fill him in. And then I’m going back to bed.”
* * *
Moya had just given the nod on the set assembly and lighting grid when he showed up.
Zakhele Nkosi strolled in with his broad shoulders back and his head held high, taller than most of the men in the studio. Thandi certainly hadn’t been lying about the man’s charm. He smiled at everyone as if he’d spent years doing shoots, looking relaxed despite not knowing any of the people around him. Lindi greeted him cheerfully and after a minute of talking pointed towards her boss.
Moya’s grip tightened on the clipboard she was holding. She had dated enough charmers to know this one was going to be trouble. After wasting her time on boyfriends whose looks had engendered in them nothing but arrogance and self-centred childishness, she had vowed never to fall for another playboy. Especially not one as gorgeous as this man.
She took him in as he approached her. Muscular and golden-skinned, dressed in cargo pants and a black golf shirt, Mr Nkosi moved with the grace of a panther that would always have full control over its own strength.
“You must be my boss for the day.”
Inhaling deeply, Moya held her hand out. As soon as he took it, she found herself caught up in musings about sunlight and soft breezes and . . . something. Why would such thoughts suddenly assail her?
“Beautiful spirit.”
She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your name, Moyomhle, it means ‘beautiful spirit’.”
“Yes.”
“It’s lovely . . .” The friendliness in his eyes deepened, momentarily changing to something she couldn’t quite identify. “So, what do you desire of me?”
Was he . . .?
Moya shook her head at the illogical idea that he’d passed by her cute colleagues to flirt with her. She knew better than that. She was the quiet, dedicated achiever who kept to herself. The simplicity she favoured was there for all to see, and usually drew the attention of none.
The understated sophistication of her white dress and the functional look of the flat, bronze sandals that encased her feet made it abundantly clear that Moya was not interested in catching the world’s eye. She enjoyed giving others attention, but doubted she’d know what to do with it if it were to be directed at her.
Zakhele stood with his head cocked, his eyes devilishly dark – the picture of a man who would never fit in her world. He was not flirting with her. She needed to get real.
Moya nodded brusquely. “I’m the features editor, so I do give the nod on most of what will be happening this morning. But it’s Bonga’s orders you’ll be following. He’s our photographer. So perhaps you’d like to put your question to him?”
Zakhele momentarily sized up the tall man fitting a lens to a complicated camera. He turned back to her, his smile unshaken. “How about after hours? Do I get to ask you about your desires then?”
Moya lowered her eyes. There was no more room for doubt; he was definitely playing with her.
When her gaze lifted again, she had steadied it. “You don’t get to flirt with me, Mr Nkosi. Not ever.”
Her words had startled him, she could tell. No doubt rejection was a new experience to a man this good-looking, but Moya had no intention of getting caught up in his amorous games.
“Why not?” he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.
“Because we are to work together.”
“Yes, but our working relationship will hardly last a day.”
His hand was still wrapped around hers, an enticing light brown that made her wish she could see the rest of him, taste all of him. What on earth was the matter with her?
“Men like you don’t date women like me.” Moya pulled her hand from his. “And women like me have better ways to spend our time than dating men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“Good-looking, popular men,” Moya responded with a half-shrug. “Mr Nkosi, I’m a really good features editor – because I love words as much as I love putting article structures together. I read – a lot. I write poetry and I like solving puzzles. I don’t fit in at rowdy clubs, nor do I know the names of the coolest cocktails served in the trendiest bars . . . which you, most likely, frequent with your type of lady.”
A flash of mirth shot through his eyes. “Are you implying that I only date ignorant, shallow girls?”
She shook her head. “No, not ignorant. Ditzy. You know . . . stunning nymphs who don’t need to know much to be liked or desired.”
“I think you’re stunning.”
“No, you don’t.” The goosebumps on her skin belied her nonchalant denial. “And you don’t have to flatter me, Mr Nkosi. We’ve already agreed to offer you the same lucrative package we had signed with the original model.”
He chuckled, though the intensity never left his eyes. “Stop being so formal. My name’s Zak.”
Moya was starting to feel nervous at the warmth he was giving off; it felt as if it was embracing her. “That’s a line I’d rather not cross.”
He leaned in, near enough for her to smell his scent and remember how badly she wanted to know his taste. “Please say my name.”
“No, I . . .”
“Say it.”
“Zak . . .”
Sunlight and soft breezes, that’s what it felt like to have him a breath away from touching her. He’d bent close enough to kiss her and she tingled at the thought.
“Oh my, don’t you two look good together. New love?”
“What?” Moya took a step back from Zakhele to find Ella ogling him with blatant interest. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s our stand-in for the shoot. Zakhele, meet Ella Cronje, your partner for the day.”
Lindi approached, unaware of the varying shades of tension rolling off the three of them. Moya was trying to cover up her awkwardness at Ella’s question. She was also trying to work out why Zakhele’s full lips were suddenly set in a severe line, despite Ella’s gleaming smile.
Instead she addressed Lindi. “We’re ready to move on – right on time, too. Please get Mr Nkosi over to wardrobe and make-up. We’ll do the kitchen scene next.”
Lindi nodded and immediately headed back to alert the crew.
Moya was startled when Zakhele suddenly grabbed her hand. “We need to discuss payment.”
She frowned, confused. “Thandi told me she’d gone over the terms with you. Were you not happy?”
“Not quite.”
Moya stared pointedly
