In Her Rival's Arms

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

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

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

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

A new memory of his father surfaced.

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

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

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

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

The safety of home. Of family.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

‘Meet the M&Ms.’

‘Sorry?’

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

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

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

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

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

It was Mystic that started the yowling.

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

‘Not at all.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Witchy sort of cards.

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

Weird...

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

‘Sure. Why not?’

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

‘Why?’ he asked.

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

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

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

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