One Night Stand: Could this be the Beginning of Forever?: The Colour Series, #1

1: An Extraordinary Night

SHE HAD BEEN ON THE ROAD for six months, constantly moving, going from one country to the next, one continent to the next. New Zealand was the last on her itinerary, her final stop before returning to San Francisco where her journey began.

She didn’t plan any of it. It was all spur of the moment. Her fiancé of two years had cruelly ended their engagement by SMS. It was totally unexpected and took the wind out of her sails. The first she knew for certain it wasn’t a prank was when she received several concerned messages from friends. The bastard had sent out a group text.

Two weeks after he broke her heart, he had the nerve to show up. The timing was deliberate. Two weeks—long enough for her anger to have simmered down, but not long enough to turn toxic. Fittingly, it was a frigid day when he turned up at her workplace.

DARKNESS HAD FALLEN much earlier than usual that winter day. She had watched the skies out of the window of her tenth-floor office and observed how LED streetlights struggled to illuminate the roads made slippery by an afternoon drizzle. It was time to head home.

She looped her scarf around her neck and worn her knee-length beige winter coat, gathered her things in a leather case, then gave her stress ball a final squeeze. On her way out to the elevator, she nodded goodbye to her co-workers.

She rocked on her heels as she waited for the elevator car to stop on her floor. When the doors opened, it revealed a surprise. Standing inside was the man she’d both loved and despised in equal measure the past two weeks. She was stunned to see him so soon, to put it mildly.

He was still devilishly handsome and stylish. He cracked a tentative smile.

‘Isabel,’ he said, ‘I was hoping we could talk.’

She sighed. His ability to upset her equilibrium was becoming a bad habit.

‘My office,’ she replied strangely calmly. In truth, she was barely managing to keep her emotions under control.

The receptionist lifted her face in surprise to see her walking back so soon followed by her former fiancé.

They entered her room. She closed the door and turned the blinds shut for privacy. There was no point making it like this was going to be a sweet reunion. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, she knew it wasn’t. She walked to her side of the table and remained standing.

Richard, his hands in his pockets nervously rocked on his heels. ‘I’ve come to say sorry.’

She let out a soft sigh, opened the top drawer and took out a small box.

‘Here,’ she said as she attempted to hand back the two-carat Cartier diamond engagement ring.

He shook his head and refused to take it back. ‘It’s yours to do what you want with. It’s the least I can do. I’m not entirely heartless.’

He gently placed an envelope on her desk, then turned on his heel and didn’t look back.

She removed her coat and sat down. She was too numb to cry and too shocked to be angry. Several hours had passed before she found the courage to open the envelope. Inside it was a cheque for twenty thousand dollars, their savings for a wedding that was not to be.

A week after that, she did three things. She sold the ring, ditched her job at the insurance firm and booked a world tour.

This was how six months later twenty-one-year-old Isabel Caine, a former insurance fraud investigator now a vagabond, ended up in New Zealand.

RED BEACH ON THE HIBISCUS Coast, Orewa, New Zealand, with just six thousand residents, was hardly a tourist destination. At least, not when compared to other parts of the North Island.

It was scenic and serene, but in the middle of the Southern winter, it was deserted. She couldn’t have found the place had she booked a cruise or a bus tour. Her decision to hire and drive around in a campervan was fortuitous. That was how she found herself on this gorgeous deserted beach one winter day.

Here, she enjoyed solitude.

She was sitting cross-legged on the beach one morning drawing in the sand with driftwood when a man walked past.

His denim jeans were folded to his knees as he walked barefoot on the wet sand. It struck her how cold the water must be, but he didn’t seem to mind. He smiled at her. She smiled back. That was the extent of it.

Around midday, she decided to drive to another random destination. As she made a turn towards State Highway One, there he was again walking at the side of the road. She didn’t know why, but she stopped.

‘Want a lift somewhere?’

‘Sure,’ he said.

‘Where are you going?’ She asked as he settled into the passenger seat.

‘Pinewoods Motor Park. I have a bach there.’

‘A bach?’

‘A vacation house; bach was originally thought to mean bachelor pad. The other alternative theory is that it’s a Welsh word for small.’ He turned to face her before adding, ‘Good to see another American this far south. Where are you from?’

‘San Francisco,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Washington, D.C.’

That should have been the extent of their conversation Pinewoods being so close to Red Beach, but he invited her.

‘Be my guest; I’ve got food.’

She uncharacteristically agreed to join him, a man whose name she didn’t even know.

His bach was minimalist and modern; an open-plan pavilion that allowed for effective cross-ventilation. Sea breeze coursed through the living and dining room providing a refreshing atmosphere. There was a toilet/bathroom at one end, and she supposed a master bedroom at the other.

A four-seat couch was strategically placed along the front half of the pavilion to take advantage of the views. She walked around admiring the richly textured wood that contrasted well against the solid red granite kitchen bench.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Glad you approve,’ he said as he made sandwiches with sourdough bread and salad without bothering to ask what she wanted. She might have been a vegetarian, although she wasn’t. Later, she found out why. He had made vegetarian sandwiches, then separately prepared a platter of cold cut meat and cheese.

He carried the trays out. She, the glasses and a bottle of white wine. They shared a meal alfresco on a rock he had covered with white linen just outside his bach.

She sat across from him and noted that he had amazingly blue eyes and short dark hair. He looked athletic. And, tall. When they were walking side by side, she measured him against her 5’5 height. Easily, 6’2, she thought.

He studied her for a second, smiled again and said, ‘Do you always pick up strangers?’

‘No,’ she said as she popped a tomato into her mouth. Then, she shrugged. ‘I don’t know; you seemed harmless.’

He laughed.

‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

They were having coffee when he asked, ‘So, who are you running away from? Or, what?’

She blinked, then her hazel eyes were immediately defiant. With raised eyebrows drawn towards the middle of her forehead, she said with conviction, ‘I’m not running away from anything or anyone.’

He touched her brow lightly with his ring finger. ‘Briefly, you expressed a micro facial expression here, and it tells me you’re lying.’

‘What are you? A face reader?’

He shook his head.

‘I’ve been lied to more times than I can remember. They don’t always get away with it.’

‘And you, who are you running away from?’ she challenged.

‘Not running away. I couldn’t run away from Uncle Sam if I tried.’

That’s when she noticed it, a small tattoo of the American flag on the inside of his wrist.

‘Are you a soldier?’

‘Nope,’ he said matter-of-factly.

By the end of the second hour, she was still none the wiser, but she learned he wasn’t a cop or a spy.

Although they spoke for hours, she never asked for his name and neither did he ask for hers. Chances were high that they would never see each other again.

Sunset came early, as it always does in the Southern Hemisphere in the winter. At some point, the temperature dropped significantly enough that they had to retreat inside the pavilion. He pulled the glass doors along the recessed tracks and shut them in from the cold, but not from the stunning views across the water. She rested her hands on the glass panels, her nose barely an inch away from it. She only retreated when it fogged with her breath and wiped it off with her gloved hand.

He was busy with the fireplace. Minutes later, it felt toasty and the ambience electric.

Through the glass panel, she watched him remove his gloves and North Face jacket to reveal a well-defined chest and biceps. The outline of his muscles was clearly noticeable through his T-shirt.

She didn’t know why she did it. It could be any number of reasons. Perhaps it was because she just wanted it. Maybe she was being rebellious, or because she was more psychologically damaged than she cared to admit. Or, she was emboldened by the fact that he was a stranger she would never see again.

All she was sure of was it was her decision. Her choice. And, she was stone cold sober so she would have no one to blame.

She removed her gloves and jacket, but she didn’t stop there. She slowly unbuttoned her chambray shirt while holding his eyes through the reflection in the glass panel. Next, she took off her hiking boots and her denim pants, then with her toes, she removed her socks.

She stood still for a moment, as though debating with herself whether she could do it. She shuddered from the cold in her bra and undies.

He didn’t move a muscle. She locked eyes with him through the glass door, almost daring him to blink first. He didn’t. A thin smile spread on his lips, which she mistook for seduction. It wasn’t. It was one of admiration, although she didn’t know it then.

He was thinking, here was a woman, who was by no means beautiful in the eyes of the world by its foolish standards. She was plain and ordinary, but with a spirit that defied fear.

Her eyes, he decided, were outrageously stunning. The defiance they reflected was alluring. He waited for her to make the move. She held his gaze for a second longer before she turned and took a step forward.

He held her gamine face and kissed her before lifting her up and placing her behind on the back of the sofa. She helped him with his belt, and one thing led to another until she found herself leaning all the way back, bracing herself with her hands against the seat.

He was inside her now.

They held each other’s gaze through the glass panel until ecstasy broke through.

He was in the shower when she left quietly, taking with her only the memory of his face and the name of the beach where they first, casually, met with a smile.

He came out with a robe for her, but she was gone. He was left with the memory of that innocent, sweet face with soulful eyes that defied fear.

He shrugged and poured himself a drink.

2: She’s Home

ISABEL, IZZY TO FAMILY AND CLOSE FRIENDS, landed at the San Francisco International Airport on a Sunday afternoon, having flown for more than thirty-two hours. It was a hop on, hop off return journey that took her through three countries on three continents in three different time zones and on three airlines.

Why she asked herself, did you do this to yourself?

She had to admit though that it was fun to have celebrated her birthday three times across the globe. It was a personal achievement of sort, making sure she made the right connections on her way back so it would be the twentieth of June in every country she landed in.

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

A direct flight from Auckland to San Francisco with Air New Zealand was available, but what would be the fun in that? Now, she wasn’t so sure; it felt as though she had done her knees in. At just twenty-two, she felt decrepit.

Exhausted beyond words, she dropped anchor at a coffee shop and ordered a couple of glazed doughnuts and a tall cup of café latte. With her humongous backpack underfoot, she fired up her cell phone.

There were several messages, mostly from her best friend Susie, who hadn’t heard from her for a week. She had deliberately stayed away from social media in the last seven days, opting to use every available minute she had left to enjoy her world tour. Her head pounded as she listened to Susie’s rants and raves, each one sounding more insistent than the last.

She sighed while listening to parts of Susie’s messages, deleting them one by one after the first ‘Where are you?’

No, she decided, she wouldn’t be checking her Twitter and Facebook account; it would undo all the good her holidays had achieved.

She called Susie who, as usual, made her wait for what felt like a minute. Her BFF had the longest ringtone she had ever known.

‘Happy birthday, Izzy!’ she said when she finally answered in her beautiful South African-accented voice, having shuffled and lived in two countries all her life.

‘Thanks,’ Izzy replied. ‘What’s up? Why all these messages?’

Susie didn’t answer; she was too busy whispering to someone. Isabel heard faint voices in the background and sensed she wasn’t going to like the answer to her question one little bit. When Susie returned to the phone, she hastened to chastise, ‘I told you no surprise party! I adore you, Sus, but this time, no!’

‘What?’ her BFF protested. ‘Everyone’s coming. Everyone. Please. You have to turn up!’

Izzy sighed audibly.

‘How much time do I have?’ she asked.

‘Party’s at nine, my place, so you have plenty of time.’

It was going to be far more excruciating to argue with Susie than just agree to attend the birthday party being thrown in her honour.

‘Okay, I’ll be there,’ she said with surrender, which Susie typically relished. End of discussion.

She left a message to her parents to let them know she was back. They would be pleasantly surprised, assuming they didn’t already know. But she wouldn’t put it past them if they’d been tracking her movements around the world somehow.

Hunger got the better of her, so she gobbled up her doughnuts and drank her now disgustingly tepid coffee. She then hefted her backpack and walked towards the car rental kiosk. She was undecided which of her two addresses she’d head home to until she reached the counter.

She filled in a form with her full name, Isabel Fairbanks-Caine, and put in an address in Pacific Heights, one of the most salubrious, old-money suburbs in San Francisco.

She handed the form to the desk clerk, who couldn’t have cared less about her until he read what was written on it. He glanced up to look at Isabel as though she just morphed into a human worthy of being attended to.

ISABEL, WITH HER HYPHENATED last name, could have been fodder for magazines’ society pages. She could have been gracing social events as a young débutante, but she wasn’t the sort. Her lifestyle had not been clichéd even from an early age, in that she didn’t live it the way she had been expected to.

She was more Caine than Fairbanks. Her older brother, however, was more Fairbanks than Caine. Little surprise then that she worked at Caine Insurance on a monthly salary that didn’t pay for a Louis Vuitton luggage, hence she’d gone with a backpack. Meanwhile, William Andrew Fairbanks-Caine jetted around the globe, living it up in hotels and chateaus. Now, that was cliché.

If not for a two-bedroom art deco apartment at Nob Hill she inherited when she turned twenty-one, she would have had to shell out nearly three thousand dollars a month in rent, almost half of her after-tax salary.

Her mother, socialite Elsie Fairbanks-Caine, frequently complained that her life had been one rebellious choice after another. She could have hobnobbed with progenies of mega-wealthy families with hyphenated last names longer than an Amtrak’s rolling stock. Instead, she was friends with postmen and clerks.

After high school, she applied for an entry-level position at Caine Insurance in the Claims and Fraud Investigation Department, much to her father’s chagrin.

‘What in the world—?’ Charles David Fitzgerald Caine asked when he first heard of it. He