A Wedding in Africa (The Africa Series) (5 page)

But Lacey Van der Zyl. Now
she
was a different kind of woman. Bright, funny, independent – and sexy as hell! And he’d just seen another side to her that he really liked - she was a complete natural with children. He could tell that from the way Themba had warmed to her. Trusted her. Kids were smart. Smarter than adults half the time. Yet Themba had been completely at ease with her. So she must be okay. Mustn’t she?

Tate had liked seeing her with the boy. It gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. A taste of how things
could
have been.
Should
have been. If only the dumb adults hadn’t gone and screwed everything up. Trashed everything. And for what? Even today, Tate couldn’t really answer that question.

‘Wow! These are absolutely stunning.’

 

Tate rested the painting on the dining table and angled it so that its vibrant acrylic colours caught the light. ‘Pretty impressive, huh?’

Lacey looked closely at the canvas and shook her head in disbelief. ‘Incredible! They’re so rich, so exciting. What’s the name of the artist again?’

‘Moses Sibisi. He was born in the Transvaal, but now lives in Jo’burg. This series is called “Rainbow Nation”. It’s a kind of ethnic study, celebrating the Xhosa and Zulu tribes here in South Africa.’

Lacey lifted a second painting off the table and held it upright so that she could enjoy the rustic patterns and movement. ‘They’re perfect for the lodges, Tate. Absolutely perfect. I love them’

Tate grinned. ‘I figured you would. I was bowled over when they sent me Sibisi’s catalogue.’

 

Lacey looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’d love to see the catalogue. Have you still got it?’

‘It’s knocking around here somewhere,’ Tate rummaged in the paperwork of his makeshift office in one of the lodges. ‘Yep! Here it is. Actually, that’s a good idea. I can show you each of the series and you can tell me which lodge to put them in. There’s one on landscapes and another on African body art. You’ll like that series. It’s really cool!’

Lacey smiled at his irrepressible excitement. There was no doubting his love for Africa and its people, and she found that quality immensely appealing. It was something she’d never really shared with her fiancé. For Mortimer, the real Africa was something that just happened to look good on a postcard or the front cover of a magazine. He recognised its commercial potential, but he never really saw it as a place that could capture someone’s heart.

As far as he was concerned, if ever a job opportunity came up in Europe or America, he’d jump at the chance. Not that it ever would, Lacey thought wryly. After all, it would have to be a pretty amazing job offer to match the kind of money that her father was paying him. He was practically family, as Jasper always said, and his salary should match that status.

But then, of course, as his future wife, it was in her interest to keep her fiancé tethered to the land that she loved. Because, unlike Mortimer, Lacey felt quite sure that she would simply wither and die if she were ever uprooted from her beloved homeland.

‘Here we go,’ Tate flicked through the pages of the book on his lap and patted the space on the sofa next to him. ‘Come and check this out. Now
that
is what I call African art.’

Lacey perched on the seat next to him. She would have preferred to sit at the other end of the sofa, but she wouldn’t have been able to see the paintings in the catalogue. Instead, she clamped her knees together and tried to ignore the fact that her right leg was pressed against Tate’s thigh and that the skin on her right arm was brushing against the hair on his.

‘Body art is really strange,’ she said, concentrating on the pictures of women whose faces were painted in natural pigments of ochre, red and yellow. ‘Those women look amazing.’

‘Some body art is designed to ward off evil spirits – like this one here but a lot of it’s just decoration. A kind of fashion statement, you could say. It’s also a method of seduction. It makes a woman more attractive to men. This woman here has painted her breasts to entice her man. The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance!’

Lacey laughed, but she didn’t feel at ease. She was acutely conscious that she could feel the heat from Tate’s body through her thin cotton dress, and she could smell his warm, earthy scent. He was intoxicating and she knew it was dangerous to even sit beside him, let alone engage in idle chatter about primitive methods of seduction!

She licked her lips, conscious that her mouth was completely dry, and hurriedly shifted the conversation back to safer ground. ‘I think these paintings would look better in the smallest lodge - the one right on the river bank. I don’t really know why, but when you showed it to me the other day, it felt more cosy, more intimate.’

‘You noticed that?’ Tate turned to look at her. Grey eyes smouldered beneath thick, black lashes. ‘That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. It was designed with honeymooners, couples…. lovers… in mind.’

He said the last words quietly, almost as a whisper, and his breath fanned Lacey’s cheeks as he spoke. Warmth flooded her belly, and she clamped her knees even tighter together in a bid to quell the torrent of unruly emotions that assailed her.

She prayed that Tate couldn’t sense her turmoil as he leaned back and threaded his arm along the back of the sofa. Lounging quite comfortably, legs apart and stretched out in front of him, Lacey couldn’t begin to imagine how he managed to look so relaxed, so casual, while she was positively steaming with embarrassment.

She sat bolt upright on the very edge of the chair, eyes firmly fixed on the pages of the catalogue, her lips sealed in a tight line.

She could sense Tate watching her with that lazy, sexy smile that had no doubt melted a thousand women’s hearts before hers. Well she was made of sterner stuff. And it would take more than movie-star good looks and the body of an Adonis to steer her away from her chosen path.

She was engaged to be married. Fact!

 

It was something she had to do for her father’s sake. Fact!

And it was probably the only way she was ever going to rid herself of the massive burden of guilt that she carried around with her every single day of her life. Fact!

So there was no way on earth that she was going to allow her head to be turned by some divinely seductive man she’d only just met …Fact?

‘Tell me about Themba,’ she said, standing up and moving towards the open veranda. He was such a lovely little boy that she was dying to know more about him.

‘There’s nothing to tell. He’s a great kid. That’s about it.’
‘Nandi’s a wonderful mother. You can see Themba adores her.’

‘A brilliant mother. A decent human being. Sure. I agree. Nandi’s great.’ Tate closed the catalogue and dropped it on to the sofa. He ran his fingers through his hair and followed her out on to the veranda.

Lacey glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘And Themba’s father?’ she asked, a tad nervously.

‘What about him?’
‘Well, is Nandi married?’
‘Nope.’
‘So… does Themba know who his father is?’

‘No!’ Tate growled, visibly irritated by her probing. ‘And that’s the way it’s going to stay, Lacey. Now get your things, please. I need to get back to work.’

With that, Tate turned round and strode back into the lodge. He gathered up his paperwork and grabbed the keys to the truck. ‘Ready to go?’ he demanded, without waiting for an answer. ‘Jabu! Kaya! Get your butts back here. Now!’

The two dogs came bounding up from the river, still tussling over a disputed piece of wood. Tate snatched it from them and clicked his fingers. Obediently, both animals leapt up into the back of the truck. He then chucked the twig in with them so they could carry on playing with it.

The drive back was awful and Lacey bitterly regretted trying to pry. But, at the same time, she felt annoyed that Tate should refuse point blank to acknowledge his own son. What kind of a man would do that? And Themba was such a darling little boy. She couldn’t understand why Tate refused to recognise him as his own flesh and blood.

But then this was a man whose life revolved around money rather than friends and family. Tate measured the worth of everything in monetary terms. He’d probably already decided that forking out a fortune to pay for his son’s education more than discharged any parental obligations he might have. Not the kind of family loyalty that Lacey could ever subscribe to. And yet it was another contradiction that made this infuriating man quite impossible to fathom.

Luckily, Lacey told herself as she stared out of the passenger window, the ability to understand the enigma that was Tate Maddox wasn’t part of her job description - thank goodness! All she had to do was get the story for the magazine, and then she could get the hell out of this strangely seductive paradise.

And then she could forget all about Tate Maddox and his magical Matshana.

That evening, as she sat in her room staring at her open laptop, Lacey discovered that eliminating a man like Tate Maddox from her thoughts was easier said than done. She’d been working on her book and, to her surprise, she’d realised that her romantic hero had begun to adopt some of Tate’s own words and mannerisms.

How ridiculous was that?

It was just that… well, he would have made such an excellent romantic hero. Sub-consciously, she couldn’t help using him as a model for her own character. She’d even changed her character’s eyes to slate-grey because…. well, Tate did have the most seductive eyes she’d ever seen. And they were just right for her own lead character.

She smiled at her girlish fantasies. She wasn’t going to beat herself up about it. It didn’t really matter that much. After all, Tate Maddox wasn’t copyrighted material, so why shouldn’t she use him as a role model? And, let’s face it, it was his own fault for being so impossibly good looking!

Other than that one, minor lapse into self-indulgence, Lacey’s book was shaping up nicely. She could almost smell and taste the images of eighteenth century Africa that she was painting with words. Her
own
words. Every single one of them chosen by solely by
her
and carefully woven into the delicate fabric of her book.

What a joy. What a complete and utter pleasure it was. And if someone were to actually publish it… why, it didn’t bear thinking about. Imagine thousands of other people that she didn’t even know would be able to read about her love of Africa, written in her very own words.

What a privilege that would be.
She just wished that she could share her dreams with someone special, but Jasper and Mortimer had made it quite clear that, as far as they were concerned, it was just some foolish fantasy that she’d forget all about when she was married. They used to tease her about it at first - but in an unfriendly, mocking kind of way that had made her feel a bit hurt and defensive. Then, when they saw that she was determined to keep going, they simply stopped mentioning it. In their eyes it was bad enough that she’d insisted on getting a job on the magazine. But all this drivel about being a writer and telling everyone about the
real
Africa and its people, and all that airy-fairy stuff - well, it just wasn’t what the normal women in Cape Town’s high society actually
did
. Surely she could see that?

Tate saw Lacey’s profile silhouetted against the open window as he came round the side of the house. The sun was low in the sky and its rays cast crimson lights on her fiery mane. She was sitting beside one of the metalwork lamps, and the soft glow from the light bulb cast tantalising shadows on her features.

She’d been really quiet at dinner and Tate felt bad about it. He shouldn’t have snapped at her like that down at the lodges. It was just that… she was getting too close for comfort and he’d just backed off without thinking. He didn’t want to talk about Themba. He didn’t want to share his thoughts and feelings. In fact, he didn’t want this woman to know anything about him. He couldn’t take the risk of opening up his heart, because too many people would get hurt in the process. It wasn’t the way he’d have chosen things to be. It was the way they
had
to be. And there was no point in moaning about it, or trying to change things.

He ran up the steps of the veranda and followed the curve of the house to Lacey’s room. He could hear her tapping away on that wretched laptop of hers. Did this woman never stop working? She must be a real asset in the Van der Zyl publishing empire. She was here to follow up a story, she’d said. And nothing was going to stand in her way, so it seemed.

Although he’d been annoyed, and perhaps a little surprised, by her dogged determination to wring the truth out of him about Themba, he’d also been impressed. She was like a terrier with a bone - wouldn’t give it up, no matter what the cost. A true investigative journalist. Jasper Van der Zyl would be proud of his daughter today. And some potentially juicy gossip about allegedly dodgy goings on with the servants at Matshana would be just what she needed to complete her story. Who knows - she might even be able to sell it on to one of those celebrity gossip rags. Really make a name for herself in the murky world of investigative journalism.

The mere thought of it turned his blood to ice.
But when he saw her at dinner, so quiet, so beautiful and gentle, he began to wonder whether he might actually be wrong about her. Maybe she was just genuinely interested in people. She clearly liked people clearly had a way with people. And she obviously loved little Themba. Maybe she’d just been making innocent conversation, showing a genuine interest in the lad, with no ulterior motive in mind.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge her harshly. Not all women were out to get what they could from a guy. Not all women were prepared to break hearts and destroy lives in pursuit of wealth and status. Maybe Lacey was one of those rare breeds of decent people who were honest and kind.

Boy, wouldn’t that be something!

Gently, Tate knocked on the door to her room, then pushed it open and stepped inside. She hadn’t heard him at first, and she carried on tapping away on her keyboard. He coughed to make his presence known and then moved closer until he could breathe in the scent of jasmine that clung to her skin.