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"He is." Drake was silent for a moment. "Did he say anything other than that?"
I shook my head. "No. He made a few comments when he saw my painting of you that at first I thought could be taken two ways."
I told Drake about Sefton's comment about the size of my painting and how he wanted to know what the competition was.
"So I take it we weren't in a public room," I said, my voice soft because I knew he wanted to keep that a secret.
"Why do you think that?" he said.
"Because if he saw us having sex, he would know you're big."
"I'm neither going to confirm or deny that," he said and shook his head. "He's not going to spoil the experience for you."
He inhaled deeply and stroked my hair as I lay beside him, my arm across his chest, my face pressed against his shoulder. "Might want to keep your distance from him," he said. "I'd advise against taking his studio class. Not because I don't trust you," he said and turned to face me. He tilted my chin up so I had to look in his eyes. "I may get jealous, but I know you love me. Still, you don't want to feel harassed. You want someone to appreciate you for your talent and not because you are the most delicious bit of womanhood around."
He smiled briefly and kissed me. He was right. Sefton definitely made me feel uncomfortable. I didn't want to have to fend him off all the time, or listen to his flirty personal comments.
"I'll check with Nial Mbuno, the Dean of the Institute, about other open studio classes."
Drake nodded and pulled me against him.
Before too long, he was asleep, but I lay awake for a long time, thinking about what happened between us, and about Mr. Sefton deVilliers. He had to have been at the club and saw me there. Perhaps he didn't see Drake and me having sex, but saw me at some other point and recognized the choker. I tried to push the thought out of my mind, because it was going to drive me crazy trying to sort through all the possibilities.
Finally, even my eyelids became heavy, and in the warmth of Drake's arms, I drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next week passed slowly, with Drake once again shadowing Michael at the hospital and teaching at the college. Like the first week, Drake returned to the hotel late every night, missing supper, and falling asleep soon after. He had a drink of hot tea before sleep and a few times we went for a swim, but we weren't very intimate during the week, especially compared to our first months together.
I spent my time on the net, looking at images of local artists and their work, after I found a studio class that I could take so I could avoid Sefton's. I was able to speak with Nial Mbuno about another studio class offered by one of the faculty members, and Nial agreed to speak with the instructor, Talia Abasi, a local artist who also taught life drawing. She had space in her class for me, but it wasn't a painting class. It was a drawing class with live models. I hadn't taken a drawing class for a few years, so it would be a challenge.
Moving day arrived and I was so eager to get out of the hotel. Although our suite was fantastic, I wanted a kitchen so Drake and I could cook together, and I wanted our own bedroom so I could have a real chest of drawers and closet. I wa
nted our own place.
Our home away from home.
On the day Drake had no classes, he took the day off, so once we were showered and dressed and ready to go, we took a taxi to Kitusuru Village and met Jan at the house to pick up our keys. The movers from the furniture store brought our purchases, and set up the bed. Drake had filled the taxi with our luggage and the housewares we'd bought and we spent the morning getting things moved into the house and put away.
After the movers finally left, and we were alone, I was in the bedroom making the bed when Drake walked in the room, and came up behind me, slipping his arms around my waist.
"We're finally here, Ms. Bennet," he said, his lips pressed against my neck. "Our own house. I can't wait to make it our home. Buy some groceries. Cook a meal. Christen the bed."
"Christen the bed, you say?"
He pulled me more tightly into his arms, planting a very warm and wet kiss on my neck.
"What do you say we get a taxi and go for lunch and then hit the market?"
I squeezed his arms around me. "Sounds wonderful."
The taxi driver was a friendly young man with a bright smile named Jomo, who spoke impeccable English with a British accent and gave us a running commentary as he drove through the streets of Nairobi. A student at the University of Nairobi, he spent some time in the US and was pleased to talk about Manhattan, where he'd attended the Model United Nations. He took us to a local hangout where they had great fish. There was a market nearby and the driver gave us his card and told us to call him when we were ready to go back to our house.
We sat at the tiny restaurant that was nothing more than a single room with a service window. There were already many customers and so we stood in line with the locals, waiting to place our order. Then, we sat at a picnic table on the sidewalk and ate our fish with chapattis and vegetables.
Once we were done, we strolled down the street to the open-air market and checked out each stall, selecting fresh produce and meat. The market was busy, with many women carrying brightly colored cloth shopping bags over their arms. We bought several bags of food and then called Jomo for our return trip. We sat on a bench by the market and waited, watching the people as they bought their goods, arguing with the shopkeepers over prices.
"You didn't haggle over prices like the locals do," I said, poking Drake in the ribs.
