About Hana E-Book

K T Bowes

• Herausgeber: K T Bowes
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

What could be good about an attempted hit and run?
That might depend on who watches it happen.

"This mystery series should be banned! I've done nothing but read all week!" Pintorider

If life begins at 40, then Hana’s could be over at 45. She’s got herself a stalker and he’s watching everything she does. What could he possibly want from a widowed admin assistant with no social life? She thinks she’s boring, but someone clearly doesn’t.

Hana’s flagging love life kick starts when she drops her handbag at a stranger’s feet. The thing is, he’s not really a stranger. They’ve met before. She just doesn’t remember.

As things heat up in Hana's office at the local high school and blood is shed, she needs to work out what the blond man wants. Before he kills her. And just takes it.

Start reading About Hana today and lose yourself in this long running series set in stunning Aotearoa, New Zealand.

Awarded a 5 star review by Readers' Favorite.

Readers say;
"Superb storytelling." Leanne
"I couldn't put this series down." Amazon Customer

Leseprobe

About Hana

A New Zealand Mystery Romance

The Hana Du Rose Mysteries

K T Bowes

Published by Hakarimata Press

Copyright 2013©

All rights reserved

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Would you like to be part of it?

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Dearest Reader,

In case you need more... | Hana Du Rose––––––––CHAPTER ONE

Other books by this author:

About the Author

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Copyright Notice

Disclaimer

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I’m a believer in ‘try before you buy.’

There’s nothing worse than forking out your hard earned cash on a doozy and regretting it.

I don’t want stinky reviews.

I want you to love my work and feel like you got value for money.

All of the novels below are free series starters.

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JOIN me on my writing journey and meet a scary Russian, a breath-taking Māori and two young leaders with the world at their feet.

I assure you they’re all up to no good.

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Acknowledgement

I dedicate this book to my husband, who inspires all the best traits of

Logan Du Rose.

Chapter 1

The New Zealand sunrise did not disappoint Logan Du Rose. He perched on the edge of the elevated ridge and dangled his long legs over the precipice, his angular face pointed out towards the sea. Muscular biceps moved beneath the light summer shirt, causing ripples in the cloth as he fidgeted as usual. Orange and yellow bled into the navy and cobalt of the sky behind him, justifying his decision to make the half hour trek up the mountain on his white mare. She snuffed at sweet blades of grass in the dim light, her coat glistening with sweat from the uphill climb.

The man took a handful of the loose soil beneath him; his soil, bequeathed to him by the Māori elder over three decades earlier. It crumbled in his fingers, cascading back to earth as dust. He was high enough above the rugged, green landscape to face east, but instead he craved the effect of the sunrise on the Tasman Sea as it cast its glow over the familiar, comforting waves. He never tired of the constancy of the mountain which grounded him in the tangata whenua; his ancestors, the people of the land.

Logan held the next handful of soil in his long, scarred fingers before tossing it away on the wind, sending with it his hopes and dreams into the scattered blaze of colour. “Twenty-six years,” he murmured. “Searching for nothing. It stops here.”

He recounted the moments in his memory, wasted years spent scouring the earth for his soul mate. From England to New Zealand and back again, seeking her out after a single meeting in which he’d known she belonged to him. After twenty-six years he relinquished his precious dream to the breeze and watched the shards of his heart drift away, fragmented and broken like the crumbled loam.

Turning, he greeted the new day. He whistled to the mare whose ears pricked forward in anticipation of the gallop down the mountain at their usual breakneck speed. The people of the township called him King of the Maunga, the Māori word for mountain. They whispered he would die one day, hurled from his crazy horse at speed on a landscape which had swallowed his forebears for generations.

As Logan crashed through the bush undergrowth on the capable mare, the old kauri tree on the topmost part of the mountain basked in the early rays of sunshine from the east. It warmed its aged knots and the scarred trunk bore the names of the family, carved into its smooth, branchless bark. A family tree in the truest sense, its history beginning with the mark of a tribal chief, a rangatira and his offspring. An aged tui bird cackled from the lower branches, sensing the disquiet in the earth as the man left the tapu sacred site, not just to grace the homestead with his presence but to leave; heading south for pastures new. It pained the earth as he fled yet again, his heritage and his ancestors crying out in dismay for a higher power to intervene.

In the city which lured Logan to a different future, a striking redhead rued the irritating sound of the alarm. It pulled her from a comfortable sleep and into the first day of a new school term. “Oh crap,” she groaned, knocking it to the carpet in her efforts to mute it. After a six-week summer holiday, Hana Johal struggled to face the day, idling in bed and making herself late. In her haste, she burned her toast, spilled a mug of coffee and laddered her stockings, flying from the house feeling rumpled and unprepared for work. “It’s a new year,” she muttered to herself. “New resolutions and a nice, new start.”

She tripped over a black and white cat on the front steps and saved herself by grasping the metal banister at the last minute. Grimacing at the welt rising on her shin where it contacted the metal, Hana stopped to catch her breath. “I am not a failure; I’m a strong, independent woman.” She chanted the mantra under her breath and tried to believe it.

Shaking off the spectre of loneliness as she gripped the steering wheel of the people mover, Hana fixed a smile onto her rosebud lips and studied her green eyes in the rear-view mirror, galvanising herself against the growing sense of disquiet. “Get a grip, Hana.”

With a sigh which betrayed her sense of futility, she started the engine and headed off to work at the desirable, private boys’ school in a different suburb from her own.

A battered, white saloon drew into the heavy traffic behind her, lurching with imperfect gear changes as it switched lanes to keep up. The driver’s head wobbled as he argued with his passenger. Their fortuitous interception was a thing of pure chance and they bickered as they shadowed an oblivious Hana into the staff car park. “I told you she’d go this way!” the driver exclaimed, blaming the passenger for time wasted watching a different road into the grid locked city.

“Well, just stick close,” the passenger bit. “But don’t attract attention. We need to get it back now; it’s urgent!”

In the seven seater, Hana’s auburn hair blew in the breeze from her open driver’s window and she hummed to a tune on the radio and wedged the vehicle into her usual space. The white car poised in the entrance to the car park and staff vehicles bunched behind it.

Hana navigated her slender figure between her vehicle and the car next to it. While attempting to squeeze past without dirtying her clothes, she caught the strap of her handbag on the high wing mirror. She took a few steps into the car park before it yanked her backwards and she missed the white blur which passed far too close.

“Hana!” A colleague cried out in alarm as the car missed her with millimetres to spare. The school typist clapped her hand over her mouth in shock as the white car sped out onto the main road, tyres screeching as it blended into the rush hour traffic. Oblivious, Hana fumbled with her spewing handbag, its strap caught around the mirror and the pockets disgorging contents onto the floor. “That car almost hit you!” The woman squatted next to her and retrieved four stray pens and a packet of tissues from beneath the adjacent vehicle.

“Thanks. I’m such an idiot!” With a sigh of exasperation, Hana snatched her bag away from the mirror, mortified when the action sent its remaining contents tumbling to the ground. “I didn’t see a car.”

“Yeah, well thank your handbag strap otherwise you’d be its new hood ornament. Probably a parent dropping off their darling son. I swear some of these mothers don’t think their precious boy’s legs can carry him as far as the front doors. They get as close as they can.”

Another pair of smart shoes arrived in Hana’s peripheral vision as she chased down her mobile phone and clipped the battery back in. “That was close. I didn’t see any students in the car. Did you get the registration number, Hana?”

“No. I’m fine. Just leave it.” Grovelling on the floor in her smart suit and stiletto heels for lipstick and coins, Hana missed the astonished grey-eyed gaze of the tall newcomer as he stood transfixed to the spot. The other women eyed him with interest, their gaze taking in his impressive height and muscular build. He didn’t even look their way, focussing on Hana as she retrieved her belongings, her fingers shoving a sanitary item into a ripped pocket in the hope nobody noticed. A lipstick rolled towards the scuffed toe of his cowboy boot and he watched it without moving.

Logan’s shaking hand clutched his motorbike helmet, his eyes wide and sparkling with the revival of a lost hope. Twenty-six wasted years of searching and there she knelt, grappling on the dirty car park floor for the contents of her bag. She looked no older than he remembered, the New Zealand sun streaking red highlights in her hair and setting her aglow. Embarrassed, Hana gathered her belongings, unaware that a man who had loved her since her eighteenth year, watched her in agony.

Chapter 2

“Hana, please can you answer that phone? I’m stuck. Some kid shoved a half-eaten apple behind this shelf and my hands are filthy!” The blonde woman knelt in front of a brochure rack; her hands buried deep in the pile of dog-eared papers. “It’s disgusting. It’s gone soft over the holidays and stuck to the shelf.”

“Yuk.” Hana dropped her bundle of papers onto the floor and ran to answer the phone. Behind her, the newspapers slid into a graceful arc across the walkway. She returned within a few seconds, chewing her lip with anxiety and her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Sheila, it’s your husband. For you. He has an emergency.”

“I bet I know what.” Sheila hauled herself upright and Hana avoided her sticky, outstretched hands. She watched her boss saunter into the office and winced at the thought of the phone call, having already taken the full force of the caller’s discomfort. Sheila’s voice reverberated through the glass partition from the office. “You did what?”

The high beamed, vaulted roof left the partition walls hanging, stopping in mid-air as though the builders walked off the job half-finished a century earlier. Intricate wooden shapes decorated the ceiling like the inside of a church. Little angels and imps perched on the cross beams or hung from the apex, painstakingly carved into the wood of the Presbyterian school.

Hana tossed her red hair and bit her lip as Sheila’s words filtered over the partition, “What do you mean, you thought you just farted?”

Hana tried not to eavesdrop and gathered the newspapers, stacking them in the brochure rack. Sheila returned sporting a rubber glove and the hint of a smirk. “Did he tell you?”

Hana nodded and then dissolved into giggles.

“Stupid idiot,” the faithless wife remarked as she went back to the rotten apple. “I told him not to come in with a stomach upset, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s gone home to change his underwear.”

“Where’s Rory today?” Hana asked, referring to the Year 13 dean.

“I don’t bloody know,” Sheila replied with venom and Hana winced.

“How long until your house is finished?” She changed the subject.

“Another few months. We should’ve rented somewhere. Moving in with our daughter and Rory was a stupid idea. He tolerated us before and now he hates us for sure.”

“I doubt that.” Hana pictured the gentle dean fighting Sheila for the bathroom and wondered if they’d manage to keep their personal differences out of the office.

The peace shattered as a loud booming voice split the air like an axe and left the molecules vibrating. “Mrs Jennings, where’s Martin? I’ve just found 9MJ without a teacher and they were trashing the place. Where’s your husband? I swear I saw him at staff briefing this morning.”

Sheila gave the angry male a disarming smile, using her Swedish charm to good effect. She used his outstretched arm to raise herself from her awkward kneeling position, then completed her manoeuvre by placing the disintegrating, fly infested apple remains into his open hand. The deputy principal stared at the rotting apple and considered its slimy vileness for a split second before dropping it into the bin. He looked at Sheila without repeating his question, his face unreadable. She smiled with enough sweetness to disarm a charging, wounded bull. “He’s sick. I can cover his class, Alan.”

Alan Dobbs grunted and breezed from the common room as quickly as he arrived. His incredible hairpiece wobbled on his head as he stalked away, in danger of blowing off as the doors slammed. It was blond and curly, stark against his dark features and black eyebrows. Hana knitted her brow and turned to Sheila. “Is his wig on back to front?”

Sheila shrugged with disinterest, used to the incongruous appendage. She muttered something under her breath and strutted off, disappearing through the double doors which slammed behind her. Hana’s eyes widened in horror. “Sheila, the glove! Take the rubber glove off!” Receiving no reply, she poked a strand of red hair behind her ear in exasperation, “First Martin leaves the classroom with diarrhoea and then his wife turns up wearing a rubber glove.”

Sheila returned at the end of lunch, flustered and still wearing the glove. “I made those unruly Year 9 boys stay in for a lunchtime detention,” she complained. “It’s the first bloody day of term and they’re starting to play up! I coerced other staff members to cover Martin’s classes.” She sighed. “He can’t get off the toilet.”

Hurling herself into her office chair, she reached into her desk drawer and retrieved her sandwiches, staring at the gloved hand as though it belonged to someone else. With a shake of her head, she dropped it into the dustbin and bit into her sandwich. “Give them a month and that will be the worst class in the school, little buggers. What’s the world coming to?” Airborne crumbs flew across the desk and hit the computer screen as Sheila berated the class of fourteen-year-olds. “I’d prefer diarrhoea to teaching them.” Chutney oozed from the sandwich wrapper onto a significant memo which already sported a coffee cup ring over the words, ‘For your urgent attention.’

Hana smiled to herself. “Thank goodness I don’t have to teach,” she commented. “I’d be rubbish at it.”

“Ooh, talking of teaching, or teach-ers.” Sheila grinned, unaware of the blob of chutney on her chin. “Have you noticed the new English teacher? Logan something. He’s gorgeous!”

“Oh.” Hana looked embarrassed. “Tall, dark and wearing cowboy boots?”

“Yep, yep, that’s him. Did you see that body? He used the school gym this morning during his free period. I might join so I can watch. When did you see him?” Sheila peered up at Hana as the redhead hovered in the doorway.

“I dropped my handbag on the floor right in front of him. Anka and the school nurse said a car almost ran me over, but I didn’t see it. I crawled around the chapel carpark putting the crap back in my bag and only saw his shoes.”

“Yummy!” Sheila exclaimed. “He wears cowboy boots? So sexy. Did he help you?”

“No.” Hana shook her head as her embarrassment grew. “He just watched, like he’d never seen anyone grovel on the ground for a lipstick before. It was mortifying. I laddered my tights.”

Sheila poked at her squashed sandwich and then hurled it into the bin next to her. “I can’t stop looking at him. He’s got the nicest backside I’ve ever seen. Just like two little peaches in a...ahh back again Mr Dobbs?”

The afternoon whizzed by with administration jobs, keeping the budget straight and making posters advertising a visiting speaker for the next week. Hana left it until just before five o’clock to make her way back to the leafy suburb in the north of the city, to her empty house and equally hollow life.

Chapter 3

The first week of term passed in a blur. On Friday, the staff and students assembled outside in the courtyard for the first of the whole school assemblies. The principal welcomed new students and reminded those from last year what he expected.

The day loomed hot and humid. Tempers snapped amongst the staff, even before the exercise of aligning six hundred chairs outside in the baking sun. Alan Dobbs ran around booming orders and introducing his unique brand of confusion. One minute there weren’t enough chairs. Then too many appeared and needed to be carried back inside by a troop of giggling boys. The invited guests arrived, but nobody remembered to greet them. A beaming set of new parents were sent in the wrong direction and later discovered sitting in the stands by the swimming pool.

So began the lengthy pōwhiri, the colourful welcoming of new students and staff by the impressive Kapa Haka boys. Garbed in their traditional feathered cloaks and loin coverings, the group of older students performed their school haka, filling the airwaves with guttural noises and fearsome display of aggression.

The principal’s address to staff and students proved rousing as always. He conducted his whaikōrero, or formal speech, in flawless Māori and repeated in his gentle Scottish lilt. Angus Blair spoke with conviction about his vision. “It is our intention to make the young men in our care into valuable contributors of society...”

Hana’s mind wandered as the principal outlined his expectations for the year, having heard it for the last fifteen years. Angus had made Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys into one of the best schools in the North Island. Parents boarded their children in the St Bartholomew’s boarding house from as far afield as Australia and Germany, to enjoy the strong academic and sporting acumen of the school. Angus’ strong Christian principles permeated every fibre of the school ethos and he was a man with infinite patience. Hana once overheard him say to a troublesome student, “You may have bounced out of every school in the district, but you’re here to stay. You’ll leave when your time is up and this school has turned you into the useful young man I know you can be. I have all the time in the world and nowhere else I’d rather be!”

When Hana’s husband died in a car accident nine years before, Angus called round to her house. She opened the door to him with reluctance, accepting his visit as the rudimentary five-minute-duty-call. He stayed for five hours, consumed most of a large bottle of red and shared his own experience of losing his wife to cancer months before. “We have to press on, dear,” he told her in a slurred Scots accent, the wine working its magic on both of them. “Otherwise, what’s the point of living?”

The ceremony went without a visible hitch from the perspective of the enamoured new parents. Those members of staff unfortunate enough to be near Sheila Jennings and son-in-law, Rory Kingston were privy to the resounding slap she meted out to him somewhere between the whaikōrero and waiata. The latter drowned out the argument with its rowdy singing. Both possessed faces like thunder and from her distant viewpoint, Hana anticipated the day going downhill fast.

Bored, she studied the new staff members seated on the steps whilst fanning herself with a programme. Angus favoured male teachers in his elite school for boys and this year they looked fresh out of university. Apart from one. The new head of English was Māori and handsome. He looked in his late thirties with jet black hair and olive skin. Even from the other side of the courtyard, Hana noticed his striking eyes. She shifted in her chair to admire the shapely bottom Sheila described with such enthusiasm, but unfortunately, he was sitting on it.

Hana peered too long, deciding if the man’s eyes looked blue or green. The new head boy gushed his acceptance speech at the lectern and sweated ribbons of fluid which left wet patches under his armpits. The handsome male teacher moved and Hana should have averted her gaze out of decency. Slow on the uptake, she discovered his full attention turned on her, as though he sensed her gaze. She gulped. Perched on a small library chair behind the Year 12s, she bobbed her head, sensing the pink blush begin in her cheeks.

Curiosity got the better of her and she peered between boys’ shoulders for another look. Hana stared straight into a pair of piercing grey eyes whose influence crossed the entire distance between them and drilled straight into her soul. She took a sharp intake of breath, causing the boys to look round as an unsettling déjà vu washed over her. The man smiled, an awkward, lop-sided expression, more from his eyes than his mouth. He pulled his gaze away and focussed on the head boy. Hana missed her opportunity to return the smile, convincing herself it was directed at someone else. Much as she wanted to appraise the striking man more, she resisted the urge in case she got caught again. She distracted herself with the excitement of a mental grocery shopping list.

Chapter 4

A study class occupied the common room, overseen by the tall Māori teacher. He stood with his hands in the pockets of expensively cut trousers, his famous backside resting against the wall. The sole of his black cowboy boot rested against the wall behind him and he looked casual and yet dangerous.

Hana dashed past carrying a box of university brochures and sensed a small electrical current go through her body. She stopped, perplexed. A grey-eyed gaze met her confused expression and she experienced that odd sense of déjà vu again. Hana faltered, her brow creasing as she corrected herself, realising her staring bordered on rudeness. Feeling unsure of herself, she turned away and a student requesting help diverted the teacher’s attention. Drawn to the man in some inexplicable way, Hana dismissed the warmth of the schoolgirl-crush, which rose inside her, as ridiculous.

“I’m in my forties! This is stupid.” Hana flung her wares onto her desk and rested a hand over her chest, feeling the heightened thud of her heart through her porcelain skin. She eyed the back of her colleague’s head. Peter North snoozed with his wet cheek welded to a pile of reports. “Pete!” Hana shouted, wincing as he woke up with a start.

“What? What?” he screamed, standing up, his eyes wide and his wispy hair on end. “What happened?”

“I said I’m in my forties,” Hana repeated and Pete looked confused.

“You were yesterday too. It’s not an emergency!”

“No, but it’s also half past ten in the morning and you went to sleep after staff briefing. If Alan Dobbs catches you napping at work again, he’ll make sure Angus sacks you.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Pete sat with a thud, shedding a storm of dandruff around his chair. He pulled the reports towards him and peered at them.

“Pete?” Hana walked to his desk and stood next to him, pushing a few pieces of random paper with a slender finger. “Who’s that new teacher in the English department, the tall one?”

Pete’s eyes lit up with a mischievous smirk. “Why? Do you fancy him?”

Hana jumped back as though slapped. “I’m a happily...widowed woman.” It sounded wrong and she cringed. “Forget it, I only wanted to know where he came from.” She floundered. “He looks Māori and I wondered which tribe he belonged to.”

“Whatever!” Pete snorted with derision. “What would an Englishwoman know about tribes?”

Hana slapped him on the top of his fluffy head, regretting it as she unleashed another snowstorm. She wiped her hand on her skirt. “I’m half Irish and half Scots and if you call me English again, I’ll never cover for you with Dobbs for as long as you live!”

“Ngāpuhi!” Pete shouted, spinning his chair as Hana stalked back to her desk. “Ngāpuhi, but he’s from the mountains in the north of the Waikato. His family has links to Tainui and Logan’s fluent in four languages. He grew up on a farm and can teach sport, English, French, accounting and maths.”

Hana hugged the knowledge to herself, a flush creeping up her neck. She faced her computer screen and tapped out a memo Sheila asked her to send. Sensing Pete still staring, she glanced in his direction. “What?”

“Nothing.” He smirked. “I’ll tell him you asked.”

“Don’t you dare!” Hana hissed. “That’s mean! I’m not interested, in fact, I wish I’d never asked! I should’ve known I couldn’t trust you.”

“Hana!” Sheila’s voice issued from her office in the corner and with a glare at Pete, Hana trotted over to the open door and poked her head through. “Have you balanced that budget from last year yet? We need to close it off and I can’t get it to tally.”

Hana’s shoulders sank. “No, I’m still a hundred dollars short and I can’t work out where it’s gone.” She bit her lip in nervous anticipation.

“Well neither of us enjoyed a surprise holiday in Fiji over the summer, so it must be here.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Hana said, pulling her head from the gap and turning away.

“Oh, Hana! Gwynne Jeffs from media studies offered to fix the centre’s computers for free. I’ve told him if we’ve got money left, he can have that photographic equipment he asked for last year.” Sheila came to the door, biting at her thumb nail as realisation dawned. “I know where it went!” She fanned her face with her hand. “I got the student from the International department onto the barista course last term at late notice. James. We paid up-front so there wasn’t an invoice. I bet that’s the extra hundred dollars. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

Hana smiled with relief, faith in her budgeting ability restored. As she sat back at her desk, Pete leaned towards her and whispered, “He fancies you.”

Hana’s eyes widened and the flush began again, her heart dancing a wild tattoo. “Who does?”

Pete bit into a cookie and waited until his mouth was full before answering, muffling the words. “Gwynne Jeffs. That’s why he’s offered to mend the computers; he wants to see more of your lovely legs under the table.”

“Don’t be disgusting!” Hana snapped, the withdrawal of adrenaline behaving like a hideous sapping of energy. “No, he doesn’t.”

Pete spat crumbs into the gap between their desks as he leaned sideways again. His face held a knowing look. “You thought I meant him, didn’t you? You thought I meant Logan Du Rose fancied you.”

Hana’s face glowed beet red and she turned back to her screen, hating the silly sports teacher with every fibre of her being. “No, I didn’t,” she replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve had and lost one husband. I don’t need another.”

“Liar,” he replied, shoving another cookie into his mouth whole. “I’ve known you fifteen years and I know when you’re lying.”

“Teach sport or something,” Hana bit, dealing with the aftermath of her disappointment. “Or better still, finish writing those reports from last year! Dobbs came here looking for you earlier.”

“Did he?” The other half of Pete’s cookie plunged to the carpet and his eyes bulged in terror.

“No,” Hana retorted. “I thought you could tell when I lied.”

Pete turned around in disgust, halted by Sheila’s shout from her office. “Pete, Dobbs wanted you earlier. He said he wants those reports you messed up last year and they need to be on his desk by this afternoon, otherwise you’re fired.”

Pete inhaled with shock and looked at Hana in accusation. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish and Hana tried not to smirk. “I made it up,” she sniggered. “How bizarre.”

The spindly sports teacher picked up the wad of rumpled reports and tucked them under his arm, ignoring the few which tumbled back onto his desk. “Fine then!” he said, sticking his pudgy nose in the air. “I won’t tell you what Logan said about you.”

The smile disappeared from Hana’s lips and she turned back to her work, knowing she didn’t want to hear. It couldn’t be flattering; not coming from a man much younger than her. Pete stomped from the room in temper when she refused to retype his reports and disappeared for a few hours.

Lunchtime saw the return of James, the Korean exchange student and prospective McDonald’s employee. He greeted Hana with a beaming smile. “I guess that means you got the job?” she congratulated him.

“Yes, Miss, I will be doing buggers for my first week.” He seemed ecstatic with his success, so she didn’t have the heart to point out the obvious errors in his speech.

“Who told you that?” She enquired, her voice wavering. Her prayers for another Korean speaking employee failing before they reached heaven.

“Fat checkout girl,” he answered. “She has big baps. I happy there.”

“You mean she butters the bread rolls?” Hana’s voice wavered.

“No.” James shook his dark head and screwed up his face. He lifted his hands up in front of his chest and did an exaggerated squeezing movement. “She has big baps. I like.”

“Ok.” Hana swallowed and her mouth dried up.

“Oh! I have new English teacher,” James said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “He wonderful. He help me get scholarship.” The student pulled a sad face and patted Hana’s upper arm in kindness. “Mr Johal die. You should marry Mr...” He faltered over the name. “Marry English Mr.”

“It doesn’t work that way, James, but thanks for the advice. I’d need to fall in love and I’m too old and jaded for that to happen.” She’d said too much to a student and Hana’s colour pinked, highlighting her porcelain complexion.

“In my culture, parents choose partner. Ask your dad.”

Hana gulped and bit her lip. Robert McIntyre died long ago and Hana knew even if he lived, her choice of partner wouldn’t be up for discussion. He made his opinion of her clear twenty-six years before when he attacked Vikram Johal. She straightened her spine and smiled at the thoughtful young man. “I’m glad about the job, James. Make sure you write to your mother and tell her. It’ll take the pressure of the school fees off her shoulders a little. Well done.”

James smiled. “Thank you muchly for your help.” He pressed his palms together and touched his nose with his middle fingers, dropping from the waist in an elegant bow. “I love you, Missus Johal,” he said.

Hana smiled and watched him leave the student centre. “I’m glad someone does,” she whispered.

Chapter 5

Mid-February arrived and the weather broke, bringing with it disappointment and the reminder that summer waned. Autumn threatened in a nonchalant, foreboding way. Crickets began their endless night calling, which added to the heaviness as something enjoyed, dwindled.

The morning started humid due to the rain; the evening not much better. The day proved too long already for Hana as she sought escape from work. She had struggled to catch up on paperwork after a frantic deluge of boys called into the office wanting help with subject changes before the deadline. Pressure increased with her workload for the guidance counselling staff, who required her to make appointments and take their phone calls while they led sessions for the boys.

With an empty house awaiting her, Hana put off the moment for leaving, aware of a yawning middle-aged loneliness seizing her. Her soul mate died, her chicks flew the nest and made nests of their own without her. Little else occupied her life apart from church, work and a passion for knitting strange things which never turned out like the picture on the pattern. Hana recognised a need for change and kept delaying the dreadful hour.

Evening settled on the school grounds, throwing long shadows out from the buildings and Hana’s striding figure, as she moved towards the chapel car park. That morning, with the radio station blaring out the Bee Gees and boys milling off buses, no hint of foreboding found a foothold. A storm brewed overhead, stripping out the daylight and creating a lonely, eerie atmosphere around Hana’s lone car. As she neared the passenger side, Hana sensed danger too late, already distracted by the sound of shifting feet grinding loose gravel near the front tyre.

Hana’s blood pounded in her ears and throat as a figure loomed up, seeming to rise out of the ground. The air choked with pervading evil. She smelled alcohol as a female voice swore at her, “Give it here, bitch!”

Hana’s handbag jerked away from her, taking her upper body with it as she clung on. Instinct made her turn her body sideways and let out a small cry, refusing to let go. In response, she received a violent push from the woman, who let out another curse. Clutching her bag tighter, Hana released the less important item in her arms and there followed the startling crash of breaking pottery. The office plant hit the concrete floor and smashed into myriad tinkling pieces, needing resurrecting rather than repotting. Her attacker started at the noise and hesitated, but she wasn’t alone. “Get it away from her!” the female hissed and renewed her tug-of-war action.

Hana heard heavy male breathing behind her and then the pressure on her handbag as he prised it from beneath her elbow. He jabbed her hard in the ribs with a sideways punch but still she clung on, revived by a fleeting picture of the contents of her bag. Her breath came in heaves of pain as he shoved her hard enough to dent the side wing of her passenger door, but her fingers clawed at the smooth leather. A lipstick popped from an open pocket and cracked underfoot and Hana gave a fortifying yank, fighting for her wallet, her keys, her driving licence and the picture of her daughter’s new baby. She gripped her bag with determination, slipping grasping fingers inside the zipper of the front pocket and resolving not to lose; whatever the cost.

As adrenaline helped Hana face the danger, her attackers assumed human shape. The large caucasian female possessed a hard, unkind face. Her male companion maintained a crazed look of purpose in his vivid blue eyes. The woman drew so near to Hana’s frightened face, she nauseated her with gin laden breath. Hard fingers closed around Hana’s throat, constricting and pinching whilst the male rived harder at the handbag. He grunted as he tugged at the leather strap, hearing the stitching tear beneath her shoulder.

“Let go or you’ll be sorry!” The woman’s stench made Hana hold her breath, negating the effect of the throttling. She heard the pottery crunch underfoot and clung to her bag with everything she possessed. As her head crashed back against the vehicle bodywork, she bit her lip and tasted blood. Hana gagged on the metallic tang and choked for breath.

“Hey, what the hell?” A sudden shout sounded in the guilty silence of the car park and the man’s grasp on the bag ended. A grunt followed and his body dropped to the ground. Oxygen flooded into Hana’s airway and she bent over gasping, still clutching her bag with a hysterical sense of achievement. Through her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the woman’s large shape waddling across the grass towards the road. She croaked out a warning but the ensuing chaos covered her feeble squeak.

When she looked at her feet, the male attacker lay prostrate on the floor, his right cheek pressed into the gravel. “It’s not over!” he growled and fear tightened her chest to painful proportions.

“Shut it!” A dark figure sat astride him, bending his thieving arm up his back. The sound of running and voices streamed from the lighted chapel as others arrived on the scene, milling around and joining the confusion. “Help me get him up. Don’t let go.”

Hana took a step backwards as several pairs of hands reached in to haul her attacker upright. She contacted the wide wing mirror for the second time that day and stifled a groan of pain. The urge to get into her vehicle and drive away felt overwhelming and a dreadful tremor began in her knees as the adrenaline withdrew. The media studies teacher pushed himself off the floor and Hana recognised Gwynne Jeffs’ friendly smile. But as the face of her attacker turned towards her, she saw a frightened teenager, eyes darting around with undisguised panic and the act of bravado gone.

Hana stared around, struggling to control the unfortunate tremble in her legs. She sank backwards against her car but taking the pressure off her legs just sent the shudder into her lower back. Her fingers strayed to her throat, which throbbed and felt sore to the touch. Her trembling fingers contacted stickiness. Hana fumbled in her handbag seeking a tissue and her fingers closed on the familiar glossy paper, out of which beamed her ecstatic daughter Isobel and her sleeping baby Elizabeth. With a force stronger than a body blow, it hit her. “They tried to steal my handbag.” Her voice sounded disjointed and strange.

Hana sensed the tears surface and shame blushed her cheeks. Six people stared in silence at her discomfort. Gwynne handed the teenager over to a man Hana recognised as a parent. “Don’t let him go!” he ordered. With a nod, the man shoved him forwards up the stairs to the meeting room above the chapel. The teenager tripped twice and the parent kept a tight hold, using the boy’s arm bent behind his back like a rudder. Hana covered her face with shaking fingers but jumped at a gentle pressure over her wrist. Gwynne kept his voice light, the Welsh accent familiar and comforting. “Come on, let’s get you into the light. You’re bleeding.”

Gwynne’s knees oozed from his scuffle with the attacker and shards of broken pottery clung to his hairy legs.

“I’m so sorry, what a mess.” Hana pointed at his wrecked skin. “It’s my fault.”

As they breached the stairs and light bathed them in a yellow glow, Hana saw blood staining Gwynne’s cricket whites and a large run beginning in the hem of his creamy pullover. He guided her up the steps with a tentative hand in the small of her back, but Hana faltered at the top. “Please, can I just go home? I don’t want a fuss.”

“The cops are coming.” Gwynne seized Hana’s arm and moved her forward.

Hana held her breath as she stepped over the threshold, dreading an audience to her misery. The bright room above the chapel buzzed with activity, but its occupants averted their gaze from her stricken face. “Did you get the cops, Eddie?” Gwynne asked the head of the sports department. He nodded his frizzy curls in reply and continued to speak into his mobile phone. Two members of his department sat either side of the teenager like bodyguards. Hana eyed her attacker from her position by the door, studying his slumped body language. She readied herself to run if he moved, fixating on his black jeans and dark blue hoodie from beneath her lashes. Feeling for a reflex of hatred inside her chest, she discovered only numbness towards him. The teenager nursed his right arm and looked smaller in captivity than in the terror of the car park scene.

“Take a seat, Hana.” Evie Douglas, one of the school’s guidance counsellors indicated a chair near the kitchenette and set about  producing tea-making noises with crockery and spoons.

Hana exhaled with relief and perched on the edge of the seat. “Where are the rest of the cricket team? I thought they might all be here.”

Gwynne frowned and patted Hana’s shoulder. He grimaced and wiped at the cuts on his knee with the fingers of his other hand. “No, thank goodness. Just a management briefing. We heard sounds from outside and went onto the balcony to investigate. I’m glad we did now.” He threw her a sideways smile. Hana closed her eyes against the realisation that help might not have arrived on a different night.

Her hand shook as she dabbed at her lip with a tissue, grateful for the tea Evie thrust into her hand, the chipped mug wobbled without control and spilled hot, burning liquid onto her skirt. Gwynne sat next to her on one of the hard backed visitors’ chairs, scowling across at the teenager but saying nothing. A few times he shook his head and tutted. Hana felt grateful for the lack of conversation and concentrated on not letting her drink shake out of her hand.

The police refrained from using sirens but appeared within fifteen minutes with radios, notebooks, and questions. A female officer talked Hana through the event. She looked unsurprised when Hana apologised and brushed tears away. They rolled down her cheeks and swollen neck, spreading blood stains from her cut lip onto her blouse.

“We’ll take you to the police station on Bridge Street,” the officer said. “Perhaps one of your colleagues can drive your car home? I need the police surgeon to photograph your injuries and check you out. We’ve got a special unit; there’s no need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive it for you,” Eddie McLay volunteered. “Evie will drop me back here for my car. Do you have a spare set of keys at home?”

Hana nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the front door key off the bunch and use Vic’s set tomorrow.” Her chin wobbled at the sound of her husband’s name. “Please can you leave mine in the mail room?”

Hana filled the uneventful journey to the police station with recriminations. Somehow, she managed to make everything her fault.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” the officer asked as the police surgeon finished examining Hana’s throat and lip.

Hana shook her head and winced as the doctor pressed her sore ribs. “Not broken,” the medic concluded. “Just bruised. Good news is they heal but the bad news is they hurt while they do it. They protect your breathing muscles which are always moving.”

“There must be someone,” the police officer pressed. “You won’t want to be alone tonight.”

“There’s nobody,” Hana admitted, staring at the tiled floor and pushing her misery behind a mask of indifference. “My son’s a policeman in the north and my daughter can’t come home in a hurry. She has a tiny baby and lives in Invercargill.”

With desolation pricking at her soul, Hana walked into the clinical waiting room at the front of the building. Darkness shrouded the street outside and she shivered.

“I’ll drive you home,” the police woman offered. “Unless you have a friend you can stay with?”

Hana’s spine tightened at the question and she sighed in defeat. “I don’t.”

“You could go to Anka’s house.” Gwynne rose from a grey, ripped bench. He smiled and his Welsh lilt sounded more pronounced because of his tiredness. His face showed strain. “I’ll drive you. They’ve taken my statement.”

The police officer nodded and looked at her watch. “Take my card,” she said, pressing the white rectangle into Hana’s fingers. “My name’s Shelley and I’ll be in touch.” Her gaze passed over Hana’s handbag, which sported a rip from zipper to seam and a missing pocket from the front.

“Please just take me home,” Hana begged and with a nod, Gwynne drove in silence. She offered halting directions and he made the turns until cutting the engine on her driveway.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked and reached for her hand.

“Yes.” Hana stared at his hairy fingers and covered the awkwardness by using both hands to squash her handbag closed and shove it under her arm. Gwynne withdrew his hand and let it fall into his lap. Hana glanced up at the dark frontage of her home. “I should start leaving lights on,” she rebuked herself. “I didn’t expect to be so late.”

Gwynne walked her to the door, standing back as Hana leaned in and put the entry lights on. “I can take a look around, if you want,” he offered.

“I’m fine,” Hana said, faking joviality and pretending to brush off the night’s events.

Gwynne narrowed his eyes with doubt. “You should have a glass of something strong before you try to sleep,” he advised with a smile.

The silence of her bedroom almost overpowered Hana as she readied herself for bed. Tears soaked her pillow as loneliness and exhaustion mingled in her tortured thoughts.

***

GWYNNE SIGHED AS HE started the engine of his truck and it roared to life on the steep gradient of Hana’s driveway. Disappointment ate away at his heart. Disappointment and regret at the state of the world. His phone rang and he grappled to retrieve it from his jacket pocket. “Hey Eddie,” he said with a sigh. “Yeah, I just dropped Hana home.” His brow furrowed at something the other teacher said and his reply sounded terse. “No, she didn’t invite me in. Stop it, man. She’s had a terrible shock.” He backed the truck out one handed into the dark street and shook his head, watching for traffic. “Yeah, it makes ya sick, doesn’t it?” He trapped the phone between his chin and shoulder and cranked the gear leaver into first. “Hana didn’t recognise the kid; she probably never came across him. Yeah, of course I told the cops. I had high hopes for that boy and then his mother pulled him out of school.” Gwynne swore and checked the road at the intersection. “I’m on my way home. Don’t say anything to Hana for now. See what the cops do.”

He turned right and drove home, his heart heavy for a multitude of reasons.

Chapter 6

Hana arrived at work late the next morning, flustered and apologetic. She failed to cover the angry welts on her throat or the tender cut on her lower lip, despite desperate efforts in the mirror. Angus accosted her as soon as her feet hit the parquet floor of the reception. “A quick word, Hana,” he said, ushering her into his inner sanctum.

Hana sent up a silent prayer he wouldn’t require the gory details and wasn’t disappointed. Angus settled into his worn leather chair and eyed her over steepled fingers. “Take a few days of leave on full pay while your injuries heal,” he suggested.

Hana took a moment to contemplate her empty home and far too much time spent gawking in the mirror. She anticipated the unhealthy cycle of staring, prodding, crying and staring some more at her sore parts. “No thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep busy. I’ll stay in the office, so nobody sees me; I know I look hideous.”

“Hana, Hana, that’s not even a consideration. Do whatever you think best but go home if you feel unwell.”

Her morning went fast. Hana was thankful for the activities which kept her mind off the night’s events and the disquiet she found creeping into her thoughts at inopportune moments. She took a phone call from the nice police lady around mid-morning. “We’re still pursuing our enquiries, Mrs Johal. The youth apprehended last night won’t talk. He’s going through the magistrates’ court this afternoon, but I think he’ll just get a slap on the wrist or youth custody. I’ll keep you updated though.”

Hana thanked Shelley for her promise and fervently hoped she wouldn’t. She nursed a desire to never hear another word about it. On that note, she avoided the staffroom teeming with people and gossip, choosing to take her short breaks in the relative safety of the student centre.

Logan Du Rose sat at the table nearest the ranch slider, marking exercise books with a frown as Hana slipped past on the way to the post room. She clutched a scarf to her bruised throat and skittered by, dreading the attention of his unnerving grey eyes. Skirting the kitchen, she focussed on the rear doors, allowing herself five minutes before the next bell rang for lesson change. Logan ran his right hand through his hair and from the corner of her eye, Hana noticed the dark, glossy curls tumble over his long fingers.

“Oh, bloody hell!” There was a crash as the double doors at the end of the staffroom opened into her face and a large, fleshy body cannoned into Hana, sending her flying backwards into the staff whiteboard.

Hana grunted in pain as her back contacted the metal and it bent underneath her. A whoosh of air left her lungs and her ribs sent out distress signals which bent her body into a ball of pain. The staff member she collided with drew herself up to her full height and glared at Hana with spiteful, gimlet eyes. “You support staffs is useless,” Alberta Lenska screeched in her broken English. She waved a chemistry textbook in Hana’s face. “Stupid leetle voman! You bend it.”

Hana moaned an apology and forced her body upright, performing a mental check to see if her poor body had shattered under the second onslaught in less than twenty-four-hours. The whiteboard behind her made popping noises as gravity reshaped it. Alberta pushed her threatening face into Hana’s, ignoring the shortened breaths issuing from Hana’s lungs or the look of agony on her face. The terrifying Russian woman was capable of reducing both students and staff to tears with her jaded outlook on life and unsmiling persona. In fifteen years, Hana witnessed enough whiplash injuries from Alberta’s violent tongue to know she should extricate herself from the situation with haste.

“It was an accident; I’m sorry,” Hana managed as the woman loomed in front of her. She pressed herself backwards, smelling the whiteboard marker pen as it transferred itself to her white blouse.

“Just get out of way!” Alberta bit. “I need to see board!” She advanced, shoving Hana roughly aside like flotsam. Hana’s face reddened with humiliation at seeing Logan’s distinctive cowboy boots appear behind the Russian.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, advancing into the chemistry teacher’s personal space and dwarfing her. “Don’t talk to her like that!”

Alberta fluffed up like an offended porcupine and her eyes bulged. She lifted her famous prodding finger and Logan shook his head. “Keep it to yourself,” he said, his tone acerbic. He offered his hand to Hana and she gripped the long fingers, allowing him to ease her free from the tiny space between Alberta and the whiteboard. She edged around the chemistry teacher’s florid body and found her flushed cheek against Logan’s hard chest. He kept hold of Hana’s hand and leaned in towards Alberta’s face, his voice deep and resonant. Hana gulped. “If I ever hear you speak to anyone in this school like that again, I’ll put in a formal disciplinary complaint.”

Alberta bristled and stuck her nose in the air. “Nobody listen to support staffs,” she smirked. “They is nothing. Is been tried before.” Her multiple chins wobbled and the blonde bun bounced on the back of her head. She glanced in Hana’s direction with a look of sly victory. Logan jerked his head towards Hana.

“Not her, me!” He took a step closer to Alberta and Hana shimmied sideways, unable to break the grip of his hand on hers. “I’m not scared of you, lady. Do you wanna test me?”

The colour faded from Alberta’s face and the chemistry book shook in her hand. Hana steeled herself for the woman to throw one of her familiar tantrums, but for once it didn’t come. Power surged from Logan’s body and the other two staff members in the room watched in fascination as Alberta shook her head. “No. You is not scared of anyone.” She lowered her eyes to Hana’s face and wariness replaced spite. “Excuse me,” she said to Hana with a modicum of politeness and waited for her to move.

Hana exhaled a ragged breath and shifted from in front of the list of events on the whiteboard. Her whole body trembled and she peered in confusion at Logan’s hand. His olive fingers were long and beautifully formed, but ruined by myriad cuts and scars which criss-crossed the flesh as though he’d pushed his hand through glass. She felt the scarf at her neck slip and snatched her hand back, working the soft material into a knot to cover her throat injury. The cut on her bottom lip oozed and she pressed her top teeth over it, desperate to hide her weakness. “Thank you,” she whispered in a small voice. Without looking up, she turned and ran from the room. The English teacher’s grey eyes bored into her back as she let the double doors slam behind her, taking refuge in the bathroom instead of the post room.

Seeking refuge in the furthest cubicle, it was fortunate she couldn’t see the back of her white blouse which now bore the words ‘Swimming Sports’ backwards in purple whiteboard marker. Hana peered at her hand in confusion, aware of the thrill of electricity which still coursed through her fingers. She lifted them to her nose and smelled the faint scent of aftershave. Despite herself, she smiled.

Chapter 7

The next day heralded a visitor from a North Island catering college and Miss Henrietta Dawlish arrived on the dot of twelve o’clock, in plenty of time to set up in the common room. Anka phoned Hana from reception, holding her hand over the receiver. “That massive woman’s here,” she stage-whispered. “She’s even bigger than last year.”

Anka pulled a face from behind the counter as Hana glided downstairs and shook Miss Dawlish’s meaty hand. Then she turned her attention to a dying student bearing the hallmarks of ‘Sickness-of-PE-Disease.’ He gripped the counter and gesticulated towards the sick bay. “I’m not ringing your parents again!” Anka exclaimed. “You’ll have to do PE at some point in the next five years.”

“How many boys do we have this year?” Miss Dawlish asked. “Last year saw a tremendous turnout. Nobody enrolled though; very strange.”

“A few boys expressed an interest,” Hana lied and fixed a smile onto her lips. Miss Dawlish’s talks were dull, although the previous year a rainstorm provided the incentive to sit indoors. The boys grew bored when they realised the college representative intended to talk about food and not actually provide any. “She ate ‘em herself,” one boy remarked. “Then she ate the baker.”

“Such a long way up,” Miss Dawlish puffed, hauling herself up the stairs and clinging feverishly to the banister. Her mound of fluffy hair breached the last step, attached to her nodding and perspiring head. She reached her destination gasping and pretended to look through the floor length windows. “More stairs than last year,” she grumbled, forcing Hana to halt in surprise. She showed no real interest in the panoramic views of the rugby, soccer and cricket fields, but used the time to catch her breath and mop her damp brow.

“I’ll fetch you a glass of water,” Hana offered, wincing at the spreading sweat stain under the woman’s armpits. “Just wait there for a moment; I’ll be quick.” She hovered in the doorway for a second, wondering if she should get the designated first aider as Miss Dawlish heaved in giant breaths and shuddered on her tiny feet.

Making for the water cooler, Hana noticed Peter North sitting on the veranda picking fluff from his belly button. Hana groaned. He’d forgotten the sixty curious male occupants watching from their study period in the Year 13 common room. Anka wandered in for her lunch break and Hana called to her. “Can you stop Pete from making a fool of himself? The Year 13s are watching him through the window again.”

Anka strode towards the balcony doors, turning to give Hana a wink. “Call me on my mobile phone if you need the defibrillator for your guest. It’s in my office.”  She stepped out onto the balcony and Hana heard her loud rebuke, “Pete you dirty pig, stop that! No! Don’t eat it!”

Miss Dawlish stood in the same spot when Hana returned, but her breathing sounded regular. Hana sighed with relief. “Through here,” she said, indicating the doors to the common room. “Start setting your data projector up and I’ll grab an extension cord from the office.”

Hana scrabbled around in the corner cupboard, bending to reveal a curvaceous pair of legs as she searched for the cord. “Come on, I know you’re here somewhere,” she muttered to herself.

“Nice legs,” Pete commented as he ambled into the room behind her. “Shame about the face.”

“Shame about your face!” Hana retorted, yanking hard on the tangled spaghetti of cables and plugs. She stood up and rounded on Pete, brushing her curls away from her face while clinging to the extension cable. Gulping, she faced a victorious Pete and the grey-eyed English teacher.

“What about my face?” Pete demanded. “It’s lovely.” He stroked his own cheek and Hana grimaced as he found a spot and began to pick at it.

“Nothing.” She inhaled. “Nothing at all.” Her gaze flicked towards Logan and she watched his eyes narrow as they caressed the cut to her lip. Anger flashed across his face, leaving a trail of heightened colour. Hana pulled the neck scarf closer to hide the horrid marks on her throat, self-consciousness blossoming. Logan’s lips parted as though desperate to question her, but Hana evaded his piercing grey eyes with painful deliberateness. Between them the men blocked the door to the common room and Hana felt panic flutter in her breast at Logan’s magnetic proximity. His familiar Māori authority snaked across the room towards her, enveloping her in his mana, the ethereal sense of power which came with tribal leadership. Instinct told her that within his culture, he held great importance to someone.

“Who’s the hottie out there, aye?” Pete asked, jerking his chin upwards. Hana looked at him in confusion and Logan Du Rose peered at his friend, his lips parting in surprise.

“What? Who?” Hana said.

“Woman out there bending over.” To Hana’s horror, Pete held cupped hands up to his chest and wiggled his fingers in a graphical display. “Gorgeous!”