Читать книгу Dreams and Desires - Louise Make - Страница 4

1

It is your heart I long for.

It is you I must know.

Fire emanates from your core,

A fierce passion lights your soul.

This is the love I must own.

Only your heart and no more.

Moyomhle hugged her pillow a little closer as she slowly came out of her dream.

It was a dream she knew well because it visited her frequently. At first she’d tried to decipher its significance, but after a few years she no longer felt that need. She thought of it as an enchanted visitation and chose to cherish the feeling of fulfilment it always brought her.

Each time the dream came, the scenes were different. Only the feelings were the same – the sense of being with . . . someone very special. Though she’d never seen his face, she felt his strength and warmth.

Her alarm clock’s radio started singing some inane pop song. She rolled over with a grim sigh and switched it off. Thankfully, it was a Friday.

“No more movie watching until the early hours of the morning during the week,” she pledged out loud to herself as she trudged past the DVD covers stacked beside her bed, “no matter how romantic the story or how handsome the leading actor.”

The features editor of a magazine publication as major as Quest was meant to set a disciplined example as an unflappable woman. Not a silly romantic who developed crushes on every hero in every love story or soppy movie. Nor a hopeless dreamer who couldn’t stop fantasising, thanks to a nightly phantom visitor whose face she’d never seen.

“No more movies, no more fantasies.” Moya was practically singing her new mantra by the time she finished her shower.

She inspected her reflection in the mirror. She used to wish she looked more like the perfect heroines in the novels and movies she devoured, but she’d long since grown out of that phase.

Her eyes were large and dark, giving her a guileless look that was difficult to glamourise – even with the smoky make-up a women’s talk show host had once recommended. Her hair was in neat cornrows that made her facial bone structure more striking.

She’d put on some weight since university and could no longer wear some of her favourite old clothes, but her skin had remained flawless over the years. It was still smooth and chocolate-coloured, the one feature that had her daring to believe she might in fact be beautiful.

An SMS came in as she left the bathroom. Moya smiled when she saw her brother’s name.

Thanks again for offering to throw us a baby shower in Dec. Kay’s very excited. You’re the best sister ever. Lucky for you, I’m the best brother ever. LOL. Love you, Sam

She was about to reply when her phone rang.

Moya lifted a surprised eyebrow when she noted her office number on the display. She wasn’t due at work for another hour and a half. She’d hoped to spend the time in between putting the ready-made waffles she’d bought to a taste test. The late-April mornings in Cape Town were still surprisingly warm and eating waffles while watching the sun rise from beyond the ocean would’ve been just the treat she needed.

Hesitantly she answered the phone. “Hello?”

“You won’t believe what’s just happened!”

Moya’s lips twisted in concern. “Lindi, what’s up? You do know I was going to come in early today to prepare for the photo shoot, right? Couldn’t this have waited until then?”

All in one breath her assistant told her the morning’s horror story.

The male model they had booked for the day’s shoot was in hospital due to dire food poisoning and not likely to recover for days. The other models Moya had shortlisted weren’t available at such short notice and Ella, their female model, was already in make-up. They had to work a miracle – they had to find a male stand-in for the two final scenes and get him there by the time Ella completed her solo shots. If they didn’t, Ella would leave for her next booking, and another costly shoot would have to be scheduled.

Moya exhaled heavily as she pulled out the first thing her hand touched in her closet, a simple white dress. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

* * *

By eight o’clock Moya was beginning to panic. The shoot was meant to start at nine, but they still had no male model. Ella was dressed and on set. Moya needed to conjure up a partner for her – and fast.

She crossed her fingers and said a quick prayer before dialling the cell number of one of her colleagues. “Please pick up . . .” she muttered below her breath.

The call was answered after a few seconds. “Hello?”

“Thandi, please don’t slaughter me for calling you during your holiday, but I’m in the middle of an emergency here. Please-please-please send me any contact details you have for male models.”

“Moya? You aren’t serious . . .?” Thandi’s voice was so groggy no one would’ve guessed her to be the no-nonsense fashion editor of Quest magazine. “What could possibly have gone wrong this early?”

“It’s serious and desperate!”

There was a sigh and a soft chuckle at the other end.

After a minute of thinking Thandi said, “I might be able to help you, depending on the look you want.”

Moya perked up. “Tall, black and in good shape. Preferably someone in his early thirties, because the article is targeted at women juggling corporate careers and a cosy home life. So I need a man who looks attractive but old enough to be settled down.”

“Okay . . .” After some fumbling, Thandi was back on the line. “I can cover your requirements and I also know that the man I have in mind is available today. He has some time off.”

Moya jumped up, squealing. “You are an absolute angel!”

“I’m pretty sure I could talk him into doing a shoot.”

“Why would you need to talk him into it? Every model I know would love doing a large spread like this one.”

“Well . . . he’s not a model. He’s a friend of mine and the sales manager at a car dealership. But trust me when I tell you the camera will adore him.”

Moya paced in front of her large desk. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go with a novice, Thandi. What if he’s camera-shy?”

“He won’t be. He’s really comfortable in his own skin – charisma oozes out of this guy, darling.”

Moya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. And thanks. I owe you one for saving this shoot for me.”

“Great. I’ll call Zakhele and fill him in. And then I’m going back to bed.”

* * *

Moya had just given the nod on the set assembly and lighting grid when he showed up.

Zakhele Nkosi strolled in with his broad shoulders back and his head held high, taller than most of the men in the studio. Thandi certainly hadn’t been lying about the man’s charm. He smiled at everyone as if he’d spent years doing shoots, looking relaxed despite not knowing any of the people around him. Lindi greeted him cheerfully and after a minute of talking pointed towards her boss.

Moya’s grip tightened on the clipboard she was holding. She had dated enough charmers to know this one was going to be trouble. After wasting her time on boyfriends whose looks had engendered in them nothing but arrogance and self-centred childishness, she had vowed never to fall for another playboy. Especially not one as gorgeous as this man.

She took him in as he approached her. Muscular and golden-skinned, dressed in cargo pants and a black golf shirt, Mr Nkosi moved with the grace of a panther that would always have full control over its own strength.

“You must be my boss for the day.”

Inhaling deeply, Moya held her hand out. As soon as he took it, she found herself caught up in musings about sunlight and soft breezes and . . . something. Why would such thoughts suddenly assail her?

“Beautiful spirit.”

She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your name, Moyomhle, it means ‘beautiful spirit’.”

“Yes.”

“It’s lovely . . .” The friendliness in his eyes deepened, momentarily changing to something she couldn’t quite identify. “So, what do you desire of me?”

Was he . . .?

Moya shook her head at the illogical idea that he’d passed by her cute colleagues to flirt with her. She knew better than that. She was the quiet, dedicated achiever who kept to herself. The simplicity she favoured was there for all to see, and usually drew the attention of none.

The understated sophistication of her white dress and the functional look of the flat, bronze sandals that encased her feet made it abundantly clear that Moya was not interested in catching the world’s eye. She enjoyed giving others attention, but doubted she’d know what to do with it if it were to be directed at her.

Zakhele stood with his head cocked, his eyes devilishly dark – the picture of a man who would never fit in her world. He was not flirting with her. She needed to get real.

Moya nodded brusquely. “I’m the features editor, so I do give the nod on most of what will be happening this morning. But it’s Bonga’s orders you’ll be following. He’s our photographer. So perhaps you’d like to put your question to him?”

Zakhele momentarily sized up the tall man fitting a lens to a complicated camera. He turned back to her, his smile unshaken. “How about after hours? Do I get to ask you about your desires then?”

Moya lowered her eyes. There was no more room for doubt; he was definitely playing with her.

When her gaze lifted again, she had steadied it. “You don’t get to flirt with me, Mr Nkosi. Not ever.”

Her words had startled him, she could tell. No doubt rejection was a new experience to a man this good-looking, but Moya had no intention of getting caught up in his amorous games.

“Why not?” he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

“Because we are to work together.”

“Yes, but our working relationship will hardly last a day.”

His hand was still wrapped around hers, an enticing light brown that made her wish she could see the rest of him, taste all of him. What on earth was the matter with her?

“Men like you don’t date women like me.” Moya pulled her hand from his. “And women like me have better ways to spend our time than dating men like you.”

“Men like me?”

“Good-looking, popular men,” Moya responded with a half-shrug. “Mr Nkosi, I’m a really good features editor – because I love words as much as I love putting article structures together. I read – a lot. I write poetry and I like solving puzzles. I don’t fit in at rowdy clubs, nor do I know the names of the coolest cocktails served in the trendiest bars . . . which you, most likely, frequent with your type of lady.”

A flash of mirth shot through his eyes. “Are you implying that I only date ignorant, shallow girls?”

She shook her head. “No, not ignorant. Ditzy. You know . . . stunning nymphs who don’t need to know much to be liked or desired.”

“I think you’re stunning.”

“No, you don’t.” The goosebumps on her skin belied her nonchalant denial. “And you don’t have to flatter me, Mr Nkosi. We’ve already agreed to offer you the same lucrative package we had signed with the original model.”

He chuckled, though the intensity never left his eyes. “Stop being so formal. My name’s Zak.”

Moya was starting to feel nervous at the warmth he was giving off; it felt as if it was embracing her. “That’s a line I’d rather not cross.”

He leaned in, near enough for her to smell his scent and remember how badly she wanted to know his taste. “Please say my name.”

“No, I . . .”

“Say it.”

“Zak . . .”

Sunlight and soft breezes, that’s what it felt like to have him a breath away from touching her. He’d bent close enough to kiss her and she tingled at the thought.

“Oh my, don’t you two look good together. New love?”

“What?” Moya took a step back from Zakhele to find Ella ogling him with blatant interest. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s our stand-in for the shoot. Zakhele, meet Ella Cronje, your partner for the day.”

Lindi approached, unaware of the varying shades of tension rolling off the three of them. Moya was trying to cover up her awkwardness at Ella’s question. She was also trying to work out why Zakhele’s full lips were suddenly set in a severe line, despite Ella’s gleaming smile.

Instead she addressed Lindi. “We’re ready to move on – right on time, too. Please get Mr Nkosi over to wardrobe and make-up. We’ll do the kitchen scene next.”

Lindi nodded and immediately headed back to alert the crew.

Moya was startled when Zakhele suddenly grabbed her hand. “We need to discuss payment.”

She frowned, confused. “Thandi told me she’d gone over the terms with you. Were you not happy?”

“Not quite.”

Moya stared pointedly at Ella until the girl turned and sauntered off, giving them some privacy.

“What’s your problem?”

Zakhele’s gaze had a sharp gleam to it. “The offer sounded generous, but I find myself wanting more.”

Moya’s eyes narrowed. “I do appreciate you helping us out of a bind, Mr Nkosi, but that is no reason to get greedy. We’ve offered you what we offer professional models. You might want to keep that in mind when you come in to sign your contract.”

“Save yourself a waste of paper, my lovely – I have new terms of payment that I won’t budge on.” Zakhele’s jaw clenched stubbornly.

Moya sighed with exasperation. All around her, the crew was prepping equipment, preparing for the second half of the shoot. And here she was, arguing with their one model who, in no uncertain terms, was threatening to bail out on the job if his wishes weren’t met.

Vexing as he was, Moya knew she would have to hear out his wish to renegotiate.

She rubbed her stiff neck. “How much?”

One corner of his enticing mouth tilted in a semi-smile. “I think you might have the wrong idea, lady. I’m not interested in getting any money at all.”

“Then what do you want?” Frustration made her voice rise, drawing a few curious gazes.

Zakhele lowered his voice. “A date . . . with you.”

Moya’s large eyes held his in shock. “No. No, that’s a terrible idea.”

Zakhele folded his arms across his broad chest. “One date – we’ll talk and dance and share champagne. I’m drawn to you, Moyomhle.”

Lindi returned unexpectedly. “Wardrobe’s ready for you, Mr Nkosi.”

Moya realised he had no intention of budging and gave him a gentle push. “Go. I need a minute to think.”

* * *

“Models on set! Everybody clear the lights! Kitchen shoot commencing!”

Everything went smoothly. Bonga, camera in hand, encouraged the two models to explore any little games that came to mind, hoping to capture a playfulness that would contrast with the serious boardroom shots.

Fun turned out to be Zakhele’s forte. Moya gritted her teeth as she watched him give a giggling Ella a piggyback ride around the cooking island before stopping abruptly to plop her on top of it. Bonga snapped away and Ella simpered like a girl in love while Zakhele fed her a grape or two.

Moya hadn’t realised she’d stood up until Lindi touched her arm. “Where are you going? Did they do something wrong?”

Moya blinked down at her, feeling a little exposed. “The grapes . . . they’re props. I wouldn’t want them to waste them all on pointless games . . .”

Lindi looked at her in disbelief. “Are you kidding? That thing with the grapes looked awesome. Zakhele is perfect for this job and we’re lucky to have him. It’s not every day that a complete novice gets it right like this. This guy’s a natural!”

Moya sat back down.

Lindi was right about how smoothly Zakhele had taken on his role as a model. He had blown all their expectations out of the water. And that was good.

What bothered Moya was how this man’s presence was affecting her. She didn’t know him and would only have to see him one more time – if she agreed to a date. That was also good. So why were chills trickling down the back of her neck at the sight of him having fun with Ella? And why did his smile warm her so?

Bonga called for a ten-minute break while he prepped his camera for stationary shots.

Moya watched gloomily as Lindi immediately skipped over to the models to check if they needed anything. This check went slightly differently to regular ones. For one thing, Lindi kept on tittering and twirling her neat dreadlocks through her fingertips. And for another, she didn’t give Ella nearly as much attention as she did Zakhele. Not that Ella seemed to notice much, her attention was directed at the man of the day too.

Moya turned away impatiently and glimpsed her reflection in a mirror at the far end of the studio. She was tall, smooth-skinned . . . and plain. It wasn’t just that she wore minimal make-up and her dress was modest – she wasn’t outgoing. She had a sharp mind instead of a coquettish personality.

A mind that Zakhele claimed he wanted to explore.

Bonga called everyone back together so they could move on to the bedroom scene.

Moya was suddenly reluctant to step near the intimacy of the rumpled bed with its plush pillows. She watched the hairstylist give Ella’s auburn curls a just-woken-up look. And when she turned, she caught sight of Zakhele at the other end of the set with his shirt off.

Bonga was standing with him, talking while occasionally pointing at the bed, the lights and the mounted camera. No doubt he was explaining the types of poses Zakhele would need to keep in mind in order to avoid upstaging himself or Ella. At the same time the assistant make-up person was dabbing smudge-proof concealer on what appeared to be a tattoo. It curved along the planes of Zakhele’s right shoulder blade. He was nodding attentively at Bonga.

Moya couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Lindi popped up beside her. “HR just got back to me about Zakhele’s contract. It’ll be ready for him to sign by Friday.”

Moya swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I’ll find out when he’d like to come in to sort it out.”

By the time she reached the set, Zakhele was stretched out on the pillows and white sheets, waiting. When his eyes suddenly turned to her, Moya wasn’t expecting the fire in them and she halted.

His lips formed a slow smile. “Looking for me?”

Moya touched her palms together. “Yes, actually. I have good news. You can come in any time from Friday to sign your contract.”

“But I don’t need a contract. I told you what I want.”

Moya waved her hand to quiet him. “Yes, I know that, but I hardly think the entire office needs to know as well. For all intents and purposes this agreement is still a professional one – and that includes the payment initially discussed. I doubt our accounts department would agree to the payment of one date as representative of how Quest handles its business dealings.”

“Why are you talking to me like that?”

“Like what?” she snapped.

“You’re distant and irritable.”

She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the front of her dress. “Well, Mr Nkosi, how would you have me act? You’ve asked me to . . . sell myself to you as payment for your help. Not only am I to be your entertainment for a night, but I’ll clearly have to do so while watching every woman in the vicinity throw themselves at you. My apologies for not knowing how to pretend that the idea appeals to me.”

He took her hand and pulled her down beside him. Moya, caught unawares, landed closer than intended and grabbed his other hand to steady herself.

“What other women?” His gaze was concerned, looking past her curtness.

Her mahogany eyes locked on his incredulously. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” he countered sincerely. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I have a harem in my back pocket, but I assure you, my life has revolved around work for some time now. As of today, you are the only beauty who has my attention.”

Her gaze was unwavering. “I won’t sleep with you, no matter how important this assignment is to me.”

“I never expected you to, Moyomhle, that’s why I never brought up sex.” His fingers tightened on hers. “Thandi’s spoken about you a couple of times and I found what I heard intriguing. Meeting you has made me realise you’re more lovely than I’d imagined. And strong and intelligent. I can’t help but want to know you. Now, please say yes.”

She let the feeling of fulfilment she got from him wash over her. Then she answered not only him, but the ache deep within her core.

“Yes.”