Fractured (Not Quite a Billionaire #2) Read online

  The clerk pushed my papers across the counter to me and said, “Sorry, love. I would if I could. Look it up, bring the proof back here to me, and you’ll have it. And congrats. Sounds like she’s a lucky girl.”

  I stepped away. I had no choice. I walked out of the library, thought a moment, then turned around and went back inside.

  I hadn’t brought my laptop, but libraries had Internet-connected computers, right? All I’d have to do was look it up, pay the money to print out the page, and I could be back in the queue again.

  I never panicked at the first setback. That wasn’t me. Time to pull my head in.

  A few minutes later, I sat at a long table in front of a computer monitor, consulted the paper, typed in the web address, and began to follow the instructions. I gave a passing thought to online security and shrugged it off. If the elderly fella in the corner reading his newspaper or the somewhat fragrant backpacker reading his email beside me were intent on stealing my identity, I’d have to risk it. I’d be on here for ten minutes, and then I’d be done.

  It didn’t take ten minutes. Once I proved my identity and got into the records site itself, it took seconds.

  A birth certificate, a certificate of marriage, and nothing else.

  I didn’t swear under my breath. Instead, I controlled my heartbeat and my temper, went back to the previous page, and typed the query in again.

  Two documents. And that was all.

  There would be an explanation. A misspelling, something like that. I scrutinized the document again.

  Certificate of Dissolution

  It listed a place. Auckland. It gave a date and the parties’ names, both spelled correctly. Hemi Kahu Te Mana. And Anika Malia Cavendish.

  A glitch, I told myself. I put the document carefully back into its envelope, got up from the chair and shoved it back under the table without haste, walked out to the vestibule, stood next to a notice board full of colorful, thumbtacked notices and adverts, pulled out my phone, and rang my attorney.

  “Hemi,” Walter Eagleton said. “How are you?”

  I didn’t answer that. It wasn’t pertinent. “I’m in New Zealand,” I said, “and I need you to check into something for me straight away. Today. I got divorced here twelve—no, thirteen—years ago, and I can’t find a record of it.” I explained about the search and the seal, then said, “I’ll scan this paper and send it to you in the next fifteen minutes. I need the correct paperwork in my hands as soon as I can get it. Today, for preference. Tomorrow evening my time at the absolute latest.”

  I didn’t tell him how to find it. I didn’t know, and anyway, that was what I paid him for.

  He didn’t ask, and he also didn’t point out that it was Sunday evening in New York. Again—that was what I paid him for. “A clerical error, probably,” he said, echoing my thought. “If you’re sure that it happened.”

  “Does anybody forget their divorce?”

  “Did you actually appear in court?”

  “No. I was living in the States. I had it done through an attorney. Simple procedure. It’s filed, you’re on the docket, it takes a month to get the paperwork, and I got it.”

  “Attorney’s name?”

  I had to concentrate to bring it up. My memory was nearly flawless, except when I wanted to forget something. “Martin Henderson,” I finally said. “Auckland.”

  “Property settlement?” he asked.

  “That’s handled separately from the divorce here, and anyway, neither of us had anything while we were married. Nothing to settle.”

  “Got it. Send me that scan, and I’ll be back with you with more as soon as I know. Is there a reason this is coming up now?”

  Walter knew I operated on a need-to-know basis. Unfortunately, there were heaps of things an attorney needed to know, and if he was asking, there was a reason.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m getting married on Saturday.”

  “Right,” he said. “Then there are a number of things you probably need in addition to that documentation. A prenuptial agreement, for a start. An alteration to your trust, maybe, depending on the prenup. By Saturday? Could be tricky. Will you be back before then, or are we doing this remotely?”

  “Remotely,” I said. “Get me that documentation, and we’ll discuss the rest later.”

  Walter started to say something, checked himself, said, “Will do,” and rang off, and I rolled my head on my neck a couple times, lifted and lowered my shoulders, took another deep breath, set the matter into the “Delegated” pile, and rang Violet Renfrow in Auckland. And then I went home, collected Hope and Karen, and took them to visit Violet.

  Hope

  Hemi was weird.

  He’d made love to me so tenderly the night before, exactly as sweetly as he’d been fierce earlier in the day. He’d held me tight and showed me how well he knew how to please me, and how willing he was to make the effort. And when he’d whispered those Maori words in my ear, I’d breathed in his scent, run my hands over his warrior’s body, ached with love for him, and had known I was getting the man behind the mask, the vulnerable, caring, fiercely tender man he showed to nobody but me.

  He’d been the same when we’d woken this morning. His mood had seemed so loving, so…lighthearted, even. But now? He’d been his most brooding, reserved self all the way to Auckland, and I didn’t know why. I wanted to ask him if he were having second thoughts after all, or if it was something else—bad news from work, maybe—but how could I, with Karen in the car?

  When he’d come back to his grandfather’s house a couple hours ago, he’d stalked straight through the kitchen, picked me up out of my chair, kissed me hard, and held me so tightly, it had almost hurt. I’d heard Karen exclaim, “Whoa,” but I hadn’t cared about that. I’d held Hemi and whispered, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” I’d thought he’d been overcome by the step he’d taken, and I’d wanted him to know I understood.

  Then he’d stood back, his hands gripping my arms, looked into my eyes, and said, “Want to go buy a wedding dress?”

  “Yes,” I’d said, trying to smile at him, but off-balance at the intensity I still saw in his eyes. “I do.”

  His expression had finally softened. “Practicing saying that, eh.”

  “Could be.” I’d smiled some more, but he hadn’t smiled back. “Did you get the license?”

  “Collecting it tomorrow. It’ll be done. Let’s go.”

  He’d grown quieter and quieter once we’d climbed into the car for the two-hour journey to Auckland, resisting all my attempts to draw him out to the point where I eventually asked him, “Do you mind if we listen to some music?”

  “No worries.” He punched a button on the dash to connect the Bluetooth so that the playlist he’d made for me had filled the silence. And I told myself that a man who asked you what music you liked, then made sure it was playing for you…that was a man who loved you, no matter how silent and preoccupied he was. Which probably had nothing to do with me.

  It’s not all about you, I scolded myself. He’s an incredibly busy man with a lot on his mind.

  We drove through Auckland on the motorway, finally exiting at someplace called Penrose, which wouldn’t be featuring on any list of “Auckland’s Most Glamorous Suburbs.”

  “Uh…” Karen said from the back seat, looking around as we drove past warehouses and manufacturing plants for things like insulation and plumbing fixtures. “Exactly what kind of dresses are you thinking we’ll wear, Hemi? Hope’s not that fashion-forward.”

  “Wait and see,” he said, seeming to lighten up a little. He pulled into an undistinguished parking lot and led us through a glass door into a long, low building, then down a hallway until we emerged into a high-ceilinged, stark space, painted white and filled with racks of clothing. Most of the garments seemed to be black, with a little brown, white, and gray here and there to break the monotony, like we’d entered the No-Color Zone. Huge drafting tables stood against two walls, with men and women bent over them. Another w
all was taken up by sewing machines, most of which were in action.

  A tall, angular woman came out of this busy scene to meet us. She was dressed in Early Prison Uniform: skinny black pants and a boxy, severe camel-colored tunic. Her black hair was swept back from a high white forehead, while rectangular black-framed glasses made an uncompromising statement on a face made up of slabs of cheekbone, beaky nose, and strong chin.

  “Hemi,” she said, reaching for him with both hands and looking up into his face. “Darling. It’s been too long.”

  “Violet.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek that she accepted with cool grace, then said, “This is my fiancée, Hope Sinclair, and her sister Karen.” I was still taking in that “fiancée,” and thinking that in five days, he’d be introducing me as “my wife,” and was probably looking like a deer in the headlights at the thought, but he was going on, telling me, “This is Violet Renfrow. She’s going to dress you and Karen.”

  Karen tugged at Hemi’s arm and said in a supposedly low voice that I heard just fine, and that I was sure Violet could hear, too, “Hemi. Look around. This is all way too plain. Hope needs girly stuff. You know how she is. She’s not going to want to tell you no, but she’s going to be so sad. It’s her wedding.”

  Hemi was smiling for almost the first time today. “Nah,” he said, not lowering his voice one bit. “Wait and see. Violet’s the best Kiwi designer going.”

  “Maybe,” Karen said, undeterred. “If you like black. Which Hope doesn’t. Especially not to get married in.”

  Violet was smiling now, too, not looking quite so scary. “Why aren’t you dressing your bride yourself, darling?” she asked Hemi.

  “It was a bit sudden, you could say.” Hemi came over to put an arm around me as if he thought I might be feeling intimidated. Which would be correct. “Besides, she says I’m not meant to see her in the dress until the day. She wants to come to me like she’s…new, I reckon. She wants to knock me sideways and make me feel lucky to get her, and I want to give her what she wants.”

  I was turning red, I could tell. The part about coming to him like I was new—it was true, but it sounded too sexual. Or was that just me?

  Violet observed him through narrowed eyes and said, “You’re too bloody sexy for your own good, Hemi Te Mana. Has anybody ever said no to you? It’d be good for you.”

  I uttered a choked laugh, and Hemi laughed, too, then said, “Ask Hope. She may enlighten you, though probably not. I’ll leave these two in your hands, shall I? Sure you can make it happen for Saturday?”

  “If they can come up again on Thursday so we can do any final alterations,” Violet said. “I’ll send somebody down with the dresses on Saturday morning. But I’d only do that for you, and I’ll be charging you double. Plus the courier fee, of course.”

  “And I’ll pay it. And one more thing.” He took her far enough aside that I couldn’t hear and started talking, and Violet was nodding.

  I’d find out what it was all about. Maybe. The whole thing felt like some kind of “surprise makeover” show, and I wished I had some opinion about what my wedding gown should look like, but the truth was, I’d never considered it. It was the bride’s responsibility to dress herself—at the very least—which meant I’d always figured I’d wear a…well, a dress.

  That I already owned.

  If I got married at all.

  See what I mean? I’d never had what you’d call high expectations. You could say I was out of my depth here, and you’d be right. But at least Hemi was looking more relaxed. Back to his in-charge self, which was his happy place.

  Sure enough, he came back to me again and said, “You’ll text me when you’re done, and I’ll collect you.”

  “Uh…” I was absurdly nervous, I suddenly had to pee absolutely ferociously, and I wanted to go back home and climb into bed. Alone. “I’m going to need…shoes.” And what else? I couldn’t even think.

  Oh, God. Hair. Makeup. Waxing. Underwear. Bouquet. Uh…veil? Or what? I was sweating now.

  I’d thought this would be sort of…free and easy. Spontaneous. All right, casual. But this was Hemi, so how could I have thought that? I realized now that he’d be expecting me to be perfect, and I didn’t have a clue how to manage that from a small town in a strange country, not to mention how to pay for it. I was still the same broke woman from Brooklyn he’d met nine months ago. Worse, if anything, because Karen had needed an allowance now that she was in high school, and the rent had gone up, and…well, life never seems to get cheaper, does it?

  He was buying my dress, which was bad enough. How could you say, “Darling, could you please give me about five hundred dollars to get plucked and waxed and tinted and pedicured and flawless, so you’ll enjoy our honeymoon and think I’m gorgeous? And drive me to do it? And buy me some fancy shoes and bridal underwear? And by the way—I’ll need some more jewelry.”

  “You’re worrying,” he said, as if he could read my mind, which probably wasn’t that hard. “Stop worrying. You’re going to be beautiful. I could marry you here and now and feel exactly as lucky as I will on Saturday.”

  “I won’t be, though,” I said. “There are all these…things to get done.” I’d lowered my voice, had taken a couple steps back, and now, nausea had come to join the party. Great. I was going to pee right here on the concrete floor, then throw up. Or both at once. That would be memorable. “I’m not ready.”

  His eyes were searching mine. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “we both know what’s important, and we’re doing it. We signed that agreement. We made our promises.”

  I swallowed and nodded. When we’d come back to his grandfather’s house early that morning, the first thing Hemi had done was print it out. We’d each signed a copy, and Hemi had handed me mine. “With amendments to come as we need them,” he’d said. “Whatever we need to work out, we’ll do.” And I’d believed him. Until, that is, he’d been so strange on the drive up, causing all my doubts to return.

  Or maybe that was the “beautiful” bit.

  “Excuse me a second,” I told him. I turned to Violet with as much grace as I could manage and asked, “May I use your restroom, please?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Straight down the corridor.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Hemi said. “I’m leaving anyway.”

  He looked like he wanted to have some reassuring chat in the corridor, like he was expecting to kiss me, but I couldn’t wait for that. I said, “Sorry, but I really need to…” and ducked into the restroom.

  When I came out a full five minutes later, during which I hadn’t been sick and had sluiced some water over my face, then realized I’d washed off half my makeup…well, he was gone. On the other hand, I’d had time to think. If I were worried that he’d be disappointed by my appearance at our wedding, and if I thought that would matter, how could I be ready to marry him?

  It wasn’t exactly a reassuring thought, but it forced me to confront my own emotions as I headed back out into the bustling workspace. Bottom line: did I trust Hemi? Yes. I did. That was all that mattered. The rest of it wasn’t about him. It was about me: my own insecurities, my own fears at stepping so quickly into this new life. I was just going to have to get over myself, do my best to look good for my wedding day, and trust that his love was deeper than that.

  It’s never over, he’d said. I’m never leaving you.

  Trust. It was a thing.

  I approached Violet, who was standing with Karen in front of a hanging rack holding short and long dresses in shades of white, gray, and black.

  Oh, great. Black. Karen was right. This so wasn’t me.

  “All right?” Violet asked me.

  “Sure,” I said. “Fine.” I gave my clammy hands a surreptitious wipe on my skirt and felt about as classy as a moose at a banquet.

  She said, “Hemi told me your accent color would be lavender, but of course, Karen can’t wear lavender.”

  “Uh…she can’t?” My accent color was lavender? First I’d he
ard of it. I hadn’t realized I needed an accent color.

  Lavender’s for enchantment. I heard Hemi’s voice saying it, all the way back in a rose garden in Brooklyn. He’d told me later that lavender roses were for the fairy tale, for love at first sight, for true love. For all the things neither of us had believed in.

  “Lavender would wash her out,” Violet said. “Hemi said you’d be carrying lavender and white roses, and that Karen would be carrying yellow and white.”

  Yellow’s for friendship. Hemi had said that, too. He wanted Karen to have yellow, because he knew how important it was to me that he want Karen as part of our lives, and he wanted to show me he did. We were a package deal, and he was taking it.

  Violet was going on now, and I struggled to listen. “Lavender, white, and pale yellow, with deep purple accents.” She made a note on her phone. “Delicate. Feminine. Perfect.”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. Trust Hemi to have thought about my flowers, and about colors, too. How many bouquets of lavender roses had he sent me? So many, because they were my favorites, and because of what they meant to both of us. And now, he was making sure I got married with them. My doubts seemed foolish, all of a sudden.

  Trust. Yeah. It was definitely a thing.

  “So,” Violet said, “let’s get started. I don’t have any gowns made up in yellow, but we’ll choose the style, and I’ll swap the fabrics out. No worries.” She snapped her fingers at a young red-haired woman hovering nearby. “The big fitting room, Fiona. Now that I’ve seen you both, I’ve got it. One-two-three go.”

  It seemed being bossy was a Fashion Designer job qualification.

  Hope

  I stood in a big room filled with people and racks of dresses, wishing I’d worn different underwear. I’d imagined this happening in a regular room. You know, a small room. A dressing room. I’d imagined being by myself in it, too, and that I’d come out to show Karen, and maybe a saleslady, the dresses I thought might work. Like a regular person.