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Ever loved someone so much, that you would die for them? You would? Okay! Great! Superb! Fantas … hey, how about murder – would you … would you kill for them?
What? You’ve gone all quiet on me?
Cat got your tongue?
When Arena escapes Tom, her abusive and vengeful husband, he vows to make her pay. Luckily, she finds love in the arms of a wonderful cop called Bear Shaw. Loving, generous Bear adore her kids, they in turn adore him, and soon they are a family. Life is perfect, Arena is a success story and they have the HEA.
When Arena’s SUV is stolen with her sleeping toddler in it, Arena immediately points at vengeful Tom. He did it. she is convinced of it, because he had vowed to make her pay. To her surprise, the police point at Bear, because Bear cannot be found. Worse, according to them, Bear Shaw does not exist!
GRIPPING CRIME & SUSPENSE with unexpected romance!
EXCERPT FROM PAYBACK
SYDNEY AUSTRALIA – 2012
Operator: “Police helpline, what is your emergency?”
Caller: “Eh, a woman, like, she’s screaming her head off. Can you send
the police? Please, please, please!”
Operator: “What seems to be the problem?”
Caller: “She says…she says that someone stole her car and stuff…”
Operator: “State and town please?”
Caller: “Eh, Sydney…St Ives…”
Operator: “Yeah, where about in St Ives?”
Caller: “Warrimoo Avenue, outside the eh, shops and stuff.”
Operator: “Would that be…corner Dalton road and Warrimoo?”
Caller: “Eh, let me see…yeah, that’s it.”
Operator: “Is anybody hurt?”
Caller: “No. Just the baby.”
Operator: “Baby? Did you say a baby was hurt?”
Caller: “No, no, she was in the car. The baby. Sorry, I’m just fifteen so…”
Operator: “She was in the…are you saying that the car was stolen with
a baby in it?”
Caller: “Yeah. Can you hear her? The mother? She’s screaming her head
off like a ban—”
Operator: “Yes, I can. What’s she saying?”
Caller: “She’s saying…hold on…eh, she says she knows that it’s her ex, like,
he’s behind it, and she’s screaming and running up and down the street,
going mental.”
Operator: “O…kay. I need you to stay on the line. What’s your name?”
Caller: “Carly. But my cell battery is dy—”
Operator: “Hello? Hello? Carly, can you hear me? Hello?”
…………….
The first time Tom hit me, I was highly pregnant. Slapped me across the face so hard, I saw tiny white stars even though I was indoors. I was twenty-two, he was thirty-five.
I was eight months pregnant and waddling around like a duck; he was approximately one hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle. He took part in triathlons, ran five kilometres every day, had wheatgrass and quinoa for breakfast, a green salad with no dressing for lunch, and usually ate lean chicken breast with three different colored vegetables for dinner.
Fit, disciplined, and focused – that was my husband.
Throughout my two years of marriage, I’d seen bursts of his rage – towards me and others, and his road-rage, now that was the worst – it terrified me. Especially since he liked to take on truck drivers. The bigger the truck, the greater his rage. Usually, people steered away from trucks, but not Tom; he took them on, provoked them until I was shaking with fear.
Deep down, I guess I did fear being hit by him one day, but I didn’t expect it that day – the day of my second wedding anniversary.
I was so stunned by the slap, I didn’t move away or try to defend myself. I just stood and gaped at him, one hand on my cheek, the other on my swollen belly.
“I take care of everything!” he hissed. “All you had to do was chill the Cristal, and you forget to do that. A small thing like that. Chill. The. Cristal – how hard is that, huh? HUH?”
To celebrate our wedding anniversary, Tom had invited eight couples to a four-course sit-down dinner at our house, located in the upscale suburbs of St Ives, Sydney.
He had hired caterers, waitstaff, and a barman for the occasion. Like all of Tom’s parties, it promised to be interesting, excessive, and showy.
It was true – all I had to do was chill the Cristal, as he had taken care of everything else, without consulting me once about anything. Not even asking me who I’d like to invite. Solo – that’s how Tom operated.
I didn’t mind. Tom was extremely capable, highly efficient, and most of all, he had flair. I didn’t, so if I did make a suggestion for just about anything, he’d usually scoff at it and shred it to bits, making me feel like the hillbilly I was. So over time, I stopped suggesting or contributing, and left everything in Tom’s highly capable hands. That suited him just fine.
With pregnancy hormones, my brain sometimes became a pile of mush, and I would walk into a room and forget why I was there. I often forgot which level I had parked my car on at the mall.
It annoyed the hell out of Tom as he called it foolish, and God knows, being as astute and intelligent as he was, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.
As my pregnancy progressed, everything I did was foolish and stupid to him, and he became increasingly irritable with me, and finally, he hit me.
“See what you do to me!” he snarled, his nostrils flaring, his lips a thin white line. “You make me act like this.”
After throwing me a look of disgust, he stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusted his tie, straightened his five-foot-eight frame, and walked towards the door of our bedroom.
At the door, he paused and turned to look at me. “Put on a darker shade of lipstick, wear the necklace I bought you for Christmas, and be downstairs in five,” he said before he walked downstairs.
With my hand on my cheek, I sat on the bed, shrouded in disappointment and disbelief.
How could he hit me? I asked myself. How could he hit a pregnant woman? His pregnant wife – who does that?
There was no way I was going to go to his party after that. I would leave quietly through the back door before our guests arrived. I wouldn’t even tell him that I was leaving him. To hell with him and his party.
Just then the doorbell rang. Too late. Our guests had arrived.
“The place looks wonderful, Tom.”
“Thank you!”
“Yes, it’s just fabulous, Tom. Marvelous. Where’s Arena?”
“She’ll be down in a sec,” I heard Tom say. “Honey, our guests have arrived,” he called in a sweet voice from the foot of the steps. “Arena, sweetheart?”
I panicked. What do I do? How could I possibly not show up when guests had already arrived? In all honesty, I’m ashamed to say, I chickened out. Feeling pressured, I decided I would go downstairs and be civil and courteous to Tom’s friends, but I would leave immediately after the party. If he tried to stop me, I would have it out with him and call the cops if I needed to. I may have been twenty-two years old, but I realized that Tom had crossed a line and I wasn’t going to accept it.
I scrambled up from my king-size bed and walked over to a mirror where I eyed my cheek, red from his slap.
I picked up some concealer and dotted it over the redness. Didn’t work. His imprint on my cheek and the welt showed through the concealer.
I tried green concealer. That did the trick and that was the first time I learned that green concealer worked better on bruises better than yellow or beige concealer.
Over the years I used a lot of green concealer, and I became an expert at concealing “flaws.”
Luckily, my deep mahogany hair was in a bob and fell in a sharp point two centimeters below my ears. (Styled as per Tom’s strict instructions. He ordered me to wear my hair exactly that way, because he was in awe of Victoria Beckham.) That night, with the help of a little wax, I pulled the edges forward so that it covered my cheek. Just in case the green concealer let me down.
Then I went one step further and decided that if the concealer faded and someone enquired about the marks on my face, I would simply say that I had an allergy – a new facial that didn’t quite agree with me. (Over the years, my friends were surprised at how many facials didn’t agree with me.)
Still dazed, I adjusted my clothing, darkened my lipstick, put on the chunky gold necklace that Tom ordered me to wear, and waddled downstairs. As instructed.
When I reached the last stair of the spiral staircase of our 2.6-million-dollar home in Sydney, which had a spa, sauna, tennis court, and an Olympic-size pool, I plastered a smile on my disappointed lips and murmured greetings to our guests.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Tom watching me with elevated eyebrows, probably waiting to see if I would tell on him, or indicate marital discord in our supposedly perfect marriage.
I ignored him and focused on our guests. I would deal with the bastard later.
After a while, his eyebrows returned to normal and he moved towards me. As if nothing had happened, he slipped his arm around my waist. I stiffened, then casually tried to shrug it off, but he held on, his fingers digging into my side, tacitly warning me to behave, or else.
After our last guest had arrived, Tom rattled a knife on a Royal Doulton goblet. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for me to give my beautiful wife her anniversary gift.”
With a fake smile plastered on my darkened lips, I allowed him to take my hand.
He led us all outside, where a silver BMW X60i E75 was parked in our driveway, a huge red bow on it. I knew that it cost more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, as I had gone car shopping with him weeks ago.
“For you, my love,” he said.
All eyes were on me, most of them filled with envy.
Overwhelmed by the slap and by the present, I remained mute.
He pinched my waist. Hard.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured quickly, feeling pressured to say something. It truly was a lovely vehicle, although the one I was driving, a Mercedes four-wheel drive, was just as beautiful.
I looked at him. “But, I didn’t get you anything, Tom.” My voice felt strained and high-pitched.
He hugged me. “You are my gift alone, Arena. You bring me so much joy, my love.”
“Aaaawwww!” I heard a guest mutter. “How sweet!”
My guests had no idea that less than an hour ago, this man had slapped his pregnant wife.
“And that’s not all,” he said and produced a pretty red-and-gold box. Tom opened it, revealing a chunky diamond bracelet. He slipped it onto my wrist, then kissed my hand and bowed obsequiously.
Back inside, gasps of delight and more unbridled envy abounded, which Tom seemed to visibly revel in.
Envy was Tom’s currency – his elixir of life. Without it, I do believe that he would have shriveled up and simply died.
Then he took me into his arms and once again, lovingly embraced me. When he kissed me, he threaded his fingers into my hair and slipped his tongue into my mouth. His kiss felt horrible – like sucking on raw steak. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, and I wanted him to stop the Broadway show. I was a lousy actress and a terrible leading lady for sure.
When I jerked slightly away, his fingers gripped my hair and pulled hard, a silent warning – Play along or else.
Having no choice, I became a supporting act in his show and felt like the phony I was.
Then the doorbell rang.
He released me and said, “Will you get that, darling?”
I was surprised, because Tom always answered the door. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the door and caught my breath at the sight of the biggest bouquet of roses I had ever seen.
“For Mrs. Arena Botha,” the delivery guy said, struggling to carry the bouquet.
Again, the room echoed with oohs and ahhs!
Of course, I was not one bit impressed with any of his gifts. It was not that I was ungrateful. Sure, his gifts were lovely, but I would have preferred if he had given me the gifts that morning, when it was just the two of us, or if he had sent me the roses during the day.
These gifts were all about him and his ego – Look at me. Look how successful I am. See what I can give my woman. Don’t you wish you were married to me instead of your husband? When you leave here tonight, you’re gonna wish you were Arena. You’re gonna wish you were Tom Botha’s wife.
I did leave the house that night, but it wasn’t because of Tom’s slap. I went into early labor and had to be rushed to the hospital that very night. Three hours after our last guest had left, I held in my arms a beautiful blue-eyed boy called Warren, who became the silver lining in my life.
All thoughts of leaving Tom and ending our marriage went out the door after that. I continued living with Tom, starring in his Broadway shows and buying copious amounts of green concealer.
One word to describe living with Tom – suffocating.
Every time he was around, I felt like I had a pillow over my face. I dreaded the hour when he would walk through that door, and when he left the house, I felt like the pillow had been lifted from my face.
Weekends were the worst – the pillow seldom lifted, and unlike most people, Monday was my best friend. I looked forward to it.
The moment Tom left the house for work, I would let out a long sigh, make myself a cup of hot chocolate, and as the morning progressed, my shoulders would slowly drop from around my ears and I would smile.
My Sunday morning psalm: Monday my love, where are you?
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense about unrequited love – book 8 now available on Amazon!
Color Blind book 8 is now live on Amazon! Click on the image
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Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie
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What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,
yeah, but hey, we’re talking
serious jail time for you here.
Which would you choose?
Be honest now.
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‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
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it’s kick**s as usual!’‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am biting my nails, wondering what
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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense about unrequited love – book 6 now available on Amazon!
Color Blind book 6 is now live on Amazon! Click on the image
above to download your copy!
Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie
that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom
within minutes?
What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,
yeah, but hey, we’re talking
serious jail time for you here.
Which would you choose?
Be honest now.
0.99 cents for a limited time!
Avail on Kindle Unlimited
Praise for Color Blind:
“The style of writing this author uses is unique to every other
writer out there. The humour is funnier than comedy and the
horror is tear-jerking. I read this in less than a day.”“Read this book in one night! Great read and couldn’t put it down!”
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor, this book will have you staying up late into the late.’
‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’
$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the images below to get your copies before the price increase.
Amazon U.S. links in the Color Blind Series (click on images below
for Amazon U.S.)
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Five Color Blind Mice
Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie
that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom
within minutes?
What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,
yeah, but hey, we’re talking
serious jail time for you here.
Which would you choose?
Be honest now.
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Avail on Kindle Unlimited
Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor, this book will have you staying up late into the late.’
‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’
$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the images below to get your copies before the price increase.
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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense book Release (book 3)
Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie
that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom within minutes?
What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but we’re talking
serious jail time for you here.
Which would you choose?
Be honest now.
0.99 cents for a limited time!
Avail on Kindle Unlimited
Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor, this book will have you staying up late into the late.’
‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’
$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!
ColorBlind – A heartbreaking romantic suspense book by Eve Rabi – Excerpt 5
Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race.
Decades before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa, the country was rigorously governed by various pro-apartheid acts, including the Immorality Act, where sex between white and other ethnic groups was a criminal offence. Both parties contravening the Immorality Act would be imprisoned for up to ten years.
Under that law, Shabba and Sarie’s love was declared a crime and both of them were imprisoned. Now, one of them must risk all to save the other. A heartwarming tale of love, loss, redemption and … revenge!
EXCERPT 5
If you haven’t read the first FOUR excerpts in this series, please click on the link below:
COLORBLIND – A #romantic #suspense #book by #EveRabi Excerpt 1
(NB: This is a raw excerpt, not yet professionally edited, so please overlook any errors in this piece)
The story continues …
Cape Town
1969
SARIE
“Boo!” I said, barging in on Katrina and Fendi.
“Hai, Sarie, why you spying on me?” Katrina demanded, rushing to the door, pulling me in and shutting it.
“I’m not. I’m –”
“You tell no one about this, you hear?” She shook her finger in my face as she threatened me.
“About what?” I asked, as I took in the rags in Fendi’s hands. “Why?”
“Because why, I say so, Sarie!” Katrina said in an impatient voice.
“Because why is not the correct way to speak. School says –”
“Hai, Sarie! Don’t tell me, school says this, school says that … elsewise, I will klup you if you blerry rude to me, okay?”
I backed off and silently watched Fendi tie the rags around Katrina’s stomach, tighten them, then pull her top over them.
“Sarie just wants a flat stomach,” Fendi said in a gentle voice, when she saw the confusion in my eyes.
“Oh.”
“Can you tie my stomach too?” I asked.
Fendi jerked back in surprise, then smiled and said, “Sure, Sarie. Come closer.”
So, Fendi tied rags about my middle, making it really flat. Then, she gave me a hug and sent me off. Fendi was very sweet and kind, and second to Katrina, I liked her a lot.
“Where were you?” Shabba asked when I got to him.
“Flattening my stomach,” I said.
“What?”
I lifted up my top and showed him my stomach.
“That’s just silly,” he said.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is!”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Yes, it is!”
“Sarie! Shabba! Stop it you two,” Fendi called from the other room. “You two are always arguing. Just stop it!”
I glared at Shabba. He stuck his tongue out at me. I stuck mine at him. He made ugly faces.
“Your face is going to look like forever!” I said. “You wait and see!”
He quickly stopped his ugly faces, then said, “Hey, you wanna see the tadpoles?”
“Okay, but we have to walk slowly, because these bandages around my stomach is making it hard for me to breathe.”
“Want me to take ‘em off?”
“Ja, but … don’t tell Fendi and Katrina.”
“Okay,” Shabba said, removing the bandages from around my stomach. “Oh, man, you’ve got red tyre tracks around your stomach!”
I looked at my tyre tracks and frowned.
“Here, let me …” He gently rubbed the marks away. “My dad used to do this for my mum when she had a stomach ache,” Shabba explained. “Then he would do this.” Shabba gently kissed my stomach. “Better?”
I nodded.
Then, he bent down, put his lips to my stomach and blew bubbles on it, tickling it and causing me to scream with laughter. He grinned, then blew more bubbles on my stomach, more vigorously, causing me to shriek and squirm with laughter again.
“My mum used to do that to me all the time,” he said. “Didn’t your ma ever do that to you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t remember my mother or father being that kind and affectionate and playful toward me. Katrina, Mama Tsela and Agnes cuddled me from time to time, but not my parents.
Perhaps my disappointment at my parents showed, because Shabba’s grin was replaced by a look of sympathy. He pulled down my top, planted a tender kiss on my forehead, took my hand in his, and together, we skipped over to the tadpoles.
Months later, Mama Tsela rounded up all the children, and in an excited voice said, “Come see Katrina’s baby girl. She’s soooo beautiful!”
“What? A baby? Katrina’s baby?” I was totally stunned. I had no idea Katrina was going to have a baby. I knew that she was getting fat, I knew she was cranky, I knew that she was always eating soured figs marinated in vinegar, which Mama Tsela made for her, but her stomach, it just didn’t look big like the other servants did when they were pregnant. Then I remembered the bandages she tied around her stomach. Could she have been trying to hide the baby? I wondered. My mind, as little as it was, worked overtime to figure out why she would hide such a thing.
I ran ahead of the other children, all the way up to Katrina’s room and barged inside. There was Katrina in bed, a little bundle of pink and white in her arms.
I gasped at the sight of the real-life porcelain doll with eyes as blue as mine and masses of curls the color of lit-up copper. “Ooh, she’s so beautiful, Katrina! What’s her name?”
“Agnes,” Katrina said.
I looked up at Katrina. “Agnes? Your ma’s name?”
Tears welled in Katrina’s eyes as she nodded. Not knowing what to say, I stared at her, and watched a big fat tear roll down her cheek and plopped over Agnes.
Fendi, who was in the room folding clothes, walked over, gave Katrina a hug, then wiped away the tear from the baby’s face.
I scratched my head, affected by Katrina’s tears, but when I looked at the baby, I forgot about all about Katrina’s tears and smiled. “You are my l’il poppie (doll),” I said, falling instantly in love with little Agnes. From that moment on, Agnes was called ‘Poppie’ by everyone around, because she was as beautiful as a porcelain doll.
After Poppie was born, Katrina was a changed girl. She stopped running and jumping and hanging upside down on trees. She dressed like Agnes used to, wore a scarf around her head all the time and an apron. She also took her mother’s place and began working inside our house. (The only thing that didn’t change was the threat to klup us all at the drop of a hat. That continued regardless of age or maturity.) With Poppie slung around her back and secured with a blanket, African style, Katrina carried out her chores, humming songs to Poppie as she did. She was a wonderful mother even though she was so young. The way she looked at Poppie – it was the same way Agnes had looked at her. It was the way Mama Tsela looked at Fendi and Shabba. It was the same way pa had looked at popsicle-loving Laurika. It was the way Shabba looked at Baba. It was the way Baba looked at Shabba. As I watched Katrina hug and kiss her baby over and over again, pangs of envy engulfed me; everyone had someone to look at that way, and someone who looked at them that way, but me. I was the outsider, the afterthought, the superfluous little girl.
As I watched them all, I said a prayer – Dear God, please send me someone to look at. You know, the way Katrina looks at Poppie. And make sure they look at me like that too, with teeny tiny eyes. Oh, but make them like, older or my age or younger, I’m not fussy. I just want to be able to also play with them. And please make them white, so that they will be allowed to live with me in the Garden of Eden. That’s all, thank you God.
God answered my prayers right away, because within seconds, Katrina pulled me in for a hug and kissed the top of my head several times. “You are still my number one kind,” she said, planting kisses all over my face “Don’t ever forget that.” I hugged her back, and clung to her, relieved that I was number one and Poppie was number two. Well, I assumed that Poppie was number two.
Then, Poppie began to cry. Katrina hastily released me to pick up the baby, and began to use a voice reserved strictly for Poppie. I got mad with the doll for interrupting my cuddle. Not too mad, though. It was Poppie, how could I possibly be mad at her?
God was obviously on the job, because moments later, Fendi reached for me, pulling me in for a hug. “Come here, Sarie,” she said, “You are our baby sister and you will always be our baby sister. Don’t ever forget that, okay?” I hugged Fendi back, and stayed in her arms for a while, basking in the love of my big sister.
All the servants fell in love with Poppie, and she soon became the local mascot. She was so loved, the servants fought to babysit the little doll.
“Blerry dronkies,” my mother said at the dinner table, when she heard about the baby. “She don’t know who the father is. I betchu she doesn’t. I betchu. Blerry barbarians, that’s what they are. Pregnant at the age of thirteen. ’Magine that.” Shaking her head, she took a big sip of her vodka.
As young as I was, I didn’t appreciate her talking that way about Katrina and Poppie, so I spoke up. “Eh, ma, you said you were fifteen when you met Pa.”
“Ja, but that’s different. I knew who the father of my baby was, okay? And we got married quickly, okay?” She pointed her vodka glass at me as she defended herself. “I was a beauty queen, too, so it was different, okay? I was mature and responsible, ay? So hou jou bek, ‘kay?” She shook her glass so hard, some of her vodka spilled out of her glass and ran down her hand. She hastened to lick the vodka off her hand. Maybe losing her vodka angered her more, because she said, “Big people’s business, Sarie, big people’s business. Didn’t your father say not to get involved in big people’s business? Ay?”
I snuck a look at my father. As usual, he simply swirled his red wine in his goblet, his eyes focused solely on it.
Even though she had called Katrina a dronkie (which didn’t make sense, because I had never seen Katrina drink alcohol), my mother didn’t care that a baby was around – she was just relieved that Katrina could replace missing Agnes in the kitchen and take care of me, so that she could enjoy her ‘me’ time. Enjoy her champagne breakfasts, and afternoon cocktails pre siestas and sunset drinks and pre-dinner drinks, and dinner drinks and after dinner drinks and nightcaps. I was a distraction, asking umpteen questions and constantly meddling in big people’s business. Katrina’s reappearance left her free to handle those recurrent migraines with the potent medicine that she had drank in crystal glasses, and sometimes from the bottle itself. As for my father, the man of God, he said nothing – whenever he saw the baby, he just stared, sometimes turning to look at the child. Luckily, he had no problem with the child being around.
SHABBA
I think it’s fair to say that the highlight of my childhood, was the treehouse Baba built for us. It was just awesome! You must remember that during apartheid times, for children of color living on a white man’s property, there were no recreational amenities available to them. No parks, swings, public swimming pools, skateboard areas, libraries, basketball courts, nothing!
Why? Well, during apartheid times, the South African government didn’t think it was necessary for children of color to have such amenities. Now, don’t get me wrong, there were parks and swings, and public swimming pols and basketball parks, and skateboard parks and libraries etc., but they all had a sign that said, ‘Slegs Blankes,’ which meant ‘White’s Only,’ or ‘Blanke Gebied’ which meant ‘White Area.’
If a child of color used those facilities, he would be breaking the law, so the police would be called. How often did that happen? It rarely did. Why? Because, before the police were called, the whites in the facilities would probably band together like some kind of neighborhood watch and kick the shit out of the poor child of color for ‘daring’ to use that facility. The police would not be needed. If that child was accompanied by a parent, that parent would also be beaten up for not restraining their child, for not knowing their place. They would be considered arrogant, cheeky and in need of a lesson. So, rarely did a child of color break that law. They would simply stand and watch white children from afar, enjoying amenities that they weren’t allowed to use. Unfair? Unjust? Morally reprehensible? Yeah, well, that my friend was the apartheid government for you.
The beach? Oh, yeah, there was a beach about twenty minutes away. Unfortunately, that too had a sign saying ‘Sleg’s Blanke,’ or ‘Blanke Gebied.’ There was another beach that black people or people of color could frequent. However, a child of color would have to take three modes of transport to the venue and three modes back. That was a lot of bus and train fare for servants who didn’t really get paid – they just got board and lodge from their bosses, and they were allowed to keep their children with them while they worked for the white man. So, going to the beach was out of the question for us. As a little boy in South Africa, I visited the beach twice in my life. That was it. Swimming lessons? First of all, they would cost money. Second, why take lessons when you aren’t going to use them? What’s the purpose? So, yes, I couldn’t swim and I still can’t.
Yet, as a child, I loved the beach. Loved splashing in the water, running toward a wave, then running away from it, changing my mind and running into it, laughing with delight. Fendi told me a story once about me and the beach. Apparently, my late mother and father had promised to take us to the beach. Something happened, and we couldn’t go. I demanded to know why. Someone told me that the beach got burnt. As young as I was, I threw a tantrum, and told them that the beach couldn’t burn. They argued with me, tongue in cheek, that the beach could. I disappeared for a while, only to reappear struggling to carry half a bucket of water. I put down the bucket of water and looked at my father. “Go on, dad, light it up. It won’t burn. Go on.”
“It’s not beach water, Shabba,” my father said.
“It’s the same thing, daddy!” I protested. “Water can’t burn.”
“Beach water is different, it does burn, Shabba!”
I got so frustrated with everyone, I kicked the bucket of water and started to cry.
According to Fendi, that is the story. I cannot remember any of it.
As you may know, apartheid laws governed where people could live. They restricted people of color, corralled them in inaccessible areas, while white people got to live in prime land. It was the law, and if you ever lived in a white man’s area, you would be imprisoned, because you were breaking the law.
Now those people of color who worked for companies and big businesses, they would live in their designated areas, usually an hour’s drive away from work. For their children, there would be one public swimming pool for about fifty thousand or more residents. It would jam packed, so you had to visit the pool either in the mornings, or in the afternoons. Once it was full, children were turned away. Also, children of color had to pay to enter the pool too.
Now, in white areas, there would be one public swimming pool for every fifteen thousand residents. Even better, entry to those swimming pools were free to white children. How about that?
Look, if the white government didn’t think it necessary to provide people of color with indoor plumbing and running water, or a stipulated minimum wage, do you really expect them to provide you with plumbing for a multiple swimming pools? Do you really think they would provide you access to public libraries like they did in white areas? Oh, and by the way, the apartheid government frowned upon public libraries. Why? Well, think about it now; libraries mean education, and an educated person of color was the oppressors biggest fear. Nelson Mandela was an educated man, an attorney, and look at the havoc he wreaked on the white oppressor when he demanded equality for all? When he declared that no person should be treated unfairly because of the color of their skin? Mandela was such a troublemaker to the apartheid government, they jailed him for twenty-seven years. Blame education, they did.
So, since we children of color had no amenities to entertain our young minds, the tree house that Baba built was the most exciting project I have ever worked on in my life. We kids scoured the land and neighbouring lands for logs and sticks and large leaves and stones and discarded rope and anything that we could possibly use to build our beloved tree house. It took us hours and it was a complete labour of love. It would be our park, swing, beach, library, swimming pool, all rolled into one, and we couldn’t wait for it to be completed.
For three weeks we toiled on it, because Baba could only build it when he was not at work. We worked side by side with Baba, passing him tools, helping him lift, helping him tighten stuff, helping him with every single thing. As he worked, Baba explained why he did what he did, why he added double the number of nails to one section, why he cut the wood the way he did. With great patience he taught and explained and gave us a lesson in woodwork and building. So, in essence Baba was my first teacher. My first woodwork and construction lecturer.
When the project was completed, we children were thrilled. The treehouse had two rooms, a balcony, (because we ran out of wood to add more roofing to one side of the tree house, we called it a balcony) a rope ladder, a tyre on another rope so that we could swing on it, some vines so we could move through the air like Tarzan, some discarded books from Sarie’s house and a make-shift swimming pool made out of a discarded bathtub we found on someone’s property.
“Baba, I had no idea you could build a house,” I said, looking at our beloved tree house in awe.
He said, “You know Shabba Baba, I had no idea I could build a house too. Do you like it?”
“I love it!” I said putting my arm around my grandfather’s waist and hugging him toward me.
Baba looked at Sarie.
“Ooh, Baba, I love it too!” Sarie said in a breathless voice.
Sarie had every toy you could think of, but she loved the treehouse the most. She actually helped build it too, so it was special to her!
Problem was, we had no furniture to decorate the tree house.
“Go ask your mother for furniture,” I said to Sarie. “Tell her … um … tell you don’t like your bedroom furniture and you want new … no, no, no – tell her someone said your furniture is old or broken. Or … “
“She won’t like that Shabba.”
“Ja, that’s why you say it. Say something like that. Then we can get your old furniture, Sarie.”
What a silly thing to say to a child. What a silly thing for a child to tell her mother. Dumb me.
Well, it was the best we could do. That night just before dinner, Sarie said, “Ma, what’s old fashioned furniture?”
Since I had a lot riding on how Sarie handles our furniture situation, I hid outside the window and eavesdropped, a favorite pastime of mine.
My drinking buddy Mazda, paused with her fuel injection and frowned at Sarie. “Who … who said that? Who got old-fashion furniture, ay? We? Who told you that? Ay? WHOOOO?” Her voice had a thread of panic to it.
Sarie lifted and dropped her shoulders. “Can’t remember, ma? I think I heard Tante Estrie or Tante Elzette say that our furniture is arme (Poor). Or maybe it was Oom Gar–”
Vroom! Vroom! Mad Mazda slammed her glass onto the table and exploded into high gear. “Blerry bitches! Blerry goffles!” The Mazda jumped to her feet and revved with fury, flames shooting out from her exhaust. “They are foking dying with jealousy because I married money and they don’t got what I got. I am rich! Rich! You hear? I married a rich man and their husband must work in a tyre factory and meat packaging plant, packing boerewors, morning to night. Blerry goggles! Blerry …”
That’s all it took – a silly, dumb comment from a servant’s child caused my happy hour buddy to make an announcement at the dinner table that night. “I am throwing out all the old furniture in Sarie’s room and buying new ones. I am also throwing out our sitting room and our dining room and our … everything!” (She meant she was throwing out the sitting room and dining room furniture).
“Why do you need to do that, Magda when we just redecorated the whole blerry place two years ago?” Schoeman, who had two families to feed from the Garden of Eden’s funds, grouched.
‘BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE TALKING, SCHOEMAN!”
“Calm down, Magda!” Schoeman said. “I’m just asking a question.”
Mazda slowly took her foot off the accelerator.
“People are saying that I married a poor man, Schoeman. They say I poor. That we poor. Ay? This is so embarrassing, Schoeman. I was a beauty queen and now I poor?” Mazda burst into tears.
“Magda, please,” the older man who married a striking beauty queen, a trophy wife, pleaded.
Mazda responded by throwing herself over the dining table, over the mashed potatoes and Porterhouse steak and mushroom and pepper sauce and sobbed like the way a heroine in a black and white movie would.
“Okay, okay, okay!” the pastor placated in a panicked voice. “You can do it, okay?”
Mazda stopped crying, sat down in her seat, poured herself a large glass of vodka, took a sip and said, “I want to change the bathroom tiles too.”
Two weeks later, a group of servants’ children carted Sarie’s old bedroom suite to the tree house. Along with the bedroom suit came chairs, a table and some cupboards – all the things we needed. It was awesome! Our tree house looked treemendous!
Oh, and we also received a box of used bathroom tiles, which we couldn’t use in the tree house, so we used them as brick pavers in muddy areas of the servant’s quarters.
From then on, whatever we needed for the tree house, Sarie and I would steal it from her house. It was like a real house, minus the bathroom. And electricity. And flooring. And plumbing for water.
Sadly, we children fought about who gets to play in the tree house, forcing Baba to assign us shifts. It worked, but it was pure agony waiting for your turn to play in the tree house.
Baba warned us in no unspecific turns that the tree house was out of bounds at night. He was stern about that and everyone listened to him. Except me. Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would creep into the tree house, lie on the balcony and watch the stars in the dark sky. Once I was lonely, so I thought about my partner in crime. Are you awake, Sarie?
I decided to see if I could reach her. Since the tree house faced her bedroom, I stole Baba’s work torch, took it to the tree house and shone it into her bedroom, using the light from the torch to write my name on her bedroom wall. Please see this and come to me, Sarie.
Within minutes, to my delight, I saw a figure in white hurtling toward the tree house.
“What are you doing, Shabba?” Sarie asked in a breathless voice as she climbed the rope ladder to the tree house.
“Signalling to you,” I replied, shining the torch in her face. “When I shine my torch, you must know that I am looking for you, and you must come, okay? I will write my name in lights. Like the way I did.”
“Sure!” she said in an excited voice.
“Pinkie promise?” I put out my little finger.
“Pinkie promise,” she said, looping her pinkie with mine.
After that, whenever I was in the tree house at night, I would shine my torch into the wall of her bedroom, and she would come over with snacks and drinks. We would spend hours in our precious treehouse gazing at the stars and talking about everything. Sometimes, we’d snuggle up and fall asleep, only to wake up with the sun and the birds. Sarie would then creep back into her house before her absence was discovered.
One day she said, “I don’t wanna go home. I want to stay with you.”
“All the time?” I asked.
She nodded. “Forever.”
“Oh, well, okay,” I replied after thinking about it for a few seconds. “But maybe we should get married, then we can always be together?”
She shrugged. “Okay.” She looked around. “We will need more rooms if we want to have children.”
I followed her eyes around the treehouse. She may have a point, I thought. “How many children are we going to have?”
She held up five fingers.
“Sarie, you are mad? Five? That’s too many!”
“Well, then how many, Shabba?” she snapped.
I shrugged. “Three? Four?”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Okay, fine, Sarie. We’ll have five children, then!”
And that’s how I first proposed to Sarie.
“And a puppy.”
“Now, that’s a good idea,” I said. “Hey, you should ask for a puppy now.”
“A tiny little one? A girl puppy?”
“No! You need a puppy that grows up into an attack dog.”
“Mm.”
“This is what you do – tell your mother, Tante Esterie got a Rotweiller puppy for your cousin.”
“Okay.”
Woof! Woof! A week later, the Vorsters got four Rotweiller pups. We helped name them – Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo.
We had no idea which was which, but it didn’t matter, because when we called Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo! all four pups hurtled toward us.
End of Excerpt
More excerpts coming next week, so make sure you’re following this blog.
When Arena’s car is stolen with her toddler in it, she points at Tom, her abusive ex-husband. The police point at Bear, her cop boyfriend, who adores both her, and her children. Trouble is, Bear cannot be found. In fact, according to the police, Bear’s comrades, he does not exist!
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Ashes of Temptation – Cover Reveal – a book by Eve Rabi (2nd Debut)
Coming soon!
I do believe that some of you couldn’t access this post, so if you haven’t been able to, here it is again!
An Excerpt from Ruins of Temptation
(Already published)
A shirtless Drover gets out of bed and stumbles downstairs, throws open the door and balks at
the sight of Colin on his doorstep, roses and teddy bears in hand.
At the sight of attorney Phillip Sterling, Colin’s smile dips. This is the man who pulled a dirty on
him. Not his favorite person.
“I think I have the wrong house,” Colin mumbles as he backs away. “Apologies.” He turns and walks down the footpath.
From the car, Milton sees the shirtless Phillip Sterling at the door. He knows Phillip – he’s the man who put his daughter away in prison. Not his favorite person either. What the hell? Maybe we have the wrong address.
“Wait!” Drover calls.
Colin stops and turns around.
“Why are you out of prison?”
“Look it up if you want to know,” Colin says in an abrupt voice, then turns to continue walking.
“Callan!”
With a sigh, Colin stops and turns around. “What do you want, Sterling? I don’t have time.”
“Wait!” Drover says. “Just a moment. Are you looking for …?”
“I’m looking for my wife. Clover Callan, remember her? My daughters? My family? Clearly, I have the wrong house.” He turns around and walks again.
“Wait! She’s here!”
Colin whirls around.
“She … this is the house,” Drover says. “She’s here.”
Colin tilts his head at Drover. “My wife is here? In this house?”
After a slight hesitation, Drover nods.
Colin squints at him. “Where?”
“Upstairs.”
Colin’s eyes sweep over Drover, taking in the fact that he is shirtless, wearing just a pair of short, looking like he’s just rolled out of bed. He turns to look at Milton, then back at Drover. “I don’t understand – is my wife living here with you?”
Drover doesn’t answer; he just stares at Colin with one hand on his head.
End of excerpt from Ruins of Temptation
The story continues in Ashes of Temptation
Excerpt from Ashes of Temptation
Colin’s eyes flicker with confusion – if Clover is living here, if she is upstairs, why is this attorney from the public prosecutor’s office, the one who reneged on their deal, who double-crossed him and put him behind bars for seven years, shirtless and bare feet in the very same home? Colin blinks hard – Am I dreaming?
Drover blinks equally hard – how is this possible? Callan should be in prison right now – am I dreaming?
The hostility in Callan’s eyes tell him he’s may not be trapped in a bad dream after all. Drover glances upstairs, debating with himself – should he shout and warn out to Love, or go to her, whisper in her ear and bring her downstairs? He is certain Love will be equally shocked to see Colin here. Finally, he says, “Okay, look, if you wait here, I wi –”
Still clutching the two teddy bears and the bunch of roses, Colin pushes past Drover and strides into the house.
“Hey, wait in a minute!” Drover says, running after Colin.
Ignoring Drover, Colin walks around the house, sighting things that only compound his confusion – Eden’s rocking horse, Angel’s favourite blanket, a portable baby cot, Clover’s discarded jacket …
He pauses to pick up Clover’s jacket and stares at it. He was with her when she bought it. She even wore it to prison when she visited him in it.
“Look, just wait here and I will call her,” Drover says, a thread of anxiousness in his voice.
After a cursory glance at Drover, Colin pauses at the foot of the stairs and look upstairs.
Drover steps in front of Colin, blocking his path. “Wait here, and –”
Ignoring Drover and adding Clover’s jacket to the roses and teddy bears in his arms, Colin side-steps Drover and takes the stairs two at a time.
“Hold on there!” Drover yells.
Colin pokes his head into the bedrooms, looking for Clover. Even though the first bedroom is empty, it is instantly recognizable as Angel’s because of the photos of him and Angel on the wall. I’m in the right house.
He walks fast into the second bedroom, where he finds Eden fast asleep. His frown softens as he stares at his daughter that he hasn’t seen in three years.
. Fighting the urge to hug his daughter, Colin turns and almost runs out of the room in search of his wife.
When he reaches the third room, the door is shut. He flings it open and looks into the face of the woman lying in bed.
Clover.
His wife.
“Colin!” Clover cries when she sees Colin in her bedroom, clutching the teddy bears, roses and her jacket. “Wha …” The words die on her lips as she looks at Drover at the doorway, his palms turned out.
“Clover?” Colin whispers.
“I … Colin … ohmygod!” is all Clover can say, before she clamps both hands across her mouth.
With a dazed expression on his face, Colin looks at Drover, at Clover, at Drover, then again at Clover. “Wha … wha … what … Clover …” He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, “Am I … dreaming?”
Clover is speechless.
Colin stands in the middle of the bedroom, Clover’s jacket still in his hand, his eyes squinting at the tell-tale signs of a couple sharing a room – Drover’s phone and wrist watch on the bedside table, along with a half-finished bottle of water and the TV remote, the rumpled bedlinen next to Clover, Drover’s t-shirt and shoes on the floor.
Colin stares at Clover and the flimsy nightdress that shows her nipples. “I must be dreaming,” he mutters, blinking hard.
“Colin, I can explain,” Clover says, as she pulls the bedcovers over her, a move that only serves to highlight her lack of modesty, her duplicity. She opens her mouth to explain, but shock and disbelief renders her mute. Under Colin’s piercing gaze, she hangs her head.
For a while no one speaks.
Drover breaks the silence. “Look, Callan –”
Colin swings around to look at Drover. “Can you do me a favour?”
After a slight hesitation, Drover shrugs.
“There’s someone at the door. Can you let him in, please?”
“Who is it?” Drover asks, reluctant to leave Clover right now.
“My parole officer. He needs to meet … my wife.”
Drover looks at Clover, glances behind him, then at Clover again.
Relieved that his parole officer is around to may serve as a buffer to the situation, Clover’s head bobs. “Go! Let him in. Please!”
Drover too is relieved. He’s seen the car parked in his driveway, so he steps out of the room, eager to bring in the parole officer.
The moment he leaves the room, Colin flings down the jacket, the roses and the teddy bears. He slams the bedroom door shut then locks it.
Clover is startled that he would lock the door. “Colin, shouldn’t we go downstairs to meet …”
The words die on her lips when she watches Colin drag a cupboard across the door. Fear bolts through when she realizes that she is now trapped in the room with Colin. With a Colin that lured Drover out of the room, then locked the door.
The moment the door locks, Drover realizes what just happened. He rushes to open the door, slams his shoulder into it, but it won’t budge. He runs to fetch a baseball bat and slams it against the door, hoping to create a hole in it. The bat breaks on the first hit.
Inside the bedroom, when he’s sure they no one can leave, and that no one can enter, Colin turns slowly to look at Clover. “Are you living with him? Are you sleeping with him?” Colin advances toward her as he speaks, his eyes hooded, his voice low and controlled. Too controlled for a man who just caught his wife in bed with another man.
The expression in his eyes is familiar – she’d seen it just before, when he tried to strangle her at the Church of Light. When he believed she was Scarlett trying to pass herself off as Love. For days after that, she slept in a locked office with a Taser at hand, for fear he would harm her.
Clover scrambles back in bed. “Colin …I can explain …”
Colin towers over her, burly and muscular, more muscular than she’s known him to be. The cords in his neck, the twitching of his jaw, the flaring of his nostrils, augments her fear.
“Hey, open this door!” Drover shouts from outside the room. “Callan!”
Ignoring the rattling of the doorknob and Drover’s banging on the door, Colin says, “Don’t explain, just answer my question – are you living … are you, my wife … are you living with Phillip Sterling?”
Clutching the bedcovers, Clover looks away. “I … I … Colin …”
“Are you sleeping with him, CLOVER? I need to hear it from you.”
Clover doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks at the door, gauging and calculating – should she make a dash for it? She is fast on her feet, sure, but what about the cupboard?
Colin suddenly lunges at her, grabs her by the hair and drags her out of bed.
Clover’s terrified scream can be heard outside the house in the still of the morning.
“I asked you a goddam question!” he says, planting her in front of him, his bulging eyes boring into hers, his breathing erratic.
When she doesn’t answer, he jerks her toward him, slamming her into his chest. “Tell me, Clover. Tell me.”
“I … Colin… you’re hurting me, Colin!” she cries, as he holds onto her hair.
Milton, who now stands outside his car, is startled by the sound of a woman’s scream.
Realizing something is wrong, he hurries into the house and toward the sound of the screams. “Oh, shit!” he says when he sees Drover slamming his shoulder against the bedroom door.
“Call the cops!” Drover says.
Milton hesitates.
“Call the cops!” Drover repeats. My phone’s inside the room!”
Milton hesitates.
“What?” Drover demands.
“He’ll go back to jail.”
“Call the FUCKING cops!” Drover shouts.
Just then Andrew and Daisy burst into the house.
“Dad!” Daisy cries. “What’s going on?”
“Andy, help me,” Drover says. “I broke the lock, but something’s against the door.”
Inside the room, a terrified Clover tries to stay calm, even though she looks into Colin’s face, puce with rage.
“When did you start this affair?”
As Clover tries to think of an answer, a whimper escapes her.
“Answer me, CLOVER!”
She doesn’t answer, because through her terror, she knows that whatever answer she gives will be unacceptable.
Colin suddenly slaps her across the face, splitting her lip. “I’m going to kill you, Clover!”
End of Excerpt for Ashes of Temptation
Coming soon!
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FRAGMENTS OF TEMPTATION – Girl on Fire Series by Eve Rabi
Book 11 in the Girl on Fire Series is now available on Amazon.
Links to download this book:
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This is not a stand-alone book. It is one of the books in the Girl on Fire Series.
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Embers of Temptation by Eve Rabi (Book release) Girl on Fire Series
Book 10 in The Girl on Fire Series
Unfortunately, the story, after 9 books in the series, cannot be completed with just one more book. After much thought, we realised that the number of loose ends in the series would leave our readers with many unanswered questions.
So, it is with this in mind, that we are releasing FOUR more books in this series, all to be released within the next ninety days.
We are working hard so that you don’t have to wait longer than necessary, which means the books may be released sooner. (More info on these upcoming books will be released shortly.
In the meantime, please enjoy the next instalment in the Girl on Fire Series, Embers of Temptation, now available on Amazon.
Here are the links to this Amazon book:
Follow this blog to avoid missing out on the next excerpt. You want to keep up with Scarlett’s underhandedness, believe me!
This is one of the books in the Girl on Fire Series. Read The Other Woman (an epic and jaw-dropping collision between a betrayed wife and a cunning seductress), which is available on #KindleUnlimited, Please read before you read this book.
Fans of Girl on the Train and Gone Girl, The Affair, will love Eve Rabi’s tale of love, lust and revenge.
#RomanticCrime #RomanticSuspense #StoriesofRevenge #VigilanteJustice #FreeonKindleUnlimited #LoveTriangles#TheOtherWoman
EMBERS OF TEMPTATION by Eve Rabi (Book Release) Excerpt 2
Second Instalment 
SCARLETT
The question that plagues me – is Colin aware of Love the imposter’s real identity? (Well, other than where is my money, bitch?) Has Clover confessed to Colin that she has done a Lazarus and risen from the dead? If Clover has, then why hasn’t Colin approached me about it? Demanded his freedom? If Colin knows the truth, why duck and dive and keep the truth away from me? Surely he’d want to run off with his real wife and child and live as happily as Kanye and Kim? After all, this is the wife he’s spent days searching for, remember? Moping around like a pussy over her. Why is he still around? It’s not like he’s ill or something – earlier on he looked in peak shape when he was fucking my nemeses in the water. Tanned, fit and sexy – better looking that Shane the crooked cop for sure. Better looking than those Hemsworth brothers by far.
Considering the packed suitcases I found contained stuff for just Angel and Clover, considering that the documents I’ve discovered in Clover’s possession were mainly hers and Angel’s, I suspect that Colin may not know who Clover really is. In fact, as I stand in front of the window, taking swigs out of my quad-distilled, overpriced, imported vodka, I conclude that Colin has yet to discover the volunteer’s real identity.Being the gambler that I am, I’d say that Clover was probably getting around to the big reveal. Liz, with her man’s shoes, her plastic packet and her greedy self, popped up her balding head to dart a spoke Clover’s wheel of fortune, causing it to wobble. In time, I showed up and blew it to smithereens.
When I hear the chopper, I take a giant swig, then quickly put away the bottle of vodka. I rinse out my mouth with Listerine, pop a breath mint and prepare for battle. Will I be in combat with just the phoenix from the ashes, or will I be taking on both Colin and the phoenix?
Well, it’s best I prepare for my worst-case scenario, so I seek out my backup – a 9 mm. I stick it into a thigh holster. Bring it on.
From the window, I watch the helicopter hover, then slowly descend.
With folded arms, I watch Colin alight from the chopper, then help the slut out of it.
I tilt my head at the sight of Clover – it’s amazing how similar we now look. That bitch has been ’jacking my style quietly. Bit by bit, she’s been morphing into me, artfully blurring the lines in Colin’s muddled mind. Sneaky bitch. And that bikini she’s wearing – only a seductress would wear something so inappropriate. Sure, she’s wearing a beach robe, but you can still see most of her arse, half of her breasts through it. Maybe that’s why my man is holding onto her hand, despite the fact that he’s returning home to his FUCKING WIFE! With my eyes blazing and my mouth twisted in fury, I watch the cheats advance toward my house.
As if she remembers where she’s heading, that I might be watching, Clover snatches her hand out of Colin’s, her eyes darting nervously around. Hiding the affair from me, are you? Too late, I’m onto you and it’s game on!
With her head bowed, the slut walks fast, almost running ahead of Colin.
The walk of a person afraid. Terrified.
Good, be afraid. Be very afraid of your master and commander, the person you made the cardinal mistake of betraying.
As the conniving couple near the front door of my house, I prepare for battle – six deep breaths … exhale loudly. Three slow shoulder rolls, shake arms till loose, kick out legs to loosen up the muscles, exhale. I’m now ready for a punch-up of a lifetime. Watch how I handle myself. Watch carefully, for you are going to learn something here. Watch.
*****
THE OTHERS
As Clover approaches the house, her steps suddenly falter, her throat constricts, and her mouth becomes dry. This is not a house, this is a lion’s den. Above her the sky, now dark and ominous, concurs with a rumble of thunder. Colin catches up with her, and with his hand on her back, propels her forward. This time, she does not shrug him off. She needs his hand on her back. She needs him to have her back, because evil lurks ahead.
The front door is flung open with such force, both Colin and Clover cease walking.
Scarlett steps out of the house, stands on the patio and glares at the errant couple.Clover braces herself, while Colin stiffens.
“Sweetheart, what a lovely surprise!” Scarlett says, breaking into a smile and rushing up to throw her arms around Colin. “Sister Naomi and Brother Ezekiel told me how badly you wanted to surprise me with your recovery, and there I had to go and ruin it all by showing up unannounced. I wanted to spring a surprise visit on you guys and I … ruined it all.” She laughs and hugs Colin again. “My bad, my bad!”
Colin stands rigid in Scarlett’s embrace, arms dangling at his side, his eyes wide with surprise. Next to him, Clover sports a confused look.
As their shoulders slowly drop from around their ears, Clover and Colin look at each other behind Scarlett’s back. While he looks somewhat relieved, she doesn’t. Her eyes dart around for Angel. When she doesn’t see her, that feeling of dread that plagues her since Angel disappeared, once again pours into her stomach. Please let my baby be okay. Please! Please! Please!
“You look so well, I can’t believe it,” Scarlett gushes, touching Colin’s face, then stepping back and checking him out. “So tanned and fit …” She runs her hand slowly down his arms, then over his back and squeezes his butt. “Sexy, I have to say.” She laughs when he turns crimson.
Scarlett releases Colin and walks over to Clover. Clover holds her breath.
Taking Clover’s hand in both of hers, she says, “Dear Sister Love, you’ve done a … sterling job, bringing Pastor Colin to life. It’s nothing short of a miracle, a joy … a real joy.”
Clover flinches at the blast of peppermint in her face, at the choice of words (sterling, joy), and even more at her murderer’s touch.
“What you have done for Pastor Colin, Sister Love, is nothing short of a miracle. Comparable to… to … “she raises her arms to the sky, “resurrecting Lazarus from the dead. The Church of Light is ever so grateful to you. Ever since we’ve heard about Pastor Colin’s recuperation, the question on our minds are; How do we ever thank our wonderful Sister Love for doing such a … sterling job? She is such a … joy!”
Clover glances at Colin. He turns out his palms, a see-I-told-you-there’s-nothing-to-worry-about look on his face.
Clover is in no way feeling reassured. Nothing the sadistic killer says or does will ever allay her anxiety, until she finds Angel and sees that she is safe. To Clover, all this is simply a strategy, a big game that the wicked woman is playing, and clearly, she is enjoying it.
“Come, let us go inside,” Scarlett says, holding firmly onto Clover’s hand.
Not knowing what to do, Clover follows Scarlett into the house, ahead of Colin.
Memories of the missing suitcases that were hidden in the back of the house, the sinister drawing on the whiteboard – the one with the child buried alive, flood her. Repulsed by evil personified, she involuntarily snatches back her hand.
Scarlett stares at her. Clover holds her gaze and the tension between the two Mrs. Callans is palpable.
Scarlett suddenly throws her arms around Clover again. Clover tenses – the last person you want to hug you is your murderer. Like scenes from the mafia movies – hug, kiss, kill.
“So happy to have you back,” Scarlett says in a spritely, voice. She follows this with a whispered warning, “Behave, if you want her back, understand? If you don’t want her to disappear. I’m not joking.”
Clover’s head lolls as her worst fears are confirmed. Awash with dread, she raises her head to look at the cold-blooded killer. Up close, her eyes glisten like diamonds, her lips are tightly fused and her nostrils flare. Clover literally feels the heat of her silent rage. Having no choice, Clover nods.
Pleased with the naked fear in Clover’s eyes, Scarlett smiles sweetly and continues her charade.
*****
SCARLETT
How did I do? Good? Of course!
Look, it isn’t easy for me to smile and feign pleasantness when I’m facing betrayal by multiple members of my household – my husband, the man I’ve given my all to – he could hoodwink me to such a degree? My staff, the trusted and loyal servants – they could have their loyalty so easily swayed by a Trojan horse-styled intruder? Then the intruder herself – a crafty, scheming manipulator who artfully stole my husband, my brat, my staff’s loyalty, my money – all my money stolen by the psychopath who is clearly after my life?
My perfect world, one that I’ve created with blood, sweat and vodka, has been rocked by a thug who needs to be strangled with a garrotte until she lies in a heap on the floor. Until a medical doctor declares her deceased. Then for added measure, I should burn her corpse. Douse it with flammable vodka, then throw a lit match on it. Watch the cremation with a bottle of overpriced champagne at hand (or two), while I wait for the fire to burn out, until all that remain are ash, charred bones and the stench of no-return. Have an AK-47 at hand in case a phoenix rises from the ashes – another added measure. Blast it to smithereens to ensure no comebacks.
Yes, that’s what needs to be done. However, I’m not doing that just yet. Why? Well, it’s all about strategy, because … the money; I have to think about the money. If I ranted and raved at the deceitful duo, hurled accusations like some cuckold wife, made threats, knifed them even, I would risk losing my money. Where would that leave me if I couldn’t get my money back? The money is of paramount importance and should be considered above all else. Therefore, a clear head is necessary. Along with an artful strategy, of course.
The situation calls for a game. Play the bitch at her own game and win. That is the most important things about games; you have to win. You must. Or, what’s the purpose of playing in the first place? Luckily, I am brilliant at games, and … I like to win. In fact, finishing second is not an option, never was. Winning is. Winning in my books is everything.
So far, I am winning. Think about it – I have the betrayers in my clutches, Colin is charmed and Angel is back in my care and out of sight, and Clover is cowering in terror like the coward she is. Now, all I have to do is implement the next step.
Impressed? Well, you ought to be. Hold your applause, though. For now.
*****
THE OTHERS
Colin looks around. “Where’s baby?”
Scarlett lets go of Clover and turns to look at Colin. “Oh, she’s gone into town with Sister Naomi, Brother Ezekiel and a few other congregation members, darling. She was so excited to see all the kids, she badgered me to allow her to go with.”
Colin frowns. “Badgered you?”
Scarlett nods. “I think she misses having kids around, Colin. Besides, I thought it would be nice to give Sister Love some time to herself.” Scarlett smiles sweetly at Clover again. “God knows she’s earned it.”
Colin concurs with a nod.
“I’m thinking, Sister Love could take the car, go visit her husband and darling children for a few days if she likes, catch up with them …” As she talks, Scarlett walks back to Colin and takes his arm. “You come with me, darling, we’ve got some … some … catching up to do.” She winks at him. Then, leaving Clover staring after them, she leads him into their bedroom and shuts the door.
Clover remains where she is. She doesn’t care about Scarlett’s lascivious wink, she doesn’t care about them being alone in the bedroom – all she cares about is her baby. Where in town is Angel?
The moment, they are out of sight, Clover hurries over to the key rack and picks out the keys to an SUV. It’s a small town, she knows that she will eventually find Angel. Then she will run. Just get into the SUV with Angel and drive. She will only stop until she reaches her safe haven in Sydney.
Suddenly, she feels a sharp sting on the back of her neck. She swings around to look into Shane’s face. In his hand is a needle and syringe.
“Going somewhere, sexy?”
Clover rubs her neck. “Did you just –?”
“I sure did, sexy.”
Shane suddenly starts to tilt and everything goes black.
End of second excerpt. More coming soon!
Release date: Coming soon!
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EVE RABI AUTHOR OF 43 ROMANTIC SUSPENSE BOOKS 