by Zee Monodee
Trent took a peek at the Bremont ALT1-C on his left wrist. Quarter past two. His sons’ flight from London Heathrow would land at three. He should be there when they come out of the terminal, foreigners in a strange, unknown land. They would need an anchor, some familiarity.
He had to make it to the airport in the southeast of the island in the following hour, at least. And here he was still in Tamarin, the farthest western point of Mauritius. What had gotten into him to get a flat in that area?
Matthew’s health, a little voice prompted. He’d been told the west coast remained dry and warm all year round, without much hint of humidity. His eldest son needed such climate for his asthma to stop flaring up and let him grow like a normal, healthy little boy should.
Clenching the steering wheel tighter, he pressed his foot on the accelerator. He had to make it to the airport on time. Damn how the estate agent had been delayed this precise afternoon. He should have gotten the key to the flat at noon, not an hour and a half later. This had made him late. Trent hated having his well-laid plans compromised.
Yet, today, what bothered him more was how he wanted—no, craved—to finally hold his boys in his arms.
Had it only been three weeks? The time away from them had felt like a lifetime. He’d been reluctant to leave them with his mother in Kent, but he’d had little choice. Since his arrival, he’d been staying in the hotel accommodation the airline company had provided. To live out of suitcases in an impersonal hotel suite wouldn’t have been fair to the children.
He ran a weary hand over his face. Blimey, he had forgotten to shave. He’d been hard-pressed for time in the past weeks, so he now sported a full beard. Would the children mind? They wouldn’t be scared to see him so dishevelled, would they? He didn’t have time to go back and make himself more presentable.
The distance between his car and the truck had decreased significantly, the large black vehicle looming ahead of him like a giant monster.
He darted a quick glance at the speedometer. One hundred and twenty kilometres. Bad. The speed limit around this area didn’t top sixty, if he recalled properly.
After stepping off the accelerator pedal, he eased his foot slowly onto the brake, to not jerk the vehicle. Lord knew the little car could topple over from such brisk braking, and he wouldn’t take chances.
The car had had time to drop to a crawl when the sun’s rays caught on a metallic object as something whizzed across the road.
The blinding streak caught him right in the eye and, reflex kicking in, he shielded his face with his arm.
He heard more than felt the car hit the back of the truck, which had halted in a screech of tyres. The smell of burnt rubber filled his nostrils when the calm came back. He expected the airbag to blow from the wheel, but none released.
Better and better. The car wasn’t only tiny, it didn’t even have an airbag.
A wave of concern washed over him. He wasn’t hurt. At least, he didn’t feel any pain. But what about the other driver?
However, as he stepped out of the car, the worry drained away as another, stronger emotion settled in.
Anger.
What sort of inconsiderate driver stopped like that in the middle of a main road?
The bloke should be tagged as a public danger. To top it all, he was going to be late to see his children.
Bloody hell!
His tall height allowed him to peer into the vehicle without much difficulty. He swept his gaze over the top half of the interior, and puzzlement replaced his fury.
The car couldn’t be empty. Where was the driver? When had he had the time to get out of the vehicle?
Walking around to the front of the hood, Trent then stopped in his tracks.
The body of an unconscious—or worse, dead—dog lay sprawled on the street. Sunlight glinted off its shiny, metal-studded collar. Must’ve been the reason behind the streak of light that had blinded him and the other driver, too, probably.
As he ran a hand in his short hair, he cursed again. How did the locals respond to accidents here? Especially when there was a death involved, even that of a dog? Not something he wanted to find out, and not as a participant in this involuntary homicide.
He was still pondering this when, with his hand on his mouth, he goggled at the dog that picked itself up and hobbled across to the other side of the road, before disappearing in between two rows of sugarcane.
What the hell? What was it with this strange island? Couldn’t anything be predictable on it?
The muffled opening click of a car door broke the silence, and Trent stepped back to glare at the person getting out—more like slithering out—of the truck.
A slim pair of legs emerged and wobbled for a second after the sandal-clad feet hit the asphalt.
When the door closed, he glimpsed a short denim dress hugging a tiny frame. Straight black hair brushed the shoulders and the lapels of the collar and framed a lovely, delicate face.
He had to blink a few times. The woman, or the girl, could pass for a life-sized doll. She stood no taller than five feet, so small that he could probably encircle her waist with his hands. Her eyes were deep-set and dark, rimmed with black kohl. Her golden skin struck him as somewhat washed-out underneath her makeup, and she bit her full, pale lips as if trying to work some colour into them.
“Thank God the dog is alive,” she said in a light, youthful voice. “I sure would’ve hated to have killed it. Lucky there isn’t any damage.”
Her voice reminded him of laughter and the tinkling of fragile crystal flutes.
As he shook off the bizarre notion, a slow throb built in his blood. The overwhelming feeling settled as a twitch in his cheek, and he winced when a stab of pain shot from his clenched jaw.
No damage? What about his car?
“Miss, you demolished my car!”
Nothing betrayed her cool composure when she checked out his vehicle before staring at him again.
“Sorry, but you hit from behind. You’re at fault.”
He’d started to think that the delicate motion of her frail shoulder as she shrugged could topple her over, so much she seemed fragile. But the concern sputtered into outrage once her words registered. The cheek of the girl.
She’d stopped dead in the middle of the road. How the heck could it be his fault?
“If it weren’t for you, none of this would’ve happened,” he snapped in a low growl.
She pursed her full lips and jutted her pointed chin out in a fierce way as she settled her hands on her hips. Craning her slender neck to peer into his face, she stood her ground.
“Well, I should’ve killed the dog? This is what you wanted?”
“No, but—”
“And you wouldn’t have jammed into my car if you hadn’t been tailgating me.”
“I wasn’t tailgating you—”
“Yes, you were.” She poked a finger into his chest. “And you were speeding, at least a hundred where the limit is sixty.”
Could this girl be for real?
“Miss, you were going faster than me, so don’t get on your high horse here.”
She poked him again. “Stop evading the issue. It’s your fault.”
Disbelief strangled his throat. She glared back, not in the least bit intimidated by the fact that he towered above her by more than a foot.
At the same time, he flinched under her accusing words. Kill the dog. Right. Like he’d have wanted to kill a poor animal. What was it about this scrap of a girl that had him so ruffled?
A thought struck him. “Are you even old enough to drive?”
“I’m twenty-four years old, for your information,” she said, spitting the words out at him.
Entirely an adult, then. So she could be held responsible for the accident.
“My car is damaged, and it’s your fault.”
Blimey. They sounded like little children during kindergarten recess in the schoolyard.
He should drop this matter, deal with her like the adult he prided hi
mself to be.
If she’d let him, though.
Her dark eyes grew even darker as they narrowed on him. Fire, or ice, burnt in them. Her voice dripped with frost when she next spoke.
“I thought British men were supposed to be courteous.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She’d done it again, struck him speechless. Unbelievable.
She fluttered her hand before her in an evasive gesture as she shook her head. “You know, proper British manners. Can’t say you’ve shown any so far.”
How could she sound so righteous, as if she were the injured party?
“How do you know I’m British? Does it read not-from-Mauritius somewhere on my face?”
“Your accent,” she said. “You speak just like Hugh Grant.”
Hugh Grant? That pasty-faced screen shtick?
Even better. Not.
“Thanks. It’s a very positive compliment.”
Trent had the pleasure of seeing his sarcasm unsettle the unnerving Miss Know-it-all. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession as she glowered at him.
“You’re so ...” She paused and seemed to search around for the proper word. “… obnoxious.”
And she was a brat. Nothing more.
Her barb hit home, though. He’d been called many things in his life, but this one was a first. And, coming from a tiny lady like her, he didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he’d had such a verbal joust with someone. Loath as he was to admit, tangling with her did tickle him as stimulating as much as the encounter unnerved him.
Blimey, he had no time to dwell upon that. He was getting late. And he itched to shut the spoilt little princess up.
“My, incredible,” he said. “A pretty head as yours came up with such a big word. I sure hope you won’t get a nosebleed from too much brain activi—”
Yes, he’d been callous, but the sight before him horrified him more. He stood there, his jaw slackening as his mouth fell open.
“What?” she asked.
He pointed at her face. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”
She hastily flapped a hand up and touched the wetness on the brink of her nostril. As she pulled the finger back, she frowned.
“I hit my head harder than I thought when I braked,” she said softly.
The confession hadn’t been meant for his ears, but he heard every word, drawn as he was inevitably to her. She’d been injured, bloody hell, and with her words, her shoulders had sagged, making her lose some of her sass.
She’d hurt her head; that’s why she was so pale. Concern overwhelmed him, obliterating his outrage at the accident and his own oafishness in dealing with her.
This girl appeared so vulnerable.
A faint stirring wormed its way into his heart, to fill him with an irrational urge to want to protect her and tell her everything would work out okay.
Trent reached out to touch her shoulder, so he could ask her to lift her head. He’d been trained in first aid; he’d take a look at her bleeding nose.
But he had no time to do either, since a voice boomed behind them, shattering the illusion of the moment.
“An accident and Miss Diya around. What a surprise.”
The tone oozed with boredom, which Trent suspected was a cover for the underlying hint of humour he’d detected in the words.
His suspicions were confirmed when he glanced over the girl’s shoulder, into the face of a fifty-something police officer who was trying hard not to grin.
A white police Toyota Prado was parked on the curb, behind his rental.
“What’s going on here?” the officer asked.
“Oh, hello, Sergeant Vikram. So you managed to get transferred back to the West? We missed you while you were in Port-Louis.”
The girl smiled brightly and almost sang her greeting. The words spewed out of her like bullets out of a machine gun. Did she ever pause to breathe between her sentences?
“Yes, yes. What have you gotten yourself into now, my girl?” the man asked with paternal patience.
“As you can see. Hi, Constable Mevin.” She again beamed her dazzling grin as a very young policeman approached them.
The other officer blushed bright red as he all but drooled his incoherent greeting.
Trent watched the exchange between the three people, and fascination battled with amazement inside him. Where had he landed? In the Twilight Zone? Next thing he’d hear, she’d ask them all for dinner at her family’s place.
Even as he threw his hands up in defeat, none of them took notice of him as they chatted with animation. They’d reverted to the native dialect, Creole, of which he understood hardly a thing. He however heard the word ‘accident,’ pronounced almost exactly like the English did, and warning bells rang in his head.
“Hold on one second.” The three people turned to him. “You mean this is not the first time she’s been involved in an accident?”
“This time, you’re at fault,” she said before anyone had a chance to answer.
The impertinence had returned, evident in her sharp tone and the way she braced her whole body, as if she were a coiled spring.
He snorted. So much for thinking her vulnerable.
Her sort is never helpless.
Everything about them was a ploy to win any favours they couldn’t extort with their words.
“Son, doesn’t appear too good for you if the car’s yours,” the older officer said. “Hit from behind, especially like this, it appears you’re at fault.”
“I told you so.” The triumph in her voice thrummed as she smiled in a sickeningly sweet way.
Blimey, she unnerved him. More than his hellion offspring could, and what his sons could rack up amounted to an already high level of unnerving.
At the thought of his children, he took a quick peek at his watch. Half past two. He’d never make it to the airport before their flight landed. Travelling as they were as unaccompanied minors, they’d be the first to clear through customs, and the authorities would have to hold on to the kids until Trent could sign them out after proving his identity. Who knew how scary airport officials could be to two young children? He’d have to be quick. No matter how outraged he was with the situation at hand, getting to the airport proved more important.
“Listen,” he said. “Is there any way we can settle this? I’m late as it is.” He edged towards the older policeman and put his hand out. “I’m Trent Garrison. It’s only my third week here, and I don’t really know the procedure.”
The officer shook his outstretched hand.
“Welcome to Mauritius. There doesn’t appear to be too much damage, so if you two agree on it and sign the papers, your insurance companies can take care of what needs to be done.” He paused. “You do know it’s an infraction to travel without these papers?”
Trent nodded. He’d been briefed by the insurance company, and he ducked into the car to fish the long white sheets out of the glove box
The older man pointed at the documents. “You just need to fill these in, sign them, and drop a copy with your insurance company.”
“Thanks.” Trent took the offered pen. Propping the papers on the hood of the truck, he completed the paperwork. When he reached the end of the form, he nodded at the girl.
“I’ll need your signature, Miss ...”
“Hemant. Diya Hemant,” she said as she grabbed the pen from his hands and scanned his report. Apparently satisfied, she then signed the document.
She peeled the two sheets apart and handed one back. “I’ll keep this one. You take the other.”
“Is this settled now, Sergeant?” he asked in the policeman’s direction.
“Sure,” the man replied. “Now, if you could do me a favour, I need you to clear the road before the afternoon traffic hits.”
“Stupid oaf,” she mumbled as she climbed into her vehicle without a backward glance.
So much for all the talk about Mauritian courtesy.
Under any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have ignored the stinging remark. He’d have gladly pointed out to her face how she was nothing but a spoiled brat.
But he had more pressing matters to deal with, and so, he walked back to his rental car. As he inspected the front of the vehicle, a small chuckle escaped him. Small the vehicle may be, but it hadn’t been hit too hard. The bumper sported a rather rough dent, but other than that, nothing seemed out of place.
Could the same be said about the engine?
The car roared back to life after he switched the key in the ignition. As he focused on the road ahead of him, Trent heaved a sigh of relief at not seeing a trace of the truck.
Thank God—that spitfire was gone.
Chapter Two
Who the hell did that oaf think he was?
Fury and revolt competed in a din for attention in Diya’s mind as she steered her 4x4 on the motorway leading to the north of the island. She found her foot lunging on the accelerator while she honked the horn repeatedly at any driver unlucky enough to be doing less than a hundred in the right lane. Incompetents, the whole lot of them.
Only when she reached the quiet, peaceful sunny village of Cap Malheureux on the north coast did she allow herself to calm down a little and turn the dial off on the sound system currently blaring Linkin Park’s roaring ‘Somewhere I Belong.’
The sudden oppressive lull in the vehicle snapped her out of her rage-red fog. Dull thrumming started at her temples and picked up along her skull.
Chocolate. She needed the delectably indulgent feeling of biting into a slab of Lindt 75% Extra Dark. The cupboards at her sister Lara’s house always overflowed with the treat.
She heaved a sigh of pleasure as she contemplated settling down on the sandy white beach in front of Lara’s villa while the sun gently tickled her bare arms and the sound of the wind in the filao trees competed with the soft whoosh of the waves washing on the shore—
A horn blared behind her, and she snapped out of her reverie to focus on the rear-view mirror. The sleek red car overtook her Ranger, and the curse on her lips died when she realised she’d arrived at the end of the rocky wall bordering her sister’s property. With a swift swerve of the steering wheel, she got the truck in the driveway and braked in front of the massive wooden gate.
