Vain (The Seven Deadly, #1)(44)

Ian sat back against his chair and his hands released mine, leaving them bereft of the boiling heat I was becoming so addicted to. The air left his chest in one whoosh and shame inundated me. My eyes burned. I steeled myself for rejection, for a reaction of disgust, pinching my eyes closed and turning my face toward the window of passersby, but it never came.

Eventually my gaze returned to him and he was staring at me, hard. “My parents are high-ranking political officials in Cape Town,” he began, astonishing me. “I was raised by boarding schools during the school year and nannies in the summers. My parents only had time for their professions, so my brother and I found solace in many vices.”

I was taken aback at this admission.

“What’s his name?” I asked, suddenly and outrageously curious to know everything about Ian’s life.

He half-smiled. “Simon.”

“Go on,” I said, borrowing his phrase.

“When I was seventeen, at a party, we were all drunk and I was caught in a compromising situation with another official’s daughter. Smartphones were involved. Needless to say, lots of pictures were also involved. And the media had a field day with it. The girl was labeled a whore, I was labeled Cape Town’s bad boy. My parents were not amused.

“I lived an utterly selfish existence up until that point, but when I saw Mel, the girl involved, when I saw her name in the headlines and the stigma it ended up attaching to her, I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. It had been my fault. I should have been looking after her.

“Poor Mel had to transfer to America to finish university. She’s still there, from what I’ve heard.”

I was shocked silent by his confession. I never, in my wildest dreams, thought Ian could have been defined as anything else but perfection, anything other than infallible. He was human after all.

“So how did you end up at Masego?” I asked him when he seemed to have trailed off into his own thoughts.

He took a deep breath. “My parents kicked me out. I was done with school. They’d done their part, or so they said they did. They cut me off after too many follies and I was shoved out. I had a friend named Kelly who worked with a gorilla rescue in the Congo. I joined her and one day we were called to Uganda, near Lake Victoria. Turned out, the police had confiscated three baby gorillas from poachers and they needed rescuing.

“I’d been with Kelly for six months and really enjoyed what I was doing. I felt like I was accomplishing some good, and I was, but while I was in Uganda, on our way to get the babies, the strangest thing happened.” I was riveted and found myself leaning toward him. “We stumbled upon a little girl, no more than seven years old, walking by herself on the side of the road around two in the morning. We stopped to inquire if she needed help but she waved us off.”

“Kelly was ready to keep going, but I insisted we help the little girl. I got out of the truck and approached her. She was obviously dehydrated and starving. I could see her ribs through her skin and my stomach wretched for her. I picked her up and put her in the cab with us. I asked her questions, but she was despondent, too distraught, too hungry, too unable to speak.

“We took her to Kampala with us, about an hour from where we’d found her, and where we were expected to retrieve the gorillas. While Kelly readied the truck to transport the animals, I took the little girl to get something to eat, to get her to drink and even paid some women at a nearby restaurant to bathe her while I fetched her something decent to wear. Her clothes were threadbare.

“When everything was done, the little girl looked brand new, happier. She finally spoke to me and told me her name was Esther. She told me her parents had died and her grandmother was only able to take care of one of one child, so the girl chose to have her grandmother look after her three-year-old brother.”

Tears I’d been collecting fell in unison at the proclamation and Ian took my hand. “It has a happy ending,” he said, smiling and I smiled back.

“We had stumbled upon her trying to walk to Kampala for help. I took the little girl and found out through the locals Charles’ and Karina’s names and number. I called them and they came to pick her up without hesitation. I never went back to the Congo with Kelly.”

“Amazing,” I whispered.

“They are,” he answered.

“No,” I balked. “I mean, yeah, they’re amazing, but I was talking about you, Ian.”

“Sophie, anyone would have done what I did.”

“No, they wouldn’t have, Ian.”

He playfully rolled his eyes and shrugged off my compliment.

“Why Ian?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Because,” I offered without further explanation.

“I like it,” he said, staring out the window.

“Why?”

“‘Dingane’ makes my heart ache to hear it.”

I sat up a bit at that. “Why let them call you that then?”

“It means something to me every time they say it. It reminds me of who I am and who I never want to become again.”

“What does it translate to?”

He sat up with me and peered hard into my eyes. “Exile,” he said succinctly.

I fell back then turned to realize that the sat phone was fully charged.



We’re not done, Ian Aberdeen, I told him silently.