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Oh, Sebastian! Jennifer cringed inwardly. No wonder Rafe had been so furious with the disposition of his father’s will.
‘No, we’re not.’ She stoutly rejected the tantalising link. ‘I told the lawyer I wasn’t accepting them.’
‘In the event of which, Sebastian provided for a nine-month holding period for you to change your mind, before they revert to the very person who put them in the toilet in the first place; Lydia’s son Frank, remember him? The twerp who asked you if you had silicone implants in your breasts the first time you met.’
The significance of the gestation period of the clause escaped neither of them as he continued wryly, ‘Believe me, I’d far rather it was someone with talent and imagination holding the shares than that obnoxious, overeducated cretin, who thinks a soft degree makes him God’s gift to business.’
‘You want me to accept the shares?’ she asked, shaken. She had been certain that one of his prime purposes in coming to New Zealand was to ensure the exact opposite.
He shrugged. ‘Under the terms of the will you can’t sell them for a year after you inherit, and then only to me. There’s no restriction on what Frank can do with them, and after my comments on his business acumen he’d never sell to me. So, yes, you and I would both benefit if you kept them.’
‘What on earth was Sebastian thinking?’ Jennifer fretted in exasperation.
Rafe stared at her for a moment from under flat golden brows. ‘Unfortunately he didn’t see fit to leave us that information.’
But he could make a very shrewd guess.
Later, Jennifer had had to suffer the embarrassment of asking him to shift the heavy wardrobe so that she could retrieve the files containing her old contracts and letters. Amongst them was a large scrapbook, which she tried to slip casually into a drawer.
Not casually enough. Rafe smiled as he leafed through the newsprint pages, looking at her collection of faded cuttings from glossy magazines, carefully attached with double-sided tape.
‘I have quite a few scrapbooks of my own at home,’ he conceded off-handedly, consoling her blushes. ‘At first it was just for the sake of my portfolio, but later, well...’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘I guess I have a healthy streak of narcissism in my soul, and I thought it would be something to show—’
He stopped guiltily and she completed the cliché for him. ‘To show your grandchildren?’
He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I was going to say, to show people when I’m old and shrivelled,’ he lied defensively.
She couldn’t imagine such a thing. She was sure that Rafe would mature like a fine wine, growing more impressive with the years. Definitely worth laying down, she thought mischievously.
He stroked a finger over a moody photograph of his twenty-year-old self. ‘So, this was the Raphael Jordan who captured your imagination. Did I live up to your expectations in the flesh?’ he teased.
‘Actually, you lived down to them,’ she said, straight-faced, and he laughed.
‘Maybe you would have preferred me to remain your unattainable beau ideal?’
She put the scrapbook in the drawer. ‘But this way I can have both,’ she said smugly.
In a way she did have the best of both worlds, she’d consoled herself—at least for a while...that precious ‘indefinite period’ that Rafe had talked about.
As the ashfalls eased, replaced by a steady stream of sulphur dioxide rising from the empty crater lake to form a thin blue-brown haze above the volcanic plateau, and the weather stayed dry and cold, Paula had insisted that her daughter show Rafe some of the local sights, and so for a few hours each day they had acted like carefree tourists.
Although the three ski fields were closed to skiers, the no-go area had been reduced enough that they had been able to drive up the access road to the Whakapapa field, and then walk up to see the black scars that streaked the ash-covered snow where the rivers of mud from the crater had flooded perilously close to some of the ski lift equipment.
Jennifer had also taken Rafe on a bush walk through the native forest at the foot of Mount Tongariro, which, along with Mounts Ngaruahoe and Ruapehu, formed the rumbling threesome of active volcanoes that were the main attraction of the Tongariro National Park. Yesterday they had driven east to the Tokaanu geothermal area, where they’d strolled amongst the hissing steam vents and boiling mud pools, getting a hint of the sulphurous fury which had raged inside Ruapehu.
It had only been the suggestion of today’s rafting trip that had caused Rafe to baulk.
‘White water rafting?’ He’d frowned dubiously as he padded after her into the kitchen, where Paula had been assembling the ingredients for breakfast. ‘What if you fall out?’
‘It’s not very likely; the guides are very clued-up on safety. I’ve rafted this stretch before and no one’s ever fallen out,’ said Jennifer, surprised by his reluctance. She would have thought Rafe was a prime candidate for an adventurous experience.
‘You weren’t pregnant before,’ he pointed out disapprovingly, stopping her in her tracks.
‘It’s only a Grade 3 river,’ she explained. ‘So it’s not dangerous—just enough white water to get the adrenaline going, that’s all. It’s easy enough to be recommended everywhere as a first trip, and I’ve never heard of anyone being injured, so if you’re nervous about being on the water—’
‘I’ve been rafting before, and on some pretty challenging rivers—but you, of all people, shouldn’t want to do anything that might endanger your pregnancy. How would you feel if you lost the baby because you took an unnecessary risk?’
‘I’m not going to lose the baby,’ she said, resenting the implication that she would be careless with her precious cargo. ‘I’m pregnant, not ill, and the doctor says I’m fit, strong and healthy—I do a lot of walking with Bonzer, and lifting and stretching and heavy work around the house. I wouldn’t go rafting or horseback riding in late pregnancy, but at this stage the baby’s still very tiny and extremely well insulated.’
