When we parked in the garage, Nicholas turned to me and said, in a worried voice, “Erin, I…”
I didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. I climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and, ducking my head against the blowing rain, jogged along the walkway before entering the house. I ran along the wide, tiled corridor to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
I’d thought I’d end up crying but now, surprisingly, the tears would not come. I lay there for a while, trapped in my tangled thoughts, before sitting bolt upright.
The helicopter.
Damn it all.
I needed to call Vince back and I had forgotten to ask about the fucking helicopter.
CHAPTER 8
I called Vince anyway. It was the lesser of the two evils; the other being to go and look for Nicholas to ask him about the helicopter, and right then I could not face him.
I turned on the phone and quickly, before he could phone me again, dialed my husband.
The number rang and rang, my nerves cranking up tighter with each second that passed, until the call went through to voicemail.
Vince always answered his phone. What was wrong?
“Hi, babes,” I said. “I saw you’ve been calling. Sorry I didn’t have my phone on. I got a ride down to the river to get some photos of where the bridge was. I’ll send them to you now. I hope you’re doing fine. I love you. I miss you.”
I disconnected. Now the tears were prickling. I forwarded the photos to his phone and watched while the messages went through. Then I listened to the messages he’d left, which were all a terse variation on the words, “Call me as soon as you can.”
I didn’t know what to make of what I had done with Nicholas, other than that it had been unforgivable. Panic churned inside me, intensified by the fact that, despite leaving multiple messages for me, Vince hadn’t answered my call when I had phoned back. For now, I could not even try to make things right between us, but would have to stew in my emotions until he decided to contact me.
I wanted some support on this. God, I needed somebody to talk to, to help me sort my head out and give me some perspective. But who was there? Who could I tell?
My best friend, Samantha, would be the only person I’d confide in about something like this, but Samantha and I hadn’t really spoken for a while. In fact, apart from when she’d attended our engagement party, we’d pretty much fallen out of contact in recent times. She was married, living in New Jersey, and had a baby girl. I thought perhaps little Jessica was keeping her too busy for her to stay in touch with friends. Or maybe it was my fault—that I’d been too focused on my husband and had neglected my other relationships. Either way, now was a good time to send her an email. I trusted Samantha’s opinion. She would be able to offer me some good advice.
It took me a long time to compose the message and a lot of false starts, but eventually it was ready to go.
Hey Sam… how are you doing? Just wanted to catch up with you because we haven’t spoken for ages. I’m stuck on a game farm in South Africa, if you can believe that! I mean really stuck—as in, on the wrong side of a washed away bridge. Things aren’t going great at this moment between me and Vince, and this separation is not helping. And now I’ve got other complications, because the owner of the game farm is trying to get me into bed.
I stopped typing for a minute, overwhelmed by the shameful memory of how Nicholas had watched me orgasm, his eyes devouring me as I gave myself over to abandon. How he’d kissed me as the aftershocks of that incredible climax were still rippling through me. Better not to say any of that to Samantha, I decided.
Does this all sound like a soap opera? That’s pretty much how I’m feeling now. There’s so much I want to talk with you about—or write you about. Hope to hear from you soon!
I sent the mail. Then I tested the water in the shower. It was there, and it was hot. Quickly, I stepped under it.
I was out and dressed in fresh clothes when there was a tap on my bedroom door.
“Who is it?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot when I heard Nicholas’s voice.
“I’m going to fix an early dinner in the kitchen. Come and eat.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” I called.
“Fine. I’ll bring you something, then.”
I let out an impatient sigh. It seemed that food was on the agenda, whether I wanted it or not.
“I’ll be there in five,” I told him.
Nicholas was on his own in the kitchen, mixing ingredients in a bowl near the west window, through which I could see the setting sun blazing from under a mass of roiling clouds.
“Most of the staff here have Saturdays and Sundays off,” he said. “So I do the cooking. Not gourmet style, I’m afraid. This evening, French toast is on the menu.”
I hadn’t even realized it was Saturday today.
I watched while Nicholas took the first of a pile of sourdough slices and dunked it in a mixture of egg and milk. On the gas stove, a heavy-bottomed frying pan was heating up.
“Please could you tell me if there’s a helicopter available anywhere?” I said. “I really need to get across this river. I need to get back to my life.”
“My helicopter is not available, I’m afraid,” Nicholas said. “I’ve loaned it to the local police. One of my staff flew out with it early yesterday morning, before you had woken up.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated. “Do you know when it will be…?”
“No. It may be a few more days before I get it back.” Turning his attention away from his cooking, he explained grimly, “Downriver from here, a community of two hundred people was washed away when the flooding started. Twenty of them are still missing. The others are stranded, and desperate for supplies. All they have are the clothes they were wearing. Whenever the weather allows, the police are flying food, fuel, and water to them, as well as running search and rescue and Medevac operations.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling ashamed to have asked a selfish question and for a moment, illogically angry at Vince for having pressured me into asking. I should have known—in some way, I had known—that if there had been transport available, I would already have been offered out of here.
“Guess we’re stuck with each other for a while longer, then,” I said, offering a wry smile.
“I guess we are.”
Nicholas was wearing a faded green T-shirt that emphasized the deep tan of his arms. Vince, who was very wardrobe-conscious, wouldn’t have been seen dead in a garment that showed so much wear, but Nicholas made the shirt look sexy. And I knew what was underneath it. I had seen his hard-muscled torso, had felt the breadth of his shoulders as I dug my fingers into them…
Oh, God, I urgently needed to do something to distract myself from him.
“Are we having any salad with that toast?” I asked.
“I wasn’t planning to make any—I usually fry a couple of tomatoes—but salad’s a good idea. Want some?”
“I’ll make us some.” Relieved to be able to focus on something other than the mouthwatering sight of Nicholas de Lanoy at work in his kitchen, I turned away and opened the fridge door.
After a quick hunt through, I removed a small head of lettuce, two tomatoes, a green pepper, a large, perfectly ripe avocado, and a tub of feta cheese, which from its handwritten label looked to have come from a local dairy. Nicholas passed me a chopping board and a knife. Our fingers brushed as I took the board. The touch was electric, and in my efforts to move my hand away fast, I dropped the knife, which clattered to the floor.
Unfazed by my clumsy attempt at avoiding contact with him, he picked the knife up, handed me another, and then showed me the cupboard which housed a selection of pottery and glass bowls. I chose an attractive glazed pottery bowl with a swirled pattern of earthen brown and cream.
“Can I please talk to you frankly?” I said as I began washing the lettuce.
“Go ahead.” He placed the first two dripping slices of bread into the sizzling pan.
; “Nicholas, I’m really sorry about what happened between us earlier today.”
“Are you?” There was a flash of wicked humor in his smile as he turned to me. “I’m not.” Focusing once again on his cooking, he slid another two slices of bread into the pan before adjusting the heat.
“Well, I am. I am regretting it deeply.” I took a fast breath. “I am married.”
“Like I told you, that’s not an issue for me.”
“It is for me. Look, I take my vows seriously.”
“Why do you and your husband travel in separate cars, then?” Nicholas’s voice was innocent.
My knife sank into a round of creamy feta, which I transferred from the tub to the board.
“We’d had a falling out. A fight.”
“And does he always throw you out of the vehicle when that happens? Seems rather extreme to me.”
“He didn’t throw me out! He just…” I let out an impatient breath. “Look, any couple can fight, right?”
“You say so, Erin. Maybe you believe that. I personally don’t agree. I don’t think it is necessary. There are far more constructive and pleasant ways to spend time together than by fighting.”
“Well, what would you know?” I hacked at the soft cheese with what felt like way too much force. “You told me yourself that you’ve mainly had short, no-strings affairs. A week of fun and then you or your partner moves on. If that’s the case, then you’ve never had to see a relationship through difficult times.”
Silence descended on the kitchen for a while, broken only by the blistering of the toast in the pan.
“Good point,” Nicholas said eventually. “So you were going through a bad patch with your husband, but you love him, and you feel guilty about what you’ve done?”
“Yes.” I cupped the avocado in my hand and sliced gently through its skin. “That’s exactly how I feel. If I stay here—which I obviously don’t have a choice about—there can be no more of this. I will not be the one to wreck my marriage.”
“The way you say that implies it’s heading for wreckage in any case. Are you going to wait and hope he does it first?”
“No,” I snapped, annoyed. “That’s not what I meant. Nobody is going to wreck this marriage. Not me, not you, and not my husband. I’m telling you how things are. And I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Well, I can give you my personal guarantee that you’re not going to get it,” Nicholas said, and I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock at his words. He didn’t meet my gaze. He was busy flipping the toast.
“How—what do you mean?”
Abandoning his cooking, he swung round to face me.
“You are an incredibly sexy woman,” he said in a low voice. “There’s… I think there’s a powerful connection between us, Erin. I don’t know what the hell it is or why it’s there. You have been driving me just about crazy with desire to get you into bed. Right now, I’m pretty much incapable of thinking straight, and I’m certainly unwilling to make any effort to go along with what you’re asking.”
I was briefly silenced by the effect of his words, and the realization that I’d been driving him as crazy with lust as he was driving me. Seriously? I’d done that to him? His confession was a powerful turn-on, so much so that I forgot to be angry about his brazen defiance of my wishes.
Turning back to the stove, Nicholas slid the spatula under the bread and transferred the crisp, browned slices to a plate.
“If you want to stay away from me, that’s your choice,” he continued. “But you’re the one who’s been sending me mixed messages. I don’t know if you’re going to change that from now on—but if the message is yes, I’m not going to say no. No way.”
He flipped the final slice of toast onto the plate and then, to my surprise, sprinkled them with sea salt and a grind of black pepper. He picked up the plate, placed it on a tray with two others, knives, and forks, and walked to the arched doorway leading to the lounge. “When that salad’s ready, do you want to bring it outside? And there’s a jug in the fridge with some freshly made lemonade.”
For a moment, I stood, torn between following him through the lounge to the outside veranda or marching back to my room in a huff. Eventually, hunger and common-sense won the battle. He was right. The decisions I would make now were up to me. There was no reason to ask for his help in this. It was sufficient for me to know that, for as long as I was able to resist him, he would not make the first advance.
Or so I hoped.
Five minutes later, our simple but delectable-looking meal was arranged on the oval wooden table under the covered balcony from where I could see the last deep scarlet rays of the setting sun. I added olive oil and balsamic to the salad before tossing it, and Nicholas forked two generously sized pieces of toast onto each plate.
“This is delicious,” I said, cutting off another large chunk and transferring it to my mouth as soon as I’d swallowed the first.
I was a naturally fast eater. In fact, Vince was constantly telling me to behave more like a lady when I ate so as not to humiliate him in front of other people, and to take more time over my meals. And so, to please him, for the past few months I had picked delicately at food I would previously have devoured with gusto. Now, I realized that there was no need to do this here—in fact, the opposite was indicated, since I wanted to steer away from anything that might make me look more feminine or appealing in Nicholas’s eyes.
“The salad’s great, Erin. Very tasty. I didn’t know you were a cook.”
Perhaps he was just trying to flatter me, but even so I felt a glow of pride at his words. It felt good to have my cooking complimented, even if it had only consisted of chopping things up. I’d given up trying to cook for Vince—I could never prepare food the way he liked it, so we usually ordered takeout from one of the nearby restaurants.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s easy with such wonderful ingredients. How many of them come from the garden?”
“Most of them. The cheese is from down the road and the olive oil and balsamic are brought in from an organic estate in the Cape that I have an investment in. The bowl itself is made by the women from a small community near here.”
“The bowl is really pretty. And I see it’s part of a set with the plates. Do they sell a lot of them?”
“Yes. They’re doing extremely well. They do bowls and dishes of all sizes, cups, and mugs. The crockery is sold in a lot of the gift shops and used by a number of the guest houses in the area, and they’re getting more and more orders for complete sets, to be shipped to various countries overseas.”
“You sound very proud of them. Are you involved in that project?”
He nodded. “I am. I helped them start the venture just two years ago. It was one of my first investments, actually.”
“That’s really good to hear.” So Nicholas was a businessman—although, from what he’d said, this was a relatively new career. How did this fit in with being a trained paramedic who’d worked abroad? And, clearly, he was extremely wealthy—where had his money come from?
I was curious to know more, but at the same time found myself reluctant to ask. After all, there was no point in finding out anything about Nicholas when I was actively trying to remain uninvolved.
I speared the last piece of cheese on my plate before putting my knife and fork down. I had my eye on one of the two remaining pieces of toast, but first I was going to have the last few swallows of the tart, tasty lemonade.
“Have more,” Nicholas encouraged me. “I’ve been enjoying watching you eat. I like it that you love your food. I always think…” He stopped himself.
“You think what?” I transferred a third piece of toast to my plate.
“No. I shouldn’t tell you.”
I glowered at him. “Now you have to.”
“I always think the way a woman eats her food is an indication of how she makes love,” he said in a low voice, his eyes gleaming.
“You were right. You shouldn’t have told me.” It was
strange how, just by saying those words, he’d been able to fill me with a sense of shivering expectancy. Suddenly, I felt as if I was in an elevator that was ascending too fast.
“You are sensual. Open. Greedy.” His smile flashed again. “And that’s a compliment, to be taken in the best possible way.”
Oh, crap. My decision not to eat in a ladylike manner had backfired on me horribly, and now my face felt so hot, it must look crimson—and it wasn’t the only part of me that was experiencing a sudden increase in blood flow. I shifted in my seat, hoping to banish the overpowering sense of lust that his words had induced. Really, what was it about this man?
You’re the only one who can make the decision to stop, I told myself.
“Greedy, maybe,” I replied, changing the subject. “But I love exercise as much as I love food. Is it safe to go walking around here? I’d say running, but you don’t seem to have any sports shoes available in my size.”
Nicholas gave a rueful nod. “That’s a pity. Anyway, there’s a four-mile paved track that runs between the garden and the surrounding bushveld. If you stick to that, you should be fine during daylight hours. In fact, the paving’s so smooth you could probably run it barefoot. Beyond that, there are unpaved paths that lead deeper into the bush, but it would be better not to walk too far alone, even though there are no predators in this fenced area. The black rhino are more timid than the white ones, but any one of the Big Five can be dangerous if it’s suddenly surprised.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll walk the track tomorrow.”
“If you prefer exercising indoors, there is a gym here as well,” he told me. “It’s in the east wing of the lodge. It’s not fully equipped, but there are some weights, and some cardiovascular equipment. A couple of spinning bicycles, rowing machines, and so on.”
“Great. I’ll give that a try, too.”
We were both finished eating. I stacked the dishes and took them back to the kitchen.
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