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“Why is that?” Sebastian’s voice held genuine curiosity.
“It’s the mystery––she’s elusive. Every time I go back, instead of knowing her better, I realize I don’t know her at all. I can’t ever get enough.”
“The only time I ever saw any real emotion on my father’s face is when he spoke of her.” The look on Sebastian’s spoke of disappointment, of a father that gave so much to others, but never had anything left to spare for his only child.
I watched Charles’ expression transform. The silent debate being waged was in his eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the first time your father and I went on safari?” Suddenly interested, Sebastian gaze returned to Charles. He shook his head. “It was my twenty-seventh birthday,” Charles began, his hands curled into fists, his thumbs rubbing nervously. It was clear that some dark sentiments lurked behind this story.
“I had a falling out with my family and was quite down about it so your father surprised me with a trip. By the time we arrived in Botswana, there was a coup in progress––a failed coup, as it turned out.” Charles chuckled. “The Swiss consulate put us in touch with a UN aid worker who could get us on a plane back to Joburg. Layla Assefa, an Ethiopian ex-pat raised in Italy––father owned a chain of hotels there. Smart as a whip, beautiful. She was something.” Charles’ gaze roamed far away, an insightful smile on his mustache covered lips. “I left a week later.” His sharp gaze snapped back to Sebastian, loaded with meaning. “Your father came home four months later––when Egon threatened to disown him.”
Sebastian’s attention was riveted on the story.
“If you think your father was cold, you should’ve met your grandfather. Egon was furious. Hen wanted to marry her. Can you imagine? They fought viciously. All for naught, she died two week later when her plane crashed in the desert…Hen was never the same after that.” A hushed silence fell over the table. Charles took a long sip of his Chevalier-Montrachet.
Sebastian looked like he’d been punched in the gut, his expression one of total shock. Then it morphed. A carousel of emotions each took a turn manifesting on his face until only one remained…Resentment.
“This was all about a woman?”
Charles’ milky, blue eyes met Sebastian’s squarely. “A woman he loved with every breath in his body,” Charles clarified. Then he looked pointedly at me. “Don’t judge him too harshly. There’s a lot more of him in you than you’d like to believe.”
I awoke from a nap and found myself alone in the elegant bedroom. I never napped. However, the champagne that Charles had popped opened at lunch, though delicious, had proven itself as powerful a sedative as a blow to the head.
A pang of unease hit me. There was once a time when self-preservation trumped everything, even love. Until I met him and my best laid plans were blown sky high. With stealth, he’d crept under my skin and seamlessly adhered himself to every vital part of me. It wasn’t that he was there which made me nervous––it was the thought of what it would feel like to have him ripped away from me.
Kicking off the pale blue Frette blanket, I jumped out of bed in search of the man in question. Out on the balcony, I was assaulted by what can only be described as beauty in its most profound definition. Flowering trees and impeccably manicured gardens bordered the lapis blue lake. Tiny sailboats loitered on the water, the wind turning uncooperative. On the horizon, white peaked mountains lorded over all of it.
Sebastian was nowhere to be found, not even in the garden down bellow. So I threw on my skinny jeans and a white linen shirt, and went in search of my husband.
My husband.
Every time I caught a flash of the platinum band around my finger a silly smile broke out my face. The engagement ring was tucked away in a safe, back at the estate. I was too scared of losing it to get any enjoyment out of seeing it on my hand.
My search of the first floor proved fruitless. The dock came next. Overhead, a quilted gray blanket had unfurled across the sky, as gloomy and brooding as the tall blonde I found standing on the edge of the wooden pier. With his hands stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans and his hair windswept, he looked more like a moody male model than a stuffy banker.
“What are you thinking about?”
Looking over his broad shoulder, the smile he gave me barely reached his eyes. “Come,” he said, ignoring my question. His Highness held out his hand. As I placed mine in his, the thin platinum band wrapped around his finger caught my eye, reminding me that I was just as much his, as he was mine. Fingers laced together, he helped me step into a red, lacquered rowboat and followed me in.
