, I need to talk to her about that. And wished he knew how to approach it. And after he’d approached it, what the hell he was supposed to say. For now, he said, “Come inside and have a cup of tea if you like, Kors.” Otherwise, they could be standing out here forever. What was he meant to do here? And where was Nyree? He wasn’t going to think about that text. He’d sent it. His choice. His consequences.

“I was on my way to New World,” Ella said, lifting a couple empty carrier bags. “Catching the bus, eh.”

“I can give you a lift,” Tom said. “We could go for ice cream after. Have you been to Mövenpick in Mission Bay?”

“Seriously?” A smile bloomed on her pretty face. Her very pretty face, at this moment. Dark eyes, smooth skin, high cheekbones, and a glow to her as if she were lit from within. “That’s, like, the most thing I want. Strawberry and chocolate. D’you know if they have strawberry?”

“Dunno,” Tom said. “But you can’t mix those, surely. You have to mix chocolate with caramel or something. Espresso. Vanilla. Like that.”

“Fruit totally goes with chocolate,” Ella said. “Like on cooking shows, how they put raspberries on chocolate torte, or cherry filling. I know, because I’ve been watching them. I’m hungry even when I’m eating.”

“It doesn’t go,” Tom said. “Not at all. That’s horrible. But you can have it anyway. I just won’t look.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’m going to get three scoops, though. Maybe peach as well. Chocolate and peach.” Tom made a pained noise, and she laughed, looking like the most alive thing there ever was. Looking… ripe.

Wait, Marko thought. Wait just a bloody minute. He said, “Give us a sec, Ella,” and asked Kors, “Can I have a word, mate?”

Ella said, “What? Marko…” but he wasn’t listening. He headed over toward Kors’s car, and when he got there, he turned and said, “She’s sixteen. And she’s my cousin.”

If he’d been thinking that Kors would back off, he’d been wrong. “Yeh, mate,” Kors said. “I see all that. And I see that she’s doing something pretty hard just now, too.”

“So this is, what?” Marko asked. “Your good deed?”

The brown eyes didn’t shift under his glare. “No. It’s because I like everything about her. And, yeh, that includes that she’s pretty.”

“And too young for you.”

“More than two years younger,” Kors said. “Seventeen in June, and that’s too young. I’ve noticed everything else that wouldn’t work about it, too. Pretty bloody obvious. And I like her anyway. So we’re going to New World, and we’re getting an ice cream and taking a walk on the beach and having a chat about her school and Aussie and maybe even the match, if she wants to, and then I’m bringing her home. If you’ve got a problem with that, it’s your problem, not mine.”

Did Ella stay where she was and let Marko do his meager semi-parental best? She did not. She’d come to join them. “Are you, like, warning him?” she asked Marko. “Could you be more embarrassing? Look at me. I’m already pregnant. With twins. What else do you imagine could happen? Who’s going to be making a move on me anyway, unless he has some weird fetish? And I’ve already learned that blokes don’t necessarily stick around, by the way, so you don’t need to have a talk with me about that, either. I can take care of myself, no worries.”

“You don’t have to take care of yourself,” Marko said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Kors said, “Mate. Message received.” Marko stared at him some more, and Kors didn’t say anything else, just stared straight back.

“Fine,” Marko finally said. “New World. Ice cream. Walk. Home.”

What the hell, though? Was this OK, or was it not? He wasn’t used to being unsure about things. He wasn’t enjoying it. He needed to talk to Nyree.

Who hadn’t answered his text.

When he finally got into the house, he didn’t manage to get rid of his shoes straight away. That was because Cat was on her Cat Gym.

“Look at you,” he said. “Got bigger, eh. Got brave as well.”

She hadn’t climbed far. She was only on the first platform, not even half a meter from the floor. But she was bigger than a tennis ball at last, even louder than before, and just as determined. Now, she gave her funny little cry, bunched herself up, and launched herself at him.

He caught her in the air with one hand and said, “You need to stop doing that. Only nine lives, eh.” In answer, she climbed his jacket, sat on his shoulder, and started to purr.

He got his shoes and socks off, then put her back on her platform, stroked her fuzzy gray body a few times, which made her arch her back with pleasure, shrugged off his warmup jacket, said, “Good to be loved, I guess,” and headed upstairs with his bags.

Nyree’s car was there, but she wasn’t. She’d known when he was coming home, and she hadn’t cared.

Fine. Back to shielding his soul. He knew how.

He smelled the paint halfway up and started moving faster. When he got to the top, he saw the half-open door down the passage, and he heard the music.

And now? The shields were down.

Flamenco guitar. Energy and passion, with that sensual edge driving the melody. The violin joining in, weaving around the steadying notes of the guitar like a beautiful woman dancing around her man, seductive and sure, beckoning him on. The music of his grandfather and his father. The music that lived in his bones and heated his blood.

He stood in the half-open doorway, and there she was. In the room that had been bare and white, before Nyree. Now, the terra cotta walls belonged in a house in Spain with jasmine climbing to the windows. Her bed was a rumpled invitation in blue velvet and orange silk, and on every wall, unframed canvases all but exploded into the space.

Flowers and fruit, that was all. It was enough. Blue flowers in a ceramic pitcher on a rough wooden table, in front of a gold silk scarf pinned to the wall. How he knew it was silk, he couldn’t have said, but he did. Red flowers in a basket on a checkered tablecloth. That was nice. Purple flowers in a white vase beside glass jugs and bowls of peaches in front of a window, looking out onto a garden. And more, too, all of it bursting with color and texture and femininity and… abandon. Delicate strokes, strong result. Absolutely nothing like the picture of the dachshund. And Marko realized he hadn’t understood anything at all about her, because he’d never seen her driving force.

Nyree. Standing in front of a huge canvas that was twice as large as the flower paintings, in the corner of the room. She was right there, but she didn’t see him.

She wasn’t looking at the painting. She was frowning at her phone, those straight dark eyebrows drawn together in fierce concentration. Wearing the ice-blue nightdress he’d last seen on a hook on her garage wall. Thin blue ribbons over her pale shoulders, silken fabric dropping into the valley between her full breasts, skimming her hips, covering not much at all of her thighs, and ending in a delicate edging of lace. Dark hair falling around a square little face set in lines of concentration. And the music playing on, every note falling into him like molten wax, liquid and warm.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. She looked up anyway. Alerted by his scent, maybe, or his color, or the feel of him. He knew when she became aware of him, and he watched her changeling’s eyes widen.

No makeup. No games. Just Nyree.

The guitar played on, a driving force, with a subtle clapping of castanets adding a rhythmic accompaniment, making her need to move. The screen in her hand nearly pulsed with the words.

I know it’s hard to take that leap. But there’s more than one kind of courage, too.

That’s how the cards fall.

Marko was gripping his duffel in one of those big hands, his enormous frame filling up too much space, his dark-red presence taking up too much air. At least, she couldn’t breathe.

In a different reality, the woman she’d never be was saying, I need to talk to you. Clearing the air, talking about options, about honesty, about Ella. The woman she was, though, had thrown away her parachute. She was leaping over a cliff into the dark, falling free through that star-spattered night sky, down and down through all the colors of the Aurora Australis. Pink and red, green and purple, glowing rich, pulsing warm, lighting up the cold dark.

Marko dropped his bag with his jacket, and then his backpack. First one hand opening, then the other, and the whoomp as everything hit the floor in the silence between songs. And then a new piece starting up over the speaker. Wild and free and passionate. Flamenco.

It wasn’t some other reality. It was this one.

She didn’t know who took the first step. All she knew was, he was closer, and then he was there, and her hand was at the back of his neck, pulling his head down. His arm was around her, and she wasn’t on solid ground anymore. He’d lifted her straight off her feet, and his mouth was covering hers.

He wasn’t rough. He didn’t bruise. But he held her like he couldn’t let her go, and he kissed her like he needed to do it. His lips moved over hers, her mouth opened, the kiss got deeper, and the pleasure curled like smoke low in her belly. Or maybe that was the iron-hard arms around her or the big hand beneath her, lifting her up to him. It could be the fingers of his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. It could be the whole package. It could be Marko.

When he finally let her mouth go, she wanted him back. But then he kissed his way across her cheek, his mouth as gentle as it was insistent, and buried his face in her neck. When he started kissing her there, not quite so gently, she may have changed her mind, because that was… good.

She heard a sound through the buzzing in her brain, and realized it was coming from her. That Marko’s lips and teeth were sending electric pulses straight to her core, and that she was whimpering. His red was enveloping her, sucking her down into the fire.

She needed more. She needed him. Her hand was under his T-shirt, and his skin burned hot, the muscles bunching under her palm.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and then he was dropping with her, his hand behind her head, cushioning it as he followed her down onto the mattress. He had a hand on her thigh, was shoving her nightdress up, and she needed him to get there. Right now.

He didn’t receive her signal, apparently, because his hand stopped, and he dropped to one elbow and kissed her mouth again. And this time? Being kissed that deeply, with his big body over hers, took her breath away.

“Touch me,” she said when his lips were finally moving down her throat and she was tugging his shirt up his body, because she needed her hands on his skin. His hand still wasn’t any farther up her thigh, though, and she needed it to be. If she had to direct traffic, that’s what she’d do. “Come on.”

He stilled for a moment, and then he was on one elbow again. “In a hurry, eh,” he said, the fingers of one leisurely hand pushing the ribbon strap of her nightdress slowly off her shoulder before he bent to trace its path with his tongue and made her eyes open wide. “Could be I’m going to disappoint you,” he whispered into her ear, then put his tongue there, making her shiver some more. “Because I’m not planning to hurry. Patience is a thing. Seems you need some help with that.”

His hand was drifting down her arm, circling her wrist, and pulling it up and over her head as he kept kissing her neck, and she was burning up. “Ella,” she managed to say.

“Beach. Shh.”

She needed to talk to him first. But the music had slowed down, and so had Marko. He’d pulled both her hands over her head, and she wanted to touch him, but that felt so… The other strap of her nightdress had gone the way of the first, and he had a hand tracing around the edge of the bodice, dipping into her cleavage, and his mouth following it. And when he dragged the silk down beneath her breasts and finally put his talented mouth to work? She cried out with the pleasure of it.

“Mm,” he said, and then, instead of moving on like any other man would have done, he put in even more effort right where he was. Still gentle. Still slow. Unbearable. She didn’t want gentle and slow. She wanted hard and hot. She needed to tell him so. She…

His other hand was moving up her thigh again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand went straight to where she needed him, and she all but leaped off the bed.

“Ah.” He sighed. “That’s nice. That’s gorgeous, eh.” He was stroking, probing, playing, and still in no hurry at all.

She’d never been a patient person, and she wasn’t starting now. She got both hands under his T-shirt, pulled it up his torso, and got her hands all over him.

It was anatomy class. It was the best figure drawing session ever. Every muscle of his chest, his back, his arms was fully defined, revealing itself to her through her fingers. She felt him, she learned him, and she wanted more of him. But his hand. His mouth. He was traveling a glacially slow path south, pulling her nightdress down as he went, licking and kissing his way over everything he uncovered, and she took the opportunity to pull his T-shirt higher. But she couldn’t get it off.

“Give it to me,” she said.

“Sweetheart,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “I’m trying.”

She couldn’t laugh, not when he had her feeling like this. But she did anyway. “Your shirt. Oh. That’s… Wait. Oh. Do that again.” Her hips had started to rock under his hand, and then he was pulling her nightdress all the way down her legs and kissing his slow way back up her thighs, which made her need to open them up for him even more. That was… sneaky. “But take off… your clothes,” she managed to say. “I need a… turn.”

If there was a better feeling than a man smiling against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh… Then his mouth shifted again, and oh, yeh. That was a better feeling.

Now or never. She pulled herself out from under him, and he rolled to his side and glared at her. She wanted to laugh again, and she wanted to lie on her back and let him please her until she cried out loud. Until her hips were rocking, her head was banging against the mattress, and she’d lost her words and lost her mind. Instead, she pulled his T-shirt over his head, then shoved him onto his back and pulled off everything else.

If she’d ever wondered if she’d be disappointed, she wasn’t wondering anymore. And she wanted it. She knelt between his thighs, her hands on his chest, and started to kiss him, to feel all the hardness of him. This time, she was the one whose hand was wandering. And when it closed around him, he leaped into her like he’d been made just for her.

Oh, yeh.

He said, “If you’re going to put yourself on your knees for me…” Which sounded good, but did he lie back and give her a chance? He did not. He slid out from under her and shoved her shoulders gently down until she was on her hands and knees.

Wait a minute. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t get hold of this thing. She should…

He didn’t give her time to start. Instead, he kissed his way slowly down her spine while one hand spread her wide and started that exploring again. But this time, she couldn’t see him. Her excitement kicked up another notch, and she’d forgotten every single thing about what she should do. Her breath was coming hard, and she was rocking back into his hand.

He got to her bottom, had one palm running over it, and she was tingling just from that. And then he bit her there. Hard. At the same time, his other hand found the perfect spot. Unexpected almost-pain, a fierce rush of pleasure, and she was crying out. He rubbed the tender place on her bum with his hand. His other hand, because he was still working her over with the right one. He must be kneeling behind her, but she couldn’t see.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he said with a sigh. “Felt so good.”

She wasn’t talking anymore, because she couldn’t. She was too close. She said, “I… more. Do it more.”

His hand left her, and she tensed. But then he was lying face-up under her, and the next thing she felt was his hands pulling her down into his mouth. He had her hips in both hands, and he dove straight in and started to feast. She needed to rock, but his hands were so strong, all she could do was press herself into his mouth. That was… it was…

Helpless. Invaded. Over the top.

She was going to come, and he didn’t want her to. Not yet.

When he let go of her hips and slid back out from under her, she stayed where she was for a moment. Her whole body shaking, her hair hanging down over her face.

“Wh-what?” she said. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t.”

He gave her a slap on the bum, because it felt so good to do it and because he could. She jumped, and he kissed her again, right there on that delicious curve, because he could do that, too, rubbed his hand over all her wonderful roundness, gave her a couple more lazy strokes over and around all that warm, wet pink to keep her going, and said, “Hang on. I’m coming back.”

“Wh-what?” She turned over and got on her elbows, which was good, because she had some of the prettiest breasts he’d ever seen, and he wanted to kiss them and hold them again, but it was sad, too.

He needed a mirror. He wanted to watch every bit of her, and every bit of what he was going to do to her. He was a greedy bastard. He wanted it all, and he wanted it now.

“Oh. Condom,” she said, still sounding deliciously shaky, and looking that way, too. “And you spanked me. You bit me. I should hate that.”

He pushed her down by the shoulders, levered himself over her, and indulged himself by kissing her wonderful mouth some more. Deeper than ever this time, his tongue exploring, letting her taste herself on him. She had her hands around his head, pulling him into her harder, so it was working for her, too.

He managed to leave her mouth at last and said, “No blondes, though, remember? Sad for me, of course, but there you are. Somebody told me she wouldn’t like it. Got a condom in my bedside table, though, waiting for you. And about that other thing—it didn’t feel to me like you hated it. I think you loved it. Made you wet as hell. Makes me wonder what else you’d love.”

Because he was over her, he could watch that shiver move all the way from her shoulders to her knees. If he pulled her thighs apart right now and talked a little dirtier, he could watch the next shiver go everywhere. He could make her come without even touching her. He knew it. But that wasn’t good enough.

“Then go get it,” she said. “I can’t wait anymore.”

He smiled. Bloody hell, but he loved her like this. “I’ve got an idea, though,” he said, threading his fingers through those dusky curls, something else he’d waited too long to do. “Going to make you wait for it until you can’t stand it anymore. Until it’s the best you’ve ever had.”

She rolled her eyes at him. Yes, she did. He was as turned on as he’d been in his life, she was naked beneath him, all the ivory and pink and gorgeous brown of her, and she was waiting for him to come back and do it hard. Do it right. And still, she rolled her eyes.

“You think I can’t,” he said. “That just makes me want to do it more.”

“Then come on, boy. Get started.” She took hold of him again, levered herself up on one palm, and gave him a long, slow lick that made him stop smiling.

“I’ve… started,” he managed to say. “You’re not helping me keep my focus here.”

“Could be,” she murmured from down where he needed her, “that I don’t want your focus. Could be I want you wild.”

“Could be,” he said, “that I’m going to give you exactly what you want.” And then he went and got the condom.

He wasn’t seventeen anymore. Everything was better when you had to wait for it. And making her wait? That would be nothing but wonderful.

Did she have some time to think about the inadvisability of proceeding at this particular time, without a certain conversation? Not to mention a few other conversations, like the one about boundaries? She did. Did she make any move whatsoever to have those conversations? She did not.

Her body was aching for him in a way she’d never felt. If it got any worse, she was going to… well, it was going to be unbearable, that was all. She needed his mouth on her, or she needed him inside her. One or the other. And anything else he might want to do, too. She needed it now.

Just as she thought it, he came back. With a fist full of supplies, and having lost absolutely none of his… appeal.

She sighed in a purely aesthetic way this time. Well, almost. “You’re beautiful,” she told him. Shoulders. Chest. Those incredible arms. Abs. Thighs. And absolutely everything else. He looked like a sculpture of a Greek discus thrower. Like he was cast in bronze, bigger than life size. “I need to touch you. Over and over.”

“Not this time,” he said. “Turn over and get on your knees. Head down on the mattress. Arms over your head.”

He didn’t look gentle now. He looked hard. Tough. Nearly ferocious.

Whoa. She should so not do this.

She did it anyway. That look of his? It was getting her there all by itself. And just moving into that position, feeling his palm come out to rub her bottom, then dive between her legs, was making her tingle and shift and moan. He took his hand away, and she heard the rustle of foil packaging. Part of her thought, Wait. No. I need to come first. I need to come NOW, while the other part thought, Oh, yeh. Take me by surprise. The helplessness of it… she was squirming already.

“If you don’t want something I do to you,” he said, “say so.” And she thought, What? But then he slid inside her, she felt his entry all the way up her body, and she may have moaned. And when he switched the tiny vibrator on, touched it to her, and started to move it in big, lazy circles that made her bones melt? She felt it more than that. He gave her one slow, hard thrust, then another, and she was almost there already.

He dropped the vibrator, and she cried out in protest.

Slap. It had come without warning, a stinging strike on the flesh of her hip that surprised more than it hurt, and she cried out again.

Slap.

Oh, my God. He was spanking her. And she was going to come.

He was rubbing her skin, taking the sting away, moving in her so slowly, then touching her with the vibrator again, picking up the pace. She started moving with him, but the second she started to call out, he took the vibrator away and stopped the deep, hard thrusts. The ones that had been filling her better than she’d ever been filled in her life. Didn’t he know she needed that?

He spanked her again. Three swats this time. They were getting harder, and she was jumping.

“Be quiet,” he said, his voice thrillingly rough, “and you won’t get spanked.”

He started everything up again, and she had to moan. Which meant that all that wonderful friction stopped, and that he was going to spank her again. She tensed for it, and he did it. The sequence, over and over, and she was going up faster every time, knowing he wouldn’t let her get all the way there and not knowing exactly what was coming next. One swat, or two, or three. Keeping her on edge.

She was tingling. She was burning. She was on fire in the very best way, and pretty soon, she was sobbing out her frustration and her need.

Little by little. Higher and higher. Impossible pleasure, and the sweetest almost-pain, just this side of the line. She knew in some corner of her mind that he was being careful, keeping it good for her, driving her up slow and high, then interrupting the climb, all to make her release that much stronger, but she couldn’t think about that. Not now. She could only feel.

She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t stand it. She wanted him to stop. She couldn’t bear for him to stop.

She was begging now. Her cheek pressed to the mattress, her arms stretched out along it, her hands clutching at the velvet spread, and his hands all over her. Touching her between her breasts with the vibrator, then moving it on down. On her inner thighs, making her want to spread them farther apart for him. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it a second more, he set it to her, not quite touching the best spot, but making everything else light up, the concentric circles of desire start to narrow. Then he began to move faster inside her, like he’d finally got serious. Or like he needed to let her know that he was in charge of this, and that she was his.

He drove her into the mattress, her forearms sliding back and forth against the velvet, the friction delicious against her skin, inside her, on her. Everywhere. One palm planted by her head where she could see the size of it, and the tendons of his arm standing out like ropes.

He drove her mad. He made her wild. And when she was incoherent, when she was calling out, because nothing mattered except the orgasm she had to have… he stopped again, and she almost screamed.

“Do you want this?” he asked her.

She should have had some smart response. She just moaned.

“Do you need it?” he asked. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Please.” It was a moan. “Yes. I’m… yours. I’m yours. Please. Marko.”

She knew he was smiling. She knew he’d won, and she didn’t care. He plunged deep, then he kept going, and he kept up that buzzing pressure, too. Still just beneath that magic spot, like she was going to have to tighten up and work for it.

Nothing to do but hang on. Nothing to feel but this.

Too fierce. Too hard. Too much. Too far.

Wild.

She heard something. Somebody was trying to say words. It was her, and she couldn’t get them out. The waves were taking her over, pulling her down. Pulling her under, one after another, so she couldn’t get her breath. And over the music, over the throbbing guitar and the soaring violin… the sound of Marko swearing, long and low. Not in English, and not in Maori. An alien tongue she’d never heard in her life, full of consonants. Sounding as fierce and as rough as he felt driving into her, and she was gone.

Her forehead banged against the mattress, and then it did it again. And again. Over and over. She moaned. She called out.

And, finally, she screamed.

After what felt like approximately an hour, Marko discovered that he’d regained his breath. Also the power of speech.

“On the one hand,” he said, “that may not have been the… wisest set of decisions of my life. On the other hand…” He ran his hand down the hourglass that was Nyree’s wonderful bare back and slid it over her rounded hip, then gripped one of those luscious thighs. “You look so bloody good from behind. And I’d been waiting too long to see it. And making you give it up like that… ” He sighed. “Oh, yeh. Worth the wait.”

“Not so… protective, though, were you?” she asked, not sounding like she had much breath left to say it. One white arm flung over her head, one knee in the air, her body canted towards him in absolute abandon, and he wanted her again already. “Not so perfect.”

“Never said I was perfect.” He couldn’t have kept his hands off her if he’d tried, and he wasn’t trying. “But too bloody right I’m protective. If I hurt you, if you don’t like it—tell me to stop. I’ll stop.” He rolled on top of her and got her on her back again, propped himself on his elbows, and kissed her soft mouth, keeping it gentle this time, getting a hand on her breast and feeling the nipple pebble under his fingers, just that fast. “It’s only good if it works for you, too. If you don’t like it, say so. We’ll do it a different way.” He smiled into her eyes. “I’ve got more, no worries.”

She scowled at him, her inky-black eyebrows drawn together over her straight nose. “When did I say I didn’t like it?”

“Dunno.” He was still smiling, and he was kissing her again, too. “I’m going to take that as a green light. I do walk on a green light.”

She was still stretched out under him with her arm flung over her head, making no effort to look like anything but the receptor of anything he wanted to give her. She managed to sound severe all the same. “Boy, you do more than that. I’d say you run on a green light.”

He laughed, twisted a dark curl around his finger, tugged it the tiniest bit, and said, “Could be. Or you could say that you’ve frustrated me to breaking point. Been wanting my hands on you since the first day I saw you, and it’s only got worse.”

She heaved in a breath, and all of a sudden, her body wasn’t feeling relaxed beneath his anymore. “About that first day thing—you actually haven’t. I need to talk to you about that.”

Which was when the front door banged, Ella called out, “Oi! Nyree!” and he heard her feet on the wooden stairs, coming fast. And also when Nyree let out a gasp, rolled off the bed onto the floor, looked around wildly, and finally settled on slamming the door two seconds before Ella knocked on it.

He wanted to laugh. He didn’t, because for some reason, she was acting like her parents had just caught her in the back seat of his car. Which was a lovely little thought. Was there anything better than a woman sprawled across your back seat with her clothes coming off, piece by delicious piece? Oh, yeh. He could do that. A challenge, when you were as big as he was, but they could make it work. He could…

On the other side of the door, Ella said, “Oi. Nyree. There’s a huge fella outside. Says he needs to talk to you.”

“Uh… what?” said Nyree. “Who?”

“Can’t remember what he said,” Ella said. “He surprised me, and I forgot. Super Rugby somewhere, because I’ve seen him before. He says you didn’t tell him you moved. And that you won’t answer his texts, and what’s going on. Is Marko still around? I think he should come down.”

Marko was up. Finding his clothes and starting to pull them on. “I’m right here,” he informed Ella. “And no worries. I’m coming down.”

A lot of things happened at once.

Nyree hissed at him, “Wait. I mean it. Wait for me,” and told Ella through the door, “Tell him to wait.” Ella said, “OK, but hurry,” and Nyree threw open her closet and apparently grabbed the first item her hand touched, since it turned out to be a sleeveless red dress that was reasonable in the front, but laced all the way up the back from the low waist, allowing her creamy skin to show through. And Marko thought, I’m going to have to kill this bastard. That wasn’t a dress, or a body, that a man would walk away from without a fight, and Nyree wasn’t going to be the one doing the fighting. That was his job.

She shot a look at him he couldn’t interpret, then opened the door and headed down the stairs ahead of him. No undies, no bra, and her hair a curly, wild mass. And some beard burn and flush on her neck and chest that she hadn’t bothered to cover up. Like it didn’t matter, because she knew he’d be right behind her. At least he hoped that was the reason.

Out the front door, now. Ella was hovering on the steps, and the bloke was on the driveway talking to Kors, the two of them leaning up against the wall of the house like mates.

Bloody hell.

You could say that Marko knew him. You could also say that he’d spent a thousand hours or so in the scrum with his arm around the fella’s back, both of them wearing the black jersey, and had lifted him in the lineout to steal the ball from some Springbok or Wallaby or Scot more times than he could count. You could also say that the surge of red was rising in his chest, up to his throat, and choking him.

Jealousy. Protectiveness. Whatever. It all felt the same.

Nyree said, sounding very nearly cheerful, “Hi, Kane. How’d you find me?” As if this were going to be casual. Marko was pretty sure she was wrong. Kane Armstrong could look like a mild fella, especially at times like this, when he was wearing his spectacles. As mild as a six-foot-nine block of muscle could possibly look, anyway. But he wasn’t that way once the whistle blew, and he wasn’t going to be that way about Nyree.

Marko hadn’t thrown a punch, on or off the rugby field, since he’d sent Ella’s dad on his way for good at twenty-one. He knew his size, and he knew his strength. Now, though? He was going to need them both, because Kane was standing up to his full height, his eyebrows slamming down hard.

“Dantz atu nahi ez dana, ez doula dantz ara,” Marko told him, and possibly himself. “If you don’t want to dance, don’t go to a dance. Last chance to get off my driveway.”

“That meant to scare me, mate?” Kane asked. “I don’t think so.”

They stared at each other, and Kors had backed up and moved behind Marko. Up the stairs, Marko guessed, gone to stand with Ella. He couldn’t think about that now.

Nyree sighed, walked up to Kane, put her arms around his waist, and said, “Stop glaring at Marko and give me a cuddle.”

What. The. Bloody. Hell. Marko didn’t go in for the sharing plan. He sure as hell wasn’t doing it with Nyree. He didn’t think Kane was, either, from the look on his face.

He was right. Kane didn’t give her a cuddle. Instead, he asked her, his lips barely moving and his eyes not leaving Marko’s, “Why are you here?”

Nyree took a step back. “Because I live here. Why are you here? How did you find me? And how did you get here? Never tell me it was on the team bus.”

“Your friend, landlady, whoever, told me where you were, of course. And I borrowed a car from a mate. Also of course. You haven’t answered your mum’s texts, or mine, either, for days. Answer me. Why are you with him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Because he needed somebody to stay with his cousin while he was gone, maybe? Because I’m an adult who can make her own choices? Because I needed to paint? Because it was my best option, and it seemed like it would work out for everybody? Oh—Ella, this is Kane Armstrong. My stepbrother. Who thinks he’s in charge of my life.”

Marko said, “What?” just as Kane said, “That isn’t why you’re here. I have eyes. And I told you to ask me first.”

“And I told you,” Nyree said, crossing her arms under her breasts, which was going to show Kane that she didn’t have anything on under that dress, and that, yeh, that was beard burn—“that I’m an adult now.”

“Who’s sleeping with bloody Marko Sendoa!” Kane said, not sounding like an easygoing fella at all. “Who is not any kind of good bet. If you put him up on the TAB, he’d be forty to one, and you’re not the one. How much does he love my dad right now? More reason than one to take a woman to bed, and some of them aren’t very nice. Which you should know. No rugby players. I mean it. Especially not him.”

“Wait,” Marko said, stepping forward. He looked at Kane, and then he looked at Nyree. He looked at her hard. She met his gaze, but he could tell it was an effort.

“Oh, shit,” he said, as what you might call a montage of images flashed across his mind. Of a sunny terrace in Dunedin and a shy girl in specs. Of a lanky Kane warning him off. Of rugby matches and the coach’s family in the stands, and of laughter in the sheds. “You’re Grant Armstrong’s daughter.”

The dismay, first. How could he not have known, spectacles or no? Nyree was a common enough name for a Maori girl, and she’d changed, but how could he have forgotten her eyes, her voice? After that came the anger. That was coming in hot.

He kept his voice absolutely controlled. Absolutely level. It wasn’t easy. “We need to talk. Now.”

She said, “Kane—”

“Bugger Kane,” Marko said. “Inside. Now.”

“Wait just a bloody minute,” Kane said, stepping forward. “You don’t talk to her like that.”

Marko turned on him, and Kane didn’t step back. “I’m not going to hurt her,” Marko said, enunciating every word, fighting for that control. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“He’s going to yell at me,” Nyree said. “You probably don’t want to hear it, Kane.”

“Marko doesn’t yell,” Ella said from behind him.

Kors said, “That’s because he doesn’t have to,” and Marko wished everybody would quit giving their bloody opinion. And that Nyree would do what he said.

Which she did not. She crossed her arms again and said, “I was about to tell you. I had my mouth open to tell you. And before that? I had my reasons.”

“What reasons?” he asked. “What possible reason could you have not to tell me that your dad was my coach for thirteen years? You may not know what that means. Why don’t you let Kane tell you?”

“Let’s see,” she said. “Why didn’t I tell you? Oh, I know. How about this? ‘Coach’s daughter. Little Nyree. Would you bang?’”

This time, her eyes didn’t drop one bit. She stared at him like she was sure she’d scored a point. What point, though?

“You don’t even remember,” she said. “You listened to Angus Hamilton tell you all about it, all about me and how… awful I was, and you don’t remember? How many chats like that have you had? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Oh. He said, “Whoever told you about that didn’t tell you the rest of it.”

“Yeh, right,” she said. “Nobody told me. I heard you.”

“No,” he said, “you didn’t. If you had, you’d know that I told him to shut up. You’d know that the skipper and I—all the leadership group—shut that down fast. And why d’you think Josh Daniels didn’t come back? Because we told Grant we didn’t want him back.”

Nyree’s mouth was working, and all of a sudden, she sat straight down on the concrete of the driveway, put her elbows on her knees, and rested the heels of her palms on her forehead. She said, without looking up, “You told Grant about me. Oh, that’s just wonderful.”

“What?” Marko said. “No. Don’t be an idiot.”

She looked up at Kane. “But you knew.”

Marko was fairly sure Kane was deeply regretting his decision to come find her. Nyree didn’t let him off the hook, and finally, Kane said, “I heard, yeh. Later.”

“So…” Ella said. “What? Who’s this… Angus. Josh. Whoever?”

“Somebody Nyree, ah, had a thing with,” Kors told her. “When he was at the Highlanders. Coach’s daughter, when she was still a schoolgirl. Poor form. Didn’t realize that was you, though, Nyree.” He looked like he didn’t want to know it now, either.

“Oh, wonderful,” Nyree said. “That’s just brilliant. I’m a legend to people who were hardly born at the time. I’m so glad this has come out into the open, and in such a private way.”

“Marko told you to go inside,” Kane pointed out, and she glared at him and said, “Whose side are you on?”

“Right, but wait,” Ella said. “So you’re embarrassed, Nyree, because you hooked up with some player, and the other boys heard about it, and you’re the daughter of the coach. Really? The Highlanders coach isn’t Maori, I didn’t think, if it’s the same one as now. Ginger, isn’t he? And I thought you were from Northland.”

“Stepdaughter,” Nyree and Kane said together.

“OK, stepdaughter,” Ella said. “When you were my age. So what?”

“So,” Nyree said, “he had a girlfriend already. I was for… revenge. For using. Laughing at. And he told the whole…” Her voice shook. Her lips shook. “The whole team. All about it. And they laughed, too. I wasn’t pretty. I told you.”

“The pig blood,” Ella said.

Kane said, “What the hell? Nyree. I told you to tell me. I told you I’d take care of it. What pig blood?”

Nyree uttered an audible sigh. She didn’t have her forehead in her hands anymore, at least. “It’s a metaphor. There was no blood of pigs. Nobody has to take care of anything. It was ten years ago.”

“Which would be why,” Marko said, “you didn’t tell me who you were. Because it was ten years ago, and you didn’t care anymore.”

“Wait,” Ella said again. “Couldn’t you just say, like… eff them, or something? What do you care what they think? How much hooking up have they done?” She turned on Kors. “Like you. How much?”

“Wait,” he said. “What?” If he’d been a horse, he’d have been showing white all around his eyes.

“See,” Ella said, “you won’t even answer. It’s not…” She waved her arm. “Nineteen eighty or something. So what? It’s not like you slept with the whole team, Nyree. And even if you did—so what then, too? Maybe they have pig blood on them. Maybe Marko does.”

“Definitely,” Marko said, not sure if he was still furious, and if so, with whom. “Pig blood all over the shop.”

“I told you,” Kane said to Nyree. “Blondes.”

“Mate.” Marko gave him a stare that he hoped Kane wouldn’t have trouble interpreting. He remembered a few items from Kane’s past well enough. He’d settled down now, like most of them did, but before that? Pot calling the kettle black there.

Ella said, “So could we just stop imagining who’s slept with how many people? I’m pretty sure I’m the only one here who’s slept with only one, and I’m also the only one who’s pregnant. With twins,” she informed Kane, who looked impressed. “So I’m the one walking around in the pig blood, except I’m not, because that’s stupid, and I’m not going there. Also, Nyree, it’s after twelve-thirty, and Pookie’s wedding is at two, and you’re going to miss it.”

Nyree yelped, stood up with a major flash of thigh and breast, from which Marko hoped everybody was averting their eyes, and said, “Oh no. I forgot Pookie.”

“Who the hell,” Kane asked, “is Pookie?”

“Dachshund,” Marko informed him. “Portrait. Never mind. And why are you worrying about Pookie when you’re painting like that?” he asked Nyree. “Pookie’s rubbish.”

“Oh, yeh?” Her chin went up. “And rugby’s a boy’s game, and why’s a grown man spending his life playing it? Because he’s getting paid for it, that’s why.”

“No,” he said. “Because I love it.”

“Well, hooray for you,” she said. “I love painting, too. But so far, the only thing people will pay for is dogs. My other work is decorative. Nobody’s hanging decorative. So I’m painting dogs. And right now, I need to go get myself looking artistic so I can convince some more people with more money than taste that they don’t want another Neo-Expressionist piece, even though their neighbor just bought one and they know how much it cost, so it must be good even though they actually hate it. That what they’d really love is a painting of their overfed, nasty Chihuahua, who tried to bite the postie on the ankle last Christmas. And that is what I am going to do. If you need me,” she told Kane, “I’ll be in the shower. And next time, just ask.”

She stalked straight by Marko and up the stairs past Ella and Kors, yanked at the door, and bounced off it. She tried to punch in the code, yanked again, and swore, and Ella said, “Here,” and did it for her. Then Nyree flounced inside, and the last thing Marko saw was pale skin showing through red laces.

Not pig blood, no. Hot blood. Hers. And his.

“I took a girl to get ice cream,” Kors said into the silence. “Nek minnit…”

“I have a feeling,” Kane said slowly, “that I’m going to have to rethink this.” Then his eyes met Marko’s. “But what I said before still goes.”

“What did you say before?” Marko asked.

“Oh. Maybe I didn’t say it before. Anyway. That if you’re playing some game with her, you’ll answer to me.”

“Mate,” Marko said. “I wasn’t the one hiding.”

Everybody was still standing around with no look of leaving, so Marko gave an inward sigh and said, “Come in. Cup of tea.”

“Tom and I brought stuff for sandwiches,” Ella said. “And I’m starved.”

“Thought you went for ice cream,” Marko said. “Three scoops.”

“We did,” Ella said. “And now I’m starved again.”

“Fine,” Marko said. “Groceries. Sandwiches. And a cup of tea.” He told Kane, “If you’re going to report back on where Nyree’s living, I reckon you’d better see it.” He detoured to the bags of groceries in the boot of Kors’s car, then led the others inside.

“Her mum worries,” Kane said from behind him. Which may have been an apology.

“Got it,” Marko said.

Cat had apparently been waiting for him, because the second he was through the door, she was leaping down and trotting after him into the kitchen. Once he put the bags down, he picked her up. Otherwise, she was going to get stepped on, with six rugby-sized feet tramping around.

Kane said, “You have a kitten,” and Marko wondered when he’d mastered the art of stating the blindingly obvious.

“Yeh,” he said. “I have a kitten, your sister’s living with me, and I’m going to kick your arse on Saturday night.”

“You hope,” Kane said.

“No. I know.” Then he got a little distracted. “Wait. What happened in here?” To say his dining room didn’t look the same…

Nyree hadn’t painted the walls this time. That was because the walls were glass. She’d put down some kind of thick mats on the floor, though, and as for the rest of it… he was surprised, that’s all. It was nothing like he’d expected.

Ella saw what he was looking at and said, “Didn’t you notice it when you came in? Nyree fixed it. Isn’t it awesome?”

“Ah… no,” Marko said. “I didn’t come in here.”

“Oh.” Ella was hauling ham and cheese out of the grocery bags and starting to slap together sandwiches. Kors was helping her. Of course he was. “It’s meant to be Japanese,” she told Marko. “She found the mats on TradeMe, and she said we should go with that look, because of the garden and all. I said it was too plain, and she said no, it was serene, and it would be beautiful as a story at night, and you’d like it better than if she painted flowers on the table or painted all the chairs different colors or whatever. She got that rice paper shade for the light, which you have to admit looks better than before. The table and chairs were ugly as, some kind of fake wood, but she painted them all that shiny black and got the cushions that are like mats so they’d go, and so they’d be more comfortable. It’s all bamboo, the cushions and floor mats and all. And the thing in the middle is pussy willows.”

“The thing in the middle” was more elegant than that. An absolutely simple black wooden vase held long, slender branches bearing fuzzy catkins, all of it standing on a bamboo mat in the center of the glossy black table. Softness against hardness, pale against dark. The same way Nyree felt and looked underneath him. Elemental. Satisfying. Right.

He heard the sound of feet coming down the stairs, and Ella hissed at him, “Say something nice. She tried to make it so you’d like it. She tried really hard.”

He heard her, but then Nyree came into the kitchen wearing a turquoise dress that may have been intended to be less suggestive than the red one, but didn’t quite manage it. It had long sleeves and for once, no lacing-up anywhere, so there was that. But it was made of lace and ended barely halfway down her thighs, she’d slung a black leather belt around her hips, and all of it showed off her curves in fairly spectacular fashion. She was wearing little black high-heeled boots with it, too. Black leather, and the white of her skin showing through lace. Oh, yeh.

He wasn’t going to be the only one staring. He knew what he was doing with the rest of his day off, too. Going to a dog wedding.

She was carrying an awkward rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper, which she set against the wall. “Pookie,” she announced. “Framed.”

Ella said, “Awesome. Can you help Tom finish the sandwiches? I need to take a shower and get dressed.” She cut an enormous sandwich in half and put it on a plate. “And eat.”

Marko said, “If you’re meant to be impressing people today, Nyree, convincing them that they want a dog portrait, would a few rugby boys help? Unless it’s a formal affair, and too late to crash it.” Sounded casual. Non-jealous, too. Bonus.

Kors said, “You’re joking. And we’re still in our warmups.” Except for Kane, who was wearing shorts, a hoodie, and jandals, and needed a haircut. At least Marko was a step above that.

Ella paused halfway out the door. “You never do things like that, Marko.”

“There’s a time and a place for everything,” he said. “Ring her up, Nyree, and see if she’d like us. Jandals and all.”

Nyree did. She went into the other room to do it, then came back and said, “She said yes, of course. In fact, she said, ‘I’m going to ring the mums right now. And send Harold out to buy more champagne and nibbles. They aren’t going to believe it. They’re all going to come now, not just send their kids. This is going to be awesome. And Marko Sendoa? Oh, yum. My very best bad-boy fantasy.’ And so forth. I won’t tell you. Fairly sick-making, and we aren’t even there yet. But wear a T-shirt and give her an extra thrill, will you, Marko? That’ll help. She’ll probably feel your bicep, though. You may be sorry you volunteered.”

“No,” he said, and picked up a sandwich. “I won’t. I look at it this way. Chances of my having to adopt a kitten to impress a girl? Slim to none.”

She had Pookie’s picture in the boot of the Beetle. She had Marko, too. Not in the boot. In the passenger seat. In a T-shirt that showed off his larger-than-life-sized, sculptor-ready arms and chest, as per request.

Savannah was definitely going to touch his arms. That was fine, as long as he was fine, which Nyree guessed he would be. It wouldn’t be the first time, she was sure. If anyone put her hands on his chest, though, Nyree might forget her manners.

Everybody else was somewhere behind them in Marko’s car. Ella. Tom. Kane. And Victoria. Who was riding with the others, because Marko had tossed his keys to Kane when they’d left the house and said, “I need to talk to Nyree, mate.” And Kane had obeyed like there was no question about it. Marko’s confidence was infuriating, when it wasn’t turning her on. Or both.

Her mind still hadn’t settled one bit. She was going to be a blithering fool today if she didn’t pull herself together. What was a woman to do, though, when she’d had some of the most thrilling sex of her life, then gone straight into a showdown out of some farce, and then had Marko tell her that her art was good? Which may have been the happening that had rocked her the most.

Well, no. The sex had rocked her the most. Who did something like that the first time? A man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t shy about it, that was who. Also a man with plenty more where that came from. Her body still hummed with the electric charge he’d given her, even after a shower and a change to her most conservative dress. Which dress had had Marko looking her up and down as if he didn’t realize her body wasn’t toned enough, because she didn’t actually like running at all.

She could swear he was looking her over now, in fact, as she merged onto the Harbour Bridge. She said, “My thighs aren’t firm enough. You do realize that. Since I’m meant to be sharing information now.”

He put a hand on the one closest to him, sliding it straight under the lace, and she nearly drove off the road. “Want to bet?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “I’d rather say it first, that’s all.”

“You would, eh. Then let me say it second. Afterwards, when you were lying beside me, waiting for me to start you up again? Your thighs looked good to me. So did the rest of you. Which could be why I’m still thinking about it.”

“Despite the blondes,” she said. “Despite my stepfather.”

“Despite anything. And stop talking to me about blondes. I’m not with a blonde. I’m here with you, and I’ve got all the hardness either one of us needs. I don’t even mean that in a dirty way. Although, yeh, in a dirty way, too.”

She sighed. “That shouldn’t sound so tempting. Like I can just relax and let you take over.”

“What’s wrong with that? Sounds good to me.”

“Maybe that I’ve been fighting that exact thing for half my life?”

He seemed to give it some thought. He had time, since they were inching through traffic. “I’ll give you an alternative plan, then,” he said. “You can relax and let me take over in bed. And on the floor. And in the kitchen. And in the spa tub, because I’ve got a few things I need to do to you in there. It’s been exercising my mind, you could say, thinking of ways to overcome our height difference. Against the wall. On the stairs, maybe. I’ve had a thought or two about that as well. The rest of the time, I’ll back you up. How’s that?”

His hand had moved up while he’d been talking, and she managed to say, “A man who has as many reservations about my driving as you do shouldn’t be touching me where you are right now, or saying things like that. I don’t think my car has a five-star crash rating. I should’ve worn more substantial undies, too. Also, your fantasies seem to be ignoring a certain element in our lives. Which would be Ella. And wait a minute. Did you really come along today to support me, or… what?”

“Keep your mind on me supporting you,” he said. “And not on the idea that you look too sexy for my comfort in that dress. Much safer.” He took his hand away, though. Pity.

“Huh,” she said. “I’m chalking this up to life experience, so you know, which is why I’m not trying to sort out whether I should be bothered by any of that. So is my general fabulousness the reason why you aren’t making a bigger thing anymore of me not telling you who I was? I was sure you’d chuck me out. I had to tell you before I slept with you, which is one of the several good reasons why I couldn’t sleep with you. Also that if you chucked me out, Ella would be alone. Et cetera. You could call it a vicious circle.”

“Ah, well,” he said. “I wanted to at first. Chuck you out, I mean. Also sleep with you. I’m still not exactly rapt about your family ties, no. Grant isn’t going to be best pleased, and I don’t like being lied to. On the other hand, I remember what Josh Daniels said. And I have three younger sisters. Plus Ella. Could be I got it.”

She muttered, “I wish you wouldn’t be sensitive. It throws me,” and he laughed.

“It could also be,” he went on, “that I’d have a hard time chucking you out. It could even be that I thought back a bit. I told you I’d be holding out for something special. I couldn’t remember, though, if I’d ever asked if you were.”

“Wow,” she said.

“Yeh. I assumed nobody else would do for you, because that was how it was for me. I think there’s a word for that. Probably ‘Arrogant bastard.’ Which is what I’m putting out there before you can say it.”

“Well,” she felt compelled to point out, “I can see why you’d think so. And why you’d be arrogant in general.”

“Can you? You don’t have my grandmother, then. Not to mention my parents.”

“Obviously. Why? What would your grandmother have said?”

“Not much. She’d just have looked at me. But there’s something she said when I left home the first time to go to school, and again when I was chosen for the All Blacks. You could say it stuck.”

“Which was?”

He hesitated, then said, “‘Stay small. No man is a big fella. The world is the big thing.’”

“Sounds Maori,” she said. Cautiously, because he’d brought those words out from someplace deep.

“No. But not too far off. There’s something else she must have told my mum, because of course she’s picked straight up on it. A proverb, I guess you’d say, and my mum does say. Here you go. You’ll like this. ‘We are only visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love, and then we return home.’”

She hummed, and so did her heart. “Sounds very Maori. The world, and your place in it. Humility. Mana.”

“Yeh. You may like her. My grandmother. I’ve been thinking I should take Ella home to see the family for a few days during the bye next week. You could come, if you like, if you can get the time off. Whenever it works.”

He said it casually. She said, “Uh, Marko…”

“Or not,” he said. “Whichever.”

She would have said something, though she wasn’t sure what. But they’d arrived, onto a street already lined with cars. She had too many things bouncing around in her brain, so she focused on one. Finding a carpark.

After that? Showtime.

The beginning went about the way Marko expected. The wedding was being staged in terraced gardens that might have been pretty if they hadn’t been filled by too many excited little dogs, and a few big ones, chasing each other around and barking at a pitch humans shouldn’t have been able to hear. He was watching where he stepped as he followed Nyree along a winding path, and not just because he didn’t want to squash somebody’s pet.

About twenty kids were milling about, dressed like miniature wedding guests, below a white arbor bedecked with dozens of what looked like real pink roses, set in front of rows of white chairs. A couple boys were throwing a ball for a corgi, who would run after it for a few meters and then lose the plot and start licking himself in a manner better suited to the wedding night than the ceremony. To the right, a group of men was hanging around by the food table, probably because that was where the beer was, looking decidedly less dressy than their wives, who were done up like it was… well, a wedding. In other words—boring.

On the other hand, the day was breezy but warm, the sea was spread out before him in all its sparkling blue glory, the sailboats were returning from their regatta with their colorful spinnakers unfurled before them, he’d just had smoking sex with the woman of his dreams, not to mention his fantasies, and he was planning on doing it again tonight. Also, it looked like there was food on that table, not just beer. And a four-tier wedding cake that didn’t count, because he and the boys wouldn’t be eating it.

And, of course, he’d just invited Nyree home to meet his family, and he didn’t seem to be having second thoughts. He was either in a good mood, or he’d gone round the bend. Or both.

He was pondering the economic rationality of buying a full-blown wedding cake for a dog party, because it was easier than thinking about how out of control his life was becoming, what with the daughter of the coach, the kitten, the pregnant cousin, and the cousin’s apparent new love interest. Also why the hell he’d risked going out on the edge like that with Nyree the first time, except that he hadn’t seemed able to help it and she’d seemed to love it, what with how much noise she’d made and the way her forehead had banged against the mattress and all…

At which point he got sidetracked.

That was when the trouble began. First in the form of his hostess, an improbable blonde in a tight pink skirt suit, who was made up like she was about to do a photo shoot. Which she probably was, since Marko had caught sight of a bloke wandering around with a professional-looking camera. Nyree whispered, “Mother of the bride, I presume. Also the groom,” in a suspiciously choked voice, and then the vision was upon them.

“Nyree!” The blonde took Nyree by the arms and kissed her cheek. “You look amazing. And I’m so glad you brought your friends. Everybody’s so excited. Hi, everyone. I’m Savannah. Ooh. Champagne. Hang on a tick.” She was off again, coming back with an unopened bottle and four plastic glasses, each caught in a pink-taloned finger, and another blonde behind her, carrying more glasses.

“Sorry about the awful glasses,” Savannah said with a laugh that suggested this wasn’t her first bottle. “Harold said we’d never get the shards of glass out of the garden otherwise.” She handed the bottle to Marko and looked up at him with a flutter of extravagant lashes, and he thought about Nyree’s bare face and the way he could read every one of her emotions on it. When he’d come home, for example, and she’d looked up from her phone because she’d felt him there, and he could have sworn he could see all the way to her heart.

Savannah asked, “Would you use your muscles to open this for me, pretty please?” and he jerked his mind back to the task at hand. She giggled and said, “The cork still makes me scream, even after all this time. I’m so silly.”

He eased the cork out of the bottle, and to say she watched him do it would be putting it mildly. He’d swear her pupils dilated. Nyree introduced the rest of the party, and some of the other mums, who displayed a distinct tendency towards the blonde and overdone, made their impractical-heeled way across the lawn and were introduced as well. They were followed by the dads, trying to look like they’d just happened to stop by, but actually looking like they were dying to talk rugby strategy. Territory most familiar.

Marko poured champagne, but muttered to the others, “Watch it,” when he handed theirs over. “And go easy on the beers, too.”

Kane didn’t look happy to be reminded. But then, if Kane didn’t go easy on the beers, the Blues could have that bit of extra edge over the Crusaders on Saturday night. So he said, “Except you, of course, mate,” Kane looked at him narrow-eyed, and he laughed.

Definitely in a good mood.

Nyree’s friend Victoria, meanwhile, who stood half a head taller than any of the mums and had a sardonic gleam in her eye, tossed her glass back in three swallows, stuck it out for a refill, and told Marko, “Fill it up. I can tell I’m going to need it.”

After that, it was like a rugby match that had got away from you. Like you were on the back foot and couldn’t catch up. Nyree got swallowed up by another group, and some bloke had a hand on her back—her bare back, because that dress dipped low, showing the wings of her shoulder blades—in a way Marko didn’t like at all. Kors had wandered off with Ella. Marko should be keeping an eye on them, but for the moment, he was trapped.

To his left, a mum was saying to Kane, “You’re so tall,” as if he’d never heard that before. “How do you go through doorways? And beds must be a nightmare.” Yeh, that was subtle. After that, a bloke was asking, “How d’you think you’ll go against the Blues on Saturday?” and Kane was answering, “I think we’ll win.” In Marko’s own private hell, Savannah was saying, “You’re all so much bigger than you look on TV. Everywhere.” And, yes, she had her hand on his arm.

Marko said, “Relative proportion,” and she looked blank. He explained, “Most of us are a fair size, so you don’t notice the contrast. Nyree’s brought her portrait for you, by the way, but she’s left it in the car. Unveiling after the ceremony, she said. It’s pretty special.” Eye on the prize, mate.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” she said. “The kids are so excited. And, ooh, I need to go get the dogs ready. April. April.” The glass-carrying blonde turned from Kane with reluctance, and Savannah said, “Be a love and get everybody settled. We’re about to start. Wait until you see Precious’s darling gown. You’ll just die. And—oh. Niall. Ring bearer.” She headed off, her heels sinking into the grass, calling, “Coo-ee!” and waving one arm above her head until a boy of about eight quit kicking a soccer ball with his mate and came towards her, reluctance in every dragging step.

He didn’t realize Nyree was back with him again until she was saying quietly from his elbow, “She’s not nearly as silly as she seems. Or she is, but she’s…”

“Trying to be happy,” he said. “Yeh.”

“No harm in her,” Nyree said. “Unless she really did feel your muscles.”

He laughed. “She did. But I wasn’t the only one getting touched.”

“Ugh,” she said. “I know. Maybe you could stick closer to me.”

“Maybe I could,” he said. “Maybe I will. Are we showing off this portrait, then? Give me your keys, and I’ll fetch it from the boot. And after that…” He eyed Kors, who’d reappeared and was kicking the soccer ball with the boys. And there was Ella as well, belly and all, doing some flash footwork, dribbling the ball around Kors and laughing up at him when he moved, not very convincingly at all, to try to steal it from her. “I’ll do some of that sticking closer. And then there’ll be art. And after that, we can go home. My favorite part.”

Maybe it was the champagne that got to Nyree. Marko had told her he’d drive home, and she’d been nervous about her painting, and, well, there’d been all this champagne. All she knew was, when they were seated on the rows of white wooden chairs with pink bows at the end of each aisle, and Harold, Savannah’s balding, heavyset husband, appeared at the altar holding Pookie’s leash next to a celebrant who was about ten years old, wearing a fluffy pink skirt, and holding what Nyree sincerely hoped wasn’t a Bible, she started to choke.

Pookie was in a top hat and tails, but the hat was slipping, so he not only looked like a fat, bad-tempered dachshund, he looked like a drunk, fat, bad-tempered dachshund.

Surely she wasn’t the only one who thought it was funny. She was the only one hoping to earn major future money off this wedding, though, so she got herself under control. At least until a white English bull terrier, truly one of the world’s least attractive dogs, with its tiny eyes, Roman nose, stubby body, and blocky, sloped head, came down the aisle in a pink gown with a tutu skirt and low-cut bodice, a glittery silver collar, and a pink fascinator tilted over one eye to the tune of Rod Stewart crooning, “You Are So Beautiful to Me,” and the giggles started winning the battle. Pookie lunged at his leash and started to bark, the bull terrier skittered backwards, Marko snorted beside her, and the bubble of hysteria rose higher.

Victoria, on the aisle, muttered, “What the hell?”

Nyree muttered back, “Maid of honor.”

Marko said from her left, not bothering to mutter, “Never tell me that’s a female. Groom’s pretty excited, though. Poor form, making a move in front of the bride, though I don’t think he’ll get far. Be eaten, most likely.”

Nyree said, “He’s fixed.”

Marko snorted again and said, “Bloody waste of time, then,” and Victoria clapped a hand over her mouth.

The bull terrier and Pookie were now both at the end of their leashes, except that Pookie was in attack mode, while the bull terrier was still trying to escape up the aisle. Pookie’s hysterical barking rose a notch in pitch, if that were possible, the bull terrier whimpered and moaned, and the Corgi waded into the aisle like a bossy neighbor and barked at both of them until its owner clambered over chairs and guests to pull it away by the collar. The glossy brunette owner of the bull terrier, tottering in her spindly heels, wisely decided to abandon the proceedings for the moment and dragged the dog between two rows of chairs, stumbling over the guests in her way, and headed behind the arbor to hide.

Somebody, hopefully a dog, was howling now, and the barking, from Pookie and various other quarters, had reached fever pitch. The music swelled to a higher volume to cover the noise, Elvis Presley began to sing, “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” and the audience rose to watch Precious mince down the aisle on a rhinestone-studded leash with Savannah behind her.

The gown was ivory, poufy, and enormous, billowing out over the four-pound Chihuahua’s hindquarters and forming a train. Whatever space it didn’t take up was covered by a veil made of fine lace and studded with sequins, so you could barely see Precious’s wizened little old-man face peeking out the front. Victoria said, “Oh. My. God,” Marko said, “You can’t make it up,” and Pookie, ignoring his bride, gave a final lunge, tore his leash from Harold’s hand, dashed behind the arbor, and went for the bull terrier. The two of them tumbled against the lattice, the arbor shook, and the celebrant shrieked, dropped her hopefully-not-the-Bible book, and ran up the aisle to her mother with her pink net skirt bobbing around her. The barking continued, flashes of brown and white dog and pink gown showed through the lattice, and the arbor swayed, then returned to an upright position as the crowd let out a collective breath and Harold, who’d got hold of Pookie’s leash, dragged him around to the front again.

“Right,” he gasped, his spectacles awry and the sweat standing out on his high forehead. “Ready.” And everybody settled down.

For a moment. Until the bull terrier dashed around the edge of the arbor, her gown flapping around her, Pookie charged after her, banging into the structure along the way and dragging Harold along with him, and the whole thing fell over with a crash that took Harold with it.

The bull terrier ran. She started by making a circle around the audience with Pookie following, both their leashes trailing, then crashed against the front row of chairs and streaked down the center aisle. Precious, the Chihuahua, yipped, yelped, and strained at her leash until Savannah picked her up and shouted at Harold, who was chasing after Pookie, “Go the other way! Cut him off!” Harold ignored her, lunged, grabbed Pookie’s leash, lost it again, and knocked into the chair in front of where Victoria was standing. That sent her tumbling backward into Kane, who caught her, grinned at her happily, said, “Awesome,” and set her on her feet again.

Whoever was in charge of the music had turned Elvis up as some sort of last-ditch effort at normalcy, and he bellowed about his hand and his heart while the bull terrier headed across the garden, still chased by Pookie, his wedding finery intact other than the top hat bobbing against his chest and bouncing off the ground. A motley group followed them: the bounding, ecstatic golden retriever, the corgi, who rapidly fell behind on his stubby little legs, and an assorted dozen other dogs.

Beside Nyree, Marko turned and shouted, “Come on, lads,” his voice somehow carrying over the Beach Boys, who were caroling that God only knew how they felt about you. At which signal Kane kicked off his jandals, and the three of them took off. They outpaced Harold, and then they were racing past the kids and the other dads. Tom, in the lead by a fair stretch, got to the bull terrier while the others were still catching up, grabbed its leash, and stuck a foot bravely into the path of a charging Pookie. Marko dove for Pookie’s leash like he was going for the tryline, hit the ground, and yanked the dog into a spectacular backwards somersault more acrobatic than Pookie could ever have managed in his fat little life. Kane scooped up a Yorkshire terrier in one arm and a miniature schnauzer in the other, and the other dogs scattered in a joyful frenzy.

Savannah had her hands on her cheeks and was screaming, providing nothing like harmony for the Beach Boys, and as a crowning act, the golden retriever, forgetting whatever training it possessed, leaped at the white tablecloth covering the food table and brought the entire thing crashing down.

The demise of a wedding cake, Nyree discovered in the next few seconds, resembled nothing so much as a building imploding. Four tiers of white icing and pink roses wobbled majestically, toppled, fell to the grass, and shattered in a cloud of icing sugar, where a half-dozen dogs leaped on it. The ones who weren’t already scoffing sausage rolls, that is.

“A dog wedding for the ages,” Victoria said beside Nyree, but Nyree couldn’t answer. Unfortunately, she was laughing too hard.

The absolute wrong response, considering that her dog-portrait future was going up in smoke. From the aisle, Savannah was moaning, “He’s strangled him! Oh, my God.” And indeed, Marko, the destroyer of dreams, had picked up a panting Pookie, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and was striding across the grass.

He didn’t bring the dog back to Savannah. Instead, he walked past all of them and up to the house, where he opened the glass sliders, dumped Pookie inside, and shut the door again. Then he came back down the hill, stopped in front of his hostess, who’d finally stopped moaning, and said, not sounding even slightly out of breath, “Groom got cold feet, I reckon. Ah, well. It happens. Awesome wedding, though. I don’t know about you, but I could murder a beer.”

The reception, Marko found, was heaps more fun than the pre-wedding festivities.

For one thing, he had a bottle in his hand. For another, he had an arm around Nyree’s waist, and she was cuddled up to him and sneaking sips of his one-and-only beer instead of being mauled by some married fella who would now know better. The kids all had their shoes off, and so did Ella, Kors, Victoria, and Kane, since all of them were playing soccer. And Nyree was talking about painting.

“I can’t believe how you just captured him. His personality, I mean,” Savannah said. The Pookie portrait was unwrapped, set on the table that Marko and the boys had righted, the rubble of the wedding cake having been cleaned up with admirable efficiency by the canine guests, some of whom would no doubt be throwing it up later. Precious, sans gown and veil, was safely tucked into Savannah’s arm, and Pookie was sleeping it off in the house. There was no food left, but the dogs hadn’t broken any beer or champagne bottles, so the guests weren’t complaining.

“Looks like she’s captured you as well, mate,” Harold told Marko with a well-lubricated laugh. In another minute, he’d be elbowing Marko in the ribs and asking, “Know what I mean?”

“Too right,” Marko said, taking his beer back from Nyree and pulling her a little closer. She fit perfectly under his arm, he’d discovered. “But then, I’ve had my eye on Nyree since we were teenagers. She finally looked back, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Savannah said, and pressed her palms together as her coterie of friends perked up. “Tell. Really? Were you childhood sweethearts?”

“Not so much,” Marko said. “I had to hold back, as her dad was my coach. Highlanders,” he explained to the men, who nodded in understanding. “Grant Armstrong, eh.”

“Scary fella,” Harold agreed.

“Really,” the woman named April said. “You mean Kane Armstrong is your brother, Nyree?”

“Stepbrother,” she said, with a look at Marko that clearly said, Why?

“You must know all the All Blacks, then,” April said.

“Only some of them,” Nyree said.

April looked disbelieving, which was perfect. Modest, she’d be thinking. Gossip, she’d be hoping. Meeting, she’d be dreaming.

“A bit of a Romeo and Juliet story, the two of us,” Marko went on. “Though to be honest, it was her art that made me fall first. Well, second.” He offered Harold a bland glance. “She’s always been a pretty little thing. But she’s a hell of an artist as well. She’s going to paint my kitten, aren’t you, baby?”

Nyree had stiffened against him. He wasn’t sure if it was the “pretty little thing” or the “baby.” He ignored it.

“You have a kitten?” April asked.

Marko took his arm from around Nyree, pulled out his phone, clicked back, and held it out to a close-up of Cat. The women made “Awww” noises, the men looked like their last precious illusion about his masculinity had been shattered, and Nyree made a choking noise like a woman who was having trouble with the giggles once again. Possibly also one who’d drunk a couple more glasses of champagne in the heady aftermath of chaos.

When he was sure everyone was paying attention, Marko said, “But I wanted to ask, sweetheart—could you do her with some flowers around her? On a windowsill, maybe?” He clicked on the phone some more and showed the group the result. “Blue ones, maybe. I’d say red, but you know, red and gray—too much of a Crusaders look to it. Her flowers are her best thing, though, even better than the animals. I’ve got this red one over my couch anyway, though.” He clicked again. “Gorgeous, eh. Got all this… texture, I guess you’d call it. Color.”

The women made appreciative noises, and Nyree’s mouth opened, shut, and opened again. “No,” she finally said. “I’m not painting a kitten with flowers on a windowsill. That would be nothing but… Ugh. No.”

“Oh.” Marko worked on his confused expression, and sent up a prayer of thanks that he wasn’t actually going to have to hang up a painting of a kitten with flowers on a windowsill. “What, then?”

“I can do a suggestion of flowers behind her,” she said. “Background. Scumbling. Smudged. I can make her look mysterious and graceful that way, instead of like a greeting card. Ugh, Marko.”

“Like you did with the motorcycle!” Savannah said brightly. “For Pookie. How you can tell perfectly that it’s the wheel and the seat there behind him, but when you look up close, it’s just a few strokes, not like a photo at all. That’s so clever. How did you do it?”

“Training,” Nyree said. She wasn’t doing herself any favors, although maybe she was. Maybe this was artistic temperament. Could be better, even. Setting limits.

“Right, then,” Marko said, moving on. “Kitten. Flower background. Smudged. Mysterious. No greeting card. And mine gets done first.”

“Oh,” Savannah said. “But what about Pookie and Precious? The wedding didn’t come off exactly like we planned, but if I had a picture of them, how adorable would that be? And Precious was beautiful, weren’t you, baby?” She lifted the Chihuahua to her cheek and nuzzled her. “Even though Pookie was a very bad boy. But we like our bad boys, don’t we? So exciting.”

She gave a Marko a look he didn’t have any trouble interpreting, but he didn’t get too fussed. He’d seen that look before. Meant her hubby would be getting extra lucky tonight, that was all. He didn’t take it any further than that in his mind. That wasn’t anyplace he wanted to go.

“I could do Pookie and Precious,” Nyree said. At a nudge from Marko, she added, “Marko hasn’t paid me yet, so…”

“Oh!” Savannah said. “Harold, write Nyree a check, pretty please?”

“A thousand will do,” Nyree said. She sounded cool, but Marko could see the pulse beating like a hummingbird at the base of her throat. “For the pair of them. As you’ll want a larger canvas, I assume.”

“Goody,” Savannah said happily. “I can’t believe you’d make Marko pay, though.”

“Nah,” Marko said. “She thinks I’ll take her for granted otherwise, now that she’s moved in and all.” He picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles, and smiled into her eyes. “No worries, baby. Never happen.”

Nyree breathed easy at last when they were in the car and Marko was pulling away from the curb in a sedate fashion that was going to go even further to destroy his image.

“All those blokes are disappointed,” she told him, torn behind giggles and tears and trying to keep it light. “They’re going to be telling their mates tomorrow that Marko Sendoa has a kitten and a flower painting over his couch and goes around kissing girls’ hands and generally behaving like a soppy fool. And drives a Beetle. Good thing Kane didn’t hear all those things you said. I can’t believe you told them I’d moved in, not that I can see why anybody cares. And when did you take those photos of my flowers?”

“When Ella was in the shower,” he said. “I had a plan. If things had gone the way I meant them to, I’d have sold some of them, too. Pookie has things to answer for beyond destroying his own wedding. Did you do all that painting since I left?”

“No. Not possible. That’s a year’s worth. They take… time.”

“I’d guess. Intricate, I guess you’d call that.”

“Yeh.” She sighed. “Champagne always makes me sleepy. They were stored at Victoria’s. They’re what I used to do, but I wanted them around. And I saw what you tried to do. Thank you.” There. She’d said it. He didn’t have to know what it had done to her when he’d held up those photos of her flowers and talked about them that way.

“Well, yeh,” he said. “Because you’re very good. But you know that.”

“Decorative.” She tried to hold back her heart. It wasn’t easy.

“Bugger decorative. You’re good. You should believe me. And no, I don’t care if Kane hears me say it. I hope he does. If he can’t see how good those are, he’s blind. I want to buy that blue one to hang in the foyer, by the way. The blue flowers in the pitcher, with the gold scarf behind them. That’s something special, and I want it. But what you’re working on now is under the cloth, eh. Something bigger.”

She went still. “You didn’t look.”

He shot her a glance, then concentrated on the road again. “No. Not my business. I’d like to see when you’re finished, though.”

“Uh… thanks. And thanks for what you did. I mean it. Thanks. You got me the bridal couple, at least.”

“A mixed blessing.”

She hummed her agreement. She’d had too much champagne, and Marko had been too sweet, and… everything. She was melting like a piece of chocolate in the sun. “Confession for you. I don’t like dachshunds.”

“Good,” he said. “Means you’ll never be after me to adopt one.”

She yawned, and since she didn’t have to watch the road, closed her eyes. “Ella told me you hate doing public things. She said that when you do signings with the All Blacks, you look like you’re going to jump people if they don’t shut up, and they move off. She couldn’t believe you today.”

“Yeh, well,” he said, “maybe I was in a good mood. Could be from taking off somebody’s clothes and all.”

“Mm. Is that what you call that?” If she laid her head against the door, just for a minute…

“Pizza tonight, I reckon,” she heard him say as she drifted off. “And another steak, maybe. In my Japanese dining room, since I’ve got it. If anybody but me is still awake to eat it.”

Monday afternoon, and once again, Marko was heading across Auckland towards home with that same lift in his heart. Even though today, a series of squalls was moving across the island. At this moment, in fact, the sun was shining even as his windscreen wipers battled the latest cloudburst. It could be rainy on Saturday night for the match, he wasn’t playing under a roof anymore, and none of it mattered.

He was playing. That was enough. And right now, he was flying like an arrow headed for the target, on his way to a house that felt like home. A house with a painting in the foyer, delicate strokes of blue against rich gold, that he’d hung last night, because it was his now. A house with Nyree in it.

The night before, everybody had stayed for pizza, steak, and salad, as he’d imagined they would. He had six chairs now, though, so that was all right. The room was serene, exactly like Nyree had told Ella it would be, with the discreet lighting outside shining on the ferns and palms, making it look like the magical world she’d described. He’d watched Nyree eat pizza and heard her heady, midnight-and-silk laugh, and had laughed himself when Ella had jumped up and imitated Harold falling into the arbor and losing hold of Pookie. He’d seen the looks Kane and Victoria had exchanged, had heard Kane offer Vic a lift home, and had caught Nyree’s eye as she smiled about that. And maybe about him not having to drive Victoria home himself, because it meant they’d be alone sooner.

The bruise on his thigh had ached, the stitches on his ear had throbbed under their strip of tape, and he hadn’t cared. Kors had stayed to do the washing up with Ella while Marko and Nyree had hung Marko’s new painting, and then Kors had left, too. Marko had seen him take Ella’s hand, bend to kiss her cheek, and murmur something, and had decided he didn’t have to do anything about that. Not right now.

And then Ella had gone to bed, saying, “That was a great day. That was one of the best days ever.”

After that? He and Nyree had gone upstairs, and he’d locked his door.

The first urgency had passed and been replaced by anticipation, now that he knew how good it could be and had moved on to wondering how much better he could make it. You always pushed for improvement.

They started in the spa tub, and it was even better than his fantasy. Candles lit around the edge because she’d brought them up, and clouds drifting across the moon. Shadow and light, warm water and cool breeze, all of it telling him that the slow road was the best one, and that he had all the time in the world.

Holding her in his lap and kissing her, slow and hot and sweet, keeping his eyes open so he could watch hers close. Touching her everywhere, learning how she liked it, and then how she loved it best of all, and having her touch him. Feeling her kiss his chest, run her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, then wind her arms around his neck, kiss his mouth, and tell him he was beautiful. Which a man shouldn’t need to hear, but he somehow did.

Blowing out the candles, then, and picking her up and carrying her into the shower, another fantasy that was even better now that he had his hands on her soft body. Washing each other off, soaping each other up, going slower with every stroke, and kissing some more. Seeing Nyree drop to her knees. That was a good moment. Hearing her say, “Lean back so I can reach you,” and getting that hard rush. Wrapping his hands in her hair, wild and black as the southern sea, and watching her as long as he could. Until he was the one who had to close his eyes.

He kept waiting for her to stop, and then realized she wasn’t going to. After that, he forgot to think about it, because all he could do was surrender to the pleasure she was giving him. Until his head was the one that was banging, until he couldn’t keep himself from calling out, and he knew he was pulling her hair, but he couldn’t help it. She didn’t mind that, either, because her smile, afterwards, as she looked up at him, was wicked. Like she saw straight into his mind, and she liked what she saw.

After that? He stayed there and got his breath back for a minute or ten, and she smiled some more, washed him again, and then washed herself while he watched. And when he’d seen enough, he took her to bed, drew back his white sheets, and turned on a light.

She said, “Maybe that’s too much… uh…” And sighed, which may have been because he was over her already, and she liked it that way. “Too much illumination on the subject.”

“Not possible,” he told her, trailing kisses over to her ear, then settling in to play. “I need to watch, and I need to see your face when I make you come. But I may have to wait for that until the second time.”

They got to it. There was that first time, though, that he needed to take care of before they could move on. Taking her up fast and hot, drinking her in, getting all the benefit of the kissing in the spa tub and the rush it had been to her to please him. His rush, now, as he pulled the fierce climax from her, holding both her wrists in one hand and feeling how much better that made it for her. She loved it, he’d already learned, when he held her tight, so all she had to do was focus on what he was making her feel. You could say that worked for him, too.

The second time, then, when he was over her. All the way up on his palms, and her legs not wrapped around his waist at all, because her ankles were over his shoulders.

Going so slowly. Going so deep. Driving to the heart of her, and feeling her hold him there like she never wanted it to end, like he’d be inside her forever. And then being rewarded for his patience. Feeling the shift in her, watching her face begin to twist, hearing her start to sing out.

At last, the tortured look on her face, the sound of her stifled moans, as if the pleasure were too much to bear, and he was pushing her to a spot that was almost too far. The way she grabbed him as she went over, pulling the response from him, making him helpless to delay it any longer.

Taking him up with her like a witch. Like a magician. Like a woman.

Days after were always awkward, Nyree knew. Except this one. Because when Marko walked through the door, dropped his bag, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her breathless… how could any woman on the receiving end of that do anything but melt?

Marko could hold you. And bloody hell, but the man could kiss.

He pulled back, smiled down at her, and asked, “Good day? Good work?”

“Oh, yeh. Call me inspired.” She nuzzled her face against the hollow at the base of his throat and wondered how she’d ever thought he was too big for her. “You’re a good size, by the way.”

She felt his laugh, a vibration from the depths of his chest, before she heard it. “So they say.”

“Uh, excuse me?” Ella’s voice, coming from the passage to the kitchen. And Marko stepping back from her, maybe because Cat was climbing him like he’d been created to be her activity center. Nyree knew how she felt. Ella went on, “I’m only having my sonogram today, to find out what gender of humans I’m producing? Not that it’s important or anything.”

Marko put his arm around her and gave her a cuddle. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it.”

“Yeh, right,” Ella said. “You know, for somebody who gave Tom the side-eye for kissing my cheek last night… When you met Nyree, she was fourteen and you were nineteen. I counted back.”

“Yeh,” Marko said. “And I wasn’t kissing her, because she was too young for me.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Nyree said, and Marko grinned and asked Ella, “Ready to go find out about these babies, then?”

“Well, yeh,” she said. “Obviously.”

They had to wait through the obstetrician’s appointment first. A visit that, when they got to the office, Ella said she would do by herself.

“Are you sure?” Marko asked. “I can see why you wouldn’t want me, but it’d be better to have Nyree, surely.”

Ella said, “Nyree isn’t here, though.” She shook her head. “Well, she is, but… she’s not in my head, is she? I have to be able to do this alone, because I am. Anyway, the questions can be pretty embarrassing. Not sure anybody else needs to hear about my toilet habits. Or the mucus plug. Blech.”

Marko looked at Nyree, and she said, “Fine. But if you want me, this time or anytime, I’m here.”

Ella nodded, but when the nurse called her name, she went into the back alone.

Marko shifted in his chair, and Nyree took his hand and said, “She’s all right. We’re both here for her, and she knows it. She is the one who has to do this. To go through all of it, and live with it afterwards. Call it practice.”

“Right,” he said. “I’ll believe you, since I don’t have a clue here. But I’m going into that scan with her. Got to make sure they don’t give her that same tech, for one thing.”

Nyree laughed, and he smiled. Reluctantly, but he did. “Even if we got the same one,” she said, “you’ll have shut her up.”

“Yeh?”

“You know you did. You were impressive.”

“Always good to hear. So about this return to the homeland next week. What do you think? Once the whistle blows on Saturday night, I’m all yours. But there’s that job, eh. Not to mention Pookie and Precious.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “If you were my mum, you’d be telling me it’s not a real job. In this case, she’d be envisioning you coming through the door of the restaurant, and me ripping off my apron and tossing it to the floor. And possibly you picking me up and carrying me out of there, taking me away from all this. My mum’s seen An Officer and a Gentleman too many times. Also Love Actually. No carrying, but similar theme.”

“That what you want me to do, then?”

She laughed. “Nah. I think I’ll keep my job, thanks. But I may have checked about shifts. What would you say about Sunday to Wednesday?”

“I’d say I’ll take it.”

They didn’t have the same technician. Whether that was because of the conversation Marko had beforehand at the front desk or not, he didn’t know. At one point, he overheard Ella asking Nyree, “Could he embarrass me more?” and Nyree answering, “Probably not. On the other hand, you know he loves you. I’d say Marko’s a ‘Show, don’t tell’ type of fella.” Which was probably true.

At any rate, when they got back to the little room and the ugly gown and the paper-covered table, the tech turned out to be a comfortable lady with a jolly smile who started out by saying, “Not your first scan, I see, love, so you already know how cold the gel is. That’s usually the big shock. Let me take some measurements, get through the business end, and then we’ll see if we can find some naughty bits to look at. Nearly eighteen weeks? We should do, but you never know.”

Ella didn’t look nearly as scared this time. In fact, Marko would say she looked excited. He sat beside her, held her hand, watched the screen, and said, “I think that’s a leg. I see toes. Kicking, eh. Can you feel it?”

“No,” Ella said. “At least, I have wicked heartburn, but I doubt that’s it.”

“It’s normal not to be able to feel the babies kicking yet,” the tech said. “Especially for your first. Wait a month. They’re both good and active, that’s the main thing. Your…” She looked at Marko. “Dad?”

“Cousin,” he said. Geez. Maybe he should shave more.

She looked like she was wondering whether to be shocked or not, and he sighed and said, “Big brother, you could say.”

“Well, I thought it must be something like that,” she said cheerfully. “But we never know. You see some things here that might surprise you. Anyway, you’re right. They’re both kicking. Ticking along nicely, it looks to me, so you’ll feel them soon, love. It’s a bit hard to describe it. Like a tickle inside, or butterflies. Lovely, really. But let’s have a wee wander round down here and see what I can show you. We’ll see who’s cooperating.” She moved the paddle around, then smiled and said, “It helps if you breathe.”

Ella expelled a whoosh of air. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

“No worries,” the tech said. “But we don’t want you passing out and falling off the table, making this big fella catch you. Too much drama for me.” Ella laughed, breathed, and the woman moved the paddle some more as the seconds ticked by.

“Ah,” she said, when Marko was wondering how much longer this could possibly take. “Have a look.”

Ella peered at the screen. “What am I seeing?”

“Penis,” the woman said. “Scrotum. See, here where the cursor is? You’ve got a wee boy, and unless they’ve changed the rules for identical twins on me, I’m guessing you have another one, too. I hope nobody’s bought anything pink.”

The only noise in the car for the five-minute drive home was the slap of the windscreen wipers and the spatter of rain on the roof, until Marko said, “Venison burgers and kumara chips tonight, I reckon. Maybe roast some greens with them as well.” Which Nyree realized was the perfect thing to say. Letting Ella know that life went on, and family was forever.

“Sounds good,” Ella said, and when they got home, she seemed to hesitate, then followed Marko into the kitchen and sat at the counter.

Maybe it was his confidence, maybe it was his calm, or maybe it was just his size, but Marko had a way of making you feel that things would work out. The kitten wasn’t the only one who wanted to be where he was.

Nyree poured Ella a glass of orange juice, handed her the container of carrots and punnet of hummus she’d started keeping on hand, then turned the oven on and started peeling kumara and stripping stems off a packet of baby kale. That had been a good thought of Marko’s, too. Vitamins, and satisfying Ella’s teenage cravings. Comfort food for the cold and rain, and maybe even for the fear and doubt.

Ella said, between crunches of carrot, “I didn’t think it would be boys, somehow. But maybe boys are better for the adoption thing. Do you think, Marko? Men want boys, right? If they want kids.”

Marko glanced up at her, then back down at the ground venison, onion, parsley, and egg he was mixing in a bowl. “Some men, maybe. But a man who’d rather have boys probably isn’t one you want to choose. Or one who’s just going along with his partner, either. You want a man who knows what it means to be a dad and wants to do it. Girl or boy, one personality or another, problems or not, whatever it is. Not a man who has some checklist of what he’ll take.”

Wow, Nyree thought and didn’t say.

“They’ll probably be big, though,” Ella said. “Big genes, I mean. Me and Julian, because Samoan. They could be rugby players. That would help. You know it would.”

“Professional, you mean,” Marko said. “Hard to say. It’s about more than size. Heaps of smaller fellas playing good footy, and heaps of big boys without the discipline, or the desire.”

“Your driving force,” Nyree said. “That’s what Marko calls it. The thing that pushes you, and the direction it pushes in.”

Marko had begun to shape his mixture into patties. Another squall was battering the windows, so he pulled out a frying pan instead of going for the barbecue. Nyree started to cut the kumara into chips, working the knife through the dense flesh, and Marko looked over and asked, “Need any help?”

“Nah,” she said. “All good.” This kitchen would never win any “cozy” prizes, but right now, it felt warm. Safe. There was that word again.

“It’s weird to think that…” Ella said, and trailed off.

Nyree took a guess. “Could be a bit weird, maybe, to have those thoughts about the babies—or dreams, even, about what they may be. About who they are already.”

“Yes!” Ella sat up straighter. “Like—seeing the fingers and toes and all, watching them kick and thinking about them being together in there, and especially knowing they’re boys… it makes it real. Not that it wasn’t real before, because obviously, and look at my belly, but it does anyway. Maybe it’d be better if I go on and find them parents, so I can sort of imagine them in their new family. Do you think?”

“I think so,” Nyree said. “But I think it would be normal to be a bit… confused. Conflicted. You know you’re giving them to somebody else, but they’re still yours. Of course they are. It’s almost like magic to see them growing in there, isn’t it? Even over just a few weeks, how much bigger they are. Identical twins, especially. Rare, and special. But sad, too. At least, I’d feel that way.”

“Anyway,” Ella said, determination evident in the very way she stabbed her carrot into the hummus, “I think I need to start looking at parents. I haven’t yet, because it seemed too far away. Also because Mum keeps asking me, like I’ll go past the sell-by date and nobody will take them. People want babies. But what if I find the right people, and they don’t want both of them?”

Nyree glanced at Marko, but he wasn’t coming up with anything, so she said, “Who is it that you talk to about it? In the… ministry, or whatever?”

“Social worker,” Ella said. “I’m supposed to ring her, but I haven’t. That’s mostly for later anyway, for forms and things. There’s a website to choose the parents. Like used cars. Pages and pages of them. I looked with Caro before, but then I haven’t. Like I said.”

“I have an idea.” Nyree arranged her kumara chips onto a baking sheet, scattered leaves of baby kale around them, sprinkled the whole thing with olive oil and salt, and slid it into the hot oven. “You could narrow the parents down. Say—five or six couples who look right to you, and who are in the North Island, if that’s still what you want. You could ask the social worker to ring all of them and see if they’d be interested in twin boys. And more than that. If they wanted twin boys, were excited about them. Then your list would either be narrowed down, or you’d know they were all good with it, whoever you chose.”

Marko, who’d been opening a can of beetroot slices and cutting veggies, said, “That’s a good thought. Always good to narrow down, then narrow down again. Decision tree.”

“Huh,” Ella said. “I could do that.”

“Nyree could look with you,” Marko said, slapping his burger patties into the pan. “Or Caro. Or even me, if you want me to vet the fellas, give you my impressions. Do you want to go to Tekapo for part of your school holidays, by the way? I’m taking Nyree from Sunday to Wednesday. You can stay longer, or come back with us on Wednesday. Either way.” Which sounded casual, but was probably Marko walking a tricky line between looking after Ella and letting her make her choices. Nyree had already figured out that there was always more to him than you saw. He was like an iceberg. Not because he was cold, because he was exactly not. But because most of him was under the surface.

“Ha,” Ella said. “That’s a tough one. People talking about me here, or talking about me there? Being here’s better, probably. At least I can say I don’t care what they think. Reckon I’ll come back up with you on Wednesday. And stay up at your house with Caro while I’m there, not in town with Mum.”

Marko had been standing, spatula in hand, with an eye on his burgers. Now, he looked up. “What do you mean, people talking about you here?”

Ella shrugged. Too casually, maybe. “Just things people say, and looks, you know. In school. Even in New World. You should’ve seen the look this lady gave me last week, like she couldn’t believe it. News flash, people get pregnant. I can’t wait until I’m thirty weeks gone, standing in the checkout in my school uniform, with everybody looking at me and being all amazed and horrified. That’ll be a fun time.”

“We should practice, then,” Nyree said. “What to say. What do you think, Marko?”

“Ha,” Ella said. “He’s not going to be any help. He’d just look like he was going to hit them, and they’d shut up and move on before he lost control. That’s not going to work for me, not unless I batter them to death with my belly.”

Marko looked like he wanted to hit somebody right now. Nyree said, “You could say something funny, maybe. Something over the top. Like they make some comment, and you smile and say, ‘Quadruplets. Fertility drugs, eh. Only three months gone, can you believe it?’”

“Except then they’d talk to me more,” Ella said. “Or talk about me so I can hear. That’s the worst. Why do girls whisper, like that makes it all right? They know I’ll hear. They want me to hear. They just want to pretend they didn’t mean to. At least blokes just go on and say it, or laugh in that way where you know why they’re doing it. At least they don’t try to hide it. I know, though. I’ll say, ‘Aliens,’ then walk away.”

This rage. It burned. “Good one,” Nyree managed to say. “Or ‘Reptiles.’ You could whisper it like it was a secret, then stare at them until they walk away.”

Ella was smiling at last. “Bit rude, though.”

“Nah,” Nyree said. “Not if they say something first. That’s what’s rude. More than rude. Hurtful, and meaning to be.” She wished she were still chopping. She needed a knife in her hand right now. She took a breath and said, “You can handle it in a couple ways, I guess. Glare at them like Marko, confront them. Or look at them like… all wide-eyed, and a bit deaf. Smiling, even. They’ll be so confused. Or do either one, whatever you feel like. If you choose your response, it gives you power.”

“Why should they have an opinion anyway?” Ella burst out. “It’s like that book. The Scarlet Letter. Like, the bloke’s all respected, or he’s even cool, because he got me pregnant, like that’s some kind of accomplishment or proof of his manliness or something, but me? I’m supposed to be ashamed. Like you were talking about, the thing that happened to you with the Highlanders. Why is that all right to do? Why should that letter be on me?” Her hand trembled on her bowl of carrots, and her eyes were bright. And still, no tears fell.

“I didn’t read that book,” Nyree said. “And I don’t know why it’s that way, but I know it’s wrong.”

“It’s American,” Ella said. “The book. Old. Somebody said it about me at school, so I read it. Lame as.”

Marko flipped his burgers, and Nyree came back to herself, opened the oven door, and turned over her kumara chips.

She thought about cruelty, and she thought about courage. She knew which one was harder. She also knew which one was better.

Three o’clock Friday afternoon, and the Captain’s Run was finished. Time to go home and start the pregame rituals. Except not today.

At least it wasn’t raining. It might be tomorrow, but today, it was clear. Which meant, Marko hoped, that they’d have a good turnout, despite it being the last day of school before the start of the autumn holidays.

When he pulled into the carpark, he headed for the orange cones as he’d been directed, and a woman in a smart pantsuit pulled the cones out of the way and waved him in. Behind him, three other cars followed suit, and Marko stepped out with the others, four doors shutting in synchronized fashion, clunk clunk clunk clunk, as smooth as the Men in Black.

Marko shook hands with Ms. Clark, the deputy head, and introduced the others. She said, “Come on around. Our P.E. teachers have everything set up for you. We appreciate your coming out.”

Boys and girls both, dressed in their navy blue and white P.E. uniforms and split into groups already. Chattering and laughing, most of them jumping out of their skins at seeing Hugh Latimer and, especially, Koti James. Pretty Boy was flashing his smile, and Marko was glad to see it. The more special this was, the better.

After that, it was familiar. Running lines with the kids, coaching, encouraging, instructing, taking them through passing drills. Making it fun and offering up the thrill of celebrity, Kiwi style.

Kors was proving a draw of his own, he saw. Tall, well built, tattooed, and good-looking, with his share of Koti’s flash and Koti’s skills. Around Marko, though? The kids got quieter. Shyer.

Suited him fine. He wanted the boys a little scared.

No, he wanted them scared as hell.

It was a school visit like a hundred others he’d done, with the Highlanders and the All Blacks both, over the past thirteen years. Except that this one was personal.

It went on for thirty minutes, as they’d planned, and then the teachers blew their whistles, the head made her thank-you speech into her portable microphone, the students applauded, and in another minute, the autograph requests would begin.

Hugh should have stepped forward, but he didn’t. Marko did.

He took the microphone from the head, looked around, and said, “Cheers, guys. Thanks to my teammates for taking the time as well. Maybe you’ve heard, but we’ve got this match tomorrow. You’ll be wanting to support the North Island, and I hope blue’s your favorite color. But we’re here for another reason as well. It’s been a wee secret, but my cousin’s a pupil here now, which makes this place pretty special to me.” He jerked his chin at her and said, “Come on over, Ella, and say hi.”

She was nervous. He saw it. And handling it the same way he would have, the same way she’d handled all of this. With her head up and her eyes forward, walking towards the pressure.

She hadn’t known they were coming until they’d arrived, but you’d never have known it. Her belly was that much bigger than it had been on Monday, seeming to grow every day, and she could have looked awkward in her navy maternity shorts and the white top that stretched over her bump. Instead, she looked tall and strong and confident. Like a warrior. And he’d never been prouder.

She came up to him, facing away from her fellow students, and for the first time, her chin trembled. “Thanks,” she said, then looked across at the other boys. “Thank you for coming.”

Marko gave her a cuddle for everybody to see and said, “Nah. What else is family for?” He held up the microphone again, then, and said, “Right. If any of you kids wants an autograph, we’re here for ten minutes with our signing hands ready. They’re also our passing hands, so get in quick. We don’t want to wear them out.”

After that? The deluge began. He scrawled his name in the usual black felt pen, over and over again, on rugby balls, P.E. uniform shirts, and last-minute sheets of paper, and did his best not to look, as Ella had said, like he was going to hit somebody. And when the first rush was over and he had time to look around, he did.

Koti and Hugh, each with a crowd around him still. Koti showing off, flipping the ball between elbow and hand, back and forth, and Hugh shaking his head, calling something across at him that probably had to do with show ponies and saving your flash for the paddock. And Kors standing a little apart, his signing efforts abandoned, holding hands with Ella. Carefully, like it was the first time, and like she was precious. As Marko watched, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, looked down, then looked up again. Kors was talking, and she was smiling up at him, her face prettier than ever. Glowing. And there was some sort of blockage in Marko’s throat.

Five more minutes, and it was all over. They were all shaking hands with the head and deputy head, and it was back to the cars.

“Thanks,” he said when they got there. It wasn’t enough to say to fellas you’d been playing with only a few months, who’d given up their precious personal time anyway, the day before the match.

Another kind of family. Teammates.

“Nah, mate,” Hugh said. “No worries.” Marko thought he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. “See you tomorrow,” he said instead, then climbed into his car, reversed, and was gone.

Koti followed suit, and Marko was left with Kors, who wasn’t getting into his car.

Kors said, “Before you say whatever it is, I have something to say myself. I haven’t got pissed since Dunedin.”

That wasn’t what Marko had been expecting. “Oh,” he finally said.

“Yeh,” Kors said. “Embarrassing, wasn’t it. I heard it from my dad. I heard it from my Koro. I heard it from everybody. Call it a turning point. Look, mate. This is the chance I’ve been working for since I was six, and I’m not going to stuff it up. I’m not going to stuff things up for Ella, either. If I was looking for something easy, I’d be looking someplace else.”

Marko smiled, and Kors looked confused. He actually took a step back, in fact. Marko’s smile might not look as friendly as he’d assumed. Kors checked himself fast, though, and stepped forward again.

“Mate,” Marko said. “Message received.”

Nyree woke slowly on Sunday morning, swimming her way up from the black depths, then breaking the surface like a whale breaching.

To be fair, though, it had been a busy night.

She didn’t open her eyes, but it was definitely morning, because the birds were singing outside. Closer to home, Marko was kissing the spot between her shoulder blades. She stirred, but she couldn’t go far, because he was on top of her. He pressed his lips to her spine again, then moved his mouth on down, and she sighed.

The hands that had pulled down his opponents with brutal strength the night before were stroking down her arms now. Her shoulders, her upper arms, her forearms, then all the way to the pillow she grasped in both hands. She lay face-down, naked on the bed, and felt the wonderful weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the strength of those big hands wrapping around her wrists, the heat of his lips brushing over her skin, lower and lower, sending shivers up her body from every place he touched…

The deep voice, low and amused. “Time to get up.”

She moaned. “No. Can’t be.”

He laughed and closed his teeth gently over her skin. “Wake up, princess. I called Air New Zealand and explained what an important bloke I am, but they won’t hold the plane. Bastards.”

“No, you didn’t. And if somebody would get off me, I could.”

He rolled off her, giving her a slap on the bum along the way, and she sat up, let the duvet drop around her hips, stretched her arms over her head, laughed at the look on his face, and said, “Boy, you’re too easy. How long do I have?”

“Half hour.”

She yelped and jumped out of bed. “A half hour? Your mum’s picking us up at the airport. I’m going to look like…”

“Did you meet my mum? And I tried earlier. You sat up and yelled, ‘But the carpet!’ You looked awake, but I came back in and here you were, still asleep.”

She was already pulling on her black silk dressing gown, which was all she’d been wearing when he’d come home from the match the night before. She may have been lying on his bed with that robe barely closed, waiting for him, but he had tackled with all that ferocity, and what was a woman to do? And he ought to realize why she’d dreamt about the carpet, as much time as she’d spent on it. She remembered it. It had been that kind of night. The kind where you used all the furniture, and he used all of you. When her head and back had been draped over the foot of the bed, her palms pressing into the floor, and his big hands had spread her thighs wide while his mouth went to work on her… it should have been uncomfortable, and maybe it had been. It had also been helpless, and erotic as hell.

“What about Ella?” she decided to say.

“Making you tea and toast.” He was lying on the bed, leaning against the headboard in a navy blue T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet, his ankles crossed, his dark eyes amused, and every single bit of him absolutely oh-yeh-baby-touch-me-like-that sighworthy. “Suitcases are in the boot, and Cat’s… well, not in her carrier, but she’s considering it.”

She headed into his bathroom. Fast. She was washing off the smell of sex, at least, before she met his father. And his grandmother. She didn’t need makeup, but there was a limit. Before she shut the door, she said, “I’m calling the Herald and telling them you won’t travel without your kitten.”

He laughed. “You do that. I’ll tell them you sing show tunes in the shower.”

“I’m Maori,” she said. “It’s practically required.” And then she shut the door.

Four hours later, she wasn’t laughing. Two hours’ drive out of Christchurch Airport, and ever since they’d passed through the tiny town of Geraldine and turned inland, they’d been winding their way upward, closer and closer to the majestic march of the snow-capped Southern Alps that stretched all the way across the horizon, the tallest peaks lost in cloud.

Marko glanced across from the driver’s seat. “All right?”

“What? Yeh. Of course.” She gave Cat a stroke. That helped. The kitten had wanted to ride in Marko’s lap, of course, but had eventually settled for the inferior substitute.

“Are you nervous?” Ella asked from the back seat. She was sitting behind Nyree, because, as she’d pointed out, “You can push the seat all the way up, and I want to sleep anyway. Plus, people always want to see the mountains.” Now, apparently, she was awake. “You don’t need to be nervous. You’ll see.”

“She will,” Olivia said from behind Marko. “But of course she’s nervous. We should be nervous. I wonder why I’m not? How many years has it been since you’ve brought somebody home, Marko?”

He groaned and swung the car around another curve. “Mum. Please don’t share.”

“No, really?” she asked, sounding nothing but curious. “Why would that be a secret? You invited Nyree home because you like her better than you’ve liked anybody else in the past ten years or so. That’s not a secret, and it’s wonderful. What’s the point of games? We’re only here for a little while. Why not put your heart out there?”

Nyree told Marko, “I can actually see your jaw bunching. So you know.” He shot her a glare, and she laughed out loud.

He said, “I’ve shared my cards of the day with Nyree, Mum. She knows all about the Fool and the Two of Cups and taking the leap. About hiding behind your barriers, or shooting from behind them, or whatever it was. You can’t embarrass me any more than that.” He pointed to a spot off to the right. “There you are, Nyree. Those are merino.”

She said, “Oh.” They were in the foothills, heading up to the high plateau. Alpine vegetation, short and scrubby. The air outside, she’d bet, would be thin and chilly. Like Dunedin, and not. More wild, and more open. Stark. Primeval. And a herd of merino sheep, their fleece dirty-gray and winter-thick already, wheeling like a flock of starlings. Moving as one, impossibly synchronized.

She could almost see Marko’s chest expanding with the space. Not an easy land, nothing at all like the lush greens and abundantly providing seas of Northland, but the place he knew best, and the place he fit. The place that had formed the man he was.

The road dipped, rose, curved, and curved again, and he turned off just before the junction for Tekapo and headed up a road marked with a B&B sign. Driving with one hand on the wheel, as if the car could get there by itself, or he could get them there with his eyes closed.

A left turn onto a tarsealed road with a sign. Tekapo Farm Stay. Another curve, and the lake appeared beneath them like a sapphire, or maybe more like an opal, a saturated blue almost the color of a robin’s egg. And the contrast of the snow-capped mountains that cradled it, holding it like cupped palms.

“You need to come back in the spring,” Olivia said from behind them, “when the lupines are in bloom around the lake. On the plus side, we don’t have any visitors right now, so we can focus on you.” Which might be a plus and might not. She could have hidden in a crowd.

Slowing down, now. Sheds, outbuildings. A dog barking, then another. Two Border Collies, black and white, feathery tails waving, running to meet the car as it came closer to an enormous, rambling, three-story house made of dark wood, its green metal roof settling it into the landscape. A figure appeared on the porch that ran halfway around the house, moving slowly, with the aid of a cane. A long dress, and an apron around her waist. Stooped and thin, tall and gray.

And dark.

“My Amona,” Marko said. He pulled the car up, opened his door, and was covering the ground in giant strides, then taking the steps three at a time.

The sight of him wrapping his arms gently around her hunched-over body, holding her close. The old lady dropping her stick and putting her palms on his face, saying something to him, and his dark head bending to hers as he kissed her cheek. At last, though, he stepped back, steadying her along the way, picked up her cane, and put it in her hand.

Olivia said, “Well, there you go. Makes me choke up every time. One thing you should know about the Sendoa men, Nyree. They don’t love easily, but they love hard.”

That evening, Nyree was stretched out on the carpet in the spacious lounge, comfortably furnished with slightly shabby couches and armchairs, and the kinds of mismatched end tables you wished for, so you always had someplace to put your mug. She had her back against one of those couches, this one upholstered in green velvet, with her head against Marko’s knee and Cat in her lap, listening to music. Or more like—feeling music.

Marko and his father Ander on guitar. His dad had turned out to be, not much to her surprise, a six-foot-four, older, more silent version of his son, the lines in his face reflecting a life spent out of doors, his body lean, hard, and dark as iron, and his fingers even more skilled on those strings than Marko’s. Olivia, her silver hair shining in the lamplight, playing the mandolin, a woodier, brighter sound to it than the guitars. Ella with a tambourine, and Jakinda, to Nyree’s astonishment, on the violin. And Marko’s sister Caro with a flute, its silvery tones darting in and out like a fantail, then soaring above the stringed instruments with piercing beauty. No tunes Nyree recognized, but beautiful anyway. She guessed they were old, and that this family had been playing them forever.

She let the music slow her heartbeat and seep into her bones, and watched Marko’s Amona, his grandmother, whose actual name was Mary, doing exactly the same thing. Sitting in an armchair set close to the wood stove, her dark face relaxed, her feet in their sturdy shoes and thick stockings not tapping, but looking like they’d used to.

Earlier today, Marko had taken Nyree for a walk around the lake. An easy track through the bush, the liquid notes of bellbirds reminding her of home, the thin, cold air doing anything but, and Marko content to walk in silence. And then emerging into the open, headed towards a tiny stone church sitting all alone on the shore, surrounded by nothing manmade at all, looking like part of the mountains. Nobody around but a few young people, backpackers most likely, and nobody else at all in the church. The Church of the Good Shepherd.

They sat in a front pew for a few minutes without speaking, Marko’s fingers threaded through hers, both their hands resting on his hard thigh, and Nyree gazed out the clear window and let the quiet and peace fill her. Clear windows, she guessed, because there could be no stained glass as beautiful as the lake and mountains. Maybe, too, because that was where the builders of this church had felt God most.

Finally, Marko said, “My granddad used to bring Amona here like this. A few months before he died, we took a wee walk and ended up here, same as today, and he told me about it. It was their church, he said, because it belongs to this place. He knew it was hard for her to feel like anyplace was home. And when he brought her here from Australia, the parish priest at the Catholic church was a bigoted old fella. I don’t know what he said, but my granddad left the church and didn’t go back. My mum and dad did, eventually, when the priest changed, and Jakinda as well. But my granddad wasn’t a forgiving sort of fella. He’d had too much to forgive, maybe.”

“She’s Aborigine,” Nyree said.

“Noongar. Western Australia. Well, half. White dad, I guess. She doesn’t know much about her parents, or about any of the rest of her family, either. Taken from her mum when she was little.”

“One of the Stolen Generations,” Nyree said, with a contraction of her heart that was nearly painful. The generations of Aborigine children, especially the half-white ones, who’d been stolen from their mothers and placed in orphanages and missions. They’d been sent away again after that, once they’d reached their early teenage years. The girls to work as domestic servants, the boys as stockmen and laborers. Earning not much but room and board, but then, they’d already lost everything anyway. Lost their language, their people, their place, all the things that mattered most. And, for the mums especially, knowing that their own children could be taken in the same way. Especially if their fathers were white.

Despair.

Marko said, “She remembers when they took her away. Riding in the back of the truck with the rest of them, and with the mums running along behind, calling out, crying, their arms stretched out for their kids. She watched her mum running until the dust swallowed her up. She was four. Five. Somewhere in there. Afterwards, they told them their mums didn’t want them. But she remembered her mum running.”

Nyree had a fist pressed to her heart. “How did your granddad meet her?”

“He was working as a shearer at a sheep station, earning some money in Aussie, saving to buy his own land. Older brothers getting the farm, eh. She was working there. Maybe fifteen, maybe a year older. Or younger. She isn’t sure.”

He didn’t say anything else, but after a moment, she asked, “How much did you have to fight, growing up?”

He looked at her, and she smiled a little painfully, because the memories were painful, and said, “Marko. I was Maori in Dunedin, in a Pakeha family, and without my whanau. I’d never felt different before. And I know you’d have fought when the other boys said things about her.”

“Not as much as my dad had to. Which wasn’t as much as his dad did.”

“Protective. All of you.”

“Probably. Change can come too slow, especially here.”

Tonight, in the light of the lamps and the warmth of the big room with its comfortable, shabby couches, the curtains drawn against the cold night, she wondered why Marko hadn’t told her before. She might not have brown skin, but surely he knew she was brown enough inside.

Habit, maybe. Or a test.

The song ended, and Marko’s dad Ander said, “Time for bed, Mum?”

“Maybe so,” Mary said.

Marko stood up, set his guitar on the couch, and said, “I’ll do it, Dad. Don’t get enough chance, do I.” He picked his grandmother gently up out of the chair, lifted her in his arms, and said, “I reckon Nyree will bring up your cane and your tea.”

“Of course,” Nyree said. She set Cat on the couch, causing her to utter a vocal protest at the cruel loss of a warm lap, and went to gather Mary’s things.

Up the creaking wooden stairs, covered with a faded maroon carpet that looked fifty years old, to the second floor. Down the hall all the way to the end, Marko making carrying his grandmother look no more difficult than carrying a rugby ball.

It was a spare room, nearly Spartan in its lack of furnishings, Nyree saw as she set the tea on the bedside table and handed Mary her cane. The most striking feature was a dot painting above the bed. Nothing but those white dots, a few curving lines, and different shades of blue, but a clear representation of a lake, the land around it, and the islands in it, like an aerial photo. All sinuous curves and serenity, but there was power there, too. She said, “That’s a beautiful painting. Striking. Stunning.”

“Marko brought it back from Perth a couple years ago,” his grandmother said. “Says it’s meant to be the Wagyl, the water snake. Noongar have Water Snake Dreaming.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nyree said again. “Strong.”

Marko said, “Nyree’s an artist, Amona. She sees people in color. Did you ever hear of that?”

His grandmother peered at Nyree more closely. “You do, eh. No, I never heard of that thing. What color is my Marko?”

“Red,” Nyree said. “Strong. Passionate. Physical.”

Mary nodded slowly and said, “That’s all right, then.”

Marko said, “What color is Amona, Nyree? I’ve wanted to know.”

Nyree said, “It’s not a… real thing. Not an official thing. It’s only how I see it.”

“It’s always only how you see it,” the old lady said. “And what’s ‘official’? Whitefella’s idea. Tell me.” She smiled, and her solemn face lit up. “Nothing you can say now that hurts. All the things have already been said.”

“You’re purple, then, to me,” Nyree said. “Deep.”

“Ah,” Mary said. “Got some sadness to me, have I? Is that what you didn’t want to say?”

“Maybe. I just know what I see, and maybe some… feelings about that. I’ve got a bit better at knowing what the color means, over time.” She didn’t mention Marko’s grandfather. She’d remembered that Aborigines didn’t speak of people who were dead. But his grandmother had told Marko the story about her mum running behind the truck, and surely her mum was gone. Although how would she know?

Nyree tried to imagine losing all trace of your family and tribe. Your whanau and your iwi. Your whakapapa—your genealogy—traced back over hundreds of years. The place you’d come from, the beach on which your ancestors’ waka had landed after that first long-ago voyage from Hawaiiki, the homeland. Your mountain and your river. She tried to imagine all that, and couldn’t. It was part of her, like it was part of every Maori, the connection to your place and your people. Losing it would feel like some vital organ being ripped from your body.

Like deep purple. For vision, seeing beyond what your eyes could take in, and for sadness. And for the strength to bear it.

“Ah, well,” Mary said. “Life is sad, eh. But good, too.” She put a hand on Marko’s cheek again. “Go show your girl the stars. Doesn’t matter whether you can see them up there or not, they’re still the same stars. Better to see them, though. It’s good that she sees the colors. She knows her Dreaming, I think.”

Marko kissed her cheek and said, “I’m out with the sheep with Dad early tomorrow. Sleep well. It’s good to be home.”

No place more different than Northland than this, he’d thought before they’d come. Nyree hadn’t been the only one who’d been nervous. Now, though, lying on the hillside above the house, a thick blanket under them and a sleeping bag over them, looking up at that other world, thousands of tiny lights forming patterns and splashes across the black background, with the shining pathway that was the Milky Way, the blurry white of the magellanic clouds, and the silent presence of the mountains, threat and livelihood both, surrounding them—he realized he’d been exactly wrong.

“Different” was the city. “Different” was Auckland and Dunedin, buildings and light and people that crowded out the stars. The mountains, and the sea? Two parts of the same thing. The living world.

Nyree sighed beside him and said, “Beautiful. Like a dot painting itself. This is a special place.”

“Mm.” He had his arm around her, and her head was on his chest, the two of them an island of warmth in the cold night. And when they were too cold even under their sleeping bag, he took her back into the house, all the way to the little room in the attic, with the sloping ceilings he’d banged his head on so many times growing up, and made love to her.

Slow and sweet and tender, the opposite of the wild night before. Too many feelings bouncing around inside him, and only one way he knew of to let those feelings out.

Nyree’s face in the starlight. Nyree leaning down for a kiss, her hands in his hair, stroking over his shoulders like she couldn’t get enough of him. Nyree rocking her slow way to fulfillment with his hands and mouth helping her along, touching everything he could reach, trying to let her know how glad he was that she’d come with him, and how warm it had felt tonight to have her leaning against his knee while the music and his family and her presence filled the empty spaces inside him. He didn’t know how to say it, so he told her with his body instead, knowing it was better than any halting words he could have come up with.

He let her wrap him up, too, in her hair, her kiss, her own stroking hands, her soft skin, and, always, her changeling’s eyes that looked all the way inside to the color of him. He knew she saw him, and he didn’t mind, because he also knew that the man he was worked for her.

Maybe he wanted to say it after all, though, especially when she’d reached that first gasping orgasm, her head thrown back and his hands covering her full breasts. Looking like the best thing he had, and feeling like it, too. And after that, when he’d moved over her, had his fingers laced through hers and her arms stretched over her head, when her mouth was open and her eyes were closed, and everything she felt was there for him to see…

Marko’s a ‘Show, don’t tell’ type of fella.

Probably true.

Nyree woke early the next morning, but only because Marko had woken earlier, before the sun had risen. She dressed in the postdawn chill, then headed downstairs in search of tea and warmth.

She found both in the kitchen. Nothing here of the high-end, bare-surface flash of Marko’s. White cabinets, some with glass fronts showing off colorful mismatched plates and bowls. Burnished bronze door pulls, ancient dark-wood flooring, and a few wooden stools set at a center island. Over the sink, a vase under the big window held dried flowers that she’d bet had come from the garden, and in the corner, beside a huge round oak table and chairs, a wood stove sent out warmth.

And the stooped figure of Mary frying bacon on the stove set into that island, whisking eggs in a bowl and adding milk. She looked up when Nyree came in, her face seaming with her smile.

“What can I do to help?” Nyree asked.

“Get yourself a cup of tea,” Mary said. “You can do the flowers, maybe.” She nodded to a basket of dried lavender and roses on the table, their stems tied together, and a collection of larger and smaller bags beside them, already filled with the fragrant mixture. “Put the old stuff in the bin, and do the new ones. Lavender in the little ones, and both in the big bags. Livvie does that for the guests. The little ones in the drawers, the big one in the closet. Makes it smell nice, eh. Nicer than sheep.”

Nyree said, “Surely you’d rather do that and let me cook.”

“No,” Mary said. “Cooking’s what I do. It’s good to have something to do. Good to move, too. I’m not going to get any straighter by sitting down.”

Nyree got her tea, but moved basket and bags to the counter to work. “Marko has this,” she said, “this kind of counter. Only whiter. I don’t like them normally, don’t want to look at the cupboards while I eat, but I just realized they’re nice for visiting while you cook.”

Mary nodded, but didn’t answer. The silence stretched out, but was comfortable all the same, and Nyree busied herself with the sachets and let herself relax. After a few minutes, when Mary was slicing bread, the old lady said, “Different for you here, I think. The mountains.”

“Yes,” Nyree said. “But you were right about the stars, that they’re the same wherever you are. I’ve missed the stars in Northland. I didn’t know there was a place where you could see them this much better.”

“Same as me,” Mary said. “When I came here. The stars were the only thing that was the same.”

“Where were you,” Nyree asked cautiously, “in Australia?”

Mary’s lips didn’t tighten, but she may have gone a shade more still. “Madura Plains, that was the station. Edge of the Nullarbor, that was. The desert. Oh, it was brown, brown, brown. Dead. A bad place, that Nullarbor.”

Nyree nearly shivered. Her worst nightmare, living her life without color. “It isn’t green here, either, though.”

“Green—you don’t need green,” Mary said. “Only life.”

That was when Ella wandered in. Wearing PJ pants that she’d tied below her round belly, and a top that she’d left unbuttoned from the waist down, so a strip of skin showed. Need to find some new ones, Nyree thought. The girl climbed onto the stool beside Nyree, picked up a bag, started stripping lavender, and said, “Caro’s still asleep, but I couldn’t.”

Her grandmother looked up and focused her gaze on Ella’s face. Nyree got up, turned the jug on, and got down the herbal tea and a mug as Mary said, “Something bothering you, eh.”

“I started thinking about the family,” Ella said. “How it’s not so awesome, down the hill with Mum, but it is here. And I wondered…” She looked down at the bag she was filling, the hair falling into her face, hiding it. “If it’s… all right. Giving the babies away, I mean. If I’m thinking of myself too much, and not about them. You did it, Amona, and you were younger than me. Auntie Livvie told me you were sixteen when you had Uncle Ander. Or younger, even.”

“Not by myself, I didn’t,” her grandmother said.

“All right,” Ella said. “But Mum did it by herself, or almost.”

“She’s your model, then,” Mary said.

Nyree brought the tea over and said, “I’ll go up and…” She tried to think of what. “Get ready,” she added lamely.

“Nah,” Ella said. “Don’t go. I need to ask you. Don’t Maori have something like this? Like… you don’t give your kids away, not to strangers.”

“No,” Nyree said, sitting down again. “Or yes. You mean whangai, when somebody else in the whanau takes the baby, so he can stay in his place, with his people. Because to Maori, the whanau is big, not just your mum and dad, and your… place matters, and you need to know your iwi. But you’re not Maori, and there’s nobody to take them, not that I know.” She thought a little more, then added, “Also—why does somebody take them, in a Maori whanau? Because the mum’s too young, or for some other reason. Maybe because she needs to finish school and then go to University, because she’s good at maths. And because it’s better for the boys to have more family around. Two parents, or a grandmother, grandfather, aunties and uncles and cousins, there to help. But parents. That’s the most important. People who want that baby. Or those babies.”

“But I do have some of that,” Ella said. “Here, I mean. I thought this would be easier. An easier choice. I thought it was right, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s selfish after all.”

“No,” Mary said. “Not selfish. Just because they have to leave you—that doesn’t mean they don’t know where they come from, where their birthplace is. It doesn’t mean they don’t know their Dreaming.”

“I don’t think I have a Dreaming,” Ella said sadly. “All I have is being confused.”

“Their Dreaming is the place,” Mary said, cutting the bread into chunks and putting it in a glass dish. “And the people. Your past, and your people’s past. What Nyree says. But you can tell them. They don’t have to have their past wiped out. Not gone like it was nothing.”

“Open adoption, you mean,” Ella said. “I thought it was better for it not to be that way. That they could start over with their new family, and I could start over, too.”

“Not better,” Mary said. “You can’t wipe out the past. You can try to forget your babies in your mind, but your body won’t forget. It will never forget.”

“Oh,” Ella said, and her chin wobbled. “So… it’s better if I keep them?”

“No,” Mary said. “It’s better if they know where they came from. And it’s better for you to feel sad. It doesn’t kill you, sadness. It won’t be the only sadness. Just the first one.”

Marko washed up in the toilet built into one corner of the mudroom, then pulled off his gumboots, hung up his jacket, and headed into the kitchen with his dad.

“I smell bacon,” he said, stooping to give Amona a kiss. “Nyree doesn’t cook for me, can you believe it?”

“She’s busy, maybe,” Amona said, and Marko had to laugh.

“Yeh,” he said. “She is. Three jobs, now I think of it. At the restaurant, and painting, and helping Ella. And she told me cooking wasn’t part of the deal.” He sighed. “Waiting for Nyree to crack… that can feel like a long wait.”

He shot Nyree a look, but of course she wasn’t blushing. She was laying the table, and all she said was, “True. But then, you’re a man who loves a challenge.”

“I do.” He went over and gave her her own kiss. He felt good. The cold air, the mountains, the sheep. Whistling to the dogs and watching them do their job, nipping at the animals’ heels, herding a mob of four hundred as smoothly as if you already had them in the chute. And working alongside his dad. A different kind of team, but a good one.

Breakfast was quiet, as usual, focused on the business of eating. They were just finishing up when the doorbell rang. Loudly.

His mother set down her napkin and stood up. “That’ll be for the B&B. The cards said ‘Surprises’ today, after all. I got breakfast first, though.”

When she came back in, though, it wasn’t B&B guests at all. At least it didn’t look like it to Marko, not from his mum’s body language. A tall, handsome, brown-skinned man, a brunette woman, and a boy of sixteen or seventeen, nearly as tall as his father.

“Sorry to interrupt your meal,” the man said. “But we just heard what happened, and that Ella’s home again. Julian here has something he needs to say.”

They moved to the lounge. All of them. And if Marko had gone still, his dad had gone more so. Everyone took a seat, but at a nod from his own grim-faced father, Julian stood with his hands clasped in front of him, swallowed hard enough that you could see his Adam’s apple bobbing, and said, “Ella’s baby. I’m the, uh… dad, I guess. So I came to ask what I should do.”

Ella said, her voice nearly steady, “Nothing, that’s what. I’m taking care of it. Caro didn’t need to tell you I was coming.” She shot a look at her cousin. “And it’s not a baby anyway. It’s two babies. Twins.”

Julian looked like he wished a bolt of lightning would hit him right now, because that would be easier. “Oh,” he said.

“You’re having the babies, though,” his father said. “Obviously. So I reckon Julian does need to do something. Get a job, for one.”

“No,” Ella said. “I’m having them adopted.”

Julian, looking like his legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore, sat down abruptly beside his mum and said “Oh” again.

“And you don’t have to do anything for that,” Ella said. “Not even sign anything. All I have to do is not put his name on the birth certificate.”

“Wait,” her grandmother said.

It was quiet, but Ella stopped talking anyway, looked at her grandmother, and said, “You mean the babies will need to know.” Amona didn’t say anything, but Ella seemed to get a message, because she told Julian, “You’ll need to sign, then. Put your name down on the paper, and say you agree to give them up. But not until after they’re born.”

“Right,” Julian said with an escape of breath that stated, as clearly as if he’d said it out loud, “Thank God I’m done, then.”

“Clothes,” his father insisted. “Food. There’s a price to pay.” He nodded at his son.

Julian hesitated, then pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, walked across the room to Ella, and held it out to her, looking like he wished he could snatch it back. “What I’ve got in the bank.”

Ella glanced at her aunt and uncle. Marko’s mum said, “Take it. It’s better for him to give it.” Julian didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t look like he had any choice.

Marko’s dad said, “If you’ve got something you want to tell Julian, Ella, now’s the time.” His arms were crossed over his chest, and Marko wouldn’t have wanted to be the one facing him right now. Standing between both of those dads… that wouldn’t be a happy place.

Ella hesitated for a long moment, and there was no sound in the room but the tick of the clock. Her grandmother was the one who finally said, “There are no right words. Just the words you need to say.”

Ella took a deep breath, clutched Caro’s hand like a lifeline, and said, “It’s not your fault I got pregnant, any more than it’s mine. Or it’s both of ours. Anyway, it happened. But when I told you, you ran away. That’s your fault.”

Julian said, “I was scared.” He was nearly as tall as Marko, and he was no kind of man. Maybe someday. Not now.

“I was scared, too!” Ella burst out. “I was so scared, but I couldn’t run away from it. Did you think about me?”

If a boy had ever looked miserable, it was this one. “I did,” he insisted. “After. But Caro said you’d gone to Auckland.” He glanced at Marko, but looked away again fast. One guess why. “So I thought… nothing I can do, eh.”

“You could have asked how I was,” Ella said.

Julian didn’t answer. What answer could there be? More ticking of the clock, and finally, he said, “I, uh… I’m sorry. And I could… ask you now. I still want to…” He trailed off.

“You still want to what?” Ella asked. “Yeh, good luck with that.” Her belly was showing under her PJ top, even though she’d tried to pull it closed, and Julian was looking anywhere else, like the sight of that round belly burned him.

“I didn’t mean, uh…” he said. “I just meant, be friends.”

“You’re not my friend,” Ella said. Her voice was shaking, but her eyes were burning. “And you don’t get to be my boyfriend, either. I’ve got a boyfriend already. A better one.”

The tips of Julian’s ears were red, and there was a flush over his cheekbones when he said, “You don’t. You can’t. You’re just saying that to make me feel worse. I feel bad already, all right? And I just gave you all my money, saving for my motorbike and all.”

Ella had her arms crossed herself now. “I do, though. And he’s better than you ever were. I don’t mean like that. I mean he’s kind. He’s there. He doesn’t care that I’m pregnant. He sees me. All you see is my belly, and your stupid motorbike.” She stood, a little awkwardly, and clutched the fistful of notes. “I want to throw this in your face, but I’m not going to. I’m going to spend it on new PJs. And I hope you never get your motorbike.” She was blinking hard and breathing harder, and Caro was up beside her, putting her arm around her cousin. Ella shook her head, her blonde hair flying, then turned and hurried out of the room with Caro following behind.

Silence, again, until Julian’s mother stood up and said, “That’s it, then. Julian will be getting a job and giving Ella what he earns until the babies are born.”

Julian’s mouth opened, then shut, and she said, “Don’t talk.” Then she turned to Marko’s parents and said, her voice formal, controlled, “We accept the responsibility. We’ll go now. Thank you.”

When Marko went upstairs, saying, “Shower,” Nyree went with him. Ella had her cousin Caro, plus the best aunt and grandmother a girl could possess, full of more wisdom than she’d ever have. And she needed to talk to Marko.

But when he opened the door and came back into the bedroom again, dressed only in a pair of clean jeans and with a towel in his hand, she may have lost the plot a little.

“It’d be easier to talk to you,” she said, “if you didn’t have so much… torso. Bloody hell, boy, cover that up. Also if you’d shaved since your match.”

He looked her over as she sat cross-legged on the bed. Slowly, and without a smile. She was losing her breath, but she kept on trying. “Yeh, that’s pretty dirty and all, but your mum wants us to go get groceries for dinner. Not to mention that I’m not wearing anything sexy.”

“Oh?” he said, amusement in his dark eyes and his voice at its silkiest, like he saw her bet and was raising it, sliding the chips across the table. “You were wearing those gray jeans and that top when you took those first photos of me. Tell me about how you’re not sexy when you’re not showing me that sweet spot down near your tailbone, and when you don’t have skin like that. It was one hell of an effort not putting my hand there when you walked through the door ahead of me.” He sighed, lifted the towel in his hand, and rubbed his hair dry, which had the effect of flexing his considerable biceps. And his shoulder muscles. Not to mention pulling his abs tight… Her mouth may have gone dry. V-shaped torso, anyone? “Fortunately,” he said, “I don’t have to hold back anymore. I can put my hand there and feel you shiver. And later on, I can put my mouth there. Anticipation, eh.”

“Groceries,” she reminded him, repressing the shiver that was trying to make its way out right now.

“Groceries,” he agreed blandly. “But if you’re going to look at me like that, I may need to plan something special for you.”

This time, she did shiver, and he saw it. “I, uh…” She cleared her throat. “I was also going to tell you what Ella said. And your grandmother. And so forth.”

He approached the bed where she still sat, dropped the towel, got a knee on the mattress and a hand behind her head, leaned over her, and gave her a slow, deep kiss. After that, he stood up, gave her hip a slap, and said, “Come on, then. Groceries, and you can fill me in. Got to give me some time to plan anyway. We’ve never been on a date, now that I think of it.”

“Yeh,” she said, sliding off the bed and not sinking her own teeth into one of those biceps, “because Tekapo’s such a nightlife hub. Cocktails and dancing, eh. Now, if we were in Northland, I could take you on a starlit ‘walk’ on the beach with a six-pack of beer. Party for two. No couch like a sand dune. No music like the sea when the surf’s up.”

“Except that it’s sandy,” he said. “And maybe I want you comfortable. Or maybe not so much. We’ll see. No worries, though. I think I can do better.”

He wouldn’t tell her, though, except that they were staying home for dinner. “Restaurants take too long,” he said, putting milk and eggs into the trolley. “Also—family time.”

“And that everybody in the place would want to talk to you.” They were having a rough time just getting out of the supermarket. One conversation after another, and Marko being patient, because, as Nyree knew, that was part of the All Black job. If you wore the jersey, you were expected to fill it up off the field, too. No surprise that Marko could do it.

Dinner was a cheerful affair, cooked by Ella and Caro and their grandmother, with the girls playing music, dancing around the kitchen and bumping hips, high on an emotional crisis overcome, and Mary shaking her head tolerantly. When they were eating, Marko said, “No music tonight for us, Mum, but we’ll be back for it tomorrow. Tonight, I’m taking Nyree out. Borrowing the ute.”

“We’re going high-end, are we?” Nyree asked.

“Nah,” Marko said, taking another bite of lamb stew. “We’re going where the roads aren’t paved.”

“No black tie, then,” she said.

“Call it ‘come as you are.’”

When they climbed into the battered farm vehicle, after Marko had sternly told the dogs to stay, causing two Border Collie hearts to break, Nyree said, “Seriously. Where?”

“Seriously,” he said, “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

The moon was nearly full again, an enormous white disk just breaking the horizon. They drove down to the lake, and then they drove around it. Ten minutes, twenty, until Marko turned off onto an unpaved track Nyree couldn’t see. Slowing down, then, bumping over the track, Marko picking out the road until he pulled to a stop at nowhere special. She said, “If we’re here to look at the stars… well, actually, that’s all right. Although they’re the same wherever you are. Like your grandmother said.”

Marko looked at her for a long moment in the faint light of the moon, then said, “You’re nervous.”

“Well, yes, I’m nervous. If you’re going to be this bloody mysterious, I’m going to be nervous.”

He leaned across the seat, took her chin in his hand, and kissed her, softly this time. “Good. I’m not going to scare you, just thrill you a bit, I hope, and thrill myself, too. But we need to get our skates on. This is a timed event.”

“Oh. OK. I guess.” By now, she was thoroughly confused, and not much less nervous. What timed event? Meteor showers, if that was what this was, didn’t come with to-the-minute timelines.

Marko didn’t say anything else, just dropped the keys onto the floor, reached behind the seat, and pulled out the blanket and sleeping bag from the night before. “Come on,” he said. “We may need to run a bit.”

They did. He held her hand, matched his pace to her slower one, and took her on another path known only to him, down one hill and up another, through the scrubby heathland. Once her eyes adjusted, there was light enough. That moon, and the blaze of starlight.

Finally, he stopped, said, “Here,” and started unfolding the blanket. Moving fast, now, so she caught the end and helped lay it flat. But once he had it on the ground, he said, “That’s the last you’re helping. Get that kit off and lie down. This is where the good part starts.”

Just like that, she’d lost her breath again. “Uh… cold?” she pointed out, pulling off her shoes and socks all the same.

“Never mind,” he said. “You won’t be. I promise. Time’s ticking. Get it off. Or I have a better idea.” He was out of his own jacket and shoes already, laying the jacket carefully onto one corner of the blanket. Now, he moved across to her, put both hands on her bum, and lifted her straight onto the middle of the blanket. And who knew that having your jacket unzipped one centimeter at a time, with a hard man staring into your eyes, could be that hot?

He pulled off his own T-shirt in one quick movement, tossed it to the ground, and she reached out a hand for him. He said, “Another night, baby, it’ll be your turn. But not tonight.” He was pulling her down onto the blanket, seeming not one bit bothered by the chilly night air, then sliding the jersey up her body and over her head before moving on to her jeans, pulling them straight off her together with her thong. “I want to take my time with this myself,” he said, “but that’ll have to wait.” His deft hands were flicking the clasp of her bra, and then he was kneeling over her, dressed only in his jeans, unfolding the sleeping bag and placing it at their feet, then checking his phone, reaching for his jacket, and pulling out a roll of… something.

“Like I said,” he told her, “timing. Which means I need to control all of this.”

“Uh…” she said. “Huh? What is that? Also, I’m freezing.”

“Let’s wrap you up, then.” He started to unroll something. Tape. It was tape. “You can get out of this,” he told her. “If you pull. Or you can ask me. Or you can stay where I put you. Your choice. “

She’d been out of breath since they started running. Now, her heart was doing some kind of mad dance, and the shiver wasn’t from cold. “We can have our party without it,” he said. “That’s your choice, too.”

She looked into his eyes and saw heat. And urgency. She saw red for power and passion, but she didn’t see anything bad. She swallowed and said, “I choose you, then. And if I change my mind, I’ll say. Thought you were in a hurry.”

She saw his smile, starting slow and then growing, heard a faint ripping sound, and then he’d set the roll down and was holding a strip of black. He came down over her, and she was glad for his heat.

She thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he laid that black strip over her eyes, and the world went dark.

No stars now. No moon. She said, “Marko,” but he was shoving her knees up to her chest and saying, “Keep them there,” in a voice from which all the silkiness had vanished. After that, he took her hands, put them on either side of her calves, and she was already whimpering.

She felt the tape wrapping around her wrists, her calves, fastening them together, and then she felt it going around her again. He said, “If you tug, it’ll loosen. If you tell me to let you go, I’ll stop and do it.” She heard a rustle, and knew his jeans were coming off. She wanted to see him, and she didn’t. She was halfway there already, and he hadn’t touched her yet.

And then he did. The heat of his big body coming down over hers, holding himself up somehow, probably on his palm, and then the soft sleeping bag falling over them both, all the way to her neck. His hand shoving her hips over so he could get on top of her, and then the brush of his lips on hers. She was opening her mouth, needing him deeper, but not able to pull him in. It was frustrating, and it was so exciting.

She didn’t need to pull him in. He was already doing it. His tongue in her mouth, his hand in her hair. He whispered in her ear, “I’m going to fuck you so good tonight. So hard, and so deep. You’re going to be so tight for me. That OK with you?” and she couldn’t even answer, only moan. She felt his smile against her neck, and he said, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He bit her neck, and then he did it again, and she was shaking. His hand was stroking down her bound arm and up it again, and his mouth was moving down her body. At her breast, settling in there. Moving her body upright again so the other hand could play with her other breast, pinching gently, then not so gently, until she was pulling at the tape, her wrists tugging against her calves, and crying out.

And when his palms were on the backs of her thighs, and his mouth was on her? She’d already started to rock. As good as it had felt before when he’d held her wrists, when he’d spread her thighs with his hands? This was so much more. This was… helpless.

No modesty. No power to move away. She couldn’t even see what he was doing, or what he was planning to do next. When he put a finger inside her, she gave a pained cry, and when he added another one, she tried to move, and couldn’t. His hand. His mouth. Harder and softer, teasing nibbles and mind-blowing suction. When he took his fingers out of her, she missed them, but she didn’t complain until she lost his mouth.

“No,” she moaned. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to stop,” he said. “No worries. Just going to add a little extra.”

“I don’t think I can take extra. Just keep doing it.” She couldn’t see. She couldn’t move. It was maddening. It was turning her liquid.

The buzz, first, and then the touch. Vibrating. Circling. Closer and closer.

He’d never done that before. For that matter, nobody had. She’d never been a multiple-orifice kind of girl. But that circling… it felt good. “You can say no.” His voice dark, rough as sandpaper. “Or you can say yes.”

“Uh…” She tried to shift, and he circled even closer, then retreated, all the way up to her tailbone, because her lower back was off the ground. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes. But be… uh…”

“Careful,” he said. He had a hand over her now, was rubbing her in the way that felt best. Not hard, and not aiming straight for that magic button, but just below it, so the vibrations went everywhere. And he was slipping that little bullet vibrator closer… closer… teasing at the entrance, and then, when she was gasping, slipping it inside.

She tensed, called out, and said, “Now. Now. Please. Oh.” And he kept that bullet going, set his mouth to her, and she pulled at the tape, wailed out the pleasure, and came like a freight train. Head banging, body shuddering and spasming, all the way gone.

It took every bit of self-control he had not to do something he shouldn’t. He’d kept to his timeline and his plan all the way until he’d shoved that vibrator up her sweet little arse and she’d started to come. Seeing her trussed up, blindfolded, open and helpless… he wasn’t going to be able to last.

He left the vibrator where it was, because that was feeling good, and he wanted to see her mouth stay open. He wanted to hear her scream again. And when he shoved her legs to one side and pushed himself slowly inside her? She was so tight, tied that way, that he groaned, swore, and held himself still. She was still convulsing around him, and that was almost too much right there.

“Marko,” she said. “Marko.”

“Yeh,” he managed to grit out between his teeth. “I’m here.” Like he could be anywhere else. “Tell me.”

She was going to tell him to cut the tape, to take out the vibrator. He was going to have to do it.

That was when he felt the ground start to vibrate.

“Fuck me,” she said. “Please. Marko. Fuck me hard.”

Oh, bloody hell. The vibration was growing, too deep for hearing, but there. And he was plunging deep, she was coming again, or still, and he was swearing, every filthy thing he could think of. In Basque. In English. He was telling her everything he’d ever wanted to do to her, everything he was doing to her now, unable to help himself, and she was keening. Beneath them, the ground was shaking, and around them, the noise was growing. Thundering.

A herd of elephants. A stampede, almost on them now. The whistle piercing the night. And the hurricane was here. The rumble. The shake. The roar. The engine sweeping past, then the long line of boxcars and tank cars and refrigerator cars. Shaking the ground, and them, to the bone.

Noise. Vibration. Nyree calling out, “OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod,” her body pulling the orgasm out of him, and he was shouting. He was shaking. He was losing his mind.

She was wrecked. Boneless. Somehow, she realized vaguely, Marko had got all the tape off her, and it hadn’t stuck at all. Must be special. The stars wheeled overhead, and the vibration was dying out under them, around them, the hum from the rails fading away. And Marko was lying over her, propped on his elbows, rubbing her wrists, kissing her mouth.

“Uh…” she said. “The beach was never… like that.”

He laughed softly against her mouth and kissed her again. “I haven’t done that in a long time. It’s never felt as good as that.”

“Haven’t done what? Boy, this isn’t comparison time.”

Another laugh. “Nah. The train, that’s all. Call it a full-body experience.”

“And you weren’t even the one taped up.”

He stroked the hair away from her temple, then brushed a kiss over first one closed eyelid, then the other, before he settled over her mouth again and kissed her with so much sweetness, her heart swelled. Without deciding to, she was wrapping her arms around his bare back, stroking her hands over the muscle there, trying to pull him closer, like she hadn’t had enough already. Like she needed him to stay on her, and in her, forever. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she confessed. “Nothing close. I wasn’t sure. The only reason I could do it was… I knew you’d stop.”

“Mm.” He rolled to his side, but kept his arm across her body, and his own body was so warm, she had to snuggle in. “Always. No trust without promises kept, eh. That’s why I keep my promises.”

She moved so her head was on his chest, and he stroked his hand over her hair, pulled the sleeping bag more thoroughly over her, and tucked her in tight under his arm. “I’d say,” she said, “that any night when you get blindfolded, get done that hard, feel a freight train, and see stars—that’s a good night.” She sighed. “That’s… paintworthy.”

On a breezy May midday nearly three weeks after what Marko had taken to calling her “train ride,” Nyree was hitting the button to lock the Escape, reminding herself to take the keys, trying to keep her heart under control, and hustling across the Auckland Airport carpark with Ella to meet Marko.

The problem was, it had been much too long since those stolen five days after they’d come back from Tekapo, when Ella had stayed on with Caro after all, saying, ‘Too boring to be in Auckland the whole time, since I don’t have friends and all.’

Five days during which Nyree had gone to work with absolute reluctance and raced home afterwards. That night, too, when Marko had come in to eat at Bevvy, and how it had looked to see him walking through the door, taking up too much space. Hearing the buzz beginning around him, and knowing he was there for her. Getting the chance to flirt with him even as she knew people were watching, the chance to tease in a way she’d never done in her life, absolutely safe and out on the edge at the same time.

Five days when she’d eaten too much, laughed too hard, and possibly had too much sex in too many new positions, judging by the soreness of her muscles afterwards. Five days when she hadn’t painted nearly enough, a fact she’d pointed out to Marko when she’d left him at the airport two weeks earlier, en route to South Africa with the Blues.

He’d grinned at her, said, “So you’re waiting for me to set you free, eh. A bit like last night.” When he’d used that tape again, this time to fasten her wrists together over her head. Before he’d draped her legs over the back of his couch.

She might have shivered a tiny bit at that, because he’d smiled some more, leaned across the seat, kissed her much too deeply for public consumption, and said, “I’ll miss you too, baby. Two weeks is two weeks too long. Be good while I’m gone.”

“Telling that to the… wrong person,” she’d said. Not as firmly as she might have, because he’d been kissing her neck, absolutely heedless of anybody watching. “I’m not the one with, uh… access to temptation.”

“No? And yet you’re the one working at a restaurant, wearing those pretty clothes, sending that message you just can’t help, and meeting all those fellas who’ve had too much to drink. I can’t even scare the bastards away, because the clientele keeps changing. Bugger.”

“You may have to trust me. And I send a message? What message?” Her fingers had curled through his hair, she’d rubbed her cheek against his, and all she’d wanted was to keep him with her.

“Dunno about anybody else,” he’d said, “but that message says ‘life’ to me. Always has. Possibly ‘sex’ as well. And here’s a thought for you. You may have to do the same thing, trust-wise.” He’d kissed her mouth again, nothing but sweetly, run his hand over the side of her face, looked into her eyes, and said, “You can, you know.”

She’d felt that treacherous lurch of her heart. “So can you.”

After that? He’d opened the door and left her. She’d watched him head into the terminal and be stopped by two blondes before he could even get to the door. He’d posed for one selfie, then another, and she’d driven away thinking, You could have done something easier than this.

Except that she hadn’t had a choice.

Two weeks, then, of paying back those traded shifts at the restaurant. Two weeks of losing herself in her painting again, her bedroom studio filled with the smell of acrylics and the music of Spain, her head filled with the saturated blue of a mountain lake, the yellows and browns and sage greens of the subalpine heath, and the velvet black and blazing white night sky that a woman might have looked at, forty or fifty or an impossible sixty thousand years earlier, from a sleeping hollow dug out of the red Australian earth. Her heart filled with the memory of a freight train passing too close and the orgasm of her life shaking her body from outside and inside, and the man over her, inside her, piercing all the way to her soul. Feeling all that power tumbling her over, around, down and down, into the star-strewn blackness. Helpless.

Two weeks to let her imagination run free, to feel it all again, to take it further, and then to put it on canvas with all the genius and control she could possibly command, while the lack of sleep left her ever more giddy and reckless. Falling asleep with a brush in her hand, and waking up to paint again. Yanking herself out of the painting trance with an almost physical effort to do some lonesome-cat tending, to fix meals with Ella and hear about school, because people mattered, too, and Ella was right here. Of reading the card of the day and Marko’s sexy, sweet texts, and trying to let him know, in her answers, that she was thinking of him. Two weeks of too much to do, and not enough Marko.

And last night.

The first text had come a couple hours after the match, when Marko was probably at a bar surrounded by leggy South African blondes. He’d written, She could be a bit more subtle. But what am I saying. It’s my mum. Also, you’re going to think this is the only reason I can’t wait to see you. Have to admit it’s looming large, but it’s not the only reason.

It had been followed by the most phallic Tarot card Nyree had ever seen.

The Ace of Wands, his mum’s text had said. This one’s about giving all your energy, putting it out there. Since your match is over, that’s not it. It’s about following your impulses, wherever they lead. I know they won’t steer you wrong.

Nyree had answered, typing as fast as her thumbs would move, not waiting to think better of it, Could be I want your energy, and your impulses, too. Miss you so much.

He’d replied,

Got this one as well. More high-minded than the place I went, maybe.

Another card, then. Another message.

The Star. This is Nyree’s. Tell her—dreams really do come true. It’s all right to believe. And remember, baby—you aren’t the only one with that energy, or with those dreams.

Now, she crossed the street to the terminal at the zebra stripes, and Ella said, “You’re acting nervous. I’m the one who should be nervous.”

Nyree hesitated where she was, then finished crossing before turning to Ella.

It’s not enough to look, she reminded herself. You have to see.

Ella tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, trying for casual. But when her hand fell, her thumb was running over her fingertips, just like that first day in the furniture shop. Nyree said, “Nobody’s going to miss that you’re pregnant, but Tom already knows, remember? So does most of the team, probably, since that school visit, but that’s all good, too. Like you said—you’re not wearing any scarlet letter. You’re doing a beautiful thing. And you are beautiful.”

Ella snorted. “Yeh, right.”

“Yeh,” Nyree said firmly. “Right.” Ella was wearing a crossover yellow-gold top that lit up her skin, as well as a stretchy brown skirt that would’ve nearly reached the knee on Nyree, but didn’t come anywhere close on Ella’s long legs. Nyree had heard tallboy drawers opening and closing that morning, then heard them some more, and had known it was Ella changing clothes too many times. When the girl had finally come downstairs, Nyree had seen the tears and the fear just under the surface. But at this moment, all she looked was gloriously young and perfectly ripe, like the goddess of fertility. “You wait,” Nyree promised her. “You’ll see.”

She told herself, too. Dreams really do come true. And not just dreams about sex.

They were almost late, which wasn’t just due to fear on Ella’s part. It had been Nyree’s doing, too. Now, though, they were here, through the doors and into the echoing hall, just having approached the knot of women and kids when the first group of big, tired bodies headed out of International Arrivals and into the terminal.

A group of middle-aged men, that is. The coaching staff, which was another reminder Nyree didn’t need. Next Saturday, the Blues would be playing the Highlanders at Eden Park, here in Auckland, and on Friday, her mum was coming up. Nyree had asked Kane not to mention her new living arrangements to her mum or his dad, and he hadn’t. How did she know? Because she hadn’t felt the Disapproval Waves washing over her all the way from Dunedin, that was how. Marko didn’t need those, and neither did she.

She stopped thinking about coaches, then, because a familiar, tiny figure with a mop of black curls was shrieking and charging under the barrier, arms waving.

“Daddddeeee!” The word reverberated even above the hubbub, and there was that famous grin and full-arm Maori tattoo as Koti James, first out of the doors, grabbed his daughter in mid-charge, swung her high overhead, and cuddled her close while she put her little hands on his cheeks and laughed into his face. Nothing but loved, and nothing but secure.

“Aww,” Ella said as Koti reached Kate, who was holding the baby. He put a gentle arm around her, gave her a lingering kiss, and said something to her. Something sweet again, Nyree assumed, but then she stopped watching them, and Jocelyn Pae Ata, too, who was getting her own absolutely enthusiastic kiss from Hugh Latimer, the captain looking as big and tough as ever.

But not brutal. That was somebody else.

Marko came through the doors with his duffel over his shoulder. In the midst of a group of players, most of them searching the crowd for that special somebody. His dark eyes met hers, the fierce expression changed to something else, and she thought, Breathe, and then forgot to think it and just stood there, rooted to the floor.

He was in front of her, but he still wasn’t smiling.

He just frowns at them so they move off, Ella had said.

It was like she was holding one of those flat plastic disks with the silver balls inside. That moment when you tipped it just right and the three little balls finished the maze and settled into place, like that was how it was meant to be.

He frowned when he felt too much. He was a whale, that strongest of Maori totems, most of him under the surface. Protective. Unmovable.

She stepped into him. His bag hit the floor, and his arms went around her, lifting her off her feet. His mouth was on hers, kissing her like he couldn’t do anything else, and she was kissing him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him close, and thinking, Yes. This.

When he finally set her down, Tom was there with his own tattooed arm around Ella, asking her, “Feeling all right? Babies growing well, eh. You’re looking good.”

She was looking excited, and shy, too. “Nah. I’m huge. Twenty-one weeks, eh.”

“Yeh,” Tom said with his sweet smile. “I hear that can happen when you’re pregnant. So what did you find out? Do you get to talk to the parents today?” Which meant that the two of them had been texting, obviously. Nyree shot a look at Marko, but he wasn’t looking as fierce as he might have been.

Ella said, “No. They’re in Rarotonga, on holiday, and then there’s your match, so we’re doing it next Sunday instead. Wouldn’t you know it, when I finally find the right ones. I couldn’t do it earlier, because Marko wanted to be there. I want it to be at their house, too, I mean the parents’, so I can see it. So…”

“That’s good,” Tom said. “That’ll help, for him to be there. And next week’s all good. You’ve got time.”

Marko said, “Glad you approve, mate,” his voice dry, and Nyree jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Ella needed all the support she could get.

Tom said with a glance at him, “I could come by in a bit, Ella. Too cold for ice cream, maybe, but we could have lunch, go for a walk, and you could tell me. Go to the supermarket, too, if you like. I need to do that anyway.”

Ella was about to answer, but instead, her hand went to her belly, and she froze. “They’re moving again,” she said. “The babies. I started feeling them right after you guys left. At first, I wasn’t sure, but…” She was right, because Nyree could actually see movement under the snug gold top. “Whoa,” Ella said. “I guess it’s strong because there are two of them. It’s like they’re both rolling over, doing somersaults.” She laughed. “I still can’t get used to it. It’s so weird to think about them in there, being alive. Isn’t it?”

Tom lifted his hand, hesitated, and asked, “Can I?” She smiled at him, took his hand, and set his palm on her belly. He looked down at it, then up at her, his own smile growing, and said, “I feel them. Awesome.”

That was when Hugh Latimer and Josie Pae Ata walked by. Marko said, “See ya, mate,” and Hugh nodded and hesitated, but Josie had that distant expression again, that fixed smile, and was looking straight past them as if she couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Beautiful on the outside, and that was all. Pity.

The fatigue was trying to get the best of Marko on the forty-five-minute drive home, his eyes closing despite himself until he jerked them open again.

First had come the brutal match against the Lions at the pressure cooker that was Ellis Park in Johannesburg. Playing at altitude on the Highveld, battling all that South African physicality in front of one of the best rugby crowds in the world. This time, the duel had resulted in a loss for the Blues, which always drained you so much more than a win, even if the effort had technically been the same. Something about not getting the adrenaline rush that carried you through the next day, or just that to play at this level, you had to hate losing. Then there were the eighteen hours in the air, a thirteen-hour time change, and having to switch gears already, to focus on getting his aching body and his mental state back to the place where he could turn around and do it all again. It was always about next Saturday night.

That was the job, and he was lucky to have it. It was still a job. And whinging about it being too hard got you exactly nowhere.

Nyree glanced across the car at him and asked quietly, “Tired, eh,” and he smiled and said, “Nothing a bit of time in the spa tub won’t cure.” She put her hand on his for a moment, then returned her focus to the road. She could have overtaken the car in front, but she didn’t. After a moment, he saw why, when a white sedan sped past on the right. He said, “I remember this drive as more hair-raising.”

She said, “Maybe it’s different with Ella in the car. Or something. I could be getting responsible. Ugh.”

That one made him laugh. “When were you not responsible?”

“I’m not. I’ve never been.”

“Yeh. You are. Think about it again.”

“You totally are,” Ella insisted from the back seat. “Nothing like living with Mum, except when you’re, like, wrapped up with painting. But we never run out of eggs or bread, and you always ask about school. That’s pretty much the definition of responsible.”

“Time for me to ask, too,” Marko said, shaking off the fatigue once again, because he could all but feel Ella’s vibrating excitement, her emotions careening around like the ball in a Ping-Pong match, how she was nearly bursting at the seams to share. “Tell me about the parent search.”

“OK,” Ella said. “So, you know, I did that thing Nyree suggested, weeding them down. I copied and pasted the best ones into one document, and then I made a spreadsheet of variables. Like a matrix. I weighted them so everybody got a numerical score.”

“Very organized,” Nyree put in. “Very impressive. You should have her show you.”

“Anyway,” Ella said. “So at the end of that, I had four couples with the highest scores. I didn’t want anybody to get the babies if they already had kids, like it was their good deed or something to rescue them. I want to make somebody happy, you know? I want to make them parents, like maybe they thought they couldn’t be. That’s the point. And I didn’t want people that were too flash. I want them to play music with the kids, like our family, and play cricket on the beach, and go fishing. I want them to do family things. Regular things. And other variables, too. How old they were, education, all that.”

“Got it,” Marko said. “Nobody too flash, and nobody with kids. But you found four couples who seemed good.”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “I rang the social worker, and she rang them, and all of them said twins were fine, but only three of them seemed, like, excited. So I talked to all of those on the phone, and Nyree listened. It was hard, because I could tell they’d be really disappointed and all. I felt bad for them, but I have to know I’m picking the best ones, right?”

Marko reached into the back and took her hand. “Yeh,” he said. “You do. No worries. And we’ll keep on making sure. We’ll go meet them and see what we all think.”

“I wanted to do it straight away, though,” Ella said. “It’s getting hard to wait. I want to feel like the babies are settled. Like I have a place for them.”

“Never mind,” Marko said. “Look at it this way. Less time for everybody to wait, once you decide. And imagine how they’ll feel when they meet you and see that belly, eh.”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “Thanks. Super helpful, reminding me of that. Geez, Marko.” But she was laughing, and so was Nyree. So that was better.

At least the conversation had got them closer to home, where Cat went through her ecstatic greeting routine, Marko picked her off him twice and put her back on her gym, and she jumped back onto him both times. She’d conquered her world at last, because she was sitting on the top platform now. She was more sleek than fuzzy, she’d grown even more than Ella’s belly, and she was louder than ever, but she still thought she should sit on his shoulder. When he finally set her on the floor and headed upstairs with his bag, she trotted behind him.

“You’re actually a dog,” he told her. “A disgrace to Catdom. You do realize that.”

In answer, she meowed.

Ella went into her room and shut the door, her phone already in her hand. Texting Kors, probably, or maybe Caro. Not looking like she needed him at this particular moment, anyway.

That was when he realized that Nyree wasn’t with him. He swore, turned around again, and went back downstairs with Cat at his heels.

He found her in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. “Oi,” he said. “Why?”

“Why what?” The jug boiled, and she poured boiling water over the bag and said, “Do you want one?”

“No,” he said. “I want a beer. In the spa tub. With you.”

“Oh. Well, get a beer, then.”

He stared at her, and she stared back. He said, “I’m missing something. What?”

“Nothing.” She pulled out milk from the fridge, grabbed a beer at the same time, and handed it to him.

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ It’s something. What? I didn’t call enough? I know I didn’t. Thirteen-hour time difference. Training. PR stuff. Team stuff. I shouldn’t assume you want to spend the day with me? You said you didn’t have to work, and, yeh, I assumed. Of course I assumed.”

She sighed, poured her milk, and turned to face him. “I want to spend time with you. I guess I thought you’d ask me, that’s all.”

“Ask you what?” He searched his memory, but couldn’t come up with anything. Whether she’d waited for him? She’d bloody well better have waited for him. That wasn’t all right to say? Bugger that. He was going to say it anyway.

There was a faint flush rising into her cheeks. That didn’t look like a good sign. “Maybe what I’ve been doing?” she asked. “How it’s going?”

“Oh.” He exhaled with relief and went for the bottle opener. “Geez. You had me scared. I thought you were pregnant for a second there, or telling me you’d met somebody else, somebody who didn’t keep running off on you.” Sounded good. Casual. Like he hadn’t actually felt that stab of fear, piercing too deep. “So it’s not that. Then what? Assume I’m an arrogant bastard and set me right. Wait. You just did. How’s the painting been going, then? Been immortalizing any Chihuahuas?”

The second he said it, he knew it was wrong again, because she’d stiffened. He set the beer bottle down, searched his mind for the right thing, and gave it up. He was never going to say the right thing, so he’d go with what he had. “I told you the flowers were amazing,” he said. “You told me you had to paint dogs, because that was what people would buy, but when I walked through the door today, I saw those blue flowers, and I remembered that, yeh, you’re amazing and talented. How’s that?”

Her shoulders had relaxed, at least. “Better,” she said. “And you did say all that. I guess I wondered if you meant it after all, when you didn’t ask about it while you were gone.”

“You don’t need to wonder about that,” he said. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Let’s go look at what you’ve done, then. If it’s Pookie and Precious, I’ll do my best to admire the technique. I’ll still think it’s a waste of talent, and I won’t hide it well enough. But show me anyway.”

“It’s not Pookie and Precious.” Her hand was turning the mug on the counter, like she had all those weeks ago in a café. Short, unpainted nails, small, square hands. A few flecks of paint on them, too. Orange and red and yellow, nothing like a dachshund and a Chihuahua being married under an arbor of pink roses. She said, not looking at him, “I haven’t worked on them at all, and I should have.”

“Never mind,” he said. “If you’ve been doing something better—never mind them. It’s good for what’s-her-name, Savannah, to have to wait anyway. You’ll make her appreciate it more.”

“You say that,” she said, finally looking up at him, “but you do exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“That’s because I’m lucky enough to be doing exactly the job I want to. Are we going to stand around and have a yarn about this, or are you going to show me? Because I don’t think this is about me at all. I think you’re stalling.”

Her mouth tightened, her eyes flashed, and he smiled and said, “That’s better. I’m not waiting anymore. I’m going to see for myself. Come if you like, or stay here and have a sulk, but either way, I’m looking.”

He headed up the staircase, his beer in his hand and Nyree and Cat following behind, and thought, Hope it’s not something rubbish, because she’s going to know if I’m lying. He didn’t open her door, though, when he’d got there. Whatever he’d said, this was hers to show or not.

She took a deep breath, and then she pushed the door open.

Both windows were open, but the smell of paint lingered underneath. Her mattress wasn’t on the floor anymore, and the bed was covered by a complicated spread, all reds and Oriental style, like a Persian carpet. Speaking of which, there was a Persian carpet on the wood floor. Old and threadbare, but glowing all the same. Her paintings hung on the wall, and the little tables around the room held a variety of… things. A bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a collection of crockery, the physical objects blending into the art and back again until you almost couldn’t tell which was which.

There was no cloth over the oversized canvas on the easel, not this time. The painting was finished. And looking into it was falling in, like a funhouse mirror. Like the effect of the room times ten.

A wall and a half of her room, and that was all. No windows. Nothing but interior. The walls more yellow than orange in her rendering, saturated with color, glowing with warmth, like the sun was coming in from somewhere, strong as in Western Australia. Or as in Northland. Rich red oriental-patterned coverlet on the bed, red carpet on the floor. Paintings and objects, texture and color. Every detail rendered exquisitely, but no question, this wasn’t any photo. This was a painting.

Making you want to live in her room, in her heart, in her life, to climb inside all that richness and heat and heart. Making you—not just see it. Making you feel it.

She said, “It’s boring, isn’t it? It’s weird to paint a room. I know I need to do people instead. I never want to, though, even though I should paint you, because nobody could be better, like the model you always wished you could get in Life Drawing class but never did. I wanted to do this, though. It’s all I could see, but nobody wants to look at a room. Unless it’s Van Gogh’s bedroom in Arles, but I’m not Van Gogh.”

He said, “Stop. Stop talking.”

She said, “Right. Never mind.” Her voice came out tight, not like Nyree at all. “You asked, at least. You were interested. Thanks.”

He turned to her, finally, and said, “Didn’t I say to stop talking? Nyree. Stop. I’m not telling you what I think because I can’t think how to say it. And I can’t stop looking, either.”

“Oh,” she said. “You… can’t?”

He laughed, and her head jerked back. He had to hold her, then, didn’t he? He had to pull her into him, and to keep looking at her painting from over her head, because she didn’t even reach his shoulder. That was all right, though. That was perfect, because she packed so much into that body of hers. All the emotion. All the vision. All the life. He said, “It’s you, that’s all. This painting is everything you are, and I want to live in that world.”

“You do? Really?”

“No,” he said, still smiling. “I’m lying. Of course I really do. It’s awesome. You have to know it’s awesome.”

“It’s decorative,” she said.

“Bugger decorative. It’s beautiful, is what it is. It’s got all this detail and all this color, and you can look at it forever and find more to see. It’s at a whole different level from the flowers, and you must know it.”

“It’s how I feel when you play the guitar,” she said, then shook her head. “I can’t explain. How I felt looking at the stars with you, and sitting in your mum’s kitchen, talking to your grandmother. Sitting in the church with you, looking at the lake and the mountains. Being on the beach in Northland, with the wind blowing and the tide coming in and the sea wild and nobody else around. It’s about being whole. It’s about being home.”

“Yeh,” he said. He’d have been looking for a place to put his overflowing heart, except that he already had one. It was right here. “It is. It’s about being home.”

“What do you mean,” Marko said three days later, “you aren’t bringing them here? And you’re moving the mattress back? Why? The night before the match, and you’re going to spend it at the garage? That’s rubbish.”

He wasn’t shouting. Nyree remembered somebody saying, a while back, that Marko didn’t shout, because he didn’t have to. Tom, she thought that had been. Well, Tom had been right. The raw power that was Marko standing over her, vibrating red, black eyebrows slamming together, was enough all by itself. No shouting necessary.

“Stop,” she told him, still holding the salad tongs she’d been using to mix in the dressing. “Back up. Back off.”

“Whoa,” Ella said, coming into the kitchen and wheeling around again. “I’ll be coming back later, then.”

Nyree barely heard her. Marko turned off the fire under the snapper he’d been cooking, and she barely noticed that, either. Marko could give off that much intensity and still remember to turn off the stove. She couldn’t. Too bad. She said, “If you want me to talk to you, dial it back.”

He stood there another second, poised out on the edge, and then he took a breath. “Right,” he said. “It’s dialed. But I’m exactly as not-happy as I was two minutes ago.”

“You do not need to see my stepfather the night before your match,” Nyree tried to explain, “and to have him know you’re sleeping with me. That I’m living with you. You also don’t need my mum telling him about it, but you really don’t need to see him.”

“How about if you assume that I know what I need?” Not dialed all that far back after all, because his next words were, “And that I can handle anything Grant Armstrong throws my way? You could assume that as well, while you’re at it.”

“All Blacks selection is in, what? Two weeks? You want Grant telling the selectors you’ve got character issues? You know he would.”

“I’ve been an All Black for more than ten years. The selectors know my character. Which includes not hiding, and not backing down. From anybody.”

“Injured all last year,” she pointed out.

“Playing all this year. Every minute of every match. I’ve given my best every one of those minutes. I’m ready to stand on my performance.”

She sighed. “It must be nice to be you. So uncompromising.”

“Not always nice, no. It’s not feeling nice right now. And I’d like to know who’s more uncompromising than you. Who’s going toe to toe in my kitchen with me? Who won’t bloody back down, even though I’m right?”

“What is it you’re looking for?” she asked. “What is it you want from me?”

He stared down at her. Dark eyes burning, unshaven face hard. “The truth. Which is that you’re here with me, and with Ella, and you’re staying here. That I’m in love with you, and that maybe you’re in love with me, too. I want the truth.”

He’d swear she hadn’t heard him, or that she had and she didn’t want to. Neither one was a wonderful option. “Pardon?” she finally asked.

“If I knew how to say it in sign language, I would. Can’t be a surprise to you, since I don’t do any of this, and you know it. I don’t get possessive. I don’t get… personal.”

“Excuse me? You get nothing but possessive. And what we did last night? That was pretty bloody personal for me. More personal than I’ve ever got, in case I didn’t mention it. Also, what do you call this particular moment?”

“Frustrating.” He took the tongs from her and set them on the kitchen bench. “The standard response is, ‘I love you, too.’ Or, ‘I’m very fond of you as well.’”

“Maybe I’m not feeling all that loving at the moment,” she said. While scowling. Not exactly how he’d expected his first-ever declaration of love to be received.

“Neither am I. But I still know that I love you. In the abstract right now, maybe. But still.”

She laughed. Laughed. A hand running through her wild waves of black hair, and wearing a shirt with too much lacing across her breasts. A temptress, and a witch. The woman he couldn’t walk away from. She raised both hands high, dropped them against her snug gray jeans with a slap, and said, “Right, then. I love you, too, you arrogant…" Another breath. “And I still don’t see why you want to have this… this confrontation with Grant until after the selection, but all right. All right. My mum loves to take me out, as if I won’t get a meal otherwise. She’s going to suggest it for Friday, I promise. I’ll tell her I’m bringing my plus-one, and we’ll do the big reveal. If we’re lucky, Grant will be eating with the coaches anyway. It’ll be a non-issue.”

“No,” he said.

“What d’you mean, ‘No’? Here’s a clue for you. You won. We’re doing it your way.”

He was starting to smile. Starting to pull her into his arms, where she belonged. “We’re going to invite them here. We’re going to cook for them. I’m not a plus-one. I’m Marko Sendoa, arrogant bastard, and you’re in love with me and I’m in love with you. We’re going to let them know it. And here’s a tip for you, one you already know, because I’ve seen you do it. When the pressure’s hardest? That’s not when you walk away, and it’s sure as hell not when you run. It’s when you walk straight into it. It’s when you say, ‘Come on, then. Come on and try it. Take your best shot. I’m standing right here.’”

“Life’s not…” She had her arms around his neck in that way he loved, her whole sweet body pressed up against him, and this fish was going to have to wait. “Not a battle.”

“Now, you see,” he said, giving her a kiss on that mouth, and then a couple more. “That’s where you’re wrong. Life’s a battle all the way, even if all you’re fighting is yourself. And it’s one you can win. For somebody as strong as you? Too right it is. Every time.”

They did cook dinner at home on Friday night. No concessions to anything, in the menu or anything else. One thing, Marko knew for sure. He wasn’t losing tomorrow night, not if he could help it, and he certainly wasn’t losing because he hadn’t eaten right.

His card of the day was all wrong, as far as he was concerned.

The Tower, his mum had written this morning, with a picture of a… yes, tower. Lightning flashing around it, fire burning in it. Sometimes, you have to burn it all down and start over. It can look like destruction and chaos, but you have to clear the ground before you can plant again. One word, baby. Surrender.

One word he was never going to say. Not in his vocabulary.

Grant did come along, which was also fine with him. If you had to do something, it was always better to do it sooner than later. And the minute his former coach walked through the front door, all height and presence and beetling gray eyebrows, it was on.

Nyree got a cuddle from her mum, and one from Grant as well, so there was that. Miriama Armstrong was exactly the same as every other time Marko had met her. A pretty, nearly tiny woman who gave off femininity in waves, as if she’d known all her life that she was destined for good things, and that men would fall over themselves to give them to her. Attentive to Grant and to whomever she was with, and as charming as Grant was gruff. A buffer zone.

“Marko,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek and a smile as if this evening were her big treat, while he took her coat and hung it on a hook. “I was so surprised to hear that Nyree was working here. What a lovely house you’ve got. You’ve landed on your feet up here, obviously. And you’ve hung one of Nyree’s paintings as well. So kind.”

“Not really kind,” he said, figuring he might as well get stuck in. “I bought it because I liked it.”

She laughed, and he didn’t have to look at Nyree to know she was stiffening. “Flowers? It’s lovely, of course, but I think I know you better than that.”

“Come in,” he said, because he couldn’t actually throw them out when they’d barely got their shoes off. He shook Grant’s hand, though, first, and if the other man didn’t make it a pissing contest, that was probably because he knew he’d lose. “Come meet my cousin Ella. The reason Nyree moved in, originally, to give her some companionship.”

“Oh,” Miriama said when they were in the kitchen and Ella turned from the fridge, where she was pouring a glass of water. “Goodness. Hello. When are you due, darling? Not too long now, eh.”

“September,” Ella said. “Twins. Hi. I’m Ella.”

“Miriama Armstrong,” Nyree’s mum said. “And my husband Grant. And twins? Heavens. That’s lovely, isn’t it? And you live here with Marko?” Her eyes went between Marko, Nyree, and Ella. “Goodness, I’ve got it all wrong, haven’t I? I thought Nyree was… but then, you said you were a carer, darling,” she told Nyree. “Grant, you should’ve known Nyree wouldn’t be with Marko. I told you that he has too much respect for you, and she does have good sense, after all.”

“Tense” wasn’t even the word anymore. “I’m with Marko,” Nyree said. “Or with Marko. And I do have good sense, thanks.”

“Marko’s my cousin,” Ella said, leaning up against the kitchen bench and sipping at her water, her belly making its usual emphatic statement. “He’s gone heaps, though, obviously, so Nyree keeps me company and all, as I’m still in school. She’s not, like, a carer. She just keeps me company.”

Time to offer some support. Marko slid an arm around Nyree’s waist, and she turned to him and said, “Did you open that wine?” Like a woman who needed a glass. Or a bottle.

Nyree wouldn’t have called the evening “enjoyable.” Marko and Grant looked like nothing so much as two male lions circling each other, the elder, canny and lean, bearing the scars of battles won, and the younger arrogant in his strength, sure that this was his time.

It didn’t help that the Blues were playing the Highlanders tomorrow night, though Marko probably had the advantage there. Grant could want to win. Marko would actually be on the field making it happen. If he didn’t slam a few former teammates to the deck, Nyree would be surprised.

Her mother talked about their upcoming holiday in Fiji, asked Ella about her school, and told her about Nyree’s sister Kiri. Nyree cut up veggies, drank a glass of wine and then another one, watched Marko cook eye fillets and sauté mushrooms, laid the table, and hoped there wouldn’t be actual bloodshed.

When they sat down to eat, her mum turned her attention to Nyree again. “What about your friend Victoria?” she asked. “I’m confused, darling, because Kane said you still had the place. Not that I ever liked that garage above half. I always thought she had a nerve, charging you for that and still calling herself your friend. I hope you plugged in the carbon monoxide detector I bought you.”

“Mostly,” Nyree pointed out, “that comes from cars in garages, not from special garage fumes. It’s Auckland. She could be getting twice that rent. And, yes, she’s still my friend.” Who, she happened to know, was out with Kane at this very minute in Hamilton, since the Crusaders were playing the Chiefs tomorrow. “Wearing the highest heels,” she’d told Nyree, “that I can possibly walk in. You don’t know what it’s like to kiss somebody who’s ten wonderful inches taller than you. Well, wait, of course you do. For me, it’s novel. And Kane’s so good. Did I tell you—” Which meant that Nyree was now in receipt of far more information than she’d ever really wanted about her stepbrother. She may have had a crush on Marko from the age of fourteen, but she’d never had one on Kane. As Ella would say—“Ew.”

“Nonsense,” her mum said, and Nyree tried to remember what they’d been talking about. “I read about carbon monoxide poisoning all the time, especially in state houses and those kinds of shonky places. Explosions as well. With all that paint…”

“Again,” Nyree said, “no open flame. Electric stove, electric water heater, heat pump. No carbon monoxide, either.”

“Anyway,” Ella said, “that’s probably P. Methamphetamine. Somebody says it was carbon monoxide making the kids ill or whatever, but don’t you think they were probably cooking drugs and didn’t want to be chucked out?”

Nyree could see the smile lurking in Marko’s eyes. “I don’t think Nyree was cooking P in her garage.”

“In the state houses, I meant,” Ella said. “Obviously not Nyree. She’s not thin enough to have a drugs problem.”

Marko laughed, the rat. Nyree glared at him and said, “Excuse me?” Which only made him laugh some more.

“Have some more wine,” he said, filling up her glass. Probably a bad idea. Or not.

Her mum said, “You’re looking very nice, darling. Very… bright.” She looked her up and down in her red wrap blouse. “Are those big sleeves the style now?”

“I don’t know,” Nyree said. “Six dollars at the op shop, though.”

“Oh, no, thanks,” her mum said when Marko hovered the wine bottle over her glass. “Too many kilojoules, don’t you think, Nyree?”

“Not subtle, Mum,” Nyree said, and took another swallow. “And fortunately, Marko likes me curvy. Possibly drunk as well. Also fortunate.”

Marko said, “True. First thing I thought when I saw Nyree was that she was, ah… curvy. Second thing was that she didn’t run very fast. Slowest runner I’ve ever seen, in fact, and it didn’t even matter. Maybe it was her painting that knocked me sideways like that, but I think all that did was seal the deal. I have to admit—I think it was her smile. And her eyes.”

Grant snorted, and Marko looked at him blandly and said, “Pardon?”

“Maybe I’m thinking,” Grant said, “that you seemed able to resist her before. Maybe I’m wondering why now.”

“Because I met her now?” Marko asked. Quietly. Dangerously, that lion slinking through the tall grass.

“Or because you’re not playing in Otago anymore,” Grant said. “Because you have a point to make.”

Silence for a frozen minute, and then Nyree’s mum said, “Do you have any new paintings, darling? Or have you given it up?”

Given it up? It didn’t matter, because Marko ignored her. He said, “I didn’t know who Nyree was when I met her again. And if one of us has been at a disadvantage since that day, it’s been me. Been a step behind the whole way, haven’t I.”

“Also,” Nyree said, because she was tired of this, and she wasn’t that shy girl on the terrace anymore, “it could be that I have some sense. And some caution. Marko didn’t know who I was, but I knew exactly who he was.”

“It could be, in fact,” Marko said, “that she made sure I was good enough for her before she fell in love with me.”

Grant snorted and muttered, “That what you call it, then.”

It wasn’t like Nyree hadn’t seen it before. She just hadn’t seen it quite like this. Marko’s energy being drawn into himself, like before a tsunami. When the water was pulled out to sea, but you knew it was coming back.

He said, “Pardon?” Low. Dark. That wave was coming in.

Ella actually got up and left the table. Nyree wanted to, but she wanted to see, as well. It could be the wine, and it could be the man, but she had to know what would happen next.

“Grant.” Her mum had her hand on her stepfather’s arm.

He didn’t look at her. He was looking at Nyree. “I’m in this fella’s house,” he said. “And I’m asking myself why.”

Her mother said, “Grant. Stop.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Grant said. “He’s a bloody footballer. It’s all about winning. He couldn’t win with me, couldn’t get his way, so he ran away to the Blues. Ran as far as he could go, didn’t he, without going to France. But don’t fool yourself. It’s still about winning.”

Nyree wasn’t waiting for the tsunami. She stood up, took her wineglass with her for luck, and said, “Then he wins. Just like you won Mum. Or let’s look at it another way. Just like Mum won you, and I won Marko. It could have nothing to do with you, did you think of that? It could be all about me, and about him. It could be that we both have a passion for what we do, and for each other. It could be that we’re a match.”

Marko was in two places at once. He wanted to pick Nyree up off her feet, kiss her the way she loved, carry her to bed, and love her hard and sweet until the candles burned down. And he wanted to punch his former coach in the face.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t do either thing. One of them, though, he’d get to do later, so there was that. For now, he had to take care of the other one.

He said, “Yes, we are, baby,” and stood up himself. “Nyree’s painted something amazing. Would you like to see it, Miriama?”

Sometimes, you couldn’t batter your way through the line. Sometimes, you had to sidestep. It wasn’t his best talent, but he’d give it a go.

Miriama jumped up and said, “Of course. I always love seeing your beautiful things, darling. I have one she did for my birthday in the lounge at home,” she told Marko. “Everybody says how pretty it is.”

He could see Nyree’s tension as she led the way upstairs, but he was pretty sure this visit to view her work was necessary. At least for him.

She opened the door and said, “The thing on the easel is new. New direction, I guess. I don’t know if it’ll work or not, but… it’s where I want to go. Interiors. Out the windows, at the max. That’s what I want to do next. Painting beautiful spaces.”

Miriama said, “Oh, it’s lovely. Truly. It’s your room. How clever. And so colorful.” And Nyree relaxed a little.

Grant had his hands behind his back, peering at the painting. After that, he took a stroll around the room and looked at the flowers. He was about to pronounce judgment. Marko could tell.

Grant had never been what you’d call a “player’s coach.” Marko hadn’t needed that, but there were some of the boys who’d… done better somewhere else. Marko’d seen the difference it could make when he’d played for the All Blacks, and he was seeing the difference now, at the Blues with Fizzo. Eye-opening, you could call it.

He took Nyree’s hand, waited for that pronouncement, and tried to send her the message. He’s not your judge, and neither am I. Your talent knows best.

He didn’t have to wait long. Grant took another look at the new painting, then turned around, rocked on his heels, and said, “Very nice. It’s better than all that modern rubbish, at least. You can tell what it is, for one. Girls would like it, I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” Nyree said, her face and voice both tight.

“Her teachers always said she had so much talent,” Miriama said. “Ever since she took her first serious art class, in high school. Remember that, Grant? That first one. How he said, ‘If she keeps at it, she’ll go far’?”

“I never said she didn’t have talent,” Grant said. “Just that talent doesn’t pay the bills. Don’t coddle her, Miriama. I told you. United front. Tell her you want to see her settled in something that pays. The girl’s twenty-seven. Time to get serious about her future. It doesn’t mean she can’t have a hobby.”

“I have a job,” Nyree said. “I have two, in fact. Three, because I’ve been selling my work.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marko said, and could see her thinking, What? He went on to tell her what. “Do you take his money? Do you take your mum’s? Do you take mine?”

“Well, yeh, I take yours,” she said. “To stay with Ella.”

He said, “You know what I mean. Henry Ford.”

“Uh… Henry Ford what? The inventor?”

“Yeh. And the bloke who said, ‘The whole secret of a successful life is to find out what is one’s destiny to do, and then do it.’ That’s what you’re doing.”

“Sounds good,” Grant said, “until the rent’s due.”

Nyree must have decided she was twenty-seven, not seventeen, because she was standing tall at last. Facing front. And telling her stepfather, “I’m paying my rent. I’ve always paid my rent. And, all right, take any All Black out there. Take… take Drew Callahan. He was a schoolboy once, wasn’t he? Spending too much time on rugby, wondering if it was worth it and doing it anyway, because it was his passion, and his destiny. Because it burned in him, and he had to try. Maybe he’d fail, like all those other blokes who tried and didn’t do it, but he didn’t fail, did he? He became an All Black, and then he became captain of the All Blacks. He led the team to two Rugby World Cups, and he won them. Or the team won them, but you know and I know that he all but dragged them on his back to that first win. He followed his destiny, and it led him somewhere special, someplace that I’m guessing nobody will ever go again. Can I do that? Who knows? All I’m asking is for the… the space to do what he did. The space to try my hardest, and not to be afraid to say that’s what I’m doing. I’m not asking for your money. I’m not even asking for your approval. Just not to be ridiculed, that’s all. But you need to give me that. You need to, or I’m not coming home again.”

The threat lay there where she’d thrown it. Solid. Heavy. Real.

The Tower hadn’t been his card. It had been Nyree’s. She was burning it down, but there was still no surrender about it.

Did Grant back down? Of course not. “And what about all the fellas who didn’t make it?” he asked. “What about them, eh, when they go back to the freezing works, not a bit better off for all that effort? You don’t see what I see. You don’t know about all the ones I turn away. The ones who try, but it isn’t enough. Half a life wasted, and no catching up.”

“Maybe so,” she said. “Maybe that’ll be me. But I know something else, too. I te ra e hana nei ka herena e au ki te tenga o toku korokoro.”

Grant looked at his wife. “Bloody Maori proverbs.”

“’While the sun glows,’” her mum said, “‘I shall tie it to the front of my throat.’ When you have something good going for you, you hold onto it and make the most of it. If that’s her dream—well, I reckon it is, darling. Same as when she went to University. We have to face it. She isn’t going to become a solicitor, or even an estate agent. She’s not going to make any money.”

“Or she is,” Marko said. The anger was gone, now, replaced with something else. Pride. “Some fellas do become All Blacks, and some artists keep painting, even if they have to do it in a garage. Some people have gifts like they’ve been touched by magic, some people have nothing but grunt, and some have both. You know and I know who comes out best in the end. The ones who have both. When has Nyree stopped painting? When has she stopped trying? Someday, I reckon, maybe even someday soon, she’ll have her work in a gallery, and every piece will have a sticker on it saying it’s sold. It could even be in a museum. It could pay off after all. Not everybody gets to the All Blacks, you’re right about that. But nobody ever got there by giving up.”

Marko wasn’t thinking about Grant Armstrong. He wasn’t thinking about Ella, and he wasn’t thinking about Nyree. He wasn’t even thinking about winning, even though they had less than three minutes to go in the match, the Highlanders were about to get the ball inside the Blues 22, the score was 14 to 17, and the Blues didn’t have the 17.

He was thinking about the lineout, and that was all. Holding his body without tension, but all of him absolutely focused on the ball in George Masaga’s hands as the big Highlanders hooker stood, perfectly focused himself and beard bristling, his toes on the touchline, and prepared to throw the ball into the lineout.

Marko read his motion, his intent, as he’d done so many hundreds of times before from the other side. “At the back!” he shouted, at the same moment he lifted Iain McCormick into the air. He didn’t look to see whether the big lock stole it from the Highlanders. His job, along with Hugh’s, was to lift, so he lifted.

Iain came down with it, Hugh shouted, ‘Maul!,’ and it was on. Iain with his back turned to the Highlanders, his long legs churning, and the rest of the forwards pushing him on with Hugh at the rear of the pack with the ball, directing traffic, while Chris Eaton, the little general of a No. 9, danced around just beyond in the support position and shouted encouragement. “On your feet! Hang on! No penalties! No penalties!”

The Highlanders stopped the momentum, and Marko prepared for what would come next. For Hugh to get the ball and pass it on to Chris.

You couldn’t give the ball away, not back here, not with a couple minutes to go. Hand to hand, one forward to another, working for territory the hard way. Marko at the breakdown again, over and over, slamming his body in there, and then getting the ball from Chris. Working as hard with the ball as he had without it, keeping his legs driving, shoving the other bloke out of the way, because he wanted it more. Going down with it, letting it go as you had to do, then popping back up and driving into Casey Harding, the Highlanders skipper, who was doing his best to rip it out.

Pity for him that Marko knew every one of Hardy’s techniques. Not today, mate, he thought as he countered them. Not happening.

A rush from the Highlanders, then, and the ball going to Will Tawera, the No. 10, who kicked it away, because that was the only choice back here, two minutes or not. A box kick, keeping it close, and Jerry Kaso, the Highlanders fullback, taking it in the air and passing it to Angus Hamilton, the halfback. Angus putting his head down and taking off, counting on his speed to do what his size couldn’t.

Marko had him. He knew every one of Angus’s juking moves, and he adjusted for them, squared his shoulders, and laid him out. The ball popped out, and Hugh came up with it.

Little Nyree, Marko heard, despite everything, as Angus lay on the ground, winded and gasping. Would you bang?

Fuck you, mate, he thought, and took off again in the other direction. The right direction, towards that winning try. Checking the position of the Highlanders forwards, lining up against his man. Running, shifting, and running some more. His lungs burning, his legs like lead, and running anyway.

He had nothing but grunt left, so that was what he used. Hitting, bouncing off, and hitting harder. Taking the ball, slamming into the defender, and handing it off.

The hooter signaled eighty minutes, and nobody cared. This was it. Now or never. Do or die. No giving the ball away, no penalties, and no kicks.

You did it by glory, or you did it by grunt. Twelve phases. Thirteen. Fourteen. The ball moving a meter, three, two, or none at all with each carry. Being patient. Waiting for your moment. For the mismatch. For the mistake.

There. Numbers to the outside. If Chris, the halfback, saw it…

Chris saw it. So did Angus on the opposite side, shouting to his forwards, but Chris was faster. A looping cutout pass that flew ten meters like a bullet into Kevin McNicholl’s sure hands. The redheaded winger putting his head down. Twenty meters from the tryline, his halfback running in support and everybody else taking up their positions, a flying wedge around him.

Kevvie was a horse who’d scented his stable. Blazing speed, towering strength. One defender dove for his legs, but he kept going. Another tried for his hips, but Kevin had a hand in his chest, shoving him straight off again, sending him sprawling.

Two meters, and there was only the fullback, the last defender, in the way. A sidestep nobody could have expected, not at that speed. A grab at Kevin’s heels, and he was falling. Stretching. Hitting the ground with a jarring impact, his arms in front of him. Not to catch himself. To put the ball over the chalk, into the corner.

The whistle. The referee’s arms flying into the air. The noise erupting around him.

A try.

A win.

That morning, Marko had shown Nyree his card of the day. She’d read what his mum had written and said, “I’d call that your card of every day.”

Strength, she’d read.

“Maybe not what I achieve every time,” he’d said, “but it’s what I aim for.”

She’d read on. What a match day card. Courage and determination, and following through to the end. Remember, though—it’s not just about what you do, it’s about helping everybody else do it, too. It’s about summoning your patience as well as your willpower. In other words—it’s nothing I have to tell you.

“Nice to have your mum believe in you,” Marko had said. “I thought yesterday’s card was about you burning it down. I’d say I’d take this one, but could be this one’s for you, too.”

Now, watching Marko on the field, embracing teammates past and present, looking like he could have gone on for ten more minutes, she thought, Nah, boy. That was all you.

“Eighty-four minutes,” Ella said joyfully. “I’ve never seen a match go this long. They did it. I didn’t think they could. I thought it was over about four times, didn’t you?”

Nyree didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Hugh was making the winning captain’s speech below them, hard to understand as always, the amplified sound bouncing off the stands and off the crowd. Casey Harding, the Highlanders’ skipper, making his own speech. Gracious, as Hugh’s had been. Acknowledging a battle fought against a worthy opponent, mistakes made and opportunities taken. Leaving a margin of humility there, because there had to be humility, or you couldn’t learn.

And then something else. The Man of the Match award, sponsored by a beer firm. Marko stepping forward to take the trophy, his face inscrutable and hard on the big screens overhead. No quarter given, and no humility evident. An arrogant bastard.

Nyree strained to hear the presenter’s words. She could watch the replay later, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to hear this now.

“…a special moment,” the woman said, “coming against your old team? Any bittersweet quality to this?”

“No,” Marko said, and surely nobody else could pronounce that syllable with so much finality. “It’s all sweet. They’re a good side, the Highlanders. I’ve got mates there. But I’m here now.”

“You say that,” the presenter said, “like you have scores to settle. Anything to say to Grant Armstrong?”

“No,” Marko said again. “Anything I had to say, I’ve already said. I’ll leave it at that.”

In the sheds, Marko went through the usual post-match activities. A bottle of beer that you tapped against your mate’s. Stripping off the tape, then the uniform. Washing off the dirt and the sweat and the blood and getting dressed again, not feeling the soreness yet, because there was no anesthetic like a win. Being glad that you weren’t the skipper, the one who had to face the press afterwards.

On the thought, Hugh came and sat beside him. “Well done tonight, mate,” he said.

“Cheers,” Marko said with another pull at his beer. “You as well.”

Hugh said, “Wrong time for this, maybe, but…” He hesitated, something he did as rarely as Marko himself.

“Spit it out, mate,” Marko said. “No second thoughts, no, if that’s what it’s about. I’m here to stay.”

“Nah,” Hugh said. “This one’s personal.”

Marko eyed him warily. He wasn’t talking about Nyree. That was nobody’s business.

“Your cousin,” Hugh said. “Ella.” And Marko thought, What?

“Yeh,” he said. “What about her?”

“Koti says she’s pregnant. Well, I saw she was. But—putting the baby up for adoption, eh.”

“Yeh,” Marko said.

“Oh.” Again, the hesitation. “Josie and I are on that list, you know. Hoping for a baby.”

Now Marko was the one to say, “Oh.” He thought a minute more and said, “I think Ella’s chosen somebody. We’re meant to meet them tomorrow.”

Something changed on Hugh’s tough face. “Right,” he said. “Thought I’d take the chance to put it out there, that’s all. Josie can’t have kids, you see. It looms pretty large for her. So if it doesn’t work… we’re an option. Of course, it may be too close for Ella. Too close to home, eh.”

“I can’t say for sure,” Marko said, “but you’re not wrong. Close to home could be hard.”

Hugh nodded and stood, his hand gripping Marko’s shoulder for a moment. “I reckoned,” he said. “Thought I’d say something anyway, though. I won’t tell Josie.”

It was a pity, Marko thought as he finished his beer, got dressed, and got ready to go home to Nyree, that life wasn’t simpler. That every triumph came with pain, even if it wasn’t your pain.

On the other hand, laying out Angus Hamilton had been sweet.

The next morning, Marko wasn’t having a sweet, sexy lie-in with Nyree. He was driving north, all the way to Orewa, saying, “Remind me of their names again.”

“Carol-Anne and Adrian Hopkins,” Ella said. “They seemed awesome on the phone. Well, she did, because I didn’t talk to him. Super excited, though. Her.”

The house, when they got there, was white, single-story, and impeccably tidy. Not enough greenery around it for Marko’s taste, but no question, it was an upscale address. North Shore, with a little sleepiness to it. A little suburban, and a lot family.

Ella put a hand on the door handle, then stopped and said, “How do I look?”

“Good,” Marko said. “But remember—you’re the buyer, not the seller.”

“Huh?” she said. “I’m totally the seller. Except not, because I’m not selling the babies.”

“No,” he tried to explain. “You’re in the power position. You’re deciding if they’re good enough to get the babies. You’re not trying out for the team. You’re choosing the team.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Except it doesn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why Nyree and I are here. Just remember—no promises. It’s a meeting.”

He didn’t say more. She wouldn’t have listened, and the front door of the house had opened and a woman had come out. An absolutely tidy brunette, her hair glossy and swinging around her shoulders, wearing a wrap dress and high-heeled sandals. The fella was behind her, hair cut short and trousers cut conservative. A business type, Marko decided, or a lawyer, and the missus was probably one of those things as well. Both of them pretty dressy for Sunday in Orewa, but then, this would be as big an occasion for them as for Ella. Bigger, because whether she realized it at this moment or not, there were heaps more couples out there who’d want these babies. For them, it might be their only chance.

Don’t, he told himself. You’re the objective one. It’s about what’s best for Ella and the boys, and that’s it.

The interior of the house was as tidy as the outside. White walls, posh kitchen, fresh flowers, black leather, chrome, and art prints under glass. A bit like his house pre-Nyree, other than the flowers. It had felt like a pretty lonely place back then. He tried to imagine this one with two little boys in it, and failed. But then, probably nobody was ready for a baby, let alone two of them.

“So,” Carol-Anne said after glasses of water and cups of tea had been fetched from the perfect kitchen and a couple minutes of small talk had been disposed of. “We’re so excited that you chose us. When you sent your photo, we couldn’t believe we’d been this lucky. And you’re a pupil at St. Heliers? That’s a good school. Do you plan to go to University?”

“Yeh,” Ella said. “In Maths, probably. That’s my best subject. But I’m only here—in Auckland, I mean, at St. Heliers—because of Marko. My cousin. I came to stay with him, you know, because it was hard in Tekapo. Where I’m from.” Neither Carol-Anne nor Adrian had recognized Marko. Just as well. That would only have got in the way.

“I’m sure it was,” Carol-Anne said. “Have your parents had a hard time with this, then?”

“It’s my mum, that’s all,” Ella said.

“Oh,” Carol-Anne said. “So your mum is…”

“Not married,” Ella said. “Not anymore, if that’s what you mean. My dad’s not around.” She glanced at Marko.

He said, “My family’s around, though. Ella’s uncle and aunt and grandmother, and all the rest of us as well.” Did Adrian ever talk, he wondered? Not much of a business type if he didn’t. Or lawyer. Lawyers always talked, in his experience.

“Well,” Carol-Anne said, “anybody can make a mistake, can’t they. So your family is…” She looked between Marko and Ella. For what?

“Sheep farmers,” Ella said. “Merino. That’s what most of my family is, anyway. My mum’s a vet tech. Large animal.”

Adrian said, his hand covering his wife’s, “That certainly sounds wholesome, doesn’t it?” So he could talk. He smiled and said, “The truth is, Ella, we’re a bit nervous. Ask us anything you like. This is a two-way street.”

“Oh, of course,” Carol-Anne said. “Please. So—family. Us. Both Adrian and I come from big families, which is why twins are so exciting. I have three brothers, and Adrian has two, so you see, it’s perfect. We have space for the babies, which I’m sure you’re concerned about. Two bedrooms just waiting for them. We took the furniture out of the guest room already, we were so excited. We decorated the nursery, you know, and then… well, it’s been empty, and now…” She stopped, took a breath, and tried to smile, and Marko thought, That’s all right, then. “We both grew up in Auckland,” she went on, “so the babies would have grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins around. All sorts of family.”

“That’s good,” Ella said. “But I read that twins do better if they’re in the same cot. They’re used to being together, so they sort of… calm each other down. They’re kind of like… almost the same person, like they need to touch each other. At least, that’s what I read.”

Carol-Anne said, “Well, there’s time for us to decide all that, isn’t there?’ with a tight little smile that made Marko sit up straighter.

Ella looked at Marko, and he said, “You know that twins can be born early, be more likely to need extra time in hospital. Preemies, eh.”

“We know,” Carol-Anne said, leaning forward a little in her earnestness. “We’re prepared for that. Any baby can have problems. We just want one. Or… two.”

Silence, again. Marko could have filled it, asked another question. Instead, he waited.

At last, Carol-Anne said, “As we’re all here and this is our chance, Ella, tell us about the baby’s dad. Is he all good with this idea as well? The adoption?”

“Yeh,” Ella said. She was running her thumbs over her fingertips, glancing at Marko, then away again. Nyree was sitting quietly, watching and listening, and Marko realized that he wanted to know—needed to know—what color these people were. He’d ask her, after. Ella went on, “He knows he has to sign and everything. I could just not put his name down at all, and then he wouldn’t have to sign, but the babies need to know where they come from, their people and all. My grandmother was saying that. Nyree said it as well, because she’s Maori, but my grandmother said the same thing.”

“Oh,” Carol-Anne said. “Well, obviously, we’d make that information available to them when they’re older. We do understand open adoption. Is your grandmother Maori, then? I didn’t see that. Although that’s fine,” she hastened to say.

“No,” Ella said. The thumbs were going at double speed now. “But the baby’s dad is Samoan. Half. I guess you know that, though. His mum’s Pakeha, but his dad’s from the islands. Does that matter?”

“No,” Adrian said. “It doesn’t. They’re boys. Tall, if you’re anything to go by,” he told Marko. “Tall’s good for boys, and so is strong.”

“Tall girls are bad?” Ella asked. “Strong girls?”

“No!” Carol-Anne said. “Of course not. Just… it can be awkward for girls, can’t it, if they’re too tall. And big. Samoan wouldn’t be the best for that, would it?”

“But since you’re not having girls,” Adrian said, “the point is moot.” Definitely a lawyer.

“And you’re white, anyway,” Carol-Anne said. “So it’s not really an issue.”

The words dropped into the room with all the buoyancy of a weight stack falling in the gym. Ella had gone completely still, and on Marko’s other side, so had Nyree. As for Marko? He was breathing. In. Out.

“Pardon?” Ella finally asked.

“Oh,” Carol-Anne said. “I just meant—obviously, you’ll want the boys adopted into a family that shares your culture. Which we do. Three quarters, anyway, which is close enough. Basque is good. Basque is fine. Spain, France. That’s fine.”

A long, long silence, with the couple looking at each other, then away again. Carol-Anne had her mouth open to say something, but Ella got there first. “My grandmother is Aborigine,” she said. “So not really.”

This time, the weight stack dropped through the floor. “You mean,” Carol-Anne said, “Aborigine as in… what? Maori? But you said… the information we got said…”

“As in Noongar,” Ella said. “As in Australia. As in Aborigine. So I don’t think you exactly share my culture.”

They were at a random café in Albany, and Marko still didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t a feeling he experienced much. He wasn’t enjoying it.

At the too-neat house in Orewa, the decision had been easy. Ella had stood up like a jack-in-the-box, Nyree had stood with her, and Marko had told Carol-Anne and Adrian, “We’ll let you know. But I don’t think so.”

Carol-Anne had kept talking, and Ella had kept walking. They’d headed to the car in silence, and when Ella had climbed into the back seat, Nyree had handed Marko the keys and said, “Drive.”

He’d driven. Heading down the motorway with no destination but a vague ‘Home’ in mind.

“I don’t think I’m wrong,” Ella had finally said, after kilometer upon silent kilometer spent looking out the window at nothing. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Nyree had answered. “I don’t think so. It’s a feeling, isn’t it. It was the wrong feeling.”

“They were nervous,” Ella had said. “I get it. I was nervous, too. But they weren’t just surprised to learn about Amona. They were shocked. Weren’t they? How can I give the babies to somebody who doesn’t think Amona’s awesome? She’s, like… strong. That Adrian, he thought it was good for the boys to be strong, but he doesn’t even know what that means. They’re meant to be the adults. Shouldn’t they know that?’

“They should,” Nyree had said. “Who are you texting?”

“Tom. I thought… I thought I was going to be done. I thought this was it. Now I’m wondering, how am I going to know at all? Do I have to meet, like, everybody in order to find the right ones? And what if I think I have, but they hide it? What if I don’t know, no matter what? What if I don’t find the right people at all, and I give the babies to the wrong ones?”

That was when Marko stopped driving mindlessly. When he exited the motorway and said, “Nyree, find me a café, please,” and she did.

That was why, twenty minutes later, they were in the Willow Café, a tiny venue hidden behind a business park, and Ella was tucking into eggs bennie on corn cakes, nobody’s diet breakfast, and looking like every calorie was helping.

Marko finally got to ask Nyree, “What color were they? Carol-Anne and what’s-his-name?”

“She was dark yellow,” Nyree said. “He was blue. Better than her.”

“What do you mean?” Ella asked.

Marko said, “Nyree sees people in color. You’ve never told her?” he asked Nyree.

“No. I told you, I don’t tell people. They don’t get it. They think I’m odd.”

“But you told me. I reckon that’s a good sign.”

“Wait,” Ella said. “You can love up on Nyree another time. What, Nyree, you see people some special way, and it means something?”

“To me,” Nyree said, “that’s all. Their colors.”

“So what’s… dark yellow?”

“Scared,” Nyree said immediately. “I felt… sorry for her. That she was so scared of stuffing up, but she also needs to make everything around her perfect, too, or it’s not good enough. Rigid, maybe. Hard to explain. Mostly, I got ‘scared’.”

“Not right, then,” Ella said.

“Not to me. I don’t think twins will be perfect. I think everybody will make a lot of mistakes. And I’ll tell you what my own grandmother would say right now. My Maori grandmother. When I was feeling like I couldn’t do something, or like I couldn’t do anything. When it was feeling too hard to be the person I was.”

“What?” Ella said.

“E whiti e,” Nyree said. “Shine. Shine your own light, your best light. Trust what’s inside. Shine.”

Ella was paying attention, and then she wasn’t. She jumped up, and Marko tore his own attention from his avocado smash, which was an effort. Ella wasn’t the only one who thought better on a full stomach. He sighed when he saw Kors coming through the door and said, “Figures.”

“No,” Nyree said. “Better.”

She sounded sure enough that Marko tried to see what she was seeing. The two of them embracing, belly and all, which wasn’t all that fantastic a sight as far as he was concerned. Kors kissing Ella’s cheek, then tucking her into his body and wrapping her up tight. Possibly letting her know she wasn’t alone.

All right, that probably was better.

Marko had looked pretty tense for a minute there, but Nyree could tell he’d relaxed now. And Ella had definitely relaxed.

Nyree had always needed to be around people. Sometimes, though, that could be overwhelming. Too many emotions, too many colors swirling in her head.

No choice this time. Ella and Tom came over and sat down after a minute, and Ella started to work on her breakfast again as Tom said, “So. No good, eh.”

“No,” Ella said.

“You know,” Tom said, “there’s another answer.”

“I know,” Ella said. “If at first you don’t succeed, blah blah. I get it. Moving on to Number Two on the list. I’ve got fourteen weeks to go, probably, if I make it to thirty-six like the doctor says. That’s more than three months. Heaps of time to find the right ones. I just have to believe. You don’t have to say it.”

“No.” Tom glanced at Marko, then back at Ella. “You could keep them yourself, if that’s what you want to do. I could help you do it.”

Nyree thought Marko was going to stand up and turn the table over. That was how hot the pulsating color felt coming off him. “No,” he said flatly. “That’s a hard no.”

“Excuse me?” Ella said. “It’s not your life. It’s my life.”

Nyree put a hand on Marko’s arm. “Wait. Give her a chance.”

He subsided, but his face was at its most grim. Nyree wouldn’t want to be the one trying to stand up to that.

Tom, to his credit, didn’t back down. He said, “I’m telling Ella it’s an option, because it is. Do you want her to think, five years from now—‘I could have done it. Why did I give my babies away?’ She can choose, but she should know it is a choice.” He told Ella, “If that’s what you want to do, if that’s the real reason it didn’t work today—I’ll do it with you. I’ve got little brothers and sisters of my own, I’m earning a good wage, and I’m here, putting my hand up.”

Ella had abandoned her eggs and had both hands pressed to her head. “Whoa,” she said. “Wait.”

Tom wasn’t the only one who waited. You could call the air “tense.” Nyree, for one, longed to say something. More than one thing. That how you felt at almost-seventeen—or even at nineteen, like Tom—was likely nowhere close to how you’d feel ten years later. That if Ella thought being pregnant was hard, raising two babies while you finished high school and went on to University would be so much harder. That a couple this young would have a rough enough road without two babies. But Tom was right about one thing. Sixteen or not, this wasn’t anybody’s choice but Ella’s.

Ella, for her part, sat up straighter and took Tom’s hand. It was as if somebody had pushed the Mute button on the Sunday-brunch crowd, because all Nyree could hear, all she could see, was whatever would come next. She grabbed Marko’s hand herself and pressed it tight, maybe to help him wait, too.

It took Ella another moment to start. What she finally said, she said to Tom. “I love you. Not just because of this, but—yeh. Because of this, too. Marko’s going to say I can’t know what that means, that I’m too young, but I’m not. But the thing is—I need to make the choice that’s right for the babies, too. And it’s not me.” Her chin wobbled for a second before she went on. “I think that’s what being a mum means, isn’t it? Doing the best you can for your kids? And that’s this. I know it is. I feel it is. It hurts so…” She stopped and took a couple breaths. “I lie there at night, when they’re moving around inside me, and I feel like it’s too hard, but there’s no choice, not now. And I know it’s better for me, too. I thought, at the beginning—this was something I could do for somebody else, somebody who wanted a baby more than anything. It’s been harder than I ever knew it could be, though. I know it’s going to get even harder, and I’m… I’m scared.” Two tears had spilled over now and were making their slow way down her cheeks, but she plowed on. “So, yeh, I’m scared, but I’m still right. It’s better for me, too. The babies will have a better life, and so will I. It’s a… a win/win. Or it will be. I know it will. I just have to hold on. But it hurts.”

Nyree was going to lose it. Her hand was over her mouth, her chest aching with the pressure of the tears inside. Tom’s handsome face twisted, and he had to try twice before he said, “I love you, too. That’s all.” Then he took Ella in his arms. Her shoulders heaved, and finally, she cried.

She cried like her heart had already broken. Like it was going to keep breaking, and she knew it. And like she also knew that she’d have to keep going anyway. She’d started on her road, and there was no choice now but to keep walking to the end, and then to leave that road behind and turn onto another one.

But maybe, just maybe… she’d have somebody’s hand around hers, walking the road with her. And when she couldn’t take another step, maybe he’d carry her until she could walk again.

More than one somebody, of course. If anybody had ever had a whole squad of somebodies standing behind her, it was Ella. But one who mattered most of all right now, because he was showing her that there was more life to come. That there was another road after this one, and it might even lead somewhere beautiful.

There were storms, Nyree thought, and then there was this. Too much sadness, and that light, barely a glimmer, at the end of it.

But when Ella had gone to the Ladies’ and come back again, the tears were gone, proving that what she’d told the Wrong Couple had been true. There was more than one kind of strength, especially for girls. Surely, this took more strength than a sixteen-year-old should have to produce.

This particular sixteen-year-old proved it by sitting down at the table again and saying, “So that was pretty awkward, crying and all, but at least I know what I need to do. I need to find somebody better, that’s all.”

Marko said, “I have an idea. First, though, I need to say the same thing as before. You’re the buyer, not the seller. It’s your choice. But I think we should give it a try. It’s even on the way home.”

“What?” Ella said.

“Just—meet some people for me,” Marko said. “No expectations, no pressure.”

He wouldn’t say anything else until they were on the motorway, when he finally said, “I realize this could be awkward, which is why I didn’t mention it before. Could be, though, that I realized today that anything you do would be awkward.”

“Geez, thanks,” Ella said.

“No,” he said. “I mean that it’ll be tricky, with anybody you choose, to know who they really are. Even though Nyree sees in color, and even though I’ll be looking and listening as well. Only so much you can learn from emails and phone calls, eh, or even from a meeting. Which made me think that you may want to go with somebody who’s already vetted. People who haven’t rehearsed what to say to you, too.”

“OK,” Ella said slowly. “So—who?”

“Hugh Latimer,” Marko said. “The skipper. Somebody I ought to know, since I’ve been playing with him on the All Blacks for years. I know him at training, I know him with the younger boys, I know him under pressure, and I know him at the pub after the match. Top player. Even better man. And Josie Pae Ata, of course. And wait,” he said when Ella would have interrupted him. “They wouldn’t fit on your matrix, I know. They have kids already, and they’re as flash as they come. But let’s meet them anyway.”

“But I met her already,” Ella said. “She won’t even look at me. She’s snotty as. That’s not who the babies need. That’d be even worse.”

Nyree said, “Huh. Are you sure, Marko?”

“I’m sure it’s worth checking out, anyway. If you don’t want to stay, Ella, we won’t stay.” He was off the motorway and into the charming peninsula town of Devonport now, inching along Lake Road in the Sunday traffic with Tom following behind. “We don’t even have to say that’s what we’re there for. I’ll make something up, and then it’ll be down to you. If you still think they’re wrong for this, we leave again with nobody the wiser.”

They parked in front of the dairy on Church Street, with its advert touting the “Biggest Ice Creams in Auckland!” and waited while Tom found his own spot. When he’d joined them, Ella said, “Right, the house is pretty, but Devonport’s flash as. Devonport’s, like, the definition of flash.”

“It’s a villa, though,” Marko said, which indeed it was. Across the street, not too big, and painted white. Wide front porch, scalloped trim, and all the requisite historic chocolate-box prettiness, with the green slope of Mount Victoria rising behind it, two beaches a few hundred meters away in two directions, a cricket ground a couple streets over, and a tire swing hung from the huge old tree in front. Family-friendly, but then, so was Orewa. “My house is probably more flash than this,” Marko pointed out, “and nobody can say that I am. We won’t know until we see.”

By the time they’d ascended the stairs to the porch, Ella was hanging back. Marko rang the bell, and after a minute, he rang it again.

“Nobody’s home,” Ella said with obvious relief. “Let’s go. One a day is enough anyway.”

The door opened on the words, and, yes, there was Jocelyn Pae Ata. Wearing trackpants, fuzzy socks, and a Blues T-shirt, with her hair in a Maori knot, looking nothing like the cool, polished figure Nyree had seen so far. She’d apparently been folding the washing, because she had a sheet in her hands.

“Oh,” she said blankly, then smiled. She was an actress, though, so what did that mean? “Come in.” She stood back and waved them in, but then, she was Maori. Thus, hospitable. “Haere mai. What a lovely surprise.”

“I know you weren’t expecting us,” Marko said, stepping inside and taking off his shoes as the others did the same, “but Ella here had to use the toilet fairly desperately, so I took a chance. She’s pregnant, eh. And bursting.”

Ella made a choking noise, and Nyree knew what she meant. That was the best Marko could do? Josie said, “Oh! Of course,” and led the way down the passage. “It’s just through that door, Ella.”

There was a hammering noise coming from farther inside the house. Hugh and Josie were doing the washing and their home repair, it sounded like. At that moment, a young teenage girl came rushing into the rimu-floored passage, skidding in her socks and shouting over her shoulder, “It is not, Hugh. It’s normal. I’m going to ask Josie!”

Hugh appeared behind her, looking big, bearded, and harassed. “It may be normal,” he said, “but it’s still not on. Hi, Marko. How ya goin’, mate. Didn’t know you were stopping by.”

The girl had whirled on Josie. “Hugh says this top’s too low, Josie. Tell him it’s normal.”

“Sorry, love,” Josie said. “It is low, a bit. We could pin it. I’ll show you.”

“Fine,” the girl said. “I’ll be the only one wearing a tent, that’s all.”

Josie laughed, but it didn’t sound unkind. “Nah, darling. You won’t be. Wear the red one instead, or wait and I’ll help you pin this one. Either way, you’ll be pretty as anything.”

The girl sighed, said, “Fine” again, and stalked down the long central passage to the back of the house.

“Sorry,” Josie said as a door slammed. “That’s Amelia. Forgetting my manners, aren’t I. Come into the kitchen.”

They trooped down the passage after her and Hugh, and discovered the source of the hammering. A boy, a young one, who was… tap dancing. Not something you saw every day. He was turning circles like a top, arms outstretched, feet flying, before finishing in a crescendo of furious tapping, dropping to one knee, and throwing out his arms. After which he jumped up, breathing hard, and said, “That’s it. What d’you think, Josie?”

“Awesome,” Josie said. “Full of life.”

“I made heaps of mistakes,” the boy said. “In the beginning especially. Did you see?”

“I saw one or two,” Josie said, “but that was all. I missed a bit in there, though.”

“I know,” the boy said. “About the beginning. I was nervous.”

“Practice it again,” Josie said. “You’ll get it. This is Charlie,” she told the others. “Charlie, this is Marko Sendoa, one of Hugh’s teammates, and his friend Nyree, isn’t it? And Tom Koru-Mansworth, and Marko’s cousin Ella. Have I got everybody’s name right?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Charlie said, shaking hands with Marko and Tom. “I’m going to go practice it again, Josie.”

“Do this next one in your room, darling,” Josie said, “as things are getting a wee bit busy out here. And then come show me that tricky bit again.”

Charlie headed off, more or less following his sister. Josie laughed and said, “Wait until you see our bring-a-plate dinners, Marko. We’re posh as, aren’t we? Never mind. Ella, I’m sorry. I didn’t show you the toilet well enough. It’s just through that door. I’m folding washing, too, so I hope you don’t mind seeing everybody’s undies.”

“I don’t have to use the toilet, actually,” Ella said, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. “I came to talk to you.”

Josie sat down herself, the smile still on her lips. “Oh? How can I help? Cup of tea?”

Nyree sat down beside Ella. Hugh, possibly alerted by something in his wife’s face, had come to sit next to Josie, and Nyree saw him take her hand under the table.

She was still about three stops back. Josie Pae Ata and Hugh Latimer were on the waiting-for-adoption list? But surely they’d be any pregnant teenager’s first choice. An All Black and a film star? It stood to reason. Besides—how would they have time for twins?

Tom and Marko were still standing, but Nyree couldn’t worry about them. Not now.

Ella said haltingly, “So I’m, like, pregnant.”

“Yes,” Josie said, the smile intact. “So you said. Congratulations.”

“Oh,” Ella said, and glanced at Marko. “Uh… I guess… Marko said… And, well… you’re on the list.”

Josie had let go of Hugh’s hand and started folding her sheet again. Now, her hands stilled, and the smile vanished. “Pardon?”

“Uh…” Ella said. “I thought you wanted to adopt. A baby. I saw you, at least. On the list. But maybe you changed your mind.”

Something was happening to Josie’s gorgeous face. It was crumpling, and the hands on the sheet were shaking. Hugh took it from her, dropped it into the washing basket, and told Ella, “I didn’t tell Josie about you, that you were putting the baby up for adoption. That’s why she doesn’t know. It breaks her heart, you see. Hoping.”

“Oh,” Ella said, and then, shyly, “I wondered… Marko wondered… if you’d be interested. I thought you were too posh,” she hurried on, since Josie wasn’t answering. “And, you know, you never looked at me, both times I saw you. When I met you. You didn’t want me to go with you to carry drinks, so I thought…”

“I was…” Josie stopped, then started again. “I was… It hurts. Because I can’t, and other people… can. Sometimes I can’t… pretend anymore. Especially with the wives. They keep having babies, and I want to be happy for them, but… I can’t. And we put our names down, and I know it hasn’t even been six months, and it could be years, but…” She had a hand pressed to her lips, and her face was naked. Hope, and fear, too, like the hope was too much to bear.

She didn’t seem like she was going to say anything else, and after a minute, Ella said, “I thought you must think being pregnant was gross or something. Like, maybe you wanted somebody to do it for you, so you could stay beautiful. So your skin didn’t get stretched out, because it does. I’ve got all these marks already, and I’m only twenty-two weeks.”

“No,” Josie said. “No.” She had her arms wrapped around herself now. Not acting, Nyree could swear. Doing nothing but holding herself together. “I can’t. Hugh can, but I… can’t. I had cancer, and I can’t. That’s why. Are you… might you…” She stopped again. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“I’m having these twins,” Ella said. She hurried on, the color flooding her cheeks as the words poured out. “And my grandmother’s Aborigine, so you know, and the baby’s dad is half Samoan, and the part of me that isn’t Aborigine is part Basque, so the babies will be a mix of things, not just Pakeha like some people want. I’m pretty intelligent, I guess, and the baby’s dad is, too, but my dad used to hit my mum, so I have bad genes from that half, maybe. And my mum’s a drama queen, but I’m not. So whatever you think, but that’s the truth, and I need somebody who’s OK with all that, and who wants both of them, obviously. They’re my babies, you know? I mean, they are now. So I have to be sure.”

Josie was crying. Not prettily. Her beautiful face was a mess, and her eyes and nose were both running. “I’m sorry,” she got out through the tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t… Please. I can’t think of what to say. Please. Please… pick me.”

Nyree was having trouble seeing, and she had an arm around Ella, as much to support herself as anything else. Hugh wasn’t looking one bit steady himself as he took his wife in his arms and said, “Shh, baby. It’s all good. Sweetheart. Calm down, now. We need to talk to her. You need to tell her.”

“Mate,” Marko said, a grin spreading over his face. “I think she just did.”

Marko had gone with his gut, and it had worked. At least, he was pretty sure it had. There was a fair amount of crying to get through first.

Also Hugh’s sister Amelia, who’d come out of her bedroom in response to all the noise. “What?” she’d said when she’d finally understood. “That’s cool, but how could we have two babies here?”

Hugh was still holding Josie. Who, at the moment, was bursting into tears once more and hugging Ella. He said, “We move, that’s all, once they’re a bit older.”

“How?” Amelia said, crossing her arms and looking like a teenaged Napoleon. “Auntie Kyree and Uncle Tane live next door. How could we move everybody? We aren’t going to find two houses next door to each other, Hugh.”

Hugh explained to the others, “Josie’s aunt and uncle, moved up from Katikati to help with the kids. They live in Josie’s old place.” He motioned with his head, since his arms were full. “Next door, eh, like Amelia said. So somebody’s always here for the kids.”

“Oh,” Ella said. “See—I knew it was right. I knew it. Like—family. Like my Amona was always there when I went to your house, Marko.”

“Exactly like family,” Hugh said firmly. “And the answer,” he told his sister, “is that we do whatever we have to do. Sell both places and get a bigger house, most likely. One with an extra unit downstairs, probably.”

“Except that Charlie and I go to school here,” Amelia said.

“Yeh,” Hugh said. “Pity that there’s never been a house on the market on the North Shore. It’s going to work out, no worries. Whatever we have to do, we’ll do. That’s what I’m here for. To make it happen.”

Josie blew her beautiful nose and said with a watery smile, “I love rugby players.”

Hugh laughed, cuddled her closer, if that were possible, and said, “Hold that thought. You’re going to be a mum, sweetheart. Two times over.”

Josie laughed, too, and said, “I don’t…” She waved a helpless hand. “I guess… I need to know when. I need to know… so much. I can’t… I can’t think.”

“Early September, probably.” Ella was recovering her confidence now, actually seeming excited, and relieved, too. Tom had come to sit beside her, was holding her hand. It was good, surely, to have both of them on the same page for this. “It’s hard to know for sure, because… twins. They usually come early, I guess, but the doctor says I’m doing well so far, and I’m strong, you know, plus having a kind that are more… more stable. No contractions or anything so far, not early like they can do. Oh! And they’re boys. Identical boys. I guess I should’ve said that.” She looked apprehensive, suddenly. “They’re in two amniotic sacs, so that’s good, and one’s a bit bigger than the other, and he’s, like, way busy. He’s down here at the bottom,” she said, putting a hand on her belly. “Baby A. The other one, Baby B, he’s quieter, like he’s thinking, or he just doesn’t need to move around as much. But he’s healthy,” she hurried on. “He’s not much smaller, just a bit. So… what do you think? Do you still think… yes?”

Josie looked like somebody had opened up Heaven and given her wings. Eyes shining, mouth trembling. Hugh looked at her, smiled, and told Ella, “I think we’ll take it. I think we’re more grateful than we can say. I think you can go home tonight and know you’ve made somebody happier than she’s ever dreamt she’d be, and that you’re giving a gift there aren’t words enough to thank you for. I think you should know that we feel…” He hesitated.

“Blessed,” Josie said. Her eyes welled up again, and, yes, there were more tears in there after all. “Blessed.”

The first day of September, and another match about to begin at Eden Park. Rainy this time, and windy, too. Winter in New Zealand, and the kind of conditions that reminded you there was a reason they called it a test match.

The All Blacks were playing the Wallabies, and the stands were full for this first match of the four-nation Rugby Championship. Marko had pulled on the black jersey this afternoon for the fourth time this season, and as always, it had felt like an occasion.

You never took it for granted. Not once. He was about to run out for his country for the seventy-first time in an All Blacks jersey, and it felt very nearly like the first. He’d get the same shiver down his back, the same hair standing up on his arms when he stood with his teammates and sang the anthem, the same rush of his blood when they formed up in the black wedge and Liam Mahaka shouted out the first words of the haka. The same, and new every time, because no match was the same as another.

It was never easy. It was always fast, brutal, and hard. And you’d give anything to be part of it. Almost anything. There were things more important than rugby, which was why he and Hugh would both be on the ground when the squad got on the plane in four days for Buenos Aires. Ella was thirty-six and a half weeks gone, and you couldn’t schedule babies.

Tonight, though, he was here, and so was Hugh. And it was on.

Beside Nyree, Ella shifted like she was trying to get more comfortable. It wasn’t that she looked heavy, exactly. It was that she was all belly, and what a belly it was.

On Ella’s other side, Josie asked, “All right?” At the words, Tom leaned forward from beyond her.

On Nyree’s other side, Ella’s mum said, “I told you it would be too much. All these stairs. And all that walking in the rain, too.”

“Oh,” Olivia said from beyond Jakinda, “I think they’re good for her, don’t you? It takes strength to carry that weight. Besides, she wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

Nobody, in fact, was missing this, or so it seemed to Nyree. Her mum and stepfather were a couple rows back, her mum watching Kane and her stepfather watching everybody. Both of Marko’s parents, and his aunt as well. Josie, of course, and Tom, too, no doubt longing with every fiber of his nineteen-year-old self to be out there in the black jersey, and the rest of the wives and girlfriends and kids, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, until you wondered if there would be room for anybody else in the stadium. Which, rain, wind, and all, was sold out, the All Blacks’ sibling-rivalry matchup against Australia guaranteeing it. Nyree was just glad they were in the dry seats. The players would get wet, but they wouldn’t care.

Ella said, irritably for her, “Don’t fuss, Mum. I’m huge as, that’s all. Plus, Wild Baby’s doing his thing.”

“I thought they said the babies would run out of room,” Josie said, “and not be able to move so much.”

“I wish they’d tell him that.” Ella grabbed Josie’s hand and put it on the bottom curve of her impressive abdomen, over on the right. “He’s got his head pressing down on me, and he’s shoving. All right, I can finally breathe some, but being a hundred percent effaced is gross. I think they should just tell you that you’ll feel like you have to poo all the time, but you can’t. That would be, like, job done, you’ve got it. And I don’t care what Marko says about how you can’t tell, I think Wild Baby’s going to play rugby. Meanwhile, Zen Baby’s just squirming a tiny bit. Like, ‘Yo, bro, I’ll be over here taking my nap.’ He’s like a koala.”

Nyree laughed and put an arm around Ella, and the girl glared at her and said, “You try it, if you think I’m whinging. Sorry, Josie, I know you want to do it and all, but it’s still gross.”

Josie said, “Never mind, love. You can whinge as much as you like. I know it’s hard.”

“See?” Ella told Nyree. “You’re meant to be encouraging, not laugh at me.”

She was smiling, though, so Nyree laughed again and said, “Nah. One sympathetic person’s enough. I’m the mate that jollies you out of it. We’ll see if the All Blacks can distract you. Any moment, eh.” And indeed, the music was swelling, the Wallabies were trotting onto the field, and the crowd was rising, beginning to wave their black flags.

“What was Marko’s card of the day?” Ella asked Nyree, heaving herself to her feet with an impressive effort. “I forgot to ask.”

“The Magician,” Nyree said over the rising roar of the crowd. “Manifest your desires.”

She’d have said, before this year, that she’d seen too many All Blacks matches in her life. On TV, and even in person. She’d never felt them in her blood, though, the way she did this season. During the June series, of course, and even more tonight, because the Wallabies had an edge to them. Tonight, it was on.

When Marko ran out, it was something new. When the chant of the haka came over the loudspeakers, when she saw his hard face on the big screen, looking like nothing anyone would want to come up against, she got a thrill down her spine worthy of her Maori ancestors. And when he sent a hulking Wallabies forward backward with the force of his tackle in the first minute, she stood and screamed like it was three hundred years ago. Like he was fighting, and he was winning. Like he was her man.

Ella went to the toilet twice during the first half alone. When she came back the second time just as everybody else was surging toward the exit doors in search of a halftime beer, Nyree helped her edge her way past and asked, “All right?”

“Yeh,” Ella said, sinking into her seat. “You don’t want to know. Gross again. Ugh. Tummy.” This last under her breath, since Tom was listening.

Nyree had worried, when she’d been sixteen, about what she’d do with her retainer when she finally kissed a boy. She hadn’t had to contemplate him learning about her pregnancy bowel habits. Horrors.

“Any contractions?” she asked Ella. “You know they said in the classes that they might not be strong to start.”

“Nah.” Ella shifted position. “My back aches, that’s all, same as usual.”

“If anything starts,” Josie said, “tell us. If you even think anything’s starting.”

“What’s starting?” Jakinda asked, already standing up.

“Nothing’s starting,” Ella said. “I’d know if something was starting. I’m being distracted by manly blokes, which is good. Trying to be less of a pill, too.”

“Aw, darling,” Josie said, “not a pill. Never.”

Ella looked expectantly at Nyree, and she laughed and said, “Maybe a bit.” Which made Ella laugh as well, so that was good.

Five more minutes, and the teams were running out onto the field again, and Nyree forgot to worry. The score was tied at seven all, and the rain and wind had increased to the point that there was nearly a fog on the field. The rain was driving almost horizontally, the players’ hair was slicked to their skulls, and every tackle was an icy bath. The Wallabies’ uniforms were streaked with mud, and Marko’s arms and legs were smeared with it, showing how many times he’d hit the turf. And still the crowd stayed in their seats, dressed in their anoraks and transparent ponchos and hoods, shouted out their encouragement, and dripped.

Back and forth. The Wallabies kicked a penalty from out in front—barely. Ten to seven, and gold-clad supporters standing up, raising their beers, and cheering.

Ten minutes more, seventy minutes in, and three All Blacks scrum resets near their own tryline, during which the turf was gouged out from under the players’ boots, men slipped onto their faces, and the crowd grew restless. The players kicked the turf back into position, the ref set the scrum for a fourth time, and this time, it held. The ball came back to the Number Eight, and he scooped it up somehow and passed it to Nate Torrance, and Nate handed it off to Will Tawera, his Number Ten.

“Try time,” Josie shouted. “Come on, boys!” As if he’d heard her, Will sent a little grubber kick past the defense, and everybody went after it, with Will himself in the lead.

A scramble, a blow of the whistle, the ref’s arm in the air, and Nyree couldn’t see. “What?” she asked Ella. “What was it?”

Ella didn’t answer. Josie did, through the palms she’d pressed together at her mouth. Tom wasn’t saying anything. He was just watching. “High tackle,” Josie said. “Could be a yellow.” Somebody sent off to the sin bin, and the All Blacks would not only be down three points, or six once a penalty was kicked, they’d be down to fourteen men for the remainder of the match.

An endless wait, then, as players jumped up and down to stay warm and the television match official, warm and dry in his booth, ran the footage again and again. And the crowd watched the scene on the big screens and held their breath.

Iain McCormick, tackling the Wallaby who’d got to the ball first. Seven inches more height on him, the other man slipping on the slick turf, and the damning sight of Iain’s forearm wrapping around his neck.

The ref, his hand pressed against his ear, head bent to hear the replay official’s decision. A walk toward the captains, who were standing together, hands on hips, their breath coming out in clouds of steam, waiting to hear.

The ref didn’t reach into his pocket for a card. The Wallabies skipper pointed towards the posts, and the Wallabies supporters screamed their opposition, more partisan than logical. It hadn’t been intentional, and Iain wouldn’t be sent off. But they were seventy-five minutes in, the Wallabies were up by three, and they were going for the posts. Going for three more.

Ella said, “Oh, no.”

Nyree took her hand and said, “Just wait,” but kept her eye on the player in the yellow jersey, lined up bang in front, thirty meters out. It was windy, yes, and rainy, too. But he had nearly an eighty percent conversion rate.

Ella said, “Uh… sorry. But I think it’s started.”

Seventy-six minutes. Six points down, and they had to kick off to the Wallabies again.

Marko didn’t feel the cold. He didn’t feel the wet. He was focused on here. Focused on now.

Nate Torrance, the All Blacks skipper, was shouting to be heard over the noise of the crowd and the storm. “We’ve got this. Keep your position. Make your tackles, and hit them hard. They’re more tired than we are. We get the ball back, we hang onto it, and we bang it on. One phase at a time. We’ve got it. Let’s go.”

Will Tawera kicked off, and he didn’t kick deep. Barely the required ten meters, and Nic Wilkinson, the fullback, one of the fastest on the field and the best man under the high ball, was leaping for it. Jumping impossibly high, careless of his safety in the conditions. He seemed to hang in the air for a long moment, collided with his opposite number with a bang of bodies, and never took his eye off the ball.

Two sets of wet, muddy hands grabbing it. One set hitting the ground with it, and hanging on. Nico’s.

It was what Toro had said, then. A game of inches. One carry at a time, forcing your feet on through the slop and the muck. Like playing in the home paddock with your mates, your favorite All Black’s number applied in peeling electrical tape on your back, your legs churning in the mud for nothing more than the love of the game and the ferocious desire to win.

It was Koti James, in the end. Pretty Boy not looking pretty at all, mud on his face, his grin like a rictus, taking the ball from Toro, slamming his powerful upper body into his opposite number, and going down hard.

And flicking one of his trademark offloads behind his back on the way. To Marko, because he was the one there. And the one with a chance.

He wasn’t good at subtlety, and everyone knew it. They were coming at him head-on, expecting a battering ram and ready for it.

He sidestepped. And then he took off, past where they’d expected him to be and moving fast. Toro running in support, ready for the ball, Koti on his other side, and three more lined up beyond him. With the Wallabies fullback, the last man standing, coming in at an angle.

Marko was a team man. He’d been a team man since he’d been born to a sheepherding family in the Southern Alps, since he’d first held a rugby ball in a match at the age of six, and for every match since. A team man for the Highlanders, a team man for the Blues, and a team man for the All Blacks. Right now, though, he was headed for the tryline, stretching, diving across the white line, hitting the turf hard and bouncing off it with cold water soaking his jersey and shorts and spraying around him.

A team man first, last, and always. And tonight, his team was the winner.

They cut the celebrations short. Too wet, and too cold. Barely five minutes after the whistle had gone, the crowd streaming towards the exits, and the team was jogging into the tunnel, stripping off their sodden jerseys almost before they’d got to the changing room, and heading for the showers.

First, though… Marko knew he shouldn’t care, that winning wasn’t the reason she was with him. He cared anyway. He grabbed his phone from his cubicle, rubbed his wet hands on his wetter shorts, and prepared to text Nyree.

Three green bubbles on the screen.

Ella’s started. Heading out.

Then,

Found a security guard. He’s calling ahead. Too much crowd though.

Finally,

Dunt worry. Said in class that twin labor cn b 12 hrs. Ella says uncmftrbl thats all. Tell Hugh meet a hsptl. Headed to VIP entr

The last one, the garbled one, had been sent nine minutes ago. Marko had hold of Hugh’s bare shoulder already. He’d already stripped all the way down, was headed off toward the showers with his towel in his hand.

“Mate,” Marko said, and showed him the phone. “Time to go.”

“I wish it… wasn’t so far.” Nyree had an arm around Ella, and Josie was holding her up on the other side. Ahead of them, a huge Samoan security officer in a yellow vest, flanked by Ella’s uncle Ander and Tom, were cutting their way through the slow-moving crowd. The officer had his walkie-talkie in one hand, was waving them on with the other one. “We’ll go to the VIP gate,” he’d told them when Josie had run up to him and grabbed his arm. Josie, because she was the most recognizable, the one who’d get action the fastest.

“Tell the security office to ring the team manager,” Josie had said. “Tell him to get word to Hugh Latimer. When we get there, we’ll need a car.”

Nyree had wanted to tell her that it didn’t happen this fast, the same way she’d told Marko. But why did it feel like an emergency?

Should’ve insisted we leave at the break, part of her mind was trying to say. The other part said, Doesn’t matter now. Get out of here.

Hemmed in. Fifty thousand people, and not enough ways out. Jostling, bumping through the barely moving crowd, trying not to trample any kids. Down too-narrow staircases, one after another, and Ella gasping, her face running with sweat.

She didn’t look like twelve hours. She didn’t look like one hour. Nyree had taken those classes with her, had watched the videos of serene women rolling on exercise balls, walking the hallways, having their backs rubbed by soothing-voiced partners while they focused on their careful, measured breathing.

“Ugh,” Ella groaned beside her. “Can I just say… this sucks?”

Nyree laughed. She had to. “Nah, love,” she said, injecting every bit of Kiwi cheerfulness she had into it. “They tell you to walk during labor to speed it up. You’re doing it.”

“Ha… ha,” Ella said. “You never let me be… grumpy enough. Oh, bugger. It’s starting again.”

They got to the bottom of this particular concrete stairway, and the security officer turned back to ask, “All right?”

“Yeh,” Nyree said, because what other answer was there? They had to be close. Marko had better be there when they got there, that was all. He’d better be.

A doorway, and two more security officers in front of it. A ramp leading onto the field.

“Shortcut,” their guide said. “Soon be there. We’ve got an ambulance to meet you. Just in case, eh.”

Nyree wasn’t going to have to drive Ella to the hospital. She’d focus on that wonderful development. And on the security officer’s thought-wave, practically pulsing in the air above his head. Couldn’t you have stayed home and watched on telly? A worthwhile question.

Stop it, she told the bubble of hysteria. Down the ramp, into the rain, bucketing down now like a cyclone, barely letting them see a meter ahead.

Two figures running across the field so fast, they nearly cannoned into them. Two big, bearded men in warmups.

Marko. And Hugh.

They’d had plans, Marko thought as the ambos loaded Ella into the waiting vehicle, Nyree hopping up behind. This hadn’t been in them.

Play what’s in front of you. “Right,” he said, shouting to be heard over the rain and the siren as the ambulance headed off through the carpark. “New plan.”

“Oh, my God,” Jakinda was saying, ever-helpfully. “Why didn’t they let me go with her? They’ll never get out of the carpark, not in this crowd. Oh, my God. My baby.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marko’s mum snapped, for once not in Cheerful Mode. “Worst case? She’ll have them in the ambulance. She’s a strong girl, and those guys know what they’re doing. It’s their job.”

Marko interrupted whatever Cassandra-like pronouncement would have come next with that most helpful of items: a plan. “Two cars,” he said. “Hugh’s and mine. Fastest to get to. Mum and Dad, Jakinda, I’ve got you. Josie and Tom, go with Hugh.”

A tension-filled ride to the hospital, with Marko’s mum holding his phone, waiting for a text from Nyree that didn’t come until they were nearly there. “Got it!” she finally shouted, nearly causing Marko to hit the wall as he turned into the carpark. “They’re in a room,” she said. “Getting the operating theater ready. They made it.”

Which was good. No, it was brilliant. The babies were both head-down, Ella had been told a few days earlier, and that was meant to be a good thing. But still. They were twins. Cords and oxygen and… He shut that line of thought down fast, found a spot, and led the way inside and up in the lift to Maternity.

Finally, all seven of them were dripping in the waiting area, wrapped in heated blankets supplied by the helpful staff. Hugh said, the captaincy settling over him once more, “A bit too exciting, eh. After all that, it’ll probably be eight hours. Reckon we’ll know more in a bit. Meanwhile, everybody had better have a seat.”

Marko’s mum, still holding his phone, said, “Oh. Wait,” and everybody looked up. “Nyree says that Ella’s decided she wants Josie there. And Hugh, if he wants to come.” She laughed. “Here’s what she actually said. ‘It’ll be, like, totally gross, but maybe Josie will need him there. Tell him he has to stand by my head and not look at anything until the end.’ I’d say she’s doing fine.”

Josie had jumped up already, her face lit up like Christmas, and Hugh had stood with her. “Going now,” she said. “Oh. Hugh. Going where?”

“We’ll ask,” he said, taking her hand. “Come on.”

“She must want me,” Jakinda said. “I’m asking, too.”

Olivia had a hand on her arm. “We’ve gone over this,” she said. “Nyree did the classes with her. The room will be full of people. It’s too many.”

“I’m her mother,” Jakinda insisted. “I’m going. She needs me.”

Marko stood up. In the way. “No,” he said.

“This isn’t yours to say,” Jakinda said.

“No,” he said again. “It’s Ella’s to say. Right now, she’s the mother. And what she says goes.”

Nyree was so not ready for this. The only problem was—neither was Ella.

They were in an operating theater. Enormous, chilly, clean, and crowded. She’d known that there’d be two of everybody here. She just hadn’t expected that to feel so… full.

“I need to… push,” Ella was groaning, as she’d been doing for the past ten minutes.

“Any minute,” the OB promised, rolling closer on his stool, his voice perfectly calm. “We need to get you set in case things take a turn. It’s what we talked about before, Ella. If something happens, it’ll happen very fast, and we need to have you ready. In case I need to turn Baby B, or if we need to go in by C-section to get him. Do you remember that?”

“Of… course,” Ella got out. “I’m not… stupid. Just… having babies.”

Nyree laughed, squeezed her hand, and said, “Good on ya. Doing awesome. Just another minute.”

The anesthesiologist, or one of them, finished taping a tube to Ella’s back. “Got it,” he said. “Good to go.”

“Is Josie… coming?” Ella asked. “I should’ve… said. I didn’t think I’d want people to… see. But… they’re hers.”

“Yeh,” Nyree said. The stupid tears were trying to spring up, now that the first dramatic rush was over. She’d never been more scared in her life, and truth be told, she still was.

The door opened, then, and there she was. Jocelyn Pae Ata, in the garb she’d worn so many times on camera. Blue gown, blue paper cap, blue scrubs, blue booties. Not looking nearly as glamorous as evil Dr. Eva. Looking thrilled, and scared, and so excited. She had Hugh right beside her. Looking like a rugby captain.

A nurse said, “Over here,” and moved them against a wall. Nobody else paid them the slightest attention. The doctor had a hand on Ella’s belly and was saying, “All right, Ella. Just like you practiced. This first one’s not going to be comfortable, but every minute the epidural’s in there, it’ll get better. You’re a strong girl. Time to be strong now. Let’s do it.”

Nyree found out, later, that it had taken fourteen minutes for Baby A to arrive. They felt like forty. Breathing with Ella, keeping her arm behind her head to help her sit up, and chanting along with the nurse. “Push. Push. Push. Come on, Ella. Push.” Until, between contractions, Ella gasped, “I’m pushing, all right? Give it a rest.”

Nyree laughed out loud, hugged Ella’s neck, and said, “You’re doing awesome. You’re doing amazing. You’re having a baby.”

“No,” Ella said, her face starting to twist again. “I’m having a… hippo.” And Nyree had to laugh again.

When Ella was calling out, though, and the doctor was saying, “Head’s coming. We’ve got black hair here. Deep breath, and push him out,” nobody was laughing. Ella’s strong young body strained all the way from her forehead to her feet, her belly pulled taut, and she pushed with everything she had.

In the corner, Josie had her hands to her cheeks, and Hugh had his arm around her. On the bed, Ella was wailing, and Nyree was saying, “Come on. You’ve got this. Come on.” And then the doctor was telling her, “Right. Here we are. Shoulders are coming. One more easy push. Here he comes.”

Noah James Latimer came into the world fighting. Arms waving, legs pedaling, full head of black hair looking like it wanted to spring from his scalp. Eyes screwed shut. And screaming.

Josie was laughing, and Hugh was crying. Ella was lying back again, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to smile as the nurse lifted the baby high. And saying, “Look, Josie. Look. It’s your baby.”

Hunter John Latimer came more easily. Calmly, like he’d always meant to be here, sliding smoothly into the doctor’s hands, then curling into the nurse’s. Crying a bit when he was weighed, then apparently deciding that he could leave it to his blanket-wrapped brother, who was being held fast against Josie’s chest, his breathing having passed muster, but still protesting the indignity of it all.

“Five pounds eight ounces,” the nurse announced. “Only a little off his brother. You had a lot of baby in there, love.”

“I know,” Ella said. Drowsily, now, like she was ready to fall asleep. Well, she’d earned it. “I call it… the economy plan.”

Ella moved through the first few days, once she’d been discharged from the hospital, in what seemed to Nyree like a sort of preternatural calm, or maybe suspended animation. Hormones and painful cramps, and the futility of young breasts filling with milk they didn’t need, made for babies they couldn’t feed. The cruelty of nature.

It was what Nyree had told Marko once upon a time. Your mind could make its rational decisions. It took your body longer to catch on.

On Friday night, six days after the birth, with her mum having finally, thankfully, gone home, Marko came into the lounge where Ella was lying on the couch beside Nyree watching Jurassic World with two ice packs on her breasts, Cat on her stomach like a hot-water bottle, and her stockinged feet on the coffee table. Marko picked up the remote, paused the film just as a genetically-enhanced T. Rex was about to chomp down on an unfortunate security guard, and said, “Right. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to Piha. Pack your bags.”

“Excuse me?” Ella asked, twisting her head around to look at him. “Why?”

“For the sea,” Marko answered. “The sky. The stars. The wild. Seeing something bigger than yourself.”

“The rain,” Ella said.

“Could be. I don’t care. Pack a bag. We’re going.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

Tom was in the recliner, because Ella had said, when he’d come in bearing cartons of takeaway Thai food and a bonus carton of chocolate ice cream, “I’m kind of disgusting. Leaking all over. You don’t want to sit with me.” Now, he sat up and said, “Sounds like a good plan. Am I invited to visit?”

“Yeh, mate,” Marko said. “You are. Come stay, if you like. Three bedrooms.”

But later on that night, when Nyree was lying beside him in the dark, he said, “I hope I’m right.”

She held him a little tighter, moved a little closer, and said, “You’re right.”

It did help, or maybe Ella’s body was starting to do that catching up. Or both. Her strength began to come back, and her spirit with it. Tom took her for endless walks along wild, windswept west coast beaches, nearly deserted in the winter chill, up the narrow, rocky track on Lion Rock as far as they could go, and down bush tracks to the sea and back up again. Ella came back, day by day, with her cheeks pinker, her eyes brighter, her voice steadier. Tom, Nyree had come to believe, was very good news.

Next week, Ella announced the night before the twelve-day mark, when she could sign the papers relinquishing the babies, she was going back to school. The winter term would end in a couple weeks, and after that, she was headed back to Tekapo. “Time to change again,” she said while the four of them were playing a desultory Saturday-night game of Monopoly at the dining table as the rain beat against the windows of the hillside bach. “Time to go.”

“School still hard, then?” Marko asked, rolling the dice. “Bugger.”

Ella interpreted that correctly. “Park Place. Five hundred dollars, please.” She waggled her fingers. “I’m so skunking you.”

Marko paid up, then said, “So. School.”

“No, you do not have to come back and scare everybody to death again. Because Tom. I don’t like to say it in front of him, give him a big head and all, but…” She sighed. “Oh, yeh. Every fella wants to be him, and every girl basically wishes she was me. Minus the pregnancy.”

Tom smiled, kissed her cheek, picked up the dice, and said, “Keep that in mind. December. Fiji. You and me. Don’t go falling in love with some other bloke in the meantime. I’m counting on you.”

Marko stared at him, and Tom stared right back and said, “Mate. Seventeen and nineteen works. She can stop loving me if she wants. You don’t get to tell her to do it.” And rolled the dice.

Ella sighed again, leaned her head against his shoulder, and said, “I like you so much. Also, give me all your money. I’ve got a hotel, and you’re out.”

The next morning, Nyree was in the Escape with Marko and Ella again, headed to Devonport. This time, though, Tom was with them, sitting in the back seat with Ella.

“No,” Ella had said when Marko had opened the front door for her. “I can ride in back. I’m doing way better.”

“Humor me,” Marko had answered.

“I’d rather…” she’d said, then broken off.

Nyree had opened the back door for her without a word, and Ella had climbed inside. Tom had held her hand, and Ella had looked out the window at clouds and sea, at an enormous car carrier making its ponderous way along the shipping channel and the tiny Stanley Point ferry surfing the chop. Seeing, Nyree guessed, not much, and the easy lightness of the night before diminishing with every kilometer Marko drove.

Hugh had said on the phone to Marko, “She doesn’t have to do this here unless she wants to. We’ll come there if she wants to see the boys, or she can do it with the lawyer and not see us at all.”

Marko had answered, “She wants to. It’ll help.” And here they were, parking next to that same sign painted on the side of the dairy. “Biggest Ice Creams in Auckland!” Ella climbed out of the car, tugging down the loose blue dress she was wearing over black tights, her young girl’s body already working hard to regain its former shape, tucked her hair behind her ear, and then, instead of running her thumbs over her fingernails, took Tom’s hand.

This time, they didn’t ring the doorbell. Instead, the door swung open, and there was Josie. Red top, skinny jeans, glamour, and gorgeousness, except for the white nappy over her shoulder.

“Hi,” she said, then took Ella in her arms and hugged her hard. “How are you? Ready for this?”

“Not really,” Ella said, and Josie froze as completely as if she were playing a game of Statues.

“P-pardon?” Josie finally asked.

Ella stepped back, tried to laugh, and said, “It’s OK. Just… feels weird. It’s hard to know how I feel. Mostly, I don’t, and then later I do. You know?”

“Oh.” Josie put a hand out and braced herself against the wall. “Yeh. I know it must be like that.”

“Wait,” Ella said. “Do you mean… you thought I wasn’t going to do it? Like, I was going to change my mind? No. No. I couldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t want to, and I… I couldn’t. Not after I promised.” This time, she was the one who reached for Josie, and Josie was crying. Not pretty actress tears, either, any more than before. Great, gulping sobs.

“Sorry,” Josie gasped. “Sorry. I’m…”

Hugh came down the passage from the back of the house. “Josie? Sweetheart?” He was holding a baby in a striped blue onesie with a blue cap on his head, and feeding him from a bottle. A baby who wasn’t as long as Hugh’s forearm, but who looked entirely comfortable there.

“Never mind,” Josie said, trying to laugh. “I didn’t even let you get all the way inside. Sorry. I’m just…”

“She thought I was backing out,” Ella said. Her eyes were glued to the baby. “I’m not. But… which one is that?”

“Noah,” Hugh said. “Greedy little bugger. Amelia’s feeding Hunter. We’ve been trying to do both at the same time. Not too hard, as they wake each other up. They don’t seem to realize they’re two bodies sometimes.”

“They’re doing… all right, then?” Ella asked.

“They’re doing awesome,” Hugh said. “Well, not sleeping so well, but other than that. Come on back and see.”

In the kitchen, Amelia sat on the window seat looking out on the sunny back garden, holding another baby, this one in a green onesie and cap. A baby whose hand was clutching her finger and whose eyes were staring into hers as he drank from the bottle she held.

“He’s an old soul,” Josie said, seeing the direction of Ella’s gaze. “He knows us all.”

“Can you tell them apart?” Ella asked. “I’m not sure I could.”

“Yeh,” Josie said. “Somehow, I can. At first I kept their hospital bracelets on, because I was worried about it, but… yeh. They’re themselves.”

Finally, Ella looked at the other person in the room. The woman in the red suit. “Hi,” she said. “You must be the lawyer. I’m Ella. And if you’ve got those papers ready… let’s do it.”

She was the same girl, Marko thought, as Ella pulled out a chair and sat down beside the lawyer, who’d stood at the door of his laundry room six months ago in her school uniform and told him she was up the duff. The same one who’d perched on the edge of an unmade bed and asked him to help her call her mum. The same girl who’d crouched between the bed and the wall, her Barbie in her fist, and waited until the scary part was over.

She wasn’t hiding anymore. She was signing her name in two places, and remembering to add the date. Nodding as the lawyer produced a second document, and signing again.

Two forms. Two babies. A decision that would have tested the maturity and the fortitude of a woman ten years older. A hand that stayed steady, a mind that could never be anything but rational, and a heart that could break into pieces and heal again.

A woman who kept her promises.

The lawyer took her papers and stood up to leave, and Hugh walked her to the door. Ella put both palms on the table, took a deep breath, and said, “So. That was… surprisingly difficult.”

“Oh, darling,” Nyree said, then sat down beside her and held her. Something Marko probably should have done.

“I’m going to go,” Ella said as Hugh came back. “In a minute. But I thought I could give you something first, Josie. For the boys. Something that, maybe, you could give them when they’re eighteen, or whenever you think they’re ready. Maybe it could show them…” Her voice wobbled for the first time. “That I loved them.”

“Of course,” Josie said, and Ella nodded, reached into her bag, and pulled out two little packets wrapped in white tissue.

She unwrapped the first, which she’d marked with a D. A greenstone pendant on a braided black cord. A stylized dolphin, leaping out of the water. The second packet, then. Another pendant, this one the tail of a whale.

“There should be something like this for Basques,” Ella said, “but there isn’t. And something for Aborigines, too, but that’s mostly inside you, I think. They’re the same, though, in heaps of ways, Maori and Basques and Aborigines, and probably Samoans, too. Living in the world, you know? Part of it, and caring about it. Seeing the stars and knowing the creatures and hearing the stories. And these seemed like the boys, to me. Like how they felt inside me, anyway. The first part of their journey.”

She touched the dolphin with a light forefinger, tracing its curve. “This one’s for Noah. For friendship and playfulness and all his liveliness. For being the one who always kept me awake at night, letting me know he was there.”

Her finger moved on to the whale’s tail, lingered there. “And for Hunter. For being the one who calmed his brother down, and calmed me down, too. For family love, and for seeing people the way they are and knowing how to reach them. Maybe that’s not who they’ll turn out to be, but that’s who they felt like. And I want them to know, later, that I… knew them. That I listened. That I felt them inside, and I loved them.”

Josie was in tears, and Nyree was, too. Amelia, still in the window seat, sat silent, her eyes going from one of them to the other. Josie said, finally, “Your pain is my joy, and it… it hurts. I wouldn’t change it. I couldn’t. But I want you to know that I realize how much love and strength this has taken. Never forget that.”

Hugh said, “It might help, sweetheart, if you gave Ella your own gift.”

“Oh. Oh!” Josie laughed through the tears. “I shouldn’t have hormones. I’m not the one, I know, but I’m all over the shop all the same. Laughing and crying. Wait. Here.” She went over to the kitchen bench, picked up a small white box, and put it in front of Ella. “Mine to you. Great minds, eh.”

Ella opened the top, peeled back the cotton batting, took the thing out, and held it in her palm, cradling it as lightly and carefully as a butterfly.

It was a closed circle carved of a beautiful piece of flower jade, the blooming gold and near-pink a creamy contrast against the deep green. A square hole near the top, and the cord wrapped there. Simple. Perfect.

Josie sat opposite Ella, picked up the pendant, loosened the cord, and put it around the girl’s neck, then tightened the cord again until the pendant rested between Ella’s collarbones, in the hollow of her throat.

While the sun shines, Nyree had said, I shall tie it to the front of my throat.

“This is a porowhita,” Josie told her, her hands still on Ella’s shoulders. “The never-ending circle, reminding us that life has no beginning and no end, only the journey. The path points forward, and it stretches back. Everything you’ve given to the world lives on in it, just as everything the ancestors have given—their deeds, their words, their love—lives on in you, too. You’ll always be part of the boys, and they’ll always be part of you, and that’s all right. That’s the way it works.”

Ella’s eyes were shining bright as hope. Strong as love. She said, “My grandmother says this. ‘We are only visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love, and then we return home.’”

“Oh, my darling,” Josie said, “you’re so full of purpose. A whole life’s worth, and it’s all there for you. Go and be beautiful.”

“E whiti e,” Nyree murmured.

Josie’s smile, like a blessing. “E whiti e,” she agreed. “Shine.”

They went back to the bach in Piha. Marko had booked it for three more nights, all the way to Sunday morning. It had been doing the trick so far, he’d figured. And like Nyree had said—when you had something good going for you, you held onto it.

Speaking of which. He told her, when they were cooking an early dinner together, “Should be a good sunset, and some stars, too, as much as it’s cleared up. Time for us to take a walk, I reckon. It’s not Tekapo, but it’s pretty dark, and nothing out there all the way to Aussie.”

Nyree said, “You just don’t want to lose at Monopoly again. Admit it. You hate it. I have never known a more competitive man, and I’ve known a few.”

He laughed, gave her a swat on the bum, and said, “Aw. You love it. Sunset. Beach. You and me.”

It was a good sunset. Correction. It was a spectacular sunset. They stood on the packed sand with the tide on the turn and gazed out at the bulk of Lion Rock, and beyond it. The sky glowed a pale blue, the clouds at the horizon lit with gold and pink, and all of it reflected in the calm water near the shore while the golden ball of the sun sank low.

Space. Time. Peace.

He had Nyree leaning back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her, her hands holding his forearms like she needed that as much as he did. She’d be able to feel his heart beating, and he’d swear he could feel hers.

She said, “Do you know something?”

“I know many things,” he said. “I know I love you, for one. What in particular, though?”

She laughed. “Distracting, aren’t you. But I wanted to tell you this. A thing happened to me today.”

“What kind of thing?”

“When we came home. I looked in the mirror, and I saw something.”

“You’re not a vampire, then. Good. Never mind,” he went on hurriedly. “Tell me. What?”

“I saw what color I am.”

He went still. “And… what was it?”

It shouldn’t matter. He knew who she was, and that was enough. What if she decided they didn’t match, though? He knew they didn’t match, in so many ways. He didn’t care. But she might.

“Orange,” she said. “I should’ve figured, I guess, except that I almost never see anybody orange. Noah is, though. Hunter is pale blue, calm and clear. He’s somebody who sees more than other people.”

“What does orange mean, then?” he asked.

“Means… life,” she said slowly. “Vitality, I guess you’d say. Like you’ve got extra.”

“Ah. I reckon you got it right, then. What do orange and red mean together?” The essential point. He might not want to know, but the only way to face things was head-on, and the only way to deal with pressure was to walk towards it. Today, and every day.

“They mean,” she said, “that I’ll keep telling you to dial it back, and you’ll keep having to do it.”

He heard the laughter in her voice, and something in him relaxed. “Sounds about right. So. Ella and Tom. What color is he?”

“Oh, he’s green as well. They’re both green. Grounded. And I’m guessing, by the way, that you’ll see him shift teams in a year or so. I’m thinking Auckland will be too close to Josie and Hugh for her, and any place but where she is will be too far away for him. If she ends up at the University of Canterbury and he goes to play for the Crusaders… when you meet him on the field, try not to kill him, please.”

“Haven’t killed Kane yet, have I?”

“No. But you’ve looked like you were trying.”

He smiled. “Nah. That’s just me. But you think they’ll last?”

“Oh, I think so. You can say they’re young, and that a year’s a long time. But my teenage crush has lasted thirteen years now. And counting. I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Ah. This would be a good time, then, to talk about what happens when Ella goes home. When you don’t have a reason to be in my house anymore.”

Nyree thought, What? Marko’s arms were still strong and warm around her, and she couldn’t be wrong about what he felt. She couldn’t. He still shone that same steady red. He still felt solid as stone.

She said, “Let’s hear what you think, and then I’ll tell you what I think.” Time to put her heart on the line. This was everything, or it was nothing. There was no spot in between that worked for her.

He said, “Sounds like a plan.” The sun was nearly down now, the gold half-circle sending its rays to light up the clouds that much more. So beautiful it hurt. “You’ve painted two of my rooms already,” he went on. “Got your art on the walls, got your makeup on the shelf and your toothbrush next to mine. And I’ve got you in my heart, too. You’re what home is to me. When I head out the next time, and every time—I need you there to come home to, and I want to be that for you as well. I want to be your solid place, your strong place. I want you to know, whatever happens, that you won’t be alone. That you can paint, and you can try, and you can fly. Fly as high as you like. Just come back to me.”

He’d moved, had taken his arms away and come to face her, still holding her by a hand. The sun slipped away, and on the beach, alone except for a flock of wheeling birds, Marko… didn’t. He’d never slip away. He was sinking down on a knee, pulling something out of the pocket of his jacket.

A box.

He said, “I should’ve done it while the sun was up so you could see it better, but this felt right.” He smiled, then, a little lopsided, and maybe a little like something Marko never was. Scared. “Doing it in color, eh.” He flipped the box open, and, yes, there was a ring in there, and she might be having trouble breathing. A round stone cut like a star, and shining like one, too, with more diamonds set into the platinum band. “You’re a woman who’s always going to need the stars,” he said, “and I want to help you get them. I love you, baby. Will you marry me?”

She had a hand over her mouth. “Marko. That’s a… that’s too much. That diamond.”

He’d started to smile more, to smile for real. “Nah. I had to make it big enough for those fellas to see all the way across the café when I’m gone. If you stay there, of course, but I think you will. I think you need the people. I think you need the life.”

“I may never…” Her hand was shaking in his. “I may never be famous, you know.”

“Never mind. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. But I think you will. And I’m down here getting older every minute, so you know.”

“Oh!” She had to laugh, then, and he was laughing, too. “Then—yes. Yes. Put that ring on me and get up here again. I need to kiss you. I love you. I want to marry you more than anything in the world. But I need to know one thing. What was your card of the day?”

He was sliding the diamond on her finger, and his hand around hers felt like the safest place she’d ever been. “The King of Wands.”

“Sounds about right. What does it mean?”

He stood up, took her in his arms, and kissed her as the sunset glowed pink and gold, red and orange. It was cold out, but here where she stood, here with this man, she had all the warmth in the world.

He said, “According to my mum?” and smiled. “An honorable man.”

A few notes about Maori pronunciation:

- The accent is normally on the first syllable.

- All vowels are pronounced separately.

- All vowels except u have a short vowel sound.

- “wh” is pronounced “f.”

- “ng” is pronounced as in “singer,” not as in “anger.”

ABs: All Blacks

across the Ditch: in Australia (across the Tasman Sea). Or, if you're in Australia, in New Zealand!

advert: commercial

agro: aggravation

air con: air conditioning

All Blacks: National rugby team. Members are selected for every series from amongst the five NZ Super 15 teams. The All Blacks play similarly selected teams from other nations.

ambo: paramedic

Aotearoa: New Zealand (the other official name, meaning “The Land of the Long White Cloud" in Maori)

arvo, this arvo: afternoon

Aussie, Oz: Australia. (An Australian is also an Aussie. Pronounced “Ozzie.”)

bach: holiday home (pronounced like “bachelor”)

backs: rugby players who aren't in the scrum and do more running, kicking, and ball-carrying—though all players do all jobs and play both offense and defense. Backs tend to be faster and leaner than forwards.

bangers and mash: sausages and potatoes

barrack for: cheer for

bench: counter (kitchen bench)

berko: berserk

Big Smoke: the big city (usually Auckland)

bikkies: cookies

billy-o, like billy-o: like crazy. “I paddled like billy-o and just barely made it through that rapid.”

bin, rubbish bin: trash can

binned: thrown in the trash

bit of a dag: a comedian, a funny guy

bits and bobs: stuff (“be sure you get all your bits and bobs”)

blood bin: players leaving field for injury

Blues: Auckland's Super 15 team

bollocks: rubbish, nonsense

boofhead: fool, jerk

booking: reservation

boots and all: full tilt, no holding back

bot, the bot: flu, a bug

Boxing Day: December 26—a holiday

brekkie: breakfast

brilliant: fantastic

bub: baby, small child

buggered: messed up, exhausted

bull's roar: close. “They never came within a bull's roar of winning.”

bunk off: duck out, skip (bunk off school)

bust a gut: do your utmost, make a supreme effort

Cake Tin: Wellington's rugby stadium (not the official name, but it looks exactly like a springform pan)

caravan: travel trailer

cardie: a cardigan sweater

chat up: flirt with

chilly bin: ice chest

chips: French fries. (potato chips are “crisps”)

chocolate bits: chocolate chips

chocolate fish: pink or white marshmallow coated with milk chocolate, in the shape of a fish. A common treat/reward for kids (and for adults. You often get a chocolate fish on the saucer when you order a mochaccino—a mocha).

choice: fantastic

chokka: full

chooks: chickens

Chrissy: Christmas

chuck out: throw away

chuffed: pleased

collywobbles: nervous tummy, upset stomach

come a greaser: take a bad fall

costume, cossie: swimsuit (female only)

cot: crib (for a baby)

crook: ill

cuddle: hug (give a cuddle)

cuppa: a cup of tea (the universal remedy)

CV: resumé

cyclone: hurricane (Southern Hemisphere)

dairy: corner shop (not just for milk!)

dead: very; e.g., “dead sexy.”

dill: fool

do your block: lose your temper

dob in: turn in; report to authorities. Frowned upon.

doco: documentary

doddle: easy. “That'll be a doddle.”

dodgy: suspect, low-quality

dogbox: The doghouse—in trouble

dole: unemployment.

dole bludger: somebody who doesn’t try to get work and lives off unemployment (which doesn’t have a time limit in NZ)

Domain: a good-sized park; often the “official” park of the town.

dressing gown: bathrobe

drongo: fool (Australian, but used sometimes in NZ as well)

drop your gear: take off your clothes

duvet: comforter

earbashing: talking-to, one-sided chat

electric jug: electric teakettle to heat water. Every Kiwi kitchen has one.

En Zed: Pronunciation of NZ. (“Z” is pronounced “Zed.”)

ensuite: master bath (a bath in the bedroom).

eye fillet: premium steak (filet mignon)

fair go: a fair chance. Kiwi ideology: everyone deserves a fair go.

fair wound me up: Got me very upset

fantail: small, friendly native bird

farewelled, he'll be farewelled: funeral; he’ll have his funeral.

feed, have a feed: meal

first five, first five-eighth: rugby back—does most of the big kicking jobs and is the main director of the backs. Also called the No. 10.

fixtures: playing schedule

fizz, fizzie: soft drink

fizzing: fired up

flaked out: tired

flash: fancy

flat to the boards: at top speed

flat white: most popular NZ coffee. An espresso with milk but no foam.

flattie: roommate

flicks: movies

flying fox: zipline

footpath: sidewalk

footy, football: rugby

forwards: rugby players who make up the scrum and do the most physical battling for position. Tend to be bigger and more heavily muscled than backs.

fossick about: hunt around for something

front up: face the music, show your mettle

garden: yard

get on the piss: get drunk

get stuck in: commit to something

give way: yield

giving him stick, give him some stick about it: teasing, needling

glowworms: larvae of a fly found only in NZ. They shine a light to attract insects. Found in caves or other dark, moist places.

go crook, be crook: go wrong, be ill

go on the turps: get drunk

gobsmacked: astounded

good hiding: beating (“They gave us a good hiding in Dunedin.”)

grotty: grungy, badly done up

ground floor: what the U.S. calls the first floor. The “first floor” is one floor up.

gumboots, gummies: knee-high rubber boots. It rains a lot in New Zealand.

gutted: thoroughly upset

Haast's Eagle: (extinct). Huge native NZ eagle. Ate moa.

haere mai: welcome (Maori; but used commonly)

haka: ceremonial Maori challenge—done before every All Blacks game

halfback: rugby back (No. 9). With the first-five, directs the game. Also feeds the scrum and generally collects the ball from the ball carrier at the breakdown and distributes it.

hang on a tick: wait a minute

hard man: the tough guy, the enforcer

hard yakka: hard work (from Australian)

harden up: toughen up. Standard NZ (male) response to (male) complaints: “Harden the f*** up!”

have a bit on: I have placed a bet on [whatever]. Sports gambling and prostitution are both legal in New Zealand.

have a go: try

have a nosy for… : look around for

head: principal (headmaster)

head down: or head down, bum up. Put your head down. Work hard.

heaps: lots. “Give it heaps.”

hei toki: pendant (Maori)

holiday: vacation

honesty box: a small stand put up just off the road with bags of fruit and vegetables and a cash box. Very common in New Zealand.

hooker: rugby position (forward)

hooning around: driving fast, wannabe tough-guy behavior (typically young men)

hoovering: vacuuming (after the brand of vacuum cleaner)

ice block: popsicle

I'll see you right: I'll help you out

in form: performing well (athletically)

it's not on: It's not all right

iwi: tribe (Maori)

jabs: immunizations, shots

jandals: flip-flops. (This word is only used in New Zealand. Jandals and gumboots are the iconic Kiwi footwear.)

jersey: a rugby shirt, or a pullover sweater

joker: a guy. “A good Kiwi joker”: a regular guy; a good guy.

journo: journalist

jumper: a heavy pullover sweater

ka pai: going smoothly (Maori).

kapa haka: school singing group (Maori songs/performances. Any student can join, not just Maori.)

karanga: Maori song of welcome (done by a woman)

keeping his/your head down: working hard

kia ora: hello (Maori, but used commonly)

kilojoules: like calories—measure of food energy

kindy: kindergarten (this is 3- and 4-year-olds)

kit, get your kit off: clothes, take off your clothes

Kiwi: New Zealander OR the bird. If the person, it’s capitalized. Not the fruit.

kiwifruit: the fruit. (Never called simply a “kiwi.”)

knackered: exhausted

knockout rounds: playoff rounds (quarterfinals, semifinals, final)

koru: ubiquitous spiral Maori symbol of new beginnings, hope

kumara: Maori sweet potato.

ladder: standings (rugby)

littlies: young kids

lock: rugby position (forward)

lollies: candy

lolly: candy or money

lounge: living room

mad as a meat axe: crazy

maintenance: child support

major: “a major.” A big deal, a big event

mana: prestige, earned respect, spiritual power

Maori: native people of NZ—though even they arrived relatively recently from elsewhere in Polynesia

marae: Maori meeting house

Marmite: Savory Kiwi yeast-based spread for toast. An acquired taste. (Kiwis swear it tastes different from Vegemite, the Aussie version.)

mate: friend. And yes, fathers call their sons “mate.”

metal road: gravel road

Milo: cocoa substitute; hot drink mix

mince: ground beef

mind: take care of, babysit

moa: (extinct) Any of several species of huge flightless NZ birds. All eaten by the Maori before Europeans arrived.

moko: Maori tattoo

mokopuna: grandchildren

motorway: freeway

mozzie: mosquito; OR a Maori Australian (Maori + Aussie = Mozzie)

muesli: like granola, but unbaked

munted: broken

naff: stupid, unsuitable. “Did you get any naff Chrissy pressies this year?”

nappy: diaper

narked, narky: annoyed

netball: Down-Under version of basketball for women. Played like basketball, but the hoop is a bit narrower, the players wear skirts, and they don’t dribble and can’t contact each other. It can look fairly tame to an American eye. There are professional netball teams, and it’s televised and taken quite seriously.

new caps: new All Blacks—those named to the side for the first time

New World: One of the two major NZ supermarket chains

nibbles: snacks

nick, in good nick: doing well

niggle, niggly: small injury, ache or soreness

no worries: no problem. The Kiwi mantra.

No. 8: rugby position. A forward

not very flash: not feeling well

Nurofen: brand of ibuprofen

nutted out: worked out

OE: Overseas Experience—young people taking a year or two overseas, before or after University.

offload: pass (rugby)

oldies: older people. (or for the elderly, “wrinklies!”)

on the front foot: Having the advantage. Vs. on the back foot—at a disadvantage. From rugby.

op shop: charity shop, secondhand shop

out on the razzle: out drinking too much, getting crazy

paddock: field (often used for rugby—“out on the paddock”)

Pakeha: European-ancestry people (as opposed to Polynesians)

Panadol: over-the-counter painkiller

partner: romantic partner, married or not

patu: Maori club

paua, paua shell: NZ abalone

pavlova (pav): Classic Kiwi Christmas (summer) dessert. Meringue, fresh fruit (often kiwifruit and strawberries) and whipped cream.

pavement: sidewalk (generally on wider city streets)

pear-shaped, going pear-shaped: messed up, when it all goes to Hell

penny dropped: light dawned (figured it out)

people mover: minivan

perve: stare sexually

phone's engaged: phone's busy

piece of piss: easy

pike out: give up, wimp out

piss awful: very bad

piss up: drinking (noun) a piss-up

pissed: drunk

pissed as a fart: very drunk. And yes, this is an actual expression.

play up: act up

playing out of his skin: playing very well

plunger: French Press coffeemaker

PMT: PMS

pohutukawa: native tree; called the “New Zealand Christmas Tree” for its beautiful red blossoms at Christmastime (high summer)

poi: balls of flax on strings that are swung around the head, often to the accompaniment of singing and/or dancing by women. They make rhythmic patterns in the air, and it’s very beautiful.

Pom, Pommie: English person

pong: bad smell

pop: pop over, pop back, pop into the oven, pop out, pop in

possie: position (rugby)

postie: mail carrier

pot plants: potted plants (not what you thought, huh?)

pounamu: greenstone (jade)

prang: accident (with the car)

pressie: present

puckaroo: broken (from Maori)

pudding: dessert

pull your head in: calm down, quit being rowdy

Pumas: Argentina's national rugby team

pushchair: baby stroller

put your hand up: volunteer

put your head down: work hard

rapt: thrilled

rattle your dags: hurry up. From the sound that dried excrement on a sheep's backside makes, when the sheep is running!

red card: penalty for highly dangerous play. The player is sent off for the rest of the game, and the team plays with 14 men.

rellies: relatives

riding the pine: sitting on the bench (as a substitute in a match)

rimu: a New Zealand tree. The wood used to be used for building and flooring, but like all native NZ trees, it was over-logged. Older houses, though, often have rimu floors, and they’re beautiful.

Rippa: junior rugby

root: have sex (you DON'T root for a team!)

ropeable: very angry

ropey: off, damaged (“a bit ropey”)

rort: ripoff

rough as guts: uncouth

rubbish bin: garbage can

rugby boots: rugby shoes with spikes (sprigs)

Rugby Championship: Contest played each year in the Southern Hemisphere by the national teams of NZ, Australia, South Africa, and Argentina

Rugby World Cup, RWC: World championship, played every four years amongst the top 20 teams in the world

rugged up: dressed warmly

ruru: native owl

Safa: South Africa. Abbreviation only used in NZ.

sammie: sandwich

scoff, scoffing: eating, like “snarfing”

selectors: team of 3 (the head coach is one) who choose players for the All Blacks squad, for every series

serviette: napkin

shag: have sex with. A little rude, but not too bad.

shattered: exhausted

sheds: locker room (rugby)

she'll be right: See “no worries.” Everything will work out. The other Kiwi mantra.

shift house: move (house)

shonky: shady (person). “a bit shonky”

shout, your shout, my shout, shout somebody a coffee: buy a round, treat somebody

sickie, throw a sickie: call in sick

sin bin: players sitting out 10-minute penalty in rugby (or, in the case of a red card, the rest of the game)

sink the boot in: kick you when you're down

skint: broke (poor)

skipper: (team) captain. Also called “the Skip.”

slag off: speak disparagingly of; disrespect

smack: spank. Smacking kids is illegal in NZ.

smoko: coffee break

snog: kiss; make out with

sorted: taken care of

spa, spa pool: hot tub

sparrow fart: the crack of dawn

speedo: Not the swimsuit! Speedometer. (the swimsuit is called a budgie smuggler—a budgie is a parakeet, LOL.)

spew: vomit

spit the dummy: have a tantrum. (A dummy is a pacifier)

sportsman: athlete

sporty: liking sports

spot on: absolutely correct. “That’s spot on. You’re spot on.”

Springboks, Boks: South African national rugby team

squiz: look. “I was just having a squiz round.” “Giz a squiz”: Give me a look at that.

stickybeak: nosy person, busybody

stonkered: drunk—a bit stonkered—or exhausted

stoush: bar fight, fight

straight away: right away

strength of it: the truth, the facts. “What's the strength of that?” = “What's the true story on that?”

stroppy: prickly, taking offense easily

stuffed up: messed up

Super 15: Top rugby competition: five teams each from NZ, Australia, South Africa. The New Zealand Super 15 teams are, from north to south: Blues (Auckland), Chiefs (Waikato/Hamilton), Hurricanes (Wellington), Crusaders (Canterbury/Christchurch), Highlanders (Otago/Dunedin).

supporter: fan (Do NOT say “root for.” “To root” is to have (rude) sex!)

suss out: figure out

sweet: dessert

sweet as: great. (also: choice as, angry as, lame as … Meaning “very” whatever. “Mum was angry as that we ate up all the pudding before tea with Nana.”)

takahe: ground-dwelling native bird. Like a giant parrot.

takeaway: takeout (food)

tall poppy: arrogant person who puts himself forward or sets himself above others. It is every Kiwi's duty to cut down tall poppies, a job they undertake enthusiastically.

Tangata Whenua: Maori (people of the land)

tapu: sacred (Maori)

Te Papa: the National Museum, in Wellington

tea: dinner (casual meal at home)

tea towel: dishtowel

test match: international rugby match (e.g., an All Blacks game)

throw a wobbly: have a tantrum

tick off: cross off (tick off a list)

ticker: heart. “The boys showed a lot of ticker out there today.”

togs: swimsuit (male or female)

torch: flashlight

touch wood: knock on wood (for luck)

track: trail

trainers: athletic shoes

tramping: hiking

transtasman: Australia/New Zealand (the Bledisloe Cup is a transtasman rivalry)

trolley: shopping cart

tucker: food

tui: Native bird

turn to custard: go south, deteriorate

turps, go on the turps: get drunk

Uni: University—or school uniform

up the duff: pregnant. A bit vulgar (like “knocked up”)

ute: pickup or SUV

vet: check out

waiata: Maori song

wairua: spirit, soul (Maori). Very important concept.

waka: canoe (Maori)

Wallabies: Australian national rugby team

Warrant of Fitness: certificate of a car's fitness to drive

wedding tackle: the family jewels; a man’s genitals

Weet-Bix: ubiquitous breakfast cereal

whaddarya?: I am dubious about your masculinity (meaning “Whaddarya … pussy?”)

whakapapa: genealogy (Maori). A critical concept.

whanau: family (Maori). Big whanau: extended family. Small whanau: nuclear family.

wheelie bin: rubbish bin (garbage can) with wheels.

whinge: whine. Contemptuous! Kiwis dislike whingeing. Harden up!

White Ribbon: campaign against domestic violence

wind up: upset (perhaps purposefully). “Their comments were bound to wind him up.”

wing: rugby position (back)

wobbly; threw a wobbly: a tantrum; had a tantrum

Yank: American. Not pejorative.

yellow card: A penalty for dangerous play that sends a player off for 10 minutes to the sin bin. The team plays with 14 men during that time—or even 13, if two are sinbinned.

yonks: ages. “It's been going on for yonks.”

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THE SINFUL, MONTANA SERIES

Paige's and Jace's story: GUILTY AS SIN

Lily & Rafe's story: TEMPTING AS SIN

THE PORTLAND DEVILS SERIES

Dakota and Blake’s story: SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL

Beth & Evan's story: NO KIND OF HERO

THE ESCAPE TO NEW ZEALAND SERIES

Reka and Hemi’s story: JUST FOR YOU

Hannah and Drew’s story: JUST THIS ONCE

Kate and Koti’s story: JUST GOOD FRIENDS

Jenna and Finn’s story: JUST FOR NOW

Emma and Nic’s story: JUST FOR FUN

Ally and Nate’s/Kristen and Liam’s stories: JUST MY LUCK

Josie and Hugh’s story: JUST NOT MINE

Hannah & Drew’s story again/Reunion: JUST ONCE MORE

Faith & Will’s story: JUST IN TIME

Nina & Iain's story: JUST STOP ME

Chloe & Kevin's story: JUST SAY YES

THE NOT QUITE A BILLIONAIRE SERIES (HOPE AND HEMI'S STORY)

FIERCE

FRACTURED

FOUND

THE PARADISE, IDAHO SERIES (MONTLAKE ROMANCE)

Zoe & Cal’s story: CARRY ME HOME

Kayla & Luke’s story: HOLD ME CLOSE

Rochelle & Travis's story: TURN ME LOOSE

Hallie & Jim's story: TAKE ME BACK

THE KINCAIDS SERIES

Mira and Gabe’s story: WELCOME TO PARADISE

Desiree and Alec’s story: NOTHING PERSONAL

Alyssa and Joe’s story: ASKING FOR TROUBLE

Thank you to my alpha read duo, Kathy Harward and Mary Guidry, for their help and inspiration as they read along with this book, and to Barbara Buchanan, Carol Chappell, Erika Iiams, and Bob Pryor for their feedback.

A thank you as always to my wonderful assistant, Mary Guidry.

Thank you to my son, James Nolting, for visiting Tekapo and Dunedin with me, and for doing all the driving. Much safer.

Thanks to my husband, Rick Nolting, for his patience, his care and feeding of the author, and for reading along.

Thank you to the All Blacks for winning so much and behaving so well. Without you, there would be no story.

And finally, one big giant thank-you to my wonderful readers. I appreciate you.

Table of Contents

Just Say (Hell) No - Rosalind James

Synopsis

The Escape to New Zealand Series: Past Characters

Current All Blacks Team

The Fool

Facing a Macing

Beetroot Red

Death on a White Horse

The Contest Begins

Eye on the Ball

The Trouble With Women

Pookie Unrestrained

A Perfect Plan

Reshuffling the Deck

A Bloody Enormous…

In Too Deep

Maybe Not the King of Swords

DIY is in Our DNA

Too Plain and Too Ugly

The King of Swords Makes His Move

Leather and Darkness

Out-Femaled

Love the Way You Lie

An Intimidation Standpoint

Temperance

More Complicated and More Distracting

Stunned Mullet

The Hanged Man

No Coming Back

OverEmoters Anonymous

New Steps

Heart Chakra

Waiting For It

Take Me By Surprise

Pig Blood All Over the Shop

A Big Fella

Marital Bliss

Gossip Material

Straight to the Heart

What Family Means

Up Where the Air is Thin

Water Snake Dreaming

The First Sadness

Night Train

Under the Surface

About Being Home

Not Backing Down

Walking Into It

Nothing But Grunt

Perfectly Suited

Down the Road

Family Time

Nothing Like a Test Match

Fifty Thousand. Plus Two.

Shine

An Honorable Man

A Kiwi Glossary

Links

Other Books By Rosalind James

Acknowledgments

Table of Contents

Just Say (Hell) No - Rosalind James

Synopsis

The Escape to New Zealand Series: Past Characters

Current All Blacks Team

The Fool

Facing a Macing

Beetroot Red

Death on a White Horse

The Contest Begins

Eye on the Ball

The Trouble With Women

Pookie Unrestrained

A Perfect Plan

Reshuffling the Deck

A Bloody Enormous…

In Too Deep

Maybe Not the King of Swords

DIY is in Our DNA

Too Plain and Too Ugly

The King of Swords Makes His Move

Leather and Darkness

Out-Femaled

Love the Way You Lie

An Intimidation Standpoint

Temperance

More Complicated and More Distracting

Stunned Mullet

The Hanged Man

No Coming Back

OverEmoters Anonymous

New Steps

Heart Chakra

Waiting For It

Take Me By Surprise

Pig Blood All Over the Shop

A Big Fella

Marital Bliss

Gossip Material

Straight to the Heart

What Family Means

Up Where the Air is Thin

Water Snake Dreaming

The First Sadness

Night Train

Under the Surface

About Being Home

Not Backing Down

Walking Into It

Nothing But Grunt

Perfectly Suited

Down the Road

Family Time

Nothing Like a Test Match

Fifty Thousand. Plus Two.

Shine

An Honorable Man

A Kiwi Glossary

Links

Other Books By Rosalind James

Acknowledgments