Page 24 of How To Tempt The Off-Limits Billionaire

Working hard stopped her from overanalyzing and made time move quickly. The power and water to St. Urban were restored the day after Muzi left for the city and, since then, she’d worked eight-to ten-hour physically demanding days at the mansion, systematically clearing one room before moving on to the next. She now had a system—things to toss, things to keep, things to donate—and she was making slow but steady progress. She’d pulled down curtains, washed exquisite, vintage china, taken heavy and old paintings off walls and ripped up carpets. She’d boxed diaries, thrown away forty years of newspapers and found five cases of a very old, exceptionally fine whiskey.

She wasn’t a whiskey drinker but Muzi and her brothers would, she was sure, appreciate a case each.

She was proud of her progress and an unexpected benefit of hard work was that her anxiety levels had plummeted. By the end of the day, she had just enough energy to eat the meals Muzi’s housekeeper prepared for her, shower and fall into bed. Worrying and thinking required more energy than she currently possessed, and she was often asleep before nine o’clock, sleeping well until the next morning.

She was still ignoring Kelvin—not a day passed without him trying to connect with her—she spoke to Siya on an as-needed basis instead of constantly peppering him with questions about the trust and, instead of pressuring her parents to save their marriage, she was trying to give them some breathing room.

She didn’t waste her time thinking about Gil and Zia.

She felt better, stronger, fitter...more in control.

Yep, Muzi—so damn smart—had been right when he said she needed to take a break.

Ro took her time walking through his house, stopping to admire a sculpture or the art on his walls. On her way to the kitchen, her attention was caught by the intense colors of an abstract painting to her left. She stopped at the open door to Muzi’s study—normally kept closed—and moved her eyes to the painting on the wall opposite his desk.

It couldn’t be...could it?

Because she’d spent a lot of time with the Murphy International representative, the auction house selling Gil and Zia’s art and collectibles, she immediately recognized the artist as Irma Stern. Gil and Zia owned three of her paintings, one of which she was keeping. She’d put the other two up for auction and each carried an auction estimate of more than twenty million dollars. Muzi’s painting, bigger, bolder and better executed than any of the paintings in Gil and Zia’s collection, had to be worth more.

How the hell did Muzi afford a painting by one of the country’s best artists? Oh, she could understand the impressive house—he was the CEO of an international wine company—and he earned well, but she would’ve thought that a painting by such an amazing, important artist would be beyond his price bracket.

Ro turned around, saw another smaller painting on the wall next to the window and realized that it was a sketch by Degas, and on the desk was a sculpture by William Kentridge. Not in the same league as Degas and Irma Stern but ridiculously expensive all the same.

So, Muzi had pots of money as well as taste. She didn’t give a fig about the money, but she did applaud his taste.

Ro walked out of his study and walked through the lounge toward the kitchen, sighing at the smell of fresh coffee and what she thought might be fresh croissants. She adored Muzi’s housekeeper.

If she couldn’t wake up with Muzi in her bed, then coffee and croissants were the next best way to start the day.

Ro added boiling water to the coffee carafe and placed it on the tray. The breakfast tray was bulging with goodies and she picked it up and carefully made her way out to the entertainment deck, choosing the small iron table instead of the outside dining table that seated eight.

It was shortly past nine, she’d slept later than usual, but it was Sunday and no one was waiting for her at St. Urban. A gentle breeze danced over the vineyards and the garden and it was already pleasantly hot. She thought she might lie in the sun after breakfast, and do a few lazy laps in the pool.

Unless Muzi had other plans for them...

She still wanted him, Ro decided, slathering her open croissant with butter. She wanted to know what being with him was like, whether reality could ever match her imagination. Ro stared out at the mountain dominating her view, remembering Muzi telling her that he couldn’t promise her anything.

After being in such a long relationship, she was fine with that. She didn’t know if she was ready for anything more than a bed-based friendship.

She’d always know where she stood with Muzi, he was stunningly honest, and she respected that. After Kelvin’s duplicity, she’d rather be hurt with the truth than comforted by a lie. Honesty was a gift she never expected to receive.

She could have an affair with Muzi and when it was time for her to return home—sometime before Christmas—she could leave with a smile and some awesome memories. The thought of going back to the States made her mouth suddenly dry.

She didn’t know if LA was where she wanted to be...

“Anyone home?”

Ro turned at the strange voice and watched as an extremely attractive, slim woman walked through Muzi’s lounge and stepped onto his entertainment deck. She was followed by a younger man wearing an untucked button-down shirt and black chino shorts, trendy trainers on his feet.

She recognized them instantly, from Pasco’s. Susan and Keegan? No, Keane.

She wiped her lips with a serviette and wondered why she hadn’t heard them knock, or the sound of a doorbell. It was a big house but notthatbig and she knew that Greta, Muzi’s live-in housekeeper, had left to attend a church service in town. Greta normally didn’t work on a Sunday but she was on a mission to look after and feed the, in her eyes, too-thin American.

“The front door was open so we came on in,” Susan said. She waved a thin hand, her superlong ruby-red nails flashing in the sunlight. “It’s the country, we don’t stand on ceremony here.”

Ro thought she had a great deal of chutzpah to walk unannounced into Muzi’s house but she wasn’t a South African, maybe they did things differently here.

Ro gave mother and son a quick once-over. It was obvious the two were related. They both had deep red hair, the same green eyes and a long nose. Both wore expensive clothing: their watches and her jewelry could prop up the economy of a developing country.

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