Chapter 2

TWO

Sabella

Just one more minute.

I let a little air from my lungs and sink deeper into the cool water. The salt no longer burns my open eyes. A wedge of sun rays pierces the surface and fans out to the bottom. Bubbles catch the light. Like tiny beads of fragile glass, they stick to my arms and legs. Life under the water is muted, the sounds dispersed. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the break is a distant lullaby. The tide gently rocks me to that beat. Forward and backward. Push and pull.

If I could, I'd stay here forever, but I can only hold my breath for so long.

I swim up and gulp in air when I break the surface. Treading water, I catch my breath. It's warmer in the water than outside. The late afternoon sky already glows with a champagne-colored tint. The whining of a violin drifts down from our garden. It must be the string quartet Mom hired for the party.

I'd rather make the most of the last hour of daylight and swim until my muscles cramp than listen to Aunt Judith's critique of the latest performing arts drama or pretend Uncle Fred hasn't told the story about how he walked into a bank robbery for the trillionth time. I'd give all my pocket money to sit on the sand and watch the bioluminescence in the water instead of telling Aunt Mary that no, I'm not too thin, and yes, I'm eating enough. But this is my party, and I'm already in trouble for being late as it is.

Unable to put the inevitable off longer, I swim to the shore and surf the waves to prevent myself from being tumbled and crushed in the roaring mass of foam. Once my feet touch ground, I waddle out of the water. The fine sand is dusted with flecks of gold. The shallow water is like a magnifying glass on the shiny particles that, once upon a time, were majestic shells and pearly abalone.

I dig my toes into the wet sand, enjoying the tickle as the water pulls back and the sand sucks my feet deeper. A breeze picks up from the sea. Goosebumps run over my arms. A woman's shrill laughter pierces the music coming from the hill, reminding me the guests are waiting.

Pulling my feet from the soft suction of the sand with a sigh, I run to the cave at the foot of the cliff where I left my clothes. Hurriedly, I pull my denim cutoffs and shirt on over my bikini. The thin linen doesn't do much to warm me. In the darkness of the cave, the sand is cold, and the musty air is humid. I should've brought a sweater, but I wasn't planning on staying so late.

The tide has come in. The river that feeds the lagoon flows too strongly now to swim across. On the other side of the river, a bridge spans over the lagoon to connect the beach with the island. Another bridge at the back of the island leads to the main road that runs to town. A ninety-degree bend on the right diverts to the beachfront. Our mansion stands on the highest hill at the end of that road, right on the edge, overlooking the massive dunes and a stretch of sand so long you can see Glentana in the north and Mossel Bay in the south.

Instead of going via the road, I climb straight up the steep side of the biggest dune. It's high, and by the time I'm three-quarters up, I'm panting from the exertion. The vegetation that caps the top is dense. I have to crawl down the secret footpath I've walked out over the years. The fynbos forms a tunnel around me until I exit on the other side. From here, I veer left and jog around the edge of the outcrop until I reach the tar road.

Our house can only be accessed from the back of the hill. I circle the hilltop and cut across the neighborhood via a smaller road. As I turn the corner, a sound coming from one of the trashcans on the pavement stops me. Going closer, I pause and listen. There it is again, a faint scratching. My pulse quickens. It can be a snake, but it can also be a hedgehog trapped inside. Carefully, I throw back the lid and peer over the top, my body poised for action, and then my heart melts on the spot.

A small furry face with big yellow eyes and long white whiskers stares up from the trash. His fur is black except for a white patch over his left eye. At the sight of me, the kitten mewls. For such a tiny thing, the cry he pushes from his chest is loud. He tries to claw his way outside only to sink deeper. From the state of the torn bags and the waste spilling out of them, he's been trying to get out for a while.

"You poor thing," I exclaim, reaching inside and carefully lifting him out.

He's so tiny, I can feel his fragile ribs beneath the softness of his fur. His little heart is pounding between my palms. He mewls even louder, pawing at the air.

"There now." I hug him to my chest and stroke his head. "You're safe."

The kitten settles with a purr that vibrates in his ribcage. He mewls again, hauntingly this time, and instinctively I know the little creature is hungry. He's too small for solid food. He needs milk.

As I huddle the hungry, helpless animal, trying my best to soothe him, anger heats my blood. Who abandons a kitten and throws him away with the trash? I have a good mind to knock on the door of the house and give them a piece of my mind, but anyone could've driven here and left the kitten in the trashcan. Besides, the priority is feeding him. But how do I smuggle him into the house? My mom will have a fit if she finds out.

A few cardboard boxes are stacked next to the trashcan. I go through them until I find one that's clean and empty before lowering my charge inside. He protests loudly at being separated from the heat of my body.

"Don't worry." I stroke his back. "I won't leave you. I promise."

His claws are minuscule but sharp. I earn a scratch on my hand for my efforts. After some petting, the kitten calms again.

"I'll call you Pirate. That's a cool name, right?"

Pirate doesn't like his new prison. He puts his front paws on the side of the box and tries to climb out.

"Don't be scared," I say, closing the flaps. "You just have to stay in there for a little while."

Pirate mewls again when I straighten with the box in my arms. I ignore the little meows of distress, making my way home as fast as I can without jostling him.

The double gates that give access to our property are closed. The driveway leading up to the house is visible through the bars. The front parking is already packed with luxury cars. After ensuring that no one is hanging around the entrance, I fish my key from my pocket and let myself in through the pedestrian gate before sneaking around the side of the house.

Caterers carry crates of food from a cool truck parked on a strip of paving. On the front lawn, where the guests are mingling, waiters are serving champagne and oysters. Aunt Judith, my late grandmother's sister, stands at the edge of the garden, wearing a powder-blue lace dress and matching hat. She talks animatedly, waving an empty champagne glass to emphasize whatever point she's making.

My sister, Matilde, faces her with a solemn face. Dressed in a mauve silk dress and matching heels with a short string of pearls around her neck, Mattie looks older than her eighteen years. Her fiancé, Jared, stands like a puppet in his tux at her side, offering a stiff smile at anyone who makes eye contact. A man I don't know talks to Dad. Dad slips a finger into his collar and cracks his neck. It looks as if his bowtie is already strangling him.

Great.

How am I going to get through this evening?

Falling into step behind one of the caterers, I manage to arrive at the side door that the staff use to access the kitchen without being spotted by any of the guests. Just as I exhale a sigh of relief, Doris, our housekeeper, waggles through the door. Blotchy patches redden her cheeks, and perspiration shines on her forehead.

She shuffles down the path, waving a dishcloth in the air. "Hey, you. Yes, you with the mustache. Come back here."

I duck, trying to make myself small, but the man I'm using as a shield steps aside to let her pass and thereby exposes me.

When her gaze falls on me, her eyes bulge. Her face turns pink as she takes in my state.

"It's about time you show your face," she says with a scowl. "You should've been ready two hours ago. What an insolent girl you are." She points toward the kitchen. "Get inside now before I call Mrs. Edwards." Throwing her arms in the air, she hurries on her way. "Hey, you. Are you deaf? I told you to wait. We need more ice."

Holding my breath, I glance at Doris's retreat from over my shoulder. She's in such a flat spin with the party arrangements that she didn't pay attention to the box in my hands.

"Where the hell is your manager?" she asks the poor man she cornered. "You're running late with the starters." Grabbing his arm, she drags him in the direction of the cooler truck. "This won't do. It won't do at all. It's not my job to…"

Her ranting trails off as she and the man disappear around the corner.

"Not in the mood for the party either?" someone with a deep voice and a slight foreign accent asks.

I turn my face toward the voice, and then everything inside me goes still. The guy leaning on the wall next to the door is both the most arresting and scariest male specimen I've seen. With a square jaw and strong nose, his angular face is strikingly handsome. Yet at a certain angle, there's a harshness to those lines. Tall and broad with hair as black as coal and a skin with a Mediterranean coloring, he looks like a character who emerged straight from a fantasy book. From a different world. He can be either a fallen angel or a demon, depending on his mood.

Right now, with the tilt to his lips, he leans toward the angelic side, but rather an archangel with a sword decapitating dragons than an angel with soft white wings. If he scowls, he'll look more like a demon. He's so beautiful, so utterly perfectly created, that something twists in my stomach. He's dark like the ocean and breathless like water. That's how I'd describe him if I could only use one word.

Water.

However, it's not his external beauty that makes my heart skid to a complete stop before resuming to beat like a drum in my chest. It's the energy surrounding him, a vibe of danger and deadly allure. He looks nineteen or twenty maybe, but there's a worldly air to him that makes him seem older and more experienced. Even as my pulse spikes and awareness contracts my skin, instinct tells me he's the kind of guy I should stay away from. Yet I stand rooted to the spot. What can I say? It's not my fault I'm a Capricorn with a sea-goat star sign who's attracted to water.

With one hand shoved into the pocket of his slacks and his knee bent, his pose is relaxed. It's just acting though. Tension oozes from his pores. I'm good at feeling people.

He chuckles at my silence. "I guess not."

Giving myself an internal shake, I try to remember what he asked.

Not in the mood for the party either?

He's not wearing a tux, but his formal slacks and jacket tell me he's a guest. The pang in my belly intensifies. I recognize the sentiment with a start. Regret. Regret that I don't know him. Regret that I won't. Already regretting that I'll listen to my mind even though my heart loves water.

"What are you doing here?" I ask in a hostile tone designed to mask my overwhelming reaction to him. "This entrance is for staff only."

He lifts his free hand, showing me a joint. Beneath the collar of the white shirt that's open to the third button, his chest is visible. Just the glimpse is enough to hint at well-defined pecs. He's inked, the top of the tattoo that's showing jet black. I can make out the decorative curls of a border. I wish I could see the whole picture. Where it ends. His broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. The tailored pants and the fitted cut of the shirt where his jacket falls open show off his lean shape. He's a good dresser. I know all about understated elegance. Mom drilled it into me.

I drag my gaze back to his face lest I give him the impression that I'm staring. His full lips stretch, revealing straight white teeth set off by the olive tone of his skin. He observes me with eyes blacker than onyx, which are framed by long, dark lashes and thick eyebrows. Running a gaze over me, he weighs me in turn. When he lingers for a couple of seconds on my breasts, my heart does something funny in my chest. My shirt is still wet in patches, particularly where it's plastered to my boobs. The red bikini top is visible underneath, as is the dip of my stomach where he fixes his attention next.

"You don't look old enough to be a waitress," he says, finishing his evaluation by inspecting my legs. "How young are they hiring these days?"

I don't correct him. If he knows how young I really am, he won't give me another ounce of his attention. Although walking away is without a doubt the wiser option, I don't want to turn my back on him. Not just yet.

His lips quirk, amusement sparking in his eyes. "Has the cat got your tongue, bella?"

A jolt runs through me. How does he know my name? Only my family and close friends call me Bella. But no. He said it differently. He said it like a term of endearment. I know what bella in that context means, and it warms my chest with a pleasant heat.

"You have an accent," I say.

"French-Italian."

"Are you from Italy or France?"

"Corsica."

"You speak English very well."

"My mother insisted that we learn from a young age. It's important to speak it for business."

His cryptic and polite answers are a clear sign that he's getting bored with the conversation. I should go, but I linger, unable to pull myself away. "I wish I could speak a foreign language."

"Shouldn't you be working?" he asks, nodding at the box in my hands.

His animosity gets my hackles up. "Shouldn't you be mingling with the guests?"

He grins. Taking a Zippo lighter from his pocket, he taps the joint against the metal. "Parties are boring, but birthday parties are the worst." He casts another glance at my unsuitable attire. "You obviously agree."

Although I do share his sentiment, I can't help but turn defensive. "Then why did you come?"

Bringing the joint to his mouth, he watches me from the slits of his eyes as he lights it. He inhales and blows out a thin line of smoke. "Business."

The smoke twists into a ribbon before dispersing in the air, leaving the pungent odor of weed behind.

"Business?" Was I wrong about him being a guest? "Are you with the caterers?"

He laughs. "My father and Mr. Edwards are business associates." Studying me through the thick lashes of his hooded eyes as he takes another drag of the joint, he adds after blowing out the smoke, "Of sorts."

"So you're only here for business reasons," I say, my ego unjustifiably bruised.

"That's how it would seem."

I fail to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "I can see how that must suck for you."

He shrugs. "It comes with the territory."

When I don't reply, he holds the joint out to me.

I shake my head. "I don't smoke."

"Do you drink?"

My parents let me have a little wine or champagne on important occasions. "Not often."

His voice drops an octave. "Good."

He carries on smoking while I just stand there, racking my brain for something to say.

Turning his face, he looks at me as if to ask why I'm still there. "You better run inside and get to work."

I don't like the way he speaks to me. I resent how he thinks he can order me around. Most of all, I hate how easily he dismisses me.

When he stubs the joint out on the wall and flicks the butt in the party trash that's piling up next to the door, I know he's going to walk away. And I don't want him to. I stall by using what my feminine intuition tells me will get his attention. Defiance.

"No," I say, lifting my chin.

His eyes flare as if he doesn't hear that word often.

"I won't jump because you told me to," I continue.

He pushes off the wall. "What did you say to me?"

Standing taller, I tap into my confidence that usually comes naturally but for some reason now has failed me. "Why must I go? You leave if you don't want me here. You shouldn't have picked this spot if you were hoping to smoke your drugs without being caught. Which is completely not cool. Not smoking in secret but smoking at all. Especially drugs. It makes you totally uncool."

Shit. Can I just shut up now?

His dark eyes widen with humor rather than anger. A smile flirts with his lips.

He's laughing at me. How embarrassing.

I don't wait for his reply. My intention is making a grand exit while I still have some dregs of dignity left to cling to, but just as I turn toward the kitchen, my mom walks through the door.

Double shit.

"Sabella Daphne Edwards." She grabs my arm, her nails cutting into my skin. "Where have you been?" Her face pales as she takes me in. "My goodness. Look at you. This is too much." She gives me a not-too-gentle shake. "I've had it with you."

The stranger slides his gaze toward the lawn where white and pink balloons arch around silver blown-up numbers writing sixteen in the center. His lips curve into a full smile as he no doubt puts two and two together.

I nearly die of humiliation. My mom is really upset with me this time, so much so she doesn't notice the young man standing to the side while catering staff enter and exit the house like a steady file of ants.

"Get inside." She lets go of my arm and grabs the box from my hands. "Now."

"Wait," I cry out, trying to take back the box. "You'll drop it."

My mom holds the box out of reach. "What have you done now?"

"Nothing, I swear."

Pursing her lips, she opens the flap.

"His name is Pirate," I say, talking so fast my tongue trips over the words. "Please, you have to let me keep him."

My mom holds the box at arm's length. "You know I'm allergic to cats."

"Please." I press my palms together in a begging gesture. "It's the only birthday gift I want. I'll never ask you for anything else."

My mom flicks her fingers. Miraculously, a staff member appears at her side.

"Put this in the guest bathroom upstairs." She thrusts the box at the man, who's one of our gardeners. "We'll take it to the SPCA tomorrow."

"No," the stranger says, the word loaded with so much authority that both my mom and the gardener freeze.

I don't know who's more surprised, my mom or me.

My mom spins around and gives a start when her gaze falls on the guy. She looks between us, suspicion tightening her eyes. "What are you doing here at the back of the house?"

He steps up and takes the box from the gardener. "I was just giving Sabella her birthday present."

Reeling, my mother says in a high-pitched voice, "Excuse me?"

Carefully, he hands the box back to me. "If I'd known you were allergic, Mrs. Edwards, I would've included antihistamines with the gift. It's an easy enough problem to solve and a small sacrifice to pay for Sabella's happiness." He adds with a mocking smile, "I'm sure you'll forgive me for the oversight."

My mom's nostrils flare. Her chest rises as she inhales sharply. Seemingly unable to string together words to make a sentence, she flicks her fingers again at which the gardener slips away as fast as he appeared.

"Well," my mom says, giving me a narrow-eyed look. "You better go settle your new pet and get ready. You've kept everyone waiting long enough. I'll tell Mattie to help you get dressed so that your guests don't have to wait another hour."

Turning up her nose, she leaves as regally as her high heels allow.

I'm shocked to a standstill, unable to believe my luck. Gaping at the handsome stranger, I say with all the sincerity I possess, "Thank you."

A hint of warmth softens the harsh blackness of his eyes. "You're welcome, cara."

My stomach flutters at yet another term of endearment. "Why did you do it?"

His statement is casual, but the words are loaded. "Because you should get what you want for your birthday."

"Your business must be really important to my dad. My mom never gives in like that."

He shoves a hand in his pocket and glances at the partygoers. "There are only old people here. Don't you have friends?"

"I'm not socially awkward and incapable of making friends, if that's what you're implying," I say with a grin.

"I'd never be so crass," he deadpans. "I'm just wondering why they're not invited."

"Everyone is away for the big summer holiday." I pout. "If it wasn't for this party, I would've been in Plettenberg Bay with them right now."

His expression darkens. "Alone?"

"I wish." I make a face. "My brother and his wife would've gone along to chaperone."

"Ah." Some of his tenseness evaporates. "If it makes you feel better, I could've been skiing in the Alps."

"Really?" That pang of defensiveness hits me again. "You must be very disappointed about missing out on that."

"Not so much now. The view here is very nice."

I laugh. "Nice?"

"A lot more than I expected."

My breathing quickens. I'm new at the nuances of our game, but I like playing it with him.

"Can I see?" he asks, motioning at the box.

"Oh." His interest in Pirate makes me happy. Giddily, so. "Of course."

I lift the flap. We both peer into the box, our heads close together. His cologne is a blend of something woodsy and citrusy, a subtle perfume that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale the fragrance of his skin. He tickles Pirate under the chin and chuckles when the kitten purrs, but I'm not focused on the cat. I'm too aware of our proximity and how good he smells.

"He's cute," he says, raising his gaze to mine.

I clear my throat. "He is."

A weird, almost calculated look comes over his face. "Who gave him to you?"

"I found him in a trashcan on my way home."

At that, his features relax. "I'm glad he found a good home."

"I'm sorry about earlier," I say on impulse as a fresh bout of gratitude washes over me. "I was rude."

The smile he offers me is so warm and unguarded it not only makes me feel as if the sun is shining on my face but also that I'm special. To him.

"I'm sorry for mistaking you for a waitress," he says. "I should've asked instead of assumed."

"Quits?"

"Quits," he agrees, his dark gaze piercing mine.

My blood heats under the intensity of his stare. No one has ever looked at me with so much possession. No man has ever smiled at me as if I'm valuable and important.

Slowly, something serious replaces the warmth of his expression, something predatory and carnal. I know he's aware of how close we're standing, invading each other's personal space. I'm out of my depth, unequipped for what's passing through his eyes, but I can't make myself move.

He acts first, not stepping away but closer still, so close that the box is pressed between us. Raising his arm, he brushes his fingertips over my temple and hooks my hair behind my ear. The touch is so gentle it's barely there, but it jolts me. It ripples over my entire body, covering every inch of my skin in goosebumps.

"Happy birthday, cara," he says in that deep, low voice with a hint of an accent.

A beat passes in which I hold my breath, although I'm not sure for what.

And then he backs off, putting space between us.

It physically hurts. Whether it's the distance or his proximity, it aches with the same intensity, leaving a hollow sensation in my stomach and a fluttering in my temples. My heart thumps and my knees are wobbly. It's confusing. I both want to burrow against his chest and run away from the fiercely wonderful and scary feelings.

Worried that he'll notice my weakness, I flee inside the house, miraculously managing an unwavering smile from over my shoulder, but he's already strolling away with his hands shoved in his pockets and his gaze trained on the horizon. Just when my heart is about to sink, he looks back. I'm so ecstatic, I don't care he caught me staring, because I caught him too.

For the first time in my life, I hurry to make myself pretty.