A Wedding in Africa (The Africa Series) (12 page)

‘At least let me give you a lift. It’ll save you the walk.’ She volunteered, after helping Nandi wash the dishes.

‘We like to walk, Miss Lacey. But it will be good to have a lift in your car today. Themba! Go and get ready, child. We are going to drive to Matshana today.’

Themba whooped with delight and grabbed his toy spear, or
assegai
, that Thomas had carved him out of wood. He waved it about in a suitably menacing fashion, before Nandi cuffed his ear and shepherded him along the path that led out of the village.

As they walked past the other rondavels, young girls waved and cried out in greeting; young men looked up from their labours and smiled; dogs bounced happily at their heels and, much to Lacey’s delight, both Nandi and Thomas started singing. It was a soft Zulu chant and Lacey felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up at the sound of their melodious voices.

This was Africa. The
real
Africa. And Lacey knew for certain that she had never been happier.

A small group of labourers were already hard at work when they arrived back at Matshana. They were painting a pretty little lodge, set apart from the others, close to the main reception and restaurant. Lacey could tell by the workers’ concentration that they were determined to meet the very highest standards of Zulu craftsmanship on this particular building.

‘What do you think, Nandi?’ Tate stood back, his shirts sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pot of paint in his hand and a smudge of bright yellow ochre on his forehead.

‘It is a very fine building. Although I see that you have spent much of your time painting your face like a Zulu warrior!’

‘Scary, huh?’ Tate pulled a war-like face at Themba and stretched his fingers wide. The little boy squealed excitedly and scurried behind Thomas. ‘So what happened to the great King Shaka Zulu then?’ Tate teased. ‘When I saw that mean-looking
assegai
, I thought the Battle of Gqokli Hill was about to start!’

Quite forgetting his initial panic, Themba stepped out from behind the defensive wall of Thomas’ thighs and proudly presented Tate with his new toy. ‘
Baba
made it for me. It is the short spear used by our people.’

‘I can see that. And well done to Thomas. It’s a fine piece of work.’ ‘Can I help you paint the lodge?’ asked Themba.

‘I reckon so,’ Tate replied, handing the boy a paintbrush with his own little tin full of paint. ‘What about you, Lacey? Do you fancy getting your hands dirty?’

‘I’d love to help,’ Lacey replied, still feeling equable after the time spent in the
kraal
. She very much wanted to be a part of the team and was delighted to be out in the late afternoon sun, singing with the others, as they transformed the last of the lodges into a beautiful home. She didn’t even notice the time passing, so content was she in the company of these lovely, hard-working people.

And it had been good to spend time with Tate, too, watching him clambering up ladders or lugging heavy logs around. Whatever she might think of his business ethics, there was no doubting Tate Maddox’s determination to work as hard as the next man to achieve his goal. No task was too grubby, too strenuous, or too menial for him to tackle with gusto and, inevitably, success.

As he laboured, the muscles in his back rippled beneath his shirt, which was damp with sweat. Even in these circumstances, dusty and dirty from hard work, and with splashes of paint on his arms and face, he still managed to look utterly gorgeous.

And Lacey felt herself drawn to him again.

At the end of the day, fortified with biltong and millet beer, the team decided to pack up and head back to their homes. Tate offered to take them in the truck, but they refused, preferring to amble along in the late sunshine.

And so, at last, while the earth still basked beneath the sun’s rays, Tate and Lacey found themselves alone on the banks of the Sabie River. For a while, they sat there without speaking - just listening to the sonorous harmony of the workers’ voices fading into the distance and the sound of the birds twittering in the branches of the overhanging trees.

Lacey leaned back on her elbows and tilted her face to the sun. She closed her eyes and absorbed the gentle melody of the tinkling river water and the familiar, reassuring sounds of an Africa at peace with itself.

Tate sat upright with his elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t trust himself to look at the beautiful woman half-lying next to him, but he could hear her steady breathing and feel the heat from her skin. That was tough enough, he reckoned, but he knew it would be fatal to catch sight of her lovely face with those long-lashed eyelids closed in rapture.

‘I love the sound of the water running over the stones, you know,’ he said, in a bid to dispel the sexy image from his thoughts. ‘That’s what Matshana means
Little Stones
. Did you know that?’

Lacey sat up and looked sideways at him. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘It’s named after the little stones that form the bed of the Sabie River. Always there. Solid. Permanent. Yet forever changing with the endless swirl of the currents.’

‘That’s a perfect name for this place, Tate,’ Lacey reached out and laid her fingers tenderly on his arm. ‘And Matshana is such a beautiful place. I’m so happy here, you know.’

‘Are you, Lacey?’ Tate swung round to face her. The touch of her fingertips burned into his flesh like fire. ‘Are you really happy here?’

Lacey nodded, helplessly captivated by his overwhelming power and virility. ‘I was pretty mixed up about my life back in Cape Town. But I think I’ve managed to suss out a few things while I’ve been here. Matshana’s been good for me.’

Tate covered her fingers with his. ‘And you’ve been good for Matshana, Lacey. Good for me, too.’

Lacey could feel herself sinking into the molten gunmetal of his eyes. His lips were close - so close that she trembled when his breath fanned her cheeks. She felt his fingers tighten their grip on hers, pressing them against the damp hairs on his forearm. Fire smouldered in the pit of her belly and her mouth went dry. Nervously, she ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, and she heard Tate draw a deep intake of breath.

But then, abruptly and without warning, Tate suddenly leapt to his feet and grabbed her hand, tugging her up beside him.

 

‘Come on!’ he said, his voice strangely tangled in his throat. ‘Let’s go for a swim. I’m hot as hell.’

Without waiting for an answer, he tore off his shirt and ploughed into the water. He waded out to the middle where the water was deeper and dived beneath it, only to re-emerge a few moments later, grinning happily. Like an untamed animal in its natural habitat, Tate swung his head vigorously from side to side and a million tiny droplets of water sparkled all around him.

‘Come on in!’ he yelled. ‘It’s amazing!’

Lacey paused at the water’s edge and peered down at her clothes. ‘I can’t!’ she protested, dipping her toes into the cool, enticing water. ‘I’m not dressed for a swim.’

Tate waded through the river towards her. As his body emerged, tantalising rivulets ran down his chest. His knee-length khaki shorts were soaked through, making them heavy to wear and tugging them down his waist until they hung just above the line of wet hair from his navel to his groin.

‘You’ll dry off soon, enough!’ he cried, grabbing both her hands and pulling her towards him. ‘You seem to have forgotten, Miss Van der Zyl, that this is the
real
Africa. We don’t do designer swimwear out here.’

Lacey squealed and wriggled to escape his firm grasp, but he was too strong for her, and she soon found herself thigh-high in the clear water. The gentle currents lapped around her, splashing her T-shirt until it clung wetly to the rounded swell of her bosom.

‘You’re a beast, Tate Maddox!’ she giggled, bending down to scoop up two armfuls of water and hurl them in his direction. Tate flipped his body sideways and dived into the water to avoid the onslaught, only to reappear right in front of her where he managed to douse her with water.

She screamed and attempted to beat his chest with her fists, but Tate was too quick for her and he caught hold of her arms at the wrists and held them in front of him. Feebly, she squirmed and writhed in his grasp, but it was hard to keep her balance with the river swirling round her legs and, eventually, she abandoned the fight with a wail of protest.

‘Okay! You win! But it wasn’t a fair fight. Now just do with me as you will, Mr Maddox, before I show you how strong I
really
am!’

Tate felt her body soften as she playfully gave herself up to him - the victor of their water battle. Her hair was wet and tousled, and the tiny top she was wearing was soaked through until it looked more like a layer of second skin than an item of clothing. Every luscious curve, every peak and swell, was exposed by the clinging fabric, and Tate felt his body hardening in a involuntary response.

He breathed deeply as she looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. Her mouth parted slightly, as though she wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words. Gently, Tate lifted her chin with his forefinger, and then ran his thumb over her lips.

Lacey wanted to pull away – knew that she
should
pull away - but Tate’s masculinity was overpowering. Her lips still tingled where he had brazenly rubbed them, and yet still she moved closer - wanting more. Needing more.

Sensing her compliance, Tate groaned and pulled her towards him, feeling her plump breasts flatten against his hard, flat chest. He ran his fingers up her spine and felt her lean towards him slightly, further inflaming his desire. Then his fingers entangled themselves in the hair behind her neck. He tugged her head backwards and kissed her throat.

Lacey gasped aloud as her own hands gripped his bulging biceps. His lips moved higher, searching for hers. He held her tight to steady her against the river flow, then found her mouth with his own. Lacey felt a shudder run through her body as he enveloped her in those iron muscles.

There was a moment when she wanted to lose herself in the strength of his embrace. She almost welcomed the fact that her willpower was wilting beneath the skilful play of his tongue and the feel of his body. She looked up at him, longing for more, yearning for fulfilment.

But then another man’s face crashed into her thoughts, sending an icy chill through her veins.

 

Mortimer! The man she was supposed to marry!

Tears filled her eyes and she pushed Tate away with all the strength she could muster. Without saying a word, she turned and waded back through the water towards the riverbank. With tears streaming down her eyes, she scooped up her shoes and sunglasses and fled into the hills behind the lodges. She didn’t have a plan. All she knew was that she had to be alone. She needed time to think about the terrible mess she was getting herself into.

She was angry with herself, and ashamed. There was something about Tate Maddox that stripped her of the normal codes of conduct that she’d always lived by. She was a completely different person when he was around. In fact, she was a completely different person here at Matshana.

And she didn’t like that new person right now. Not one little bit!

She had almost reached the top of the hill when she heard the door of Tate’s truck slam shut and the vehicle roar off along the track that led back to the house. Her own BMW was still parked outside the lodges.

Now, from where she sat among the long grasses, she could see the clouds of red dust left in the wake of the truck as Tate pressed the accelerator flat to the ground and sped off into the distance. Before long he was gone from view, and she was alone.

A warm blanket of peace, and a complete and utter stillness, settled upon the vast, open plains of the magnificent Sabie Valley. But there was no peace to be found in Lacey’s aching heart. Not now.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lacey didn’t join Tate for dinner that night. She couldn’t face it. Her stomach was in turmoil and she was sick with worry. She tried to distract herself, pacing the room, or stepping outside to watch the sunset. But nothing worked. Her mind was her own worst enemy.

She sat on the edge of the bed and started to cry. How could she have done such a thing? How could she have allowed another man to rob her of her senses, seduce her as though she were a lovesick teenager? She could still taste Tate’s kiss; could still feel the outline of his erection pressed against her belly. Instinctively, she clamped her knees together and hugged her arms tightly across her chest, but it didn’t ease the pain.

She stood up and went into the bathroom. It was cooler in there with its polished stone floor and ceramic tiles. She turned on the tap and let the water trickle over her fingers, scooping it up and splashing it over her blotchy cheeks. She then rubbed her face with the towel before gripping the edge of the basin and peering into the mirror.

Her reflection said it all. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and there were purple smudges in the hollows beneath them. Her silky mane of polished copper was now dull and dry and tangled, with unruly wisps that stuck to her forehead.

She smiled ruefully. If Mortimer could see her now she wouldn’t have to worry about hurting him, or having to bear the guilt of secretly wanting another man. Mortimer would drop her like a hot stone if he saw this ravaged face. He expected her to be primed and polished, elegant, and perfectly manicured at all times. Mortimer didn’t do scruffy. He scorned women who “let themselves go” and stopped making an effort for their husbands. As far as he was concerned, that was the ultimate betrayal.

Lacey gazed at the sad face in the mirror. So what would he think about a woman who’d actually
enjoyed
being touched by another man? A woman who actually
wanted
that other man to kiss her; to touch her; to dominate her with his potent masculinity? Surely, after
that
kind of betrayal, scruffy hair and no makeup wouldn’t matter one bit.

And it wasn’t only Mortimer she’d betrayed, was it? She’d selfishly betrayed her own father, too. Hadn’t she promised Jasper that she’d do everything she could to make up for all the pain she’d caused him – to help him come to terms with what she’d done? She
owed it to her father
to abandon her own hopes and dreams and do everything in her power to make him happy. But she’d never quite managed it, had she?