Reclaiming Paradise

By Amy Talbot

Opportunity knocks—temptation kicks the door in. A horrific accident drives tech-savvy billionaire Quinn Huntington to Welcome Bay in the tropical north of New Zealand. No one can reach him there. At least that's his plan. He doesn't count on having Goldie Royale sashay in and destroy his precious isolation.
Goldie owns the neighboring property—a run-down villa held together by peeling paint and cobwebs. Her husband and son died five years ago. Since then, she wandered far and wide. Now she's back to reclaim her home and her life. This is her Eden and he's the snake. Quinn believes a relationship isn't worth the heartache, but Goldie brings him to life. Can he let go of past hurts and love her? She vowed never to be vulnerable to love again—can she trust Quinn with her future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509226894

Amy Talbot

Author…Romantic…Idealist…Eternal Optimist Kathryn Taylor is an established e-published author of romantic fiction and urban fantasy. She’s a proud Kiwi (named for the iconic, national bird of New Zealand), and her pseudonym is Amy Talbot. She has a Post Grad in Publishing, and is completing a Post Grad in Creative Writing. When she’s not crafting stories, she is a freelance developmental editor and creative writing tutor. She is also an article writer, and publishes her work in newspapers, women’s magazines and Internet e-zines. She loudly trumpets to all and sundry that e-Publishing is the best way forward for the publishing industry.

Book preview

ideas.

Chapter One

Opportunity knocks—temptation kicks the door in.

Goldie Royale parked her T-bird beside the beach house.

She shouldered open the door and stepped onto the driveway. Humidity coiled around her in a welcome home hug as she gave her property an affectionate once-over. Years ago, her grandfather etched Pararaiha—the Māori word for paradise—on a kauri shingle and nailed the board above the front lintel. It hung there still, although she noticed two nails missing, and the shingle was lopsided. Set on a wedge of wild bush, her aging villa was typical of many holiday homes built along New Zealand’s Northland coast. Paint peeled from the cladding, and the front deck sagged. But, twenty paces away, the beach was an inviting curve of golden sand, with a picture-perfect view of Aroha Island and the tranquil Pacific Ocean beyond.

She took a deep breath and tasted sea and summer and safety. Tension eased out of her neck and shoulders. Five years ago, she ran far and fast from Pararaiha. But, like iron shavings to a magnet, the emotional pull of this place proved too strong to resist. In all her wandering—and she wandered far and wide—paradise called her home.

Hey, you over there, I want to talk to you.

What the heck? The man’s shout spoiled her moment. He was nowhere in sight, so she cupped her hands around her mouth and called, Where are you hiding?

Use your eyes, woman. I’m on the other side of the creek.

Huh. Did he think she possessed x-ray vision? She tromped through the overgrowth to where the path sloped toward Waiau Creek, a slow flowing waterway that divided her land from the neighboring property. An area of native bush separated them, where flaxes and ferns grew in profusion. On the opposite side of the creek, the presence of a new two-meter high iron fence stopped her in her tracks.

You’ve got to be kidding? She glanced left and right. The fortress-like fence ran all the way to the road in one direction, and down to the beach in the other, dissecting the bush. A solitary gate provided the only access point. What a monstrosity.

A wooden bridge straddled the creek bed, and like the proverbial Billy Goat Gruff, a stranger stood in the middle. There was something about him that shifted her flight-or-fight instinct into top gear. For starters, he was a man mountain, with a bull neck, broad shoulders, and lots of muscle. And he was hairy, as in Tom Hanks marooned on an island with Wilson the volleyball, kind of hairy. Unkempt, dark blond hair stuck out beneath his billed cap and tangled around his shoulders. His beard was too long, his moustache looked like a slug crawling across his top lip, and his eyebrows met in a unibrow.

More alarm bells clanged. Besides looking like a gangster for hire, he wore a ragbag, black, long-sleeved tee, and his black jeans sagged around his butt. Even his scuffed work boots were black. And, for heaven’s sake, a black leather glove covered his left hand. What was with that? Welcome Bay was board shorts and bare feet territory. He must be sweltering in that outlandish get-up.

She swallowed an internal shriek, put on her smiley face, and asked, Do you need something?

The man grunted. Why else would I be here?

Humph, so much for passing the peace. While she deliberated what to do next, he lumbered off the bridge and stomped toward her. His heavy work boots kicked up puffs of dirt. Now, she decided, was a good time to skedaddle. As she backtracked toward her house, she offered a fervent prayer he was a harmless beach bum scrounging for a handout, and not a serial killer on the prowl for his next victim.

He dogged her as she retraced her steps. You can’t leave that eyesore here. he said without preamble when they stood together on her gravel drive.

Eyesore? She patted the hood of her much-loved Thunderbird convertible, neon-pink, and nearly new two hundred fifty thousand miles and five owners ago. I’m hurt, she said and covered her heart with her hand. My car is a classic.

Then I stand corrected. You can’t park your classic wreck on this land.

Like they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And I own this property, so I can park where I want.

Vince, her giant schnauzer, lay across both front seats. He lifted his head at her arrival and wagged his stumpy tail. When he woofed for release, she held the door open. He shambled out and leaned against her leg. Goldie scrubbed under his chin, finding the magic spot. He groaned and leaned closer. He wasn’t aggressive, but given his size, she hoped Big Hairy Man Mountain would see him as a deterrent should he come at her with an axe.

She tilted her chin so she could look the stranger square in his eyes. She was five feet nine, and not teensy by any standards, but beside Big Hairy Man Mountain, she felt like an undernourished weakling. Why are you here anyway? Are you after food or water?

Vince trotted forward and thrust his muzzle in the man’s privates, taking his own measure of his worth.

Hey there, fella, it’s nice to meet you too. He gave Vince a pat, and then removed the schnauzer’s inquisitive muzzle from his groin. Do I look like I’m begging for a handout? He pulled off his ball cap and raked his fingers across his hair and beard in gesture that exuded irritation.

Err—no, no. Absolutely not, she assured, lying through her teeth.

She noticed a vicious network of scars that gouged the left side of his face. It looked like he’d been in the mother of all bar fights and come off a poor second. And, to be brutally honest, he smelled as if he’d rolled in dirt and slept way too long in the same filthy clothes. She glanced around, wondering where he’d pitched his tent.

Are you staying nearby?

He wedged his cap down hard. I live next door. He thumbed in the direction of the deep thicket of native bush beyond the fence that obscured the neighboring property from her view.

You’re camping at the Morris place?

No, I am not camping. I am Quinn Huntington, the new owner, he announced, as though he expected her to know who he was.

Nope, not a clue.

Given his accent, she deduced he was American, but he may as well have told her he was Chris Hemsworth because his identity was a mystery. Well, no. On second thought, she’d recognize Chris Hemsworth, aka Thor the Gorgeous God of Thunder. Now, there was a man to cuddle up with on a cold night. She couldn’t say the same about the guy facing her, but at least she could call him something other than Big Hairy Man Mountain. And if he lived in the Morris house, he was her immediate neighbor—a welcome step from beach bum or serial killer.

This is my property, Mr. Huntington, she reiterated.

Your family’s, you mean.

Sorry to burst your balloon, but I’m the legal owner, lock stock, and broken shingle.

He considered her for so long she practically heard the cogs turning, and then said, You’re Amanda Royale.

It was a statement not a question, but she qualified it anyway, saying, I am, yes, but please, call me Goldie. She fingered a few strands of her shoulder-length hair. A bit of a cliché, given my hair color and freckles, but no one’s called me Amanda since I was a baby. The dog settled his bony rump on her foot. This is Vince. She roughed his coat. Don’t be fooled by his bark. He’s a giant schnauzer on the outside, but on the inside, he’s a sweetheart.

I’ll take your word for it. He nodded his head in the general direction of her beach house. I want your house and land.

This surprised her. You own the Morris property. Why do you need mine?

I want to incorporate your land with mine and build staff quarters.

You’re pulling my leg?

I assure you, I’m serious.

It’s not for sale. Pararaiha was her Eden. The way she saw it, he was the snake.

Name your price. I’ll pay it.

Yeah, right. Honestly, the guy was a total nut job. That’s really sweet of you, Mr. Huntington, but my answer’s still no. She gave him a politician’s smile that was all teeth and no sincerity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to do.

I’m not fin—

Sure you are, she said, cutting him off. Maybe I’ll see you around, she told him, thinking please God, anything but. She glanced at Vince. He was sniffing the back wheel of her car. She clicked her fingers. Come on, dog, we’ve got work to do, and she waltzed off without a backward glance.

****

Damn. Damn. Damn. It had taken nearly two years to pull all the pieces of this property venture together. Welcome Bay was his sanctuary. Once, he’d thought he could live a normal life. He’d been wrong. That mistake cost his father his life, and nearly cost him his own. As much as he wished otherwise, he couldn’t bring his father back from the grave, but he could stop anyone ever getting close again. With his house completed, having possession of her parcel of land was the final part in his mission to keep people at a distance.

One question bugged him, though—how had he missed Goldie being the rightful owner of the land? He gave himself a mental head slap when he recalled reading her name on a list. In his defense, at the time, he’d believed the land was in collective ownership. And anyway, in all honesty, he hadn’t cared about individual family members. Sooner or later, he’d own the land, so they didn’t feature on his radar. Whenever he made upgrades to the shared drive or services, he rang Daphne Ferris, the self-appointed family representative. She was Goldie’s mother; of that much he was certain. Until today, he’d believed hers was the only permission he required.

Water under the bridge—if her claim of sole ownership was correct, then she alone stood between him and total possession of land in Welcome Bay. It was game on. Getting a formal Sale and Purchase agreement was now his top priority. No way would he let Goldie thwart his carefully executed plans.

Wait. Quinn charged in for another round.

Stop yelling at me, she told him as she swung back. I’m not deaf.

A light breeze teased hair into her eyes. She fished around in the back pocket of her frayed cut-offs, removed a piece of black lace, and tied her tangle of Orphan Annie curls into a messy topknot. The tie wasn’t secure, and the breeze whipped a long strand into her face. She tucked it behind her ear. The upward movement shifted the undersized canary yellow top she wore, and left most of her midsection bare. A glittery ring, set with a rainbow of colored gems, pierced her navel. The gemstones caught a ray of sunlight and winked it back at him, encouraging a second, longer look.

He bridged the gap between them, standing so close he caught a hint of her flowery perfume. An unmistakable sense of awareness—a thrill of anticipation—shot through him.

No. What was he thinking?

He controlled his reaction with ruthless intent. One heart-destroying experience had taught him to avoid any emotional entanglements. It was a harsh lesson and hard learned. He was not interested in her, no matter however nice she smelled. All he wanted was her land.

I don’t yell.

Then how about you stop snarling?

I’ll double whatever you want for your property, he told her, refusing to react to her comment. But you have to leave here today.

Do you seriously expect me to believe you have that sort of money? she scoffed, eyeing him up-and-down.

Looks are deceiving.

They surely are. She wore a braided silver bracelet around her right wrist. Dozens of charms tinkled when she rubbed her neck. Are you renovating the Morris house?

Why do you ask?

You’ve got dirt all over your clothes, and speaking frankly, you’re…um…whiffy.

Whiffy—did she mean body odor? Heat climbed his neck, and he felt it in his cheeks. He gave his T-shirt a quick downward glance, noting substantial smudges of dirt. The landscaping firm working for him was installing a retaining wall behind the house. He’d been helping with the heavy lifting when she showed up. Believing she was a trespasser, he hadn’t bothered washing before he went to get rid of her.

About my offer, he said, refusing to suggest an excuse for his appearance.

Look, even if you can afford to buy me out, which I seriously doubt, no means no.

I won’t give up. Is that clear enough for you, or maybe I need to paint the words on wood?

Okay, now you’re being rude. You’re trespassing on my land. I think it’s time you went back to your side of the creek. The direction of which she indicated with a nod.

I instructed my lawyers to draw up an agreement, he said, ignoring her dismissal. My offer is generous. He folded his arms. Once you sign the documents, you can afford to go wherever you want.

And like I said, I’m not interested in selling. She laid her hand on his wrist. I’ve been gone a long time, but this is my home. It’s where I belong.

Quinn shook off her hand, but the memory of her brief contact sent a ripple all the way to his shoulder. Other than medical personnel, no one touched him. He squeezed his right fist so tight the edge of his nails dug into his palm. Their sting erased the lingering warmth of her hand. Pain, like ground glass, lanced through the stump of his left knee where it attached to his prosthetic limb. It was too late to regret not taking his pain medication, but he hated the grogginess the pills induced. He forced his muscles to relax, not wanting to betray any signs of weakness. I want you gone.

Un-unh, she said, shaking her head. Here I am, and here I’ll stay, whatever you think or do.

Is that an ultimatum?

Think what you like. This conversation is getting old and I’m not in the mood for more drama. She made a shooing motion with her hands. We’re done here. And then she spun on her heels. The soles of her sandals made rubbery snip-snaps as she walked toward her house. The schnauzer flicked his ears forward, offering the canine equivalent of an apologetic shrug, and scampered after her.

Quinn waited until the door swished shut behind them before he headed toward the bridge. He slammed the gate. It made a satisfying clang. She was irritating and maddening, but he shouldn’t have let her rile him so easily. He prided himself on his cool logic and ability to stay calm under pressure. And yet, in a matter of minutes, she burrowed beneath his skin and his reaction was off the chart. For his peace of mind, he would find a way to make her leave.

Chapter Two

Goldie twitched the curtain apart, and searched the area surrounding her driveway.

Quinn Huntington was nowhere around. Good riddance. She pulled all the drapes and looked around the bright, cluttered room that formed the hub of her house. Granted, the place was a bit more faded and a bit more aged than when she was last here. But, it only needed a lick of paint, new cushions, and some DIY to make it shine again, starting with the lopsided shingle at the front door.

The villa was full of treasures, and each told a story. She touched the copper pans that hung from a rack in the kitchen area, tracing the patterns etched into the metal with her fingertips. It made her smile remembering her mother lugging them back from a trip to Istanbul, ages ago. Hand crocheted woolens adorned the furniture. It was her great-grandmother’s antique glory box that stood beside the settee. When she pried open the lid, the scent of lavender, pine, and mothballs whooshed out. She lifted one of the handmade rugs and held it to her cheek. She loved the color and frivolity of wool and fabric. It was from the women in her family she’d inherited her artistic skill and love of fiber.

She replaced the rug, closed the lid, and continued her walk-through. In the main bedroom, she tried the sliding door that led to the outside deck. It refused to budge. She lifted objects and opened drawers, but no matter where she checked, she couldn’t locate the key. She fetched a notepad from her bag and compiled a to-do list of things that needed fixing. At the top of the list, she wrote: find the key to the deck door. Being able to leave the door open at night was a pleasure she wanted to enjoy.

Half an hour later, and with the to-do list safely tucked away in her hip pocket, she headed for her studio workroom. Nigh on eighty years ago, her great-grandfather bought the land with a returned soldier’s grant. He’d built a basic one-room structure with an outside bathroom. Over the years, the family added a bit here and a bit there, with more an eye for practicality than aesthetics. Constructed from two sturdy metal shipping containers, her studio workroom was the newest addition. A covered access way connected the studio to the house. The door was made of heavy steel, and it shrieked in opposition when she unlocked and opened it.

Buy oil, she added to the to-do list.

Brilliant summer sunshine poured in the back windows. Despite the thin layer of dust on most surfaces, there was a lovely airiness about the space. She opened the double doors that faced seaward, and the onshore breeze blew in. Vince moseyed past and made a beeline for a rattan settee positioned against the wall. He got on it, turned around a half dozen times before he mashed the throw pillows into the right shape, lay down, and settled his chin on his gigantic paws.

Under Vince’s watchful eye, Goldie retrieved her gear from the T-bird. With a feeling almost akin to wonderment, she fingered the colorful collection of fabrics and textile she’d painstakingly packed between layers of gossamer white tissue.