Stolen Lust Page 14

  “Shower,” he says again, taking us a few steps back as if he never threatened me.

  We shower and dress together. I use the hairdryer in the bathroom to dry my hair. My hair is thick. It takes an insanely long time to dry. When I finally step out of the bathroom, the linen is stripped from the bed and the kitchen is clean. The dirty sheets are neatly folded and stacked on the counter next to the dishcloths and towels. The floor is spotless.

  Ian offers me a hand. “Come.”

  His smile is warm, encouraging. He’s wearing a clean set of clothes while I’m dressed in the outfit of yesterday. A travel bag is thrown over his uninjured shoulder and a gun peeks from the waistband of his jeans. In his other hand, he holds a piece of paper.

  When did he fetch the gun? Last night when he ordered me to the shower? I glance at the weapon again and swallow. If Ian was any other man, I would’ve grabbed that gun, but he’s too strong, too fast, too clever. Now that the opportunity presents itself, the reality is very different to my opportunistic dreaming. Considering overpowering him last night was nothing but wishful thinking.

  A note of impatience slips into his voice. “Cas.”

  When I place my palm in his, he pulls me closer and pushes the paper in my free hand.

  I look at the folded sheet. “What is this?”

  “Yours.”

  “What?” I frown, turning the paper over.

  “Open it.” He lets my hand go to allow me to execute the order.

  Carefully, I unfold the paper. It’s a bank statement. In my name. Five million rand. My heart stops beating. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an offshore account. The police shouldn’t be able to trace it.”

  “Why?” The beat of my heart resumes painfully. “A buyoff?” Bribe money to keep my mouth shut?

  He traces my jaw with a thumb. “I’d never try to buy you.”

  “What then?” I ask as pride ignites my anger. “Payment for last night?”

  He winces like I’ve punched him in the face. “You’re not a fucking prostitute.”

  “Then why?” I exclaim. “Because I lost my job?”

  He watches me quietly. “I set that up before I knew about your job.”

  I won’t let this go. “If not to buy my silence, why are you doing this? To ease your guilt?”

  His statement is flat. “I don’t suffer from guilt.”

  No, I guess he doesn’t, or he wouldn’t be the most wanted criminal in the country. “You don’t owe me anything.” A promise not to make me look over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Not five million rand.

  “I want to give it to you,” he says with a soft expression.

  Five million—the worth of the money his gang stole from Sun City. “Why?”

  “Because I can.”

  Taking my arm, he leads me to the door. Just like that, the subject is closed for discussion. He shuts down, making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it any longer.

  The sun is rising, painting the tops of the thorn trees with a golden glow. The air is fresh, but it’ll turn warm and humid soon. Birds chirp above us in the Acacia trees. He looks around when he gets my door and helps me into his truck. He scans the distance as he takes the wheel. Seemingly satisfied that there are no lurking threats, he starts the engine and drives me home.

  Like the previous time, he stops a block from my apartment.

  Leaning over me, he takes a set of keys on a keychain from the glove compartment and hands them to me. “Your new keys.”

  I stare at the miniature fluffy, stuffed dog toy hanging from the chain.

  “The code for the alarm is 8613,” he says.

  He leaves the engine idling but gets out and comes around to kiss me goodbye. When he spears his fingers gently through my hair, cupping my head, something tears inside my chest. His gaze is a mixture of longing and belonging, a strange cocktail of having found and having lost. He grazes my cheek with his fingertips, capturing the contours of my face. The touch is so soft it’s barely there, but I feel it all the way to my heart. When he tilts my head, I go on tiptoes for him, meeting his lips halfway.

  He brushes our mouths together, whispering words into the caress. “Take care, baby doll.”

  I feel the loss of what could’ve been when he pulls away. The man who’s perfect for me is unobtainable. Wrong. On the run. It hurts to the core of my being.

  He offers me a crooked smile that deepens the laugh line running from his nose to the corner of his lip as he pulls his hand from my hair. Then he turns and gets back in his truck.

  The minute he takes the wheel, the smile slips. His expression turns hard and vicious. No more secrets bottled in private smiles. He pulls into the road and steps on the accelerator. He drives past me, not meeting my eyes or looking back.

  Our secrets are mine now, to carry alone.

  Chapter 14

  Ian

  My life isn’t pretty. I’ve done a lot of ugly and difficult deeds, but driving away from Cas is the hardest thing I’ve done. It’s the right thing though. I’ve screwed enough with her life, so I push my selfish urges aside and point the nose of the truck toward town.

  Before I leave, I need to take care of business. I get the task over with, knowing Cas is going to hate it when she finds out, but that’s the way I play. Once my mind has been made up, I don’t back down.

  When the unpleasantness is settled, I take care of some shopping and head for the Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria. It’s a short hour and twenty minutes’ drive. The pilot charters a Cessna, and he turns a blind eye to formalities for a big enough sum of money.

  Within two hours and fifteen minutes, we land at The Victoria Falls Airport in Zimbabwe. Leon is waiting in the parking lot. He gives me a cold look as I dump my bags in the back of the open-top Safari Jeep but says nothing as he takes the wheel. We make the bumpy drive to the lodge I own on the banks of the Zambezi River, a stone-throw away from Zambian border. The location isn’t only ideal for money laundering but also for obtaining illegal weapons.

  The old tourist lodge is made up of a main thatched building and five individual bungalows overlooking the river. A staff of four people runs the place, but we rarely receive visitors these days. No tourists. All four of the employees are lined up at the entrance when we arrive. Some of the weight lifts from my heart. They’re like family and the only people besides Leon and Ruben I trust with my life.

  Leon goes inside, leaving me to say my hellos. I grasp my right elbow with my left hand in the customary sign of respect and shake each one’s hand—Shona, my cook and housekeeper, Garai, the ranger, Wataida, the gardener and grounds keeper, and Banga, who’s something between a PA and a CFO.

  “Dumêla,” I say, greeting them in Tswana. “How are you keeping up?”

  “The lioness had cubs,” Garai says. “Better stay away from the bushes next to the river.”

  Wataida lifts my bag from the Jeep.

  “Leave the shopping bag,” I say. “That’s for Vimbo.”

  “Yes, Baba.”

  “How’s the antelope?” I ask, making my way inside.

  “The colony’s still big enough for the felines to hunt,” Garai says, walking beside me, “but the kudu bull is getting old. He’s not mounting the cows.”

  I nod. “Find a good supplier. Make sure the herd doesn’t have diseases before you buy.”

  He clicks his tongue. “You telling me how to do my job now, Baba?”

  The title warms my chest. It means father, not in the literal sense, but as an affectionate term of respect for someone with a valued social role or of an older age.

  I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The staff follows as I cross the lobby. The spacious reception hall is sparkling clean. Zebra skins cover the polished clay floor. We don’t hunt, but if we have to cull to maintain the carefully balanced ecosystem, we use every part of the animal we have to sacrifice as a way of honoring its life. The meat goes to the lion
s, the bones to the hyenas, and the hides to the tanner. Call me a psychopath, but I care a lot more for animals than humans. Animals are born good. They die good. They’re not like me.

  Usually, we use electricity sparingly and save energy where we can, but the ostrich egg lampshades burn in my honor. So does the chandelier with a similar eggshell decoration. Hand-carved wooden benches with lion motives in the back rests and claws for armrests line the walls. The cushions covers are woven from colorfully died wool. The place screams luxury safari.

  When I bought it, it was falling to pieces. The political climate and civil unrests scared away tourists. The small community living on the property helped rebuild the lodge. Little by little, we restored it to its former glory and rebalanced the ecosystem. The money I poured into the project saved the tribe from starvation, but that’s not what bought me their loyalty. It’s working to maintain the animals and the land that won me their lifelong dedication. We share the same passion for the land. Africa is part of our blood. It flows through our veins.

  I inhale the scent of the grass and the soil when I step onto the deck with my entourage in tow. Leon and Ruben had hidden out at the chalet in Lesotho for a couple of days before crossing the border into Zim. They would’ve only gotten here a few hours ago. Ruben sits on a deckchair, drinking a beer. A few more cans are stacked in a small metal tub filled with ice by his feet. Next to him, three rifles are propped up against the table. He salutes when he sees me.

  Leon goes over and cracks open a can, watching me with a broody look from over the rim as he drinks. I tune him out. Our discussion can wait.

  The sound of the river cutting a broad path toward the falls rushes in my ears. A lion grunts somewhere. A monkey swings down from the African Ebony tree and dashes over the deck to snatch one of the Madeira loaf cakes Shona has put out on the garden table. She grabs the grass broom leaning against the wall and chases the monkey away with colorful insults in Tswana. The little creature protests loudly and bares its teeth.

  I smile.

  This is home.

  For the first time in months, I relax. I let nature seep into my bones. It’s been too long.

  “The roof needs thatching,” Shona says. “The women can cut when the grass is dry.”

  I don’t tilt my head to the roof. I trust her judgment. “Do it.”

  “It’s good to have you back, Baba,” Garai says, patting my shoulder.

  Scattering into different directions, they leave us to enjoy our little welcome home party of Madeira cake and beer.

  The peace and quiet don’t last long.

  When I go over to the table, Leon takes a beer from the ice tub and slams it down in front of me. Stretching and cracking my neck, I give him a smile. The flare of his nostrils tells me the gesture infuriates him. Fine. He’s not feeling friendly. I can’t blame him.

  Ruben gets up and goes to check on a fishing rod in a holder planted in the mud next to the river. The line and bobber float peacefully on the water. No bites. He’s just giving Leon and me space to sort out our shit.

  I ease myself into one of the deck chairs and give Leon my full attention. “How did it go?”

  He crosses his arms. “I should ask you the same thing.”

  Fuck that. Cas isn’t any of his business. She’s no one’s but mine. “Did you order the equipment?”

  “The guy will confirm when he can deliver.”

  I take the can and crack it open. “Good.” The beer foams over the rim, thanks to Leon’s slamming.

  “You shouldn’t have gone back for her.”

  I don’t reply, because he’s right.

  “You took a hell of a risk.”

  I don’t deny this truth either.

  “You’re fucking lucky you’re here,” he says.

  Yep.

  “There are enough pretty girls here to fuck. Get this pussy craving out of your system and don’t fuck with our lives again.”

  Putting the beer aside, I stand. “Anything else?”

  His look is hard. “That about sums it up.”

  I grab a rifle and go down the steps.

  “I was worried about you,” he calls after me.

  I stop and turn. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Do I need to worry more?” he asks, caution creeping into his dark eyes.

  “Leave the worrying to me. That’s my job.”

  He clamps his lips together.

  Ruben shoots me an expressionless look.

  Turning my back on them, I follow the path to the main bungalow. The biggest of the five, it sits on a grassy bank that faces the river. The big deck in the front allows for spectacular sunset views. The deck is open in the front and covered with thatch at the back for use in rainy weather. Watching the river when the skies pour down is a sight to behold.

  A bedroom sits on the left-hand side of the deck and a bathroom on the right. The rooms are spacious and luxurious. The walls are adorned with ethnic motives. The clay floors are polished to a deep, burgundy shine. Large windows frame the magnificent vista. Leon and Ruben each occupies two of the four smaller bungalows, and Shona and Banga live in the others. Garai and Wataida stay with their families in the huts on the eastern border of the property.

  My bag is already on the chest at the foot-end of the bed, courtesy of Wataida. I pull on a clean T-shirt and walk back to the main lodge. Next to the building, under an awning, we keep the vehicles. Taking the Jeep, I head in the direction of the fence on the far western side of the property.

  It’s summer, and the grass is tall. It’s more difficult to spot the game, but after an hour’s drive, I find the lioness where she’s playing with her cubs under a tree. I park a good distance away and cut the engine. The peace I can never find in the city flows back into my veins as I watch them through my binoculars. I make sure to stay down-wind from the rhinos grazing on the hill, but they know I’m here. Like the lions, they’re used to the noise of the vehicle.

  When the sun starts to dip, I make my way back to the eastern side and check on the new solar panels that replaced the diesel generator we had to rely on for power until recently. The panels are on the fenced land next to the tribe’s crops where the maize stands high. A small patch of sorghum shines green in the yellow light of the late afternoon sun.

  The kids coming home from playing in the field wave when they see the Jeep. The eldest, Vimbo, comes running.

  “Baba,” he says. “How was South Africa?”

  I grab the shopping bag with the books from the back and hand it to him. He takes it with a grin, but his smile drops when he peers inside.

  “Books?” he says, giving me a look that says, Are you serious?

  I smile. “I’m going to test you on each of them.”

  He makes a face.

  “As your reward, you also get this.” I hand him the bag with the candy and chocolates.

  He yanks it from my hand. “Thank you, Baba.”

  My, “You’re welcome,” is lost as he runs to share the loot with the circle of kids waiting at the cattle gate.

  When I drive past, they’re crouched on the ground, counting out the candy and dividing the spoils equally among the six of them.

  Smiling to myself, I drive back to the lodge and park the Jeep before grabbing my toolbox from the storeroom. Tools in hand, I head over to the boma enclosure at the back of the main building to see what the problem is with the generator.

  I’ve got all the parts unscrewed and spread out on a canvas when Ruben walks up with a duffle bag. The bag kicks up a cloud of dust when he drops it at his feet.

  He glances around and says under his breath, “I’m going to the casino.”

  The Livingstone Casino sits on the Zambian side. That’s where we launder most of the money. That’s Ruben’s specialty and why I took him on board. He may not say much—he’s not a big talker—but he’s connected in all the right places. The man has more contacts than a secret agent. God only knows how he makes his connections, because he sure as hell doesn’
t do it through networking. At least not by exercising his jaw muscles and using actual words.

  “Border?” I ask, removing the last nut and bolt. The malfunction seems to be due to a rusted slip ring that’s not turning.

  “The guards on duty are ours.”

  As long as we pay a regular kickback, the border patrol and airport staff let us move around freely.

  I nod.

  He picks up the bag and leaves to deliver the money. I’m not worried about sending him alone. All three of us—Leon, Ruben, and me—work as well independently as together. We know how to take care of ourselves.

  I roll the bits and pieces up in the canvas and cover the slip ring with baking soda to deoxidize. After washing up in the guest bathroom, I meet Banga in the office off to the side of the reception hall so he can brief me on the expenses and provisions.

  By the time we’re done, the rhythmic echo of drums sounds outside. I walk out onto the deck. The tribe is gathered around a big fire on the lawn in front of the river. Tea candles in brown paper bags light the path, and lanterns hang from the branches of the trees. The men are drumming and the women dancing, their beaded skirts shaking like musical rattles.

  A diesel drum cut lengthwise in half and welded onto an A-frame is already filled with glowing hardwood coals. The familiar smell of smoke from Acacia wood rises in the air. Meat will soon sizzle on the fire, and the beer will flow freely tonight. The barbecue is a welcoming tradition. Owning several hideouts in various African countries, I’m away for months at a time, but of all the places where we lie low, this one is my favorite. This is the only place where I feel I can sprout roots.

  Leon sits in a chair on the darker outskirts of the circle with his face in the shadows, nursing a drink. I drag a chair closer and sit next to him.

  He leans over and pulls a bottle of rum from a cooler box next to his chair. “Drink?” Leaving his glass in the holder in the armrest of his camping chair, he pours a rum and Coke over ice that he hands me. “Cheers.”

  Stretching out my legs, I cross my ankles and sink deeper into the chair. The semi-permanent tension in my shoulders gives. Crickets chirp in the grass, reminding me of another night and a pool in Rustenburg, South Africa.