Chapter 1 - Ground Floor

"We should go out and celebrate."

I wasn't surprised by my flatmate's emphatic pronouncement. Neo Mabena found excuses to celebrate, no matter how small and inconsequential. I'd always considered it part of his charm. "I'm fairly sure drinking the night before you start a new job is a bad idea."

"Ag, come on, Aviwe." Neo sat on our new lounge floor amid half a dozen moving boxes and flashed his winning smile. We'd been unpacking for days, yet he still looked amazing. Tall and leanly built, with a high-top fade cut so sharp it looked drawn on and light hazel eyes flecked with gold, Neo was a man who rarely looked anything less than absolutely gorgeous on any day of his life. I might have resented that if he hadn't been the dearest person on earth to me.

"I'm not talking about a bender," he insisted. "One glass of wine. Two. We can do a happy hour and be home by eight."

"I don't know if I'll make it back in time." I gestured at my gym tights and fitted crop top. "After I time the walk to work, I'm going to the gym."

"Walk fast, train faster." Neo's perfectly executed arched brow made me laugh. I fully expected that face to be on billboards and magazine covers all over the world one day. No matter his expression, he was a knockout.

"How about tomorrow after work?" I offered as a substitute. "If I make it through the day, that'll be worth celebrating."

"Deal. I'm breaking in the new kitchen for dinner."

"Uh …" Cooking was one of Neo's joys, but it wasn't one of his talents. "Great."

He ran a hand back over the top of his fade and grinned at me. "We've got a kitchen most restaurants would kill for. There's no way to screw up a meal in there."

Dubious, I headed out with a wave, choosing to avoid a conversation about cooking. I took the lift down to the ground floor and smiled at Ndumiso behind the long reception desk of The Meridian, who came round it to open the door for me with a flourish.

The moment I stepped outside, the smells and sounds of Johannesburg embraced me and invited me to explore. I was not merely fourteen hundred kilometres from my old home in Cape Town, but seemingly worlds away. Two major cities—one endlessly temperate and sensually lazy, the other teeming with life and frenetic energy. In my dreams, I'd imagined a walk-up above a workshop in Lorentzville, but being a dutiful daughter, I found myself in Sandton Central instead. If not for Neo living with me, I would've been miserably lonely in the sprawling flat that cost more per month than most people made in a year.

Ndumiso held the door a moment longer. "Good evening, Miss Sokhulu. Must I order you a Bolt?"

"No thanks, Ndumiso." I rocked onto the rounded heels of my training shoes. "I'm walking."

He smiled. "It's cooled down since this afternoon. It'll be nice."

"I've been told to make the most of October before it gets properly hot."

"Very good advice, Miss Sokhulu."

Stepping out from under the sweep of glass canopy that somehow softened all those floors of dark stone above it, I enjoyed the relative quiet of my jacaranda-lined street before I reached the bustle and flow of traffic on Rivonia Road. One day soon, I hoped to blend right in, but for now I still felt like a fraudulent Joburger. I had the address and the job, but I couldn't read a taxi driver's hand signals and I checked the number plate twice before I got into a Bolt. I tried not to walk around wide-eyed and distracted—I'd been warned about that often enough—but it was hard. There was just so much to see and experience.

The sensory input was astonishing—the smell of exhaust fumes mixed with vetkoek frying on a vendor's trolley, the shouts of the car guards blended with amapiano coming out of an open car boot, the awe-inspiring range of faces and styles and accents, the gorgeous architectural wonders … And the cars. Jesus Christ. The frenetic flow of tightly packed cars was unlike anything I'd ever seen anywhere.

There was always an ambulance, a police van, or a fire engine trying to part the flood of white minibus taxis with the electronic wail of earsplitting sirens. I was in awe of the lumbering refuse trucks that got themselves down narrow one-way streets and the delivery riders who threaded their motorbikes through bumper-to-bumper traffic with a deadline sitting on the back.

Real Joburgers cruised right through it all, their love for the city as comfortable and familiar as a favourite pair of shoes. They didn't look up at the first purple coming out on the jacarandas the way I did, and they didn't blink an eye when the pavement gave the faintest shiver underfoot as the Gautrain ran through its tunnel below, while I grinned like an idiot and flexed my toes. Johannesburg was a brand-new love affair for me. I was starry-eyed and it showed.

So I had to really work at playing it cool as I made my way over to the building where I would be working. As far as my job went, at least, I'd got my way. I wanted to make a living based on my own merits, and that meant an entry-level position. Starting the next morning, I would be the assistant to Tshepo Nhlapo at Mothibi Xaba & Madlala, one of the preeminent advertising agencies in the country. My stepfather, the financier Mzwandile Mahlaba, had been annoyed when I took the job, pointing out that if I'd been less prideful I could've worked for a friend of his instead and reaped the benefits of that connection.

"You're as stubborn as your father," he'd said. "It'll take him forever to clear your university account on a policeman's salary."

That had been a major fight, with my father unwilling to back down. "Hayi. No other man pays for my daughter's education," Warrant Officer Luvuyo Ntantiso had said when Mzwandile made the offer. I respected that. I suspected Mzwandile did, too, although he would never admit it. I understood both men's sides, because I'd fought to pay the last of it off myself … and lost. It was a point of pride for my father. My mother had refused to marry him, and his family had never paid inhlawulo either, which is why I carry her surname and not his. It had never stopped him. He'd never wavered from his determination to be my father in every way possible—right down to my name, which is his mother's name, out of the Cape.

Knowing it was pointless to get riled up over old frustrations, I focused on getting to work as quickly as possible. I'd deliberately chosen to clock the short trip during a busy time on a Monday, so I was pleased when I reached The Paragon, at 88 Maude Street, which housed Mothibi Xaba & Madlala, in less than thirty minutes.

I tipped my head back and followed the line of the building all the way up to the slender ribbon of sky. The Paragon was seriously impressive, forty-two floors of dark glass with the clouds sliding down it. I knew from my previous interviews that the interior on the other side of the copper-framed revolving doors was just as awe-inspiring, with gold-veined marble floors and walls and a brushed-aluminium security desk and speed gates.

I pulled my new access card out of the zip pocket in the waistband of my tights and held it up for the two guards in black suits at the desk. They stopped me anyway, no doubt because I was majorly underdressed, but then they cleared me through. After a lift ride up to the twentieth floor, I'd have a general time frame for the whole route from door to door. Score.

I was walking toward the bank of lifts when a svelte, beautifully groomed woman caught her handbag on a speed gate and upended it, spilling a deluge of change. Coins rained onto the marble and rolled merrily away, and I watched people dodge the chaos and keep going as if they didn't see it. I winced in sympathy and crouched to help her collect her money, as did one of the guards.

"Thank you," she said, shooting me a quick, harried smile.

I smiled back. "No problem. I've been there."

I'd just squatted to reach a two-rand coin lying near the entrance when I ran into a pair of luxurious black oxfords under tailored black trousers. I waited a beat for the man to move out of my way and when he didn't, I arched my neck back to allow my line of sight to rise. The bespoke three-piece suit—jacket, waistcoat, all of it—hit more than a few of my hot buttons, but it was the tall, powerfully lean body inside it that made it sensational. Still, as impressive as all that magnificent maleness was, it wasn't until I reached the man's face that I went down for the count.

Wow. Just … wow.

He sank into an elegant crouch directly in front of me. Hit with all that exquisite masculinity at eye level, I could only stare. Stunned.

Then something shifted in the air between us.

As he stared back, he altered … as if a shield slid away from his eyes, revealing a scorching force of will that sucked the air from my lungs. The intense magnetism he exuded grew in strength, becoming a near-tangible impression of vibrant and unrelenting power.

Reacting purely on instinct, I shifted backward. And sprawled flat on my ass.

My elbows throbbed from the violent contact with the marble floor, but I scarcely registered the pain. I was too preoccupied with staring, riveted by the man in front of me. Black hair, cut dense and worn a shade long, framed a breathtaking face. His bone structure would make a sculptor weep with joy, while a firmly etched mouth, a blade of a nose, and eyes the colour of whisky held up to a light—startling against warm brown skin—made him savagely gorgeous. Those eyes narrowed slightly, his features otherwise schooled into impassivity.

His shirt and his suit were both black, but his tie was a deep burnt honey that matched those irises exactly. His eyes were shrewd and assessing, and they bored into me. My heartbeat quickened; my lips parted to accommodate faster breaths. He smelled sinfully good. Not cologne. Body wash, maybe. Or shampoo. Whatever it was, it was mouthwatering, as was he.

He held out a hand to me, exposing gold and onyx cuff links and a very expensive-looking watch.

With a shaky inhalation, I placed my hand in his. My pulse leaped when his grip tightened. His touch was electric, sending a shock up my arm that raised the hairs on my nape. He didn't move for a moment, a frown line marring the space between arrogantly slashed brows.

"Are you all right?"

His voice was cultured and smooth, with a rasp that made my stomach flutter. It brought sex to mind. Extraordinary sex. I thought for a moment that he might be able to make me orgasm just by talking long enough.

My lips were dry, so I licked them before answering. "I'm fine."

He stood with economical grace, pulling me up with him. We maintained eye contact because I was unable to look away. He was younger than I'd assumed at first. Younger than thirty would be my guess, but his eyes were much worldlier. Hard and sharply intelligent.

I felt drawn to him, as if a rope bound my waist and he were slowly, inexorably pulling it.

Blinking out of my semidaze, I released him. He wasn't just beautiful; he was … enthralling. He was the kind of man who made a woman want to rip his shirt open and watch the buttons scatter along with her inhibitions. I looked at him in his civilised, urbane, outrageously expensive suit and thought of raw, primal, sheet-clawing fucking.

He bent down and retrieved the access card I hadn't realised I'd dropped, freeing me from that provocative gaze. My brain stuttered back into gear.

I was irritated with myself for feeling so awkward while he was so completely self-possessed. And why? Because I was dazzled, damn it.

He glanced up at me, and the pose—him nearly kneeling before me—skewed my equilibrium again. He held my gaze as he rose. "Are you sure you're all right? You should sit down for a minute."

My face went hot. How lovely to appear awkward and clumsy in front of the most self-assured and graceful man I'd ever met. "I just lost my balance. I'm okay."

Looking away, I caught sight of the woman who'd dumped the contents of her handbag. She thanked the guard who'd helped her; then she turned to approach me, apologising profusely. I faced her and held out the handful of coins I'd collected, but her gaze snagged on the god in the suit and she promptly forgot me altogether. After a beat, I just reached over and dumped the change into the woman's bag. Then I risked a glance at the man again, finding him watching me even as she gushed thank-yous. To him. Not to me, of course, the one who'd actually helped.

I talked over her. "May I have my card, please?"

He offered it back to me. Although I made an effort to retrieve it without touching him, his fingers brushed mine, sending that charge of awareness into me all over again.

"Thank you," I muttered before skirting him and pushing out to the street through the revolving door. I paused on the pavement, gulping in a breath of Johannesburg air redolent with a million different things, some good and some toxic.

There was a sleek black Bentley Bentayga at the kerb in front of the building, and I saw my reflection in its spotless tinted windows. My face was hot and my brown eyes were overly bright. I'd seen that look on my face before—in the bathroom mirror just before I went to bed with a man. It was my I'm-ready-to-fuck look and it had absolutely no business being on my face now.

Christ. Get a grip.

Five minutes with Mr Dark and Dangerous, and I was filled with an edgy, restless energy. I could still feel the pull of him, the inexplicable urge to go back inside where he was. I could make the argument that I hadn't finished what I'd come to The Paragon to do, but I knew I'd kick myself for it later. How many times was I going to make an ass of myself in one day?

"Enough," I scolded myself under my breath. "Moving on."

Hooters blared as one taxi cut in front of another with centimetres to spare and then stood on its brakes as daring pedestrians stepped into the intersection seconds before the robot changed. Shouting ensued, a barrage of expletives and hand gestures that didn't carry real anger behind them. In seconds all the parties would forget the exchange, which was just one beat in the natural tempo of the city.

As I melded into the flow of foot traffic and pulled up the app for a Bolt to Oxford Road, a smile teased my mouth. Yoh, Johannesburg, I thought, feeling settled again. You're something else.

At the Oxford Club I'd planned on warming up on a treadmill, then capping off the hour with a few of the machines, but when I saw that a beginners' kickboxing class was about to start, I followed the mass of waiting students into that instead. By the time it was over, I felt more like myself. My muscles quivered with the perfect amount of fatigue, and I knew I'd sleep hard when I crashed later.

"You did really well."

I wiped the sweat off my face with a towel and looked at the man who'd spoken to me. Lanky and sleekly muscular, he had keen dark eyes and smooth medium-brown skin. His lashes were enviably thick and long, and his head was shaved bald.

"Thank you." My mouth twisted ruefully. "Pretty obvious it was my first time, huh?"

He grinned and held out his hand. "Mxolisi Mnisi. Everyone calls me Mxo."

"Aviwe Sokhulu."

"You've got natural balance, Aviwe. With a bit of training you could be a literal knockout. In a city like this, knowing how to defend yourself isn't optional." He gestured over to a noticeboard on the wall, covered in business cards and flyers held up with drawing pins. Tearing a tab off the bottom of a fluorescent sheet of paper, he held it out to me. "Ever heard of Krav Maga?"

"In a Liam Neeson film."

"I teach it, and I'd like to teach you. That's the website and the number for the studio."

I admired his approach. It was direct, like his gaze, and his smile was genuine. I'd wondered if he was angling toward a pickup, but he was cool enough about it that I couldn't be sure.

Mxo crossed his arms, which showed off cut biceps. He wore a black sleeveless top and long shorts. His Converse takkies looked comfortably beaten up, and tattoos peeked out from his collar. "We're in Lorentzville, in an old warehouse. The hours are on the site. You must come by and watch, see if it's for you."

"I'll definitely think about it."

"Do that." He extended his hand again, and his grip was solid and confident. "I hope to see you."

The flat smelled fabulous when I got back home, and Ami Faku was coming low and soulful through the surround sound speakers. I looked across the open-plan lounge into the kitchen and saw Neo swaying to the music while stirring something on the hob. There was an open bottle of wine on the counter and two goblets, one of which was half filled with red wine.

"Hey," I called out as I got closer. "What are you cooking? And do I have time for a shower first?"

He poured wine into the other goblet and slid it across the breakfast bar to me, his movements practised and elegant. No one would know from looking at him that he'd spent his childhood bouncing between an addicted mother and foster placements, followed by an adolescence that ran through a child and youth care centre, a secure care centre and an in-patient rehab. "Pasta with mince. And skip the shower, dinner's ready. Have fun?"

"Once I got to the gym, yeah." I pulled out one of the teak bar stools and sat. I told him about the kickboxing class and Mxo Mnisi. "Want to come with me?"

"Krav Maga?" Neo shook his head. "That's hard-core. I'd get bruised up and that would cost me jobs. But I'll come with you to look, just in case this guy's a creep."

I watched him tip the pasta into a waiting colander. "A creep, huh?"

My father had taught me to read men pretty well, which was how I'd known the god in the suit was trouble. Ordinary people offered token smiles when they helped someone, just to make a momentary connection that smoothed the way.

Then again, I hadn't smiled at him either.

"Baby girl," Neo said, pulling bowls out of the cupboard, "you're a sexy, stunning woman. I question any man who doesn't have the balls to ask you outright for a date."

I wrinkled my nose at him.

He set a bowl in front of me. It contained tiny tubes of pasta covered in a skimpy tomato sauce with lumps of mince and peas. "You've got something on your mind. What is it?"

Hmm … I caught the handle of the spoon sticking out of the bowl and decided not to comment on the food. "I think I ran into the hottest man on the planet today. Maybe the hottest man in the history of the world."

"Oh? I thought that was me. Do tell me more." Neo stayed on the other side of the counter, preferring to stand and eat.

I watched him take a couple of bites of his own concoction before I felt brave enough to try it myself. "Not much to tell, really. I ended up sprawled on my ass in the lobby of The Paragon and he gave me a hand up."

"Tall or short? Built or lean? Eyes? Give me something."

I washed down my second bite with some wine. "Tall. Lean and built. Eyes like whisky held up to a light, I swear. Filthy rich, judging by his clothes and his watch. And he was insanely sexy. You know how it is—some good-looking men don't make your hormones go crazy, while some unattractive ones have massive sex appeal. This guy had it all."

My belly fluttered as it had when Dark and Dangerous touched me. In my mind, I remembered his breathtaking face with crystal clarity. It should be illegal for a man to be that mind-blowing. I was still recovering from the frying of my brain cells.

Neo set his elbow on the counter and leaned in, the light catching the gold in his eyes. "So what happened after he helped you up?"

I shrugged. "Nothing."

"Hayibo. Nothing?"

"I left."

"What? You didn't flirt with him?"

I took another bite. Really, the meal wasn't bad. Or else I was just starving. "He wasn't the kind of man you flirt with, Neo."

"There is no such thing as a man you can't flirt with. Even the happily married ones enjoy a little harmless flirtation now and then."

"There was nothing harmless about this guy," I said dryly.

"Ah, one of those." Neo nodded sagely. "Bad boys can be fun, if you don't get too close."

Of course he would know; men and women of all ages fell at his feet. Still, he somehow managed to pick the wrong partner every time. He'd dated stalkers, and cheaters, and lovers who threatened to kill themselves over him, and lovers with significant others they didn't tell him about … Name it, he'd been through it.

"I can't see this guy ever being fun," I said. "He was way too intense. Still, I bet he'd be awesome in bed with all that intensity."

"Now you're talking. Forget the real man. Just use his face in your fantasies and make him perfect there."

Preferring to get him out of my head altogether, I changed the subject. "You have any go-sees tomorrow?"

"Of course." Neo launched into the details of his schedule, mentioning a denim campaign, a grooming brand, underwear, and a cologne.

I shoved everything else out of my mind and focused on him and his growing success. The demand for Neo Mabena was increasing by the day, and he was building a reputation with photographers and accounts for being both professional and prompt. I was thrilled for him and so proud. He'd come a long way and been through so much.

It wasn't until after dinner that I noticed the two large gift boxes propped against the side of the corner couch.

"What are those?"

"Those," Neo said, joining me in the lounge, "are the ultimate."

I knew immediately they were from Mzwandile and my mother. Money was something my mother needed in order to be happy, and I was glad Mzwandile, husband number three, was able to fill that need for her and all her many others as well. I often wished that could be the end of it, but my mother had a difficult time accepting that I didn't view money the same way she did. "What now?"

He threw his arm around my shoulders, easy enough for him to do because he was a head taller. "Don't be ungrateful. He loves your mother. He loves spoiling your mother, and your mother loves spoiling you. As much as you don't like it, he doesn't do it for you. He does it for her."

Sighing, I conceded his point. "What are they?"

"Glam for the Isivikelo Foundation fund-raiser on Saturday. A Gert-Johan Coetzee dress for you and a dinner suit for me, because buying gifts for me is what he does for you. You're more tolerant if you have me around to listen to you bitch."

"Damn straight. Thank God he knows that."

"Of course he knows. Mzwandile wouldn't be a bazillionaire if he didn't know everything." Neo caught my hand and tugged me over. "Come on. Take a look."

*

I pushed through the revolving door of The Paragon into the lobby ten minutes before nine the next morning. Wanting to make the best impression on my first day, I'd gone with a simple sheath dress paired with black heels that I swapped for my walking shoes during the lift ride up. My twist-out was pinned up into a sleek-fronted bun, courtesy of Neo. I was hair-inept, but he could take my own hair and make a glamorous masterpiece of it. I wore the small pearl studs my father had given me when I graduated and the Rolex from Mzwandile and my mother.

I had begun to think I'd put too much care into my appearance, but as I stepped into the lobby I remembered being sprawled across the floor in my gym clothes and I was grateful I didn't look anything like that graceless girl. The two security guards didn't seem to put two and two together when I flashed them my access card on the way to the speed gates.

Twenty floors later, I was stepping out into the vestibule of Mothibi Xaba & Madlala. Before me was a wall of bulletproof glass that framed the double-door entrance to the reception area. The receptionist at the crescent-shaped desk saw the card I held up to the glass. She hit the button that unlocked the doors as I put it away.

"Hi, Nokwazi," I greeted her when I stepped inside, admiring her cranberry-coloured blouse. She was very pretty. Her hair was a sleek bob, shorter at the back and razor sharp at the front, and not one strand of it moved. Her eyes were dark and warm, and her lips were full.

"Aviwe, hi. Tshepo's not in yet, but you know where you're going, right?"

"Absolutely." With a wave, I took the passage to the left of the reception desk all the way to the end, where I made another left turn and ended up in a formerly open space now partitioned into cubicles. One was mine and I went straight to it.

I dropped my handbag and the bag holding my walking shoes into the bottom drawer of my utilitarian metal desk, then started up my computer. I'd brought a couple of things to personalise my space, and I pulled them out. One was a framed collage of three photos—me and Neo at Muizenberg with the bathing boxes behind us, my mother and Mzwandile on his boat at the V&A Marina, and my father on duty in uniform beside a marked SAPS van at Gugulethu. The other item was a colourful arrangement of glass flowers that Neo had given me just that morning as a first-day gift. I tucked it beside the small grouping of photos and sat back to take in the effect.

"Good morning, Aviwe."

I pushed to my feet to face my boss. "Good morning, Mr Nhlapo."

"Tshepo, please. Come through to my office."

I followed him across the strip of passage, once again thinking that my new boss was very easy to look at, with his close-cropped head, trim goatee, and laughing dark eyes. Tshepo had a square jaw and a charmingly crooked smile. He was trim and fit, and he carried himself with a confident poise that inspired trust and respect.

He gestured at one of the two seats in front of his glass-and-chrome desk and waited until I sat to settle into his Aeron chair. Against the backdrop of sky and glass towers, Tshepo looked accomplished and powerful. He was, in fact, just a junior account manager, and his office was a cupboard compared to the ones occupied by the directors and executives, but no one could fault the view.

He leaned back and smiled. "Did you get settled into your new flat?"

I was surprised he remembered, but I appreciated it, too. I'd met him during my second interview and liked him right away. "For the most part," I answered. "Still a few stray boxes here and there."

"You moved up from Cape Town, right? Beautiful city, but very different from here. Do you miss the mountain?"

"I miss the wind, if you can believe it. It's so dry up here my skin doesn't know what's happening to it."

"Wait till the storms start." He smiled. "So … it's your first day and you're my first assistant, so we'll have to figure this out as we go. I'm not used to delegating, but I'm sure I'll pick it up quickly."

I was instantly at ease. "I'm eager to be delegated to."

"Having you around is a big step up for me, Aviwe. I'd like you to be as happy working here. Do you drink coffee?"

"Coffee is one of my major food groups."

"Ah, an assistant after my own heart." His smile widened. "I'm not going to ask you to fetch coffee for me, but I wouldn't mind if you helped me work out how to use the new Nespresso machines they've just put in the kitchens."

I grinned. "No problem."

"How sad is it that I don't have anything else for you?" He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Why don't I show you the accounts I'm working on and we'll go from there?"

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Tshepo touched base with two clients and had a long meeting with the creative team working on concept ideas for a private college. It was a fascinating process, seeing at first hand how the various departments picked up the baton from one another to carry a campaign from proposition to fruition. I might've stayed late just to get a better feel of the layout of the offices, but my phone rang at ten minutes to five.

"Tshepo Nhlapo's office. Aviwe Sokhulu speaking."

"Get your ass home so we can go out for the drink you dodged yesterday."

Neo's mock sternness made me smile. "All right, all right. I'm coming."

Shutting down my computer, I cleared out. When I reached the bank of lifts, I pulled out my phone to WhatsApp a quick On my way to Neo. A ding alerted me to which car was stopping on my floor and I moved over to stand in front of it, briefly returning my attention to hitting send. When the doors opened, I took a step forward. I glanced up to watch where I was going and whisky-coloured eyes met mine. My breath caught.

The sex god was the lone occupant.