initially refused to give her a break.
It was even harder not to hate the man who had caused all of her troubles: Gérard Malvaux.
Sam balled her hand into a fist just thinking of him. The sought-after and internationally renowned photographer had ruined her life. Gérard, who boasted the likes of Beyoncé and Leona Lewis as some of the superstars he’d photographed, was particularly known for his ability to capture the unique beauty of ethnic women.
SureLove, an innovative cosmetics company that had revolutionised African women’s beauty routine in less than a year on the market, had managed to convince him to shoot their international campaign. After they had considered the top models in the country, they chose Sam as the face of SureLove. It had consolidated her position as one of the top black models of the moment. It had also meant she would be working closely with the brooding Frenchman, and have a chance at getting exclusive rights to his famed affections.
“Oh, please! I’d rather be mauled by a bear than allow myself to become part of that Casanova’s harem,” she’d declared to her friends during one of their cocktail evenings in Rosebank. They had all exchanged amused and somewhat pitying glances. With hindsight she realised that she should not have been so arrogant as to underestimate the power the man wielded.
Sam turned back to the present just in time to hear Odwa ramble on about her new home and the children she would be looking after. According to him they were the cutest, sweetest things in the world. Sam doubted that very much. In her limited experience, most children were tiresome little brats who never stopped running, talking, eating, asking, pooping, slapping, screaming, complaining and, of course, crying. Sam had had horrible experiences on shoots with children pretending to be her younger siblings or her children.
“Thulani and Lindiwe, right?” she asked Odwa, not wanting to make the unforgivable error of getting their names wrong when she met them.
“Yebo, sisi. But everyone in the house calls them Ani and Lili.”
“Ani?”
“Lili was not quite three when Thulani was born. She couldn’t pronounce his name properly and called him Ani. It stuck.”
“I see,” Sam said with little interest.
“Mr Khumalo is a well-known restaurateur. He owns a number of restaurants, including the world-famous Perle Mani at the Empire Hotel.”
“So I’ve heard.” Sam smiled, trying to seem more enthusiastic, though she wasn’t quite sure she was being convincing. The last thing she needed was another demigod egomaniac trying to boss her around. What she’d read about the formidable Mr Khumalo painted a vague picture of a very rich single father who fiercely guarded his privacy and that of his children.
Her father had insisted that he was a good and honourable man in desperate need of someone to teach his children their native isiZulu, as well as some worldly sophistication. Luckily for Sam, she’d not only passed her mother tongue with flying colours in matric, she could both speak and write it better than most. This, and Vusi’s apparent fondness of her father, had landed her the job.
Her understanding was that she would primarily be responsible for seeing to the children’s well-being, education and enjoyment; there was already a woman on hand who took care of menial tasks such as bathing them and doing their laundry.
“You don’t seem the nanny type,” Odwa said with a mischievous grin.
Sam smiled. “What type do I seem like?”
“I don’t know . . . Pretty girlfriend of some top soccer player?”
Sam’s smile faded. So would it be like that in Cape Town as well? She would be thought of as nothing but a glorified piece of arse on a sugar-daddy stipend? Typical of men to assume women who looked after their appearance were shallow and stupid.
“Well, I’m not. And I hope your boss realises that.”
Odwa threw his head back and laughed. For a minute Sam felt insulted, thinking he found the idea of his boss wanting her absurd.
“Don’t take it the wrong way, sisi. It’s just that Bhut’ Vusi doesn’t have much time for women.”
“Yet he has children. He must’ve spent time with some woman for them to have been made.”
Odwa suddenly looked uncomfortable and switched his attention to the road. Soon afterwards he announced, “Well, here we are. Constantia. Your home for the next while.”
Sam looked out of the car window and couldn’t help but gasp. The place could hardly be called a house; it was a mansion. There were three gardeners tending the vast and gorgeous greenery, a marble pathway led to an imposing wooden front door with handles seemingly made of pure gold, and the house itself was huge.
“We have underground parking as well,” Odwa said, as if to impress her even more.
“Who is this guy? Jamie Oliver?”
Odwa simply shook his head and parked the car outside. He helped Sam with her things and they walked to the house. He opened the door for her, and on the other side was a long passageway, painted in hues of white and gold, with several rooms leading from it. Sam felt she was entering a palatial home where royalty lived and dined.
Mr Khumalo was a man of exquisite tastes, or his wife had been, she decided. She made a mental note to find out more about his late wife.
“This is . . . it’s . . . more than I expected,” Sam stuttered.
“Oh, you stop getting lost after the first week.”
“Not me. I’d get lost even if there were a genie doing cartwheels in the direction I’m meant to go.”
Odwa laughed softly and shook his head. “I’ll take you to meet the boss now.”
“Yes, thank you.”
They walked up the long stairway to the second floor, where most of the rooms stood open. Sam peeked into a few and saw a particularly adorable one decorated in shades of yellow and orange, which she assumed was the children’s room. Another one had an imposing bed made of expensive-looking wood and was filled with art and decorative pieces, hinting at quite a bit of travel by the owner. This one she was almost certain belonged to Mr Khumalo.
It was comforting to see that he slept close to his children. To her it indicated that he was an involved and protective parent. He might become her ally after all.
“This way,” Odwa motioned.
He led her to a room at the far end of the corridor – the stereotypical office in shades of brown, black and grey, and simply decorated. Sam’s employer sat in a chair behind the cluttered desk.
When he looked up, it took every bit of strength she possessed not to gasp. She’d had no idea that Vusi Khumalo was such a handsome man.
From what she could tell, he was tall and lean, but not thin. His skin wasn’t the rich dark of hers but a compromise between caramel and chocolate, with creamy undertones. His eyes were dark and impenetrable behind heavy lids. She decided his lashes were the most intriguing thing about him. They were simply too heavy for his eyelids, which gave him eyes made for the bedroom.
His
