Vain (The Seven Deadly, #1)(58)

“If I was familiar with your politics, I’d probably know how grave that declaration was, but I’m not, so...”

“The executive mayor of Cape Town is essentially the big dog on the block. She’s the equivalent of the governor of an American state or the mayor of New York City.”

My mouth went dry and I desperately tried to swallow something that wasn’t there.

“The executive mayor. Why the hell didn’t you explain this to me before?”

“I did. I told you they were in politics down here.”

“I figured they were council people or something equally mundane.”

“Soph,” he said, brows furrowed, “why would the son of a councilman have top billing in the newspapers here?”

“I figured news was a little slow here.”

Ian laughed again. “Cape Town is one of the biggest towns in Africa, let alone South Africa.” He sobered. “I can relate to you more than you could possibly know.”

“Apparently,” I told him, thinking of the gossip rags back in L.A. and how they all bit at the opportunity to expose the Price “darling, trust fund baby” as a whorish coke head when Jerrick died and how they’d followed me for months, tripping over themselves to catch me falter again.

They relished in the drama, in the darkness that was their profession. They were little slithering snakes, their forked tongues extended to catch the slightest bit of gos-sss-ip. I shuddered.

“Don’t worry,” Ian said, breaking me from my revelry, “they know you’re coming and more than likely have done their research.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him in return, “my father’s aware they’ve done their research by now and has probably already figured out an opportunity to milk the acquaintance.”

“Surely not.”

I shook my head at him in mock sympathy. “Ian Aberdeen, you’ve no idea what he’s capable.”

“Well, he’ll be in good company then,” he said, wrapping his arm around me.

“Now you’re starting to scare me,” I teased.



Ian’s parents’ home was found in Clifton Beach, an area so wealthy in Cape Town even I’d heard of it, despite my not being familiar with much of anything concerning South Africa.

“You’re wealthy,” I stated as fact, watching the security guards check several cars as they attempted to pass the entry gates.

“No, my parents are wealthy.”

I smiled at him. “I see.”

“Does this change your opinion of me?”

“Hardly,” I told him, hoping he’d never get the opportunity to absorb the cold monstrosity that was my own parents’ estate.

The house was massive considering how tightly situated the neighborhood was. Crowded but extremely luxurious homes threaded up the side of Table Mountain, winding and conforming to the mountainside. Ian’s home was a modern multilevel home that adapted to the rock face it set itself within.

When our little car pulled into the drive, Ian had to get out to open the cedar sliding gate. I watched as we wound up a dark rock drive all the way to the towering house that settled so ominously within the cliff face.

“Home sweet home,” Ian deadpanned.

He grabbed my bag as well as his and we climbed the steep walkway to a wide cedar door. Adrenaline inundated me. I glanced down at myself and felt suddenly nervous. My father would not approve of my choice of outfit. In fact, there would be serious consequences if he ever found out I met the executive mayor of Cape Town, South Africa, in anything other than Chanel.

I could just imagine him. “Sophie, this is unacceptable. I require so little of you. Keep up appearances, Sophie Price. Keep up appearances. Keep up appearances.”

“You okay?” Ian asked, dropping his bag and using his free hand to caress the side of my arm.

I plastered a fake smile on my face. “Of course, just nervous, I suppose.”

He smiled genuinely in return. “No worries, love. My brother will love you at least and that’s the only one we need to care about.”

“How encouraging,” I joshed.

He dropped his bag next to mine and held both my shoulders in his wide hands. “Trust me, Soph, even if my parents end up loving you, it should mean very little to you. They’re impressed only with what others can do for them. They run their campaigns on serving the poor here, just as so many before them, but the slums are still here. You saw them. They almost encourage government reliance. It’s sickening.”

“They’re politicians.”

“Very much so.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said they’d get on well with my dad then.”

“I really wasn’t.” He sighed. “Let’s get inside. They’re probably watching us on the cameras,” he said, waving sarcastically at the discrete camera tucked behind a crevice.

He pushed open the heavy door and revealed the interior. Seventy-five hundred square feet of modern art and it could only be described as dark. Dark slate, cool brushed nickel railings surrounding the entire five-level, tiered property. The floor plan encouraged lots of open outdoor living and it didn’t disappoint. Living spaces opened up to the outside by way of glass accordion doors. The architecture was a nod to classic mid-century modern and the furniture was no different. It was cold and perfect and everything had a place. It made my stomach turn.