Fire And Spice

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Atuhor

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

“Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it!”

“I enjoyed it, too.” Bryant’s blue eyes looked into hers and it was suddenly hard to breathe. They mesmerized her, drawing her nearer. Zoe felt his arms surround her and then his mouth was on hers-warm and urgent.

A soft moan escaped her as finally, reluctantly, he released her mouth. “I think,” Bryant said slowly, “something is going on between us.”

Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family, as well. They’ve recently moved from Israel back to Ghana-but not permanently!

Fire and Spice

Karen Van Der Zee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ZOE restlessly straightened the papers on her desk, then glanced at her watch. He would be here soon. She took a deep breath, letting her eyes slide over the information in the open file folder in front of her, information she could recite word for word. Well, almost. She fussed with her hair and moistened her lips. She was not nervous. Of course she was not nervous. This was a routine conference between school counselor and the parent of a student. She did it all the time. She was fully prepared, fully confident. Her hair this morning was cooperating, curling nicely rather than too exuberantly as it sometimes did. Her career suit was feminine yet professional. Looking in the mirror these days she still had a hard time recognizing herself.

According to the file, Mr Bryant Sinclair was a single parent, father of twelve-year-old Paul. No mention was made of a mother. He had a high position in a multinational corporation and had recently relocated from Argentina to Washington D.C. He had relocated straight into the first-floor apartment of the old historic town house where Zoe herself had recently moved in as well, on the second floor. This summer she had returned to Washington from Africa, where she’d lived for the past six years—two in Tanzania, one in Mauritania, three in Cameroon.

Mr Sinclair was a good-looking man, tall with big shoulders and piercing blue eyes in a tanned face. He had thick blond hair and an uncompromisingly square chin and there was an aura of self-confidence and command about him. Not the kind of man who skipped your attention.

They’d met in passing, at the front door. They’d introduced themselves as polite people who shared a building did. He’d looked at her with a smile and she’d felt her heart turn over-not once, but twice at least. Instant combustion. There’d been no reason for it except something like love at first sight, or chemistry, or some lovely fantasy like that. Something very elemental, something outside of reason or logic, had happened.

And this whatever-it-was thing that had transpired between them was, of course, why she was sitting here at her desk in her small office at the Olympia International School with her heart in her throat waiting for him to come through the door.

It was not a positive situation she was going to have to discuss with him, which was very unfortunate. Mr Sinclair’s son was flunking in a big way. Four weeks into the school year and he had collected an impressive string of zeros in every teacher’s grade book. Zeros for not doing his work and not handing in assignments. Zoe sighed. Her unhappy task was to inform Mr Sinclair that there was a problem with his one and only son. Parents didn’t like to hear that sort of thing. She didn’t like much having to tell him.

At eight o’clock sharp he appeared in her open door, tall and imposing. Intense blue eyes settled on her face. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice deep and very masculine. It was a wonderful voice, the kind that stroked all your nerve-endings and made your blood sing.

Words stuck in her throat momentarily as she took in the immaculate business suit, the pale blue shirt, the fashionable tie. The man knew how to dress. The man knew how to carry himself. The man knew how to look at a woman.

Having swallowed repeatedly, Zoe was able to return the greeting and ask him to come in. She stood up from her chair and held out her hand. His grasp was hard and warm and sent an electric shiver through her. A faint masculine scent of soap and aftershave reached her nostrils. It was eight in the morning and he was straight out of the shower, no doubt. Am image of the naked man with water pouring all over his tanned, muscled body flitted through her mind. Good lord, what was the matter with her? She didn’t generally picture fully clothed man in front of her standing naked in the shower.

He released her hand and sat down, pulling up his trouser legs a little as he did so. His black shoes gleamed impressively. She’d seen other men in expensive clothes and shiny shoes in her office the last few weeks. Nothing had happened to her heartbeat. Nothing had curled around in her blood. Nothing had shivered up her spine. No disturbing images had come to mind. In short, these men had not disturbed her one bit. This one did. In a big way.

There was something intriguing about this man, something that didn’t quite make sense. Why did a man like Mr Sinclair move into a simple, rented apartment? It was a nice apartment, to be true, located in a nice historic neighborhood, yet a man of his professional background would own a house or a luxury condominium. She’d noticed expensive cars in front of their building, emitting people who looked as if their clothes had come straight from Paris or Rome.

‘I understand you wanted to discuss Paul’s school performance,’ he stated, observing her calmly.

Zoe folded her arms on the desk. ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. Suddenly it was difficult to focus on the issue at hand.

She’d had a chance to meet Paul and speak to him before school started, out in front of the house. He was a handsome boy, a little small for his age, with curly brown hair and blue-gray eyes that lacked the bright intensity of his father’s, but instead held a touching vulnerability. For no particular reason she had felt drawn to him. When they’d first met, he’d been friendly and open with her, but once in school he’d clammed up when she’d talked to him.

‘Your son is a likeable boy, Mr Sinclair, and obviously very intelligent.’ To her relief, her voice sounded calm and professional.

He gave a half-smile. ‘I know that.’

She glanced down at the file. ‘I understand that you lived in Buenos Aires the past five years and that your son attended the international school there.’

He inclined his head fractionally. ‘Correct.’

‘I suppose he finds living in the States quite a change,’ she said carefully. The school was full of children from many nations who had moved around from one country to another-children of parents employed by the United States government, foreign embassies and international agencies and companies. Students often had to make great adjustments.

‘Yes.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Is there a problem, Ms Langdon?’ His tone indicated that he wanted to make short of the preliminaries.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, there is.’ She looked straight at him, noticing with some separate part of her brain the strong line of his jaw, the straight nose, the well-chiseled mouth. ‘To come straight to the point, Mr Sinclair, his interim report shows failing grades for all academic subjects. The report was sent home with Paul for your signature this week.’

‘I didn’t see it.’

She was not surprised. Paul had probably found it prudent not to show it to his father. Zoe handed him a copy from her file. He glanced at it and frowned. ‘Are you sure this is correct?’

‘Yes, I am. I’ve spoken to all his teachers. Paul’s academic record suggests this is a very unusual situation. He is intelligent and has no learning disability and his grades in the past have been excellent.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. So what is the problem?’

‘Your son does not hand in most of his homework assignments and does not study or read as instructed. I have talked to him and he seems not at all interested in putting forth any effort.’

A short silence followed her words. ‘I think they call this rebellion,’ he said then, his voice even.

‘I think it’s more than that. Frankly, Mr Sinclair, I am concerned about him.’

His brows arched. ‘Concerned? What exactly do you mean?’

He shows signs of being depressed, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. ‘I’ve spoken to him on a couple of occasions and he seems withdrawn and uncommunicative. According to the comments of the teachers from his school in Argentina this is not his nature. Obviously something is bothering him. Something is not right’

His blue eyes held hers. ‘I think you’re over-reacting,’ he said lightly. ‘He’s been in school a mere four weeks.

Isn’t that a little soon to come to a diagnosis?’

Why did she feel defensive? ‘I’ve not given a diagnosis. I simply stated that I think there’s a problem. The sooner we identify a problem, the easier it is to deal with it.’ She didn’t like his casual attitude. She didn’t like the tone of his voice.

He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm-rest ‘We’ve only just returned to the States, Ms Langdon. He needs time to adjust to a new environment. He’s only been in school a few weeks.’

‘Yes, of course.’ There was no doubting the truth of that statement, yet she sensed quite clearly that there was more to it than an adjustment problem. It bothered her that the man seemed so unconcerned. ‘Has he said anything about school?’

‘Nothing except that his school in Argentina was much better and the teachers much nicer.’ His mouth curved in amusement ‘Everything else is just fine, he has me believe.’

Everything was not fine. It was not normal for a happy, active, intelligent child suddenly to turn into a withdrawn kid who didn’t do any school work and showed no enthusiasm for anything.

‘Have you spoken to your son about his school work?’ ‘He told me he was not having problems with anything, and I assumed it was true. I’ve never had to be on his back to do his work; he was always very responsible about it.’

‘But he isn’t now.’

‘So it appears,’ he said lightly.

So it is, she corrected silently. Hadn’t he noticed? Hadn’t he paid any attention? How could a father not notice that his son was never doing any school work?

‘He does not bring in his assignments,’ she said evenly. ‘He does not participate in class. He did not take up soccer. He’s a very good soccer player, it says in his files.’

‘Right. I expect he’ll come around when he realizes he’s only punishing himself. He’s a proud kid and my bet is that he’s not going to like the looks of those bad grades for very long. He’ll get himself together, study ferociously and get all caught up.’

‘Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t have much time.’

Anger rushed to her head. This is about your son! she wanted to say. You have to have time!

She knew other parents, parents who had no time for their children, or had no interest in their lives. She would notice this with a sort of clinical detachment, feeling sorry for the child, disapprove of the parents, but that was where it stopped. As a professional her duty was to help if she could, but it was not good to get too emotionally involved with these situations. The anger she was feeling now was not very professional. She looked back down at her hands folded on the desk and collected herself. She felt her heart race. ‘Is there any problem at home that might cause him to feel unhappy?’

His silence was intentional. ‘No, there is no problem at home, Ms Langdon.’ In spite of his casual tone, she sensed a distinct chill in him. Stay out of my business, the subtle message was.

Nerves began to jump inside her, but she refused to let it show. ‘Did Paul want to come back to the States?’

He shrugged. ‘There was no choice.’

It was not an answer to her question. ‘Choice or no choice, did he want to leave Argentina?’

‘No. I thing that’s why he’s rebelling now. I don’t expect it to last long. He’ll settle in soon enough. He’ll make friends.’

She nodded, hoping he would be right, fearing he was not.

He came to his feet. ‘With all due respect, Ms Langdon, please do not make too much of this. A month is not very long.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t believe it’s time for panic and in-depth psychoanalysis just yet.’ The tone of his voice was polite, but held a faint imperious note. It infuriated her. Obviously, talking with him any further would not be productive. He had pressing matters at the office. What was the matter with this man? Why wasn’t he worried? Still, it would not do to antagonize him. What she needed was cooperation.

She stood up as well. ‘Let’s hope things will turn out all right,’ she said lightly, proud of her own cool control. ‘Please give me a call if there’s anything I can help with, Mr Sinclair.’ He probably wouldn’t, but the offer was automatic. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked straight at her and suddenly, amazingly, he smiled broadly and humor sparked in his eyes. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with the formalities. We are neighbors, after all. Call me Bryant.’

Was this a peace offering? Well, what could she say? No, thank you, I’d rather call you Mr?

She nodded politely. ‘Thank you, and I’m Zoe.’

He gave a little nod, his eyes a brilliant blue as they held hers. ‘See you, Zoe.’

She closed the door behind his broad back and sat down again in her chair behind the desk, letting out a deep sigh.

She didn’t like this man. She didn’t like his casual attitude, the faint arrogance in his voice. She didn’t like those blue eyes.

She didn’t like the way he smiled at her.

Yes, she did.

She groaned and dropped her head on the desk.

CHAPTER TWO

ALL through the day Zoe kept thinking of Bryant Sinclair, seeing his blue eyes, aware of the warm feeling curling around in her stomach. Yet other, conflicting thoughts fought for attention-a father denying there might be a problem with his son, a father obviously not wanting to take it seriously and discuss it. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

It was not going to be easy. Yet she was determined to try to help Paul. It was her job. And there was something about the boy, the vulnerable look in his eyes, that touched her.

She had lunch with a couple of teachers and the bubbly school secretary, who was a consummate gossip. Ann had her very own plug into the Washington grapevine.

Ann had noticed Bryant leave Zoe’s office that morning. She knew his address and she knew who he was and she was eager to tell all. Bryant Sinclair came from a wealthy family who owned the international corporation for which he worked, according to the school files. He’d headed up large projects in various places around the world, most recently in Argentina. Some business magazine-Ann couldn’t remember which-had done an article on Bryant and the projects he’d managed. He had been married once, years ago, but what had happened to his wife nobody knew.

Various possibilities were offered. Zoe listened and said nothing, chewing her sandwich.

The other puzzle discussed was the reason why a man like Bryant Sinclair would live in a rented apartment, be it a nice one. And wasn’t it Zoe’s good fortune to live in the same building? Imagine the possibilities!

‘Have you been inside his place?’ Ann asked Zoe, her eyes wide and eager.

Zoe said no and asked if anyone wanted more coffee. She was not comfortable discussing Bryant Sinclair, although, if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit to being curious like crazy.

By the time she locked her office at four, she was more then ready to go home. It was a long but pleasant walk back to her apartment and the air was still full of late summer warmth. Chrysanthemums bloomed in a glowing array of warm autumn colors in the small city gardens and in pots arranged along stone steps. She hadn’t been home during the fall for years and she’d forgotten how beautiful they were.

She had not yet purchased a car and so far she had managed without one, walking and using the Metro or taxis for longer distances. Maybe she could wait till spring, when it would be nice to be able to get out into the countryside.

She stopped at the bakery and bought some dark, crusty bread. A young woman with a new-born baby in her arms was looking longingly at the apple strudel. Zoe peered into the tiny, sleeping face, feeling overwhelmed with sudden longing. She wanted a baby, to hold close and to love. She wanted a man, to hold close and to love. Preferably first the man, then the baby, she thought wryly as she moved on down the street hugging her purchases to her chest. She was twenty-nine. It was perfectly normal to want these things. She intended to be a great wife and a super-cool mom. She grinned at herself. A lot easier said than done, but she was ready for the challenge. Sometimes she felt as if she would burst with the need to give her love—as if she carried inside her a large supply that would overflow if she didn’t dispense it.

You are nuts, she told herself, and put thoughts of loving and bursting out of her mind.

Reaching the town house, she skipped up the stone steps to the front door and opened it. Inside the entryway she checked her mail. There was a letter from Nick, which gave her a jolt of pleasure, and she rushed up the stairs to her apartment, eager to read it. She made a pot of tea, changed out of her suit into jeans and a T-shirt, and plunked herself on the sofa with the letter.

Nick was a science teacher at the boarding-school in Cameroon where she had worked for three years herself. He told her of the people she knew-the couple that had married in a lavish tribal ceremony, the latest news of the students and the teachers, the herbalist who had cured the pain in his foot with a magic potion, the Spanish cultural attaché he loved.

My Spanish princess has forsaken me for another. How dare she? you may ask. Actually, I think she wanted a prince. I am not a prince; I am from New Jersey. None the less I am devastated. Loneliness creeps in every nook and cranny of my existence. Why did you have to leave, Zoe? You were my best friend. You should have been here to comfort me in my time of distress.

What am I to do? I spend my nights in isolation, unless Jacob comes by with palm wine and then we sit and discuss the cassava harvest and the mysteries of the female psyche and I drink too much and become very undignified, which I sincerely regret the next morning. Loneliness is a devastating condition, possibly terminal. I so long for your lethal chocolate-chip coconut cookies and your riveting conversation, but your house stands empty when I, ever hopeful of a miracle, pass by.

We all miss you. We miss your house and the comfort and friendship we found within its crooked walls, not to speak of the culinary delights. Your house was a haven of domesticity in this land of deprivation.

Needless to say, I ask myself daily why I am still here, turning grayer every day. Why I stay in this godforsaken dusty little African town. The reason is that I like it.

I so hope you are happy in your swishy apartment in the nation’s capital. In moments of despair I soothe myself trying to visualize it lots of plants. Lovely flowered teacups. A cozy wood fire on cold nights. The heavenly aroma of something baking in the oven.

I hope you find what you’re looking for, Zoe. I can see you already in my mind’s eye, sitting on a sofa, a handsome husband by your side, a baby on your lap with your lovely big brown eyes and warm smile. How serene an image!

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life here in Africa, growing little by little into a mad eccentric.

Zoe laughed out loud. Nick was an eccentric already. He was forty years old, had never been married and had lived all over the world, settling here and there for a few years to teach or do other work that seemed interesting.

And she, of course, had been heading the same direction-straight into mad eccentricity. One steamy night she’d woken in a cold sweat and seen the warning written on the ceiling: Go home! Be normal!

Zoe picked up the pretty flowered teapot and refilled her cup. Sipping at the hot, strong tea, she finished the letter. Poor Nick. All alone in a small African town.

Poor me, she thought suddenly, all alone in a big American town. She grimaced. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she muttered out loud. After all, this was what she had wantedto come back to the States, settle down and grow some roots. Growing roots. It called up images of flourishing, large-leaved plants flowering luxuriantly and spreading sweet perfume. It was a lovely vision and it made her smile.

Putting Nick’s letter on the table, she came to her feet and wandered around the small apartment. It was a lovely place with solid oak doors and hardwood floors dating back a hundred and fifty years. She stood in front of the window which had a view of a narrow, tree-lined street of other historic town houses with gabled roofs and wrought-iron railings along the front steps.

Bryant Sinclair’s silver-blue Saab was not in its parking place in front of the house, she noticed automatically, aware suddenly that she was always noticing his car-or its absence. You’re like a busybody old lady spying on her neighbors, she told herself. Don’t you have anything more productive to do?

It was too early for Bryant to be home. Mrs Garcia, the housekeeper, would be in the apartment keeping Paul company until his father came home. She wondered what the place looked like.

There’d be expensive furniture, no doubt, but she could not quite imagine what it might look like, which was not surprising-she didn’t know the man.

She had, however, a very clear picture of the man himself in her mind—the blond hair, the blue, blue eyes, that prominent chin. Just thinking of him made her pulse do funny things.

Turning away from the window, she glanced around the room and pushed the image of those blue eyes out of her head.

She’d furnished and decorated her apartment herself and she was happy with the result. Everything was perfect, everything in its place. Everything cozy and comfortable. It had taken her a lot of effort and energy to get it the way she wanted it, arranging her eclectic assortment of paintings, woven wall-hangings, wood carvings and baskets in such a way as to make it a unified whole.

This was her nest and she loved the warmth and coziness of it, the color and brightness. She was going to be happy here in her new life. Washington was an exciting city with all sorts of cultural entertainmentsplays, concerts, lectures, seminars—all those things she had missed in the last few years.