The Restorer

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 ...