Made her hope.
Made her dream.
And dreams like that were dangerous.
9
Suzette hurried down the stairs from her flat, her thoughts in a jumble. She hadn’t slept well. Somewhere between the ebb and flow of the tide, the wonder Justin’s beautiful words had stirred in her had dissolved into reason. There could never be anything between them. It was impossible.
And then came the wake-up call from Johannes, night manager, and there was no time to dwell on lost dreams, however fleeting.
Taxi violence had flared up in the nearby town where most of the hotel staff lived. Buses burned, police cordoned off streets, and no one was allowed in or out. Their head chef, sous chef, and half the waitstaff and most of housekeeping were stranded behind the barricades. Breakfast service was teetering on the edge of disaster. And with half the guests — a touring group leaving at nine sharp — expecting more than a token continental spread, disaster wasn’t an option.
And then there was the sunset wedding. Intimate, yes, just a simple ceremony in the boma … but it still had to be perfect.
She rounded the corner just as Miem’s ancientbakkierattled into the courtyard, the day’s vegetable delivery piled high on the back. Relief flickered through her chest.
“So glad you could make it,” she called, striding toward the small truck.
If anyone could wrestle a kitchen into order, it was Miem Steyn. The Steyn family owned the hotel, and it wouldn’t be the first time Miem had rolled up her sleeves during a staff shortage.
“Lucky we loaded last night,” Miem called back, reversing up to the entrance. “I was ready to roll when you phoned.”
The engine coughed, sputtered twice, and died. Miem heaved herself out, the door creaking in protest. Suzette caught sight of her friend’s expression — and the deep scowl aimed her way had little to do with the morning’s problems.
Oh, dear. Miem knows about Justin.
“We don’t have time for whatever’s on your mind,” she snapped, removing the netting that kept the load in place.
But Miem was Miem. “Word is, you had supper with a mystery man last night.” She lowered the tailgate and hefted a crate of tomatoes, the brown earth still clinging to their skins, and passed it over with a look as sharp as veld thorns.
Suzette stifled a sigh, aiming for nonchalance. “Word travels fast,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box.
Miem snorted, cheeks flushed from effort. “And apparently the mystery man paid for the whole Meiring clan — all eight of them — to holiday in Mauritius for two weeks so he could rent their house.Nogalflew them there in his private jet.”
Suzette blinked, thrown. “Oh.” She hadn’t known that part. Though, yes, she could easily picture Justin doing exactly that.
“Mm-hmm.” Miem’s brow arched, her tone sharp with mock accusation. “Only one man we know who owns a jet. Suzette Bosch, whatwereyou thinking?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miem, it was a meal.”
Miem leaned closer. “Be careful, Poppie,” she said, her voice low and edged with warning. Her roughened palm cupped Suzette jaw, thumb brushing lightly against her chin. “Men like that don’t play by the same rules we do. Don’t let his charm make you stupid.”
Suzette opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, the low, smooth purr of an engine rolled through the courtyard. A sleek sedan glided to a stop beside the loading bay, sunlight flashing off its windscreen like a camera flash.
“Speak of the devil,” Miem muttered, bracing herself against the tailgate as she dragged a crate of cucumbers and lettuce toward her.
The driver’s door opened, and Justin stepped out — jeans, soft grey T-shirt, and that quiet, effortless confidence that drew attention without him even trying.
Suzette’s stomach dipped.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Morning, ladies,” he drawled, flashing that heartbreaker grin. “Miem, delighted to see you again, darling.”
Miem blinked, the ruddy color on her cheeks glowing brighter. “Listen to you. Aren’t you just smooth as melted butter.”
“I try.” His grin deepened. “Let me give you a hand with these.”
