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Preview from chapter one
Chapter One: The Desk
The barn smelled of linseed oil and old wood, and Elsa Marais liked it best at this hour, when the Franschhoek light came in low and gold through the open doors and turned the sawdust in the air to glitter.
She did not like the black Range Rover that pulled up outside, spraying gravel across her roses.
The man who stepped out of it was tall, broad through the shoulders, and dressed like money: white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, dark trousers that had never seen a day’s work. He had a jaw you could cut glass on and a frown that suggested he used it often.
“You’re the restorer,” he said. Not a question.
“And you’re blocking my driveway.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Ruan de Villiers. De Villiers Wines, on the Simondium road. You’ll know the estate.”
Everyone knew the estate. Four hundred hectares of vines and a Cape Dutch manor house that appeared in every glossy wine magazine in the country. Elsa wiped her hands on the rag tucked into the waistband of her denim shorts and folded her arms. The movement pushed her breasts up against the thin cotton of her vest, and she saw his eyes drop for exactly one second before they came back to her face. Cold grey eyes. Interesting.
“What can I do for you, Mr de Villiers?”
Two farmworkers carried it in from the back of the car: a writing desk, yellowwood and stinkwood, with brass handles gone green and a top so scarred it looked like someone had used it as a chopping board.
Elsa forgot to be annoyed. She ran her palm along the edge. Eighteen-forties, maybe earlier. Hand-cut dovetails. Someone had loved this thing once.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Ruan said quietly. “She died in March. The estate is being photographed for a feature next Saturday, and she wanted it in her study. I need it finished by Friday.”
“Friday.” Elsa laughed. “This is six weeks of work.”
“I’ll pay triple.”
“It’s not about money. Rush it and you’ll ruin it.”
“Then don’t rush it,” he said. “Work faster.”
She stared at him. He stared back. The air between them did something strange, tightened, the way it did before the summer storms rolled over the Groot Drakenstein mountains.
“Fine,” Elsa said. “But I have conditions. You don’t touch anything. You don’t hover. And you don’t tell me how to do my job.”