With her, it’s different. I want to get to know her. I want to know if her mother named her for a flower or for the color of her eyes. I want to know what made her so damn defensive. I want to know her limits and how far I can push her before the fissures will show in her veneer. I want to know why there’s a permanent sadness in those pretty eyes.
From the moment I saw her, I wanted her like I’ve never wanted a woman. I want her with a desire that consumes me. She cursed me with an obsession for which there’s no cure, and it’s not only sexual. For the first time in my life, I want a woman for something other than sex. I want her for who she is. I want her for the fire that burns inside her. I want her for me. I want to tie her to me so that no one else can touch her. And then I want to hunt the men who did, the ones who came before me, and kill them off until I’m the only one left who ever laid a finger on her.
Yeah. That sounds just about right.
At ten to seven, I park in front of the Starley residence. Gia opens the door when I ring the bell.
“Leon,” she exclaims, giving me a startled look. “There must’ve been a misunderstanding. Violet said she’s meeting you at the restaurant. She left five minutes ago.”
There’s been no misunderstanding. Violet is simply being Violet, defying me to make a point.
“I better go then,” I say. “I don’t want her to wait.”
Gia utters an apology and calls an invitation after me to come back any time for a drink as I make my way with long strides to my car.
I dial Violet’s number even as I pull off. The phone rings six times before going onto voicemail. I hang up with a curse.
Knowing the shortcuts and back roads, I make it to Sandton in record time. The restaurant is close to home. I park in the lot at the back and scan the parking for Violet’s car, but there’s no sign of the blue Honda. I’m ten minutes early. Still, worry eats at my gut as I make my way inside. There are good reasons why I committed to picking her up. One, her car is unreliable, something I’m correcting tomorrow. Two, danger lurks everywhere. It’s not wise to let a woman drive alone at night. I’ll never risk her safety. And lastly, it’s not very gentlemanly to let her make her own way to the restaurant. I’m old-fashioned like that.
The hostess comes over the moment she notices me, showing me to the table in the quiet corner at the back. I install myself facing the entrance and check my phone again.
Nothing.
I type a text message and hit send.
Let me know you’re safe.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I check the screen.
Still nothing.
Annoyance mixed with concern boils my blood. I can go look for her, but she could’ve taken any road. Opening an app on my phone, I tap into the satellite tracking and enter her number. The program doesn’t locate her telephone. It doesn’t surprise me. Gus would’ve taken precautions against that. None of our phones are traceable.
I don’t breathe easily until the door opens five minutes later and Violet enters. She wears a modest black dress with strappy sandals, looking classy and unavailable. She’s taken up her hair in a bun. Other than a glossy, pale lipstick, she wears no make-up. Her only jewelry is a tiny pair of silver studs in her ears.
I stand. Our eyes lock over the distance. Hers hold defiance as she says something to the hostess before making her way over, limping more than usual in the high heels. I don’t go forward to meet her. No matter how good my intention, she’ll be embarrassed. Violet is fiercely independent.
As I predicted, when the hostess takes her arm to offer assistance, Violet pulls free and raises a hand in a declining gesture. She crosses the restaurant and stops on the other side of the table, gripping the clutch bag that rests against her hip tightly.
“Violet,” I say in greeting. “You look beautiful.”
A waiter pulls her chair out.
“Please,” she says with an eye roll. “I’m physically disabled. There’s nothing wrong with my mental capabilities.”
“I never said there was.”
She sits down gingerly. “I already told you not to take me for a fool. You don’t have to flatter me with false compliments.”
“I meant it. You look lovely.”
“Right.” Looking around, she asks, “Where are the cameras?” When I frown, she adds, “It must be a Candid Camera prank with me being the joke.”
“Is that how little you think of yourself?”
She doesn’t reply.
When the waiter has draped a napkin over her lap, I place the wine order and wait until we’re alone before I say, “You didn’t answer my call or my text message.”