Stolen Lust

by Charmaine Pauls

  I haven’t heard from Mint again. No surprises there. I suppose he’s too embarrassed to face me after leaving me in the lurch. So much for all his soulmate talk. I could do with a friend, and a loan wouldn’t hurt, but after the way he treated me during our first and only dinner, I’m relieved to be rid of him. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with his constant calls and text messages begging me to go out with him any longer.

  At lunchtime, I eat my salad and apple on a bench in the park and continue my search with renewed optimism. The afternoon drags on, and I still have no luck.

  It’s stupid to enter the fancy architects’ offices, but I’m desperate. The receptionist lets me off kindly, telling me to try at the satellite mine office next door. I get the same answer there. No one at the platinum mine is hiring, not even the nuclear research center in Pelindaba that’s seventy-six kilometers away.

  By five, when the businesses close, my feet ache and my muscles are sore. Despondent, I head home. To my dismay, Mr. Davis is watering plants in the lobby when I enter. I try to scoot around him with a quick hello, but before I reach the stairs, he says, “Dunno where you got the money from, but I’m not cutting you anymore slack. What I said yesterday stands. If you’re late one more time, you’re out.”

  My brain gets stuck on the where you got the money from part. I stop. “Excuse me?”

  He breaks off a dead flower from the African Violet and straightens. “Where did you get it?” He fixes a narrowed gaze on me. “Six months’ worth of rent is a small fortune.”

  “What?”

  He frowns, turning uncertain. “The money you left in my mailbox.” When I don’t reply, he says, “For six months’ rent in advance.”

  The suspicion growing inside me threatens to overwhelm my composure. Not wanting to give anything away, I hide my shock by mumbling something unintelligible while taking the stairs two by two.

  Someone paid my rent.

  For six months.

  I don’t have to wonder who.

  The question is why.

  After an early supper and eight hours of sleep, I don’t feel better, not even knowing my rent has been taken care of for six months. I’ve tossed and turned all night, trying to figure out Ian’s motives and finally came to the conclusion that he was probably just easing his conscience.

  What we did was wrong on so many levels. Even a criminal had to realize it. He may not regret it, but perhaps he feels better for paying me off. How did he know I was late with my rent? The only plausible explanation is that he saw the termination of lease contract notice on my door when he broke in to deliver the phone. A shiver creeps over me when I think about him here, in my space. I wasn’t going to use the phone, but as I finally face the fact that I can’t look for a job without a phone for a potential employer to be able to get hold of me, I cave. I reach for it on the nightstand and set up the phone.

  Getting out of bed, I shower, dress in jeans and a men’s-style shirt, and have breakfast. My rent may be covered for six months, but I still need to eat. I still need to change my lock. Eventually, I’ll need another car. The bus routes don’t cover everywhere in town. Some distances are too far to walk, and using cabs is too expensive.

  Donning all the optimism I possess, I set out for another day of job hunting. I’ve searched employment agencies online last night, but my qualification always come up short. That didn’t prevent me from filling out the preliminary questionnaire of every agency in Rustenburg to add my name to their database of candidates. Hopefully, the effort will earn me an interview with one or more of those agencies.

  As I lock my door and go outside, I contemplate the backup plan I came up with last night. If all else fails, I’ll try at Sun City. The place is enormous. They need croupiers, cashiers, cleaners, and waiters. Surely, they have vacancies from time to time.

  Fortified with the knowledge of having a safety net, I set out a little less despondent than yesterday. Putting on my brightest smile, I approach reluctant shop assistants and restaurant managers.

  The summer sun beats down on my head. Sweat trickles down my spine as I go around the part of town I haven’t covered yesterday. The later it gets, the more crumpled the printed CV turns in my hand and the more effort it takes to cling to my smile.

  By five, I finally admit defeat and drag myself home. Tomorrow, I’ll take the bus to Sun City. After the hijacking, not to mention the heist, it’s not a place I look forward to revisit, but I refuse to give up hope. If I can’t find a job there, I’ll go to Johannesburg. I grew up here, but there’s nothing keeping me in Rustenburg. I can pack up in a blink.

  My head is crammed full of scenarios and probabilities, and my gaze is trained on the pavement. I try to be creative in solving my problem by thinking outside of the box. Widening my scope to other cities is my best bet if Sun City doesn’t work out.

  Near my apartment building, I go through my bag for my keys. I’m tired and starving. All I want is to gobble down some pasta, soak in a bath, and fall into bed. About to take the path that cuts through the garden, I lift my eyes and stop dead.

  On the corner with one shoulder braced against the lamppost and his ankles crossed, stands Ian.

  Chapter 9

  Cas

  My breathing turns shallow as my heart skips a few beats. What have I done wrong? I rack my brain for what I said to the cops. I kept our agreement. Nothing Ian doesn’t want known has slipped.

  I swallow as he straightens, taking in the dark-blue jeans, black T-shirt, leather jacket, and the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His face is in the shadows under the visor of the cap, but I feel his gaze on me as clearly as I feel the ridges of the key pressing into my palm.

  He widens his stance and hooks his thumbs into his waistband. The seconds stretch into eternity between us, and the world drops from under my feet. Everything about that pose is casual, including the relaxed set of his broad shoulders, but the energy emanating from him is volatile. His clothes don’t hide the latent strength of his muscles. There’s potent violence under all that calmness. Under the chaos of his emotions is forced control. Instinctively, I feel it. Him. He’s quiet on the surface, but underneath the tranquil veneer brews the storm. Wild. Dangerous. I can think of another few adjectives to describe him, but my analysis doesn’t go further. My mind trips over the reason he’s here.

  From the distance, he beckons me without lifting a finger. That deceptively laid-back stance is commanding. He stands next to his truck in a silent instruction. He doesn’t even have to tilt his head toward the passenger side. I know what he wants. I eye the distance to the lobby. I’ll never make it. That powerful and lithe body is ready to sprint, chase, and catch.

  Sticking my hand back into my bag, I drop the keys and find my canister of pepper spray. I don’t look away from his hidden gaze as I take a step forward. I don’t have a choice, but I don’t obey only because he can outrun me. A spark of curiosity drives me—a quest for answers. Why did he give me a phone and pay my rent? Why did he come back? A spark of something deeper and darker ignites in my belly, reproducing the effect of his touch. I can’t deny the warped excitement that mixes with my fear.

  The reason that allows me to go forward in the end is knowing he’s not going to kill me. He would’ve done so if he wanted to. He could’ve waited in my apartment with a knife. He could’ve trained a gun on me the minute I was within shooting range.

  No, killing isn’t his motive. I advance like a bird cautiously approaching a snake’s den. He stands dead still. The cap throws a shadow over his eyes, but I know he’s tracking my movement with undivided attention.

  A short distance away, my step falters. Hovering on the spot, I weigh my decision. I can blast him with my pepper spray or get into his truck. I can fight for my life or listen to what he wants.

  Despite the fact that I’ve stopped moving, he doesn’t jump forward and grab me. He needs nothing more than silence to make me fear the consequences of disobedience. He doesn’t need words or signals
to threaten me. His subdued tenseness and faked calm are enough to make me want to turn around and run, even if it will be futile. It’s the smile that flirts with his lips that tips the scale.

  The shift is small, but the act is momentous. It’s the moment I come to a decision. It’s the moment I decide to trust him with my life. It’s not my fear or twisted anticipation that coaxes me into resuming my walk but the trust that makes me close the final distance.

  His voice is deep and approving, a reward for my obedience. “Cas.”

  I glance around and ask under my breath, “What are you doing here?”

  He turns the cap sideways. Sunlight filters over his face, illuminating his high cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. His perfection makes me suck in an involuntary breath. The light catches the muddled brown of his eyes, and as the quirk of his lips grows into a lazy smile, I almost miss the flash of vulnerability that sparks in those dark pools.

  An insight hits me. He expects a rejection. Even so, he won’t settle for no.

  When he still doesn’t attack me, I loosen my hold on the weapon in my bag and repeat my question. “What are you doing here?”

  “I owe you a dinner,” he says.

  My voice is surprisingly steady. “Do I have a choice?”

  His cocky smile warms a fraction, softening his expression. “In some things.”

  My question is blunt. “Are you going to kill me?” He turns everything I feel certain about upside-down with a smile, and even if I’ve taken the leap of faith, I need to hear it.

  He doesn’t pretend to be surprised by my thought. “No.”

  Done talking, he opens the passenger door and stands aside for me to climb in. Trust or not, I’m shaking. I hope he doesn’t notice as he wraps his fingers around mine and helps me up the step. The slam of the door sounds final, but what I’m doing only dawns fully on me when he slides in next to me and the smell of tobacco and leather fills my nostrils.

  In an instant, I’m hurled back to the night he took me. A confusing cocktail of fear and excitement rushes through me. Terror and arousal assault me all at once. Taking a deep breath, I force the memory away. I can’t dispel the feelings, but it helps if I don’t think about what happened. It takes a moment to find a semblance of calmness.

  He’s not going to kill me.

  If he was planning on slitting my throat, he wouldn’t have paid my rent.

  He watches me as he turns the key in the ignition. Throwing an arm over the seat behind me, he breaks our eye contact to look through the rear windshield as he reverses before steering the truck onto the road. At the end of the block, he turns into a side street.

  Overwhelmed with his presence, I try not to stare at his handsome face or his big hand gripping the wheel. I try not to feel the thumb he strokes down the column of my neck.

  When I can’t resist any longer, I steal a glance at him. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far,” he says in a raspy voice, shooting me another smile.

  The gesture is soft and disarming, taking away the edge of the tension that keeps my insides tightly coiled. I relax marginally, although it’s hard to do with the way the calloused pad of his thumb scrapes lazily over my skin. The goosebumps he elicits go bone deep.

  Jacaranda trees whiz past as he crosses the southern train tracks and heads toward the mountains. We don’t speak. I’m on the edge of my seat, shifting around until he removes his arm from behind me to take a cigar from the console and pop it into his mouth.

  “You smoke?” I’m not interested, just curious.

  “I don’t light up any longer,” he says around the cigar. “Stopped a long time ago.”

  That explains the whiff of tobacco that clings to his clothes.

  Chewing on the end of the cigar, he drives as if he has no care in the world, as if there couldn’t be a roadblock somewhere on our way. He drives like only a man with a gun under his seat can—with confidence. In comparison, I’m ill-equipped with my pepper spray. Yet I got into his truck. I didn’t fight him, just like I didn’t fight him when he spread my legs and let me feel his hard-on.

  It’s hot inside, but I don’t take off my jacket. I’m too scared I’ll accidently brush up against the arm he lays on the armrest between us. Instead, I wind down the window and inhale the warm air while my heart beats like a beast in my chest.

  He switches on the AC. When the air runs cold, he pushes the button on his door to close my window.

  After we clear town, he takes the road that goes to the Kloof, a holiday resort with swimming pools and cabins situated around a gorge.

  At the gate, the guard hands him a clipboard and pen. I glance at the name he scribbles on the form—Danie something. His handwriting is indecipherable. He’s taking a huge risk, increasing his chances of being caught tenfold. We’re not hanging around town, but who’s to say the cops aren’t looking all the way out here? Or maybe they assume what I’ve mistakenly thought, that Ian had long since crossed the border.

  The guard takes the clipboard when Ian has signed and lifts the boom. Ian follows the road past the main parking and camping site to the cabins at the foot of the cliff. He parks in front of one situated a little distance from the others. A cluster of Acacia trees provides privacy. The lawn is green and neatly trimmed around the paths. The place is just as I remember it. During high school, I spent a few weekends here with my schoolmates. The pools are popular during summer and the cabins ideal for sleeping over after parties involving too much alcohol.

  My nerves almost fail me when he gets out and opens my door, but it’s too late to run or try and hide. He offers me a hand. When I’m standing on the high step of the door, he locks his fingers around my waist and lifts me to the ground.

  He holds on for a second too long, staring into my eyes. “Steady?”

  Not trusting my voice to speak, I nod.

  Intertwining our fingers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leads me to the cabin. His skin is warm and his grip firm without squeezing too hard. In different circumstances, I would’ve found the touch reassuring. He takes the key from his pocket and unlocks the door, only letting go of my hand when he stands aside for me to enter.

  Inside, the thatch roof smells like grasslands and safari holidays. The cheaper accommodation has corrugated iron roofs, but the thatch is much cooler in the heat. A ceiling fan swooshes above the open-plan living space.

  I hover in the middle of the floor, taking in the clean surfaces of the kitchen counters and the spotless tile floor. Birdsong reaches me through the closed windows. The glass isn’t double-paned. At least if I scream, someone should hear me. If there is someone around. It’s the middle of the week and outside of holiday season.

  The knowledge is little consolation when he locks the door. The turn of the key sends a shiver down my spine. He leaves the cigar in the ashtray on the coffee table and pulls off his jacket, battling a bit with the sleeve on his wounded side. Just as well he doesn’t ask for the jacket he lent me. The one he’s wearing now is brown instead of black, and by the cracked look of the leather, it’s not new. If it’s this worn, it must be one of his favorites.

  Taking his time, he hangs the jacket over a chairback at the table. He turns to me—slowly, with intent. I suck in a breath. A second passes as he watches me. Expectation is like a living organism in the air. It’s dark and thick, and it makes my breaths come quicker. It holds me hostage until he closes the distance with two slow strides and stops in front of me.

  Taking my bag and tote, he dumps them on the sofa without breaking eye contact. It’s only when he moves around me to help me out of my jacket that I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “Thanks,” I mumble as he folds my jacket and arranges it over the back of the sofa.

  I suppress the urge to hug myself. Instead, I meet his gaze with braveness I don’t feel as he searches the depth of my eyes for answers when I don’t even know the questions. Mercifully releasing me from that stare, he goes to the ki
tchen and opens the mini fridge.

  His tone is light, easing over the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Drink?”

  He’s forcing that nonchalance for my benefit. It’s a gallant effort, but it doesn’t settle my nerves. When I shrug, he takes out two beers and twists off the caps.

  His boots beat out a rhythm on the tiles, self-assured and unrushed, as he walks back to me. His lips quirk in the corner as he hands me a bottle. “It’s cold this time.”

  My gaze slips to the label. Condensation beads over the glass. It’s not only cold, but also my favorite brand. Reflexively, I fold my fingers around the belly of the bottle. Holding my gaze, he tips back his beer and takes a sip. I can’t help but look at the way his throat moves as he swallows. The sight conjures the memory of his lips on the shell of my ear and the warmth of his breath as he’d pressed a promise to my skin.

  Suppressing another shiver, I ask, “Why am I here?”

  “Told you,” he says in a low voice. “I owe you a dinner.”

  “Breakfast,” I correct. Dinners can be mistaken for being romantic.

  His gaze darkens. “Whatever the lady wants. Dinner and breakfast then.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  His eyes crinkle in the corners, but he doesn’t challenge me, at least not with words.

  I’ve never been nervous around men—I get on better with men than women in general—but I am around him. He heightens my senses, and I imagine it’s how it is before you die. Brighter, louder, clearer, sharper.

  I shake off the thought and take a sip of my beer.

  “You were out today,” he says, lowering his head to study me. “What did you do? Something fun?”

  How long has he been waiting for me? “How did you get inside my apartment?”

  Leaving his bottle on the coffee table, he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen where he pushes me down onto a stool at the center counter. “Wasn’t that hard. If you know the key number, you can buy one at any hardware store.” He takes onions, carrots, and celery from a shopping bag and places the vegetables on the counter. “We’ll have to do something about your sadly lacking security.”