Chapter 1
Hunting
The trick in life, I think, is to figure out what you truly want and then go all out to get it. And what I want, more than anything else, is the Beast.
That’s why I’m out here on my surfboard, rising and falling on the gentle ocean swell of the frigid waters of False Bay, just off the southern tip of Africa. I glance around, keeping an eye out for sharks. Surfing at sunset, when great whites make their dinner run, is not wise — but I’m hunting, too.
My prey is on the luxury yacht that lies directly ahead of me, anchored in silhouette against the coral blush of the wide October sky. It’s a high-speed, top-of-the-range model, at least twenty metres long, with twin decks, and a jet-ski and inflatable dinghy tethered behind. Two small flags, the South African and the American, hang on a pole projecting out from the back, flapping idly in the light breeze.
It’ll be dark in twenty minutes. Back on shore, the sun is setting behind the rugged mountain ridge of the Cape Peninsula, casting the hillside village of Simon’s Town into shadow. Out here on the ocean, the last of the day’s summer sun shines down through a hole in the clouds, bathing the yacht in rose-gold light. If I squint and crick my head sideways, then the gap in the clouds looks heart shaped. That has to be a good omen for a heartthrob-hunter.
I don’t dare approach until night falls — the last thing I need is the Beast’s security to spot me. Being an eighteen-year-old girl would make them regard me with more, not less, suspicion. Here, in my black wetsuit, floating among the surface tangle of dark kelp closer to shore, I’m camouflaged. And a little safer from the predators of the deep who might be circling me, even as I hunt him.
The sky surrenders its last blush, the clouds smudge charcoal against the deepening wash of indigo, and the first star emerges from its infinity of darkness. On the yacht, the lights come on. A necklace of jewel-coloured lanterns strung around the deck rails, sways gently, while up on the bow of the deck, a string quartet strikes up a theme from one of the soundtracks I know so well. The sounds of music and laughter pulse in disconnected waves across the water.
I paddle nearer, keeping to the shadowed, shoreward side of the yacht. When I’m near enough to hear voices and the clink of glasses, I push myself up and sit astride my board, with my legs dangling in the water. Despite my wetsuit, it’s cold. But it’ll be worth any discomfort if I just catch a glimpse of him.
I lift my binoculars, pop the lens-caps off, and adjust the magnification. The knot in the bow tie around some man’s neck comes into sharp focus. Quickly, I tilt the lenses up to check the face.
Not him.
The famous and the fabulous — in a glittering display of sequined gowns, overflowing cleavages, tuxedos, diamonds and painted talons — crowd both the upper and lower levels of the yacht. I admire the balance of the beautiful young women who totter about in stiletto heels on the unsteady surface of the deck. I don’t think I could stay upright, let alone walk, in such killer heels, even on firm land.
They all look ecstatically happy as they nibble their snacks and sip from their slender flutes of champagne. Their faces are animated, and their laughs free — it’s like a sparkly fragment from a different world. What wouldn’t I give to be up there, to be a part of all that? To be wearing a designer dress, exotic perfume and gorgeous jewellery, trading funny stories while I waited, like they do, for him?
It’s easy to tell the actors from the others. Their bodies are perfectly tanned and toned, their teeth flawlessly white and straight, their hair immaculately coloured and cut. I scan the faces — many of them are familiar to me — but I can’t find his.
Is my information wrong?
Zeb, my best friend and fellow final-year student at Table Mountain High School, is usually an excellent and reliable source of gossip. But what he’d told me earlier today when we’d chatted on the phone had seemed too good to be true.
“Did you know that the gods and goddesses are descending tonight?” Zeb had said. “But they won’t be mingling with mere mortals, Romy, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“English, please,” I sighed, scowling at the stacks of notes and textbooks piled up on the desk in my bedroom. The last two exams of my finals — biology and chemistry — were creeping closer, and I needed to do some serious studying.
“Well, you know what crew is currently in town — making the most of the local currency, filming our magnificent mountain, our rugged coastline, our deadly critters?”
“Zeb! Spit it out.” Suddenly I was paying close attention.
“Patience, woman, I’m getting to it. I heard from Lebo, who works down at Luxury Charters, that they’ve hired a yacht — one of those massive, sleek, pointy-nosed jobs. And they’re taking it out tonight, for a party. For him — your Beast.”
I gasped and clutched the phone tighter.
“Hello? Romy? You still there?”
“I’m here.” I swallowed. “You reckon it’s true?”
“I trust my sources. Lebo said they were chartering a sunset and evening cruise — for a ‘private celebration.’”
That fit. It was the thirty-first of October.
“It’s his birthday,” I said. “He’s turning twenty today. He’s a Scorpio.”
“Trust you to know that.”
“I’m going. I’ll tell my parents that I’m at your house, and that we’re studying meiosis and mitosis together.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds disgusting.”
“Just cover for me if they call, okay? But I’ve got to go.”
“Go? How? They have security to keep people like you away. Are you planning to stow away on board in a crate of champagne?”
“Don’t be silly. They probably won’t go out far. If they anchor just offshore, then I could swim out —”
“Like that’s not silly.”
“— or go out on my board. Did your source say where they were going?”
“I shouldn’t have told you — pretend I didn’t! I only mentioned it because I knew you’d be interested. I never thought you’d try to stalk him.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“No good will come of this. You need to get over this obsession, focus on your exams.”
“Don’t make me come down there and beat it out of you! Tell me. Now.”
“You are such a violent creature, Romy Morgan. Honestly, you scare me sometimes. Off Simon’s Town. There, happy now? A party among the penguins, apparently.” He gave a bark of laughter. “That would make a good one: Beast: Black and White. He could use method acting to master the waddle.”
“Thanks, I owe you one. What time is sunset, do you know?”
“Don’t you have to study?”
“I need a break.”
“Then come over and hang out with me. Or go out and party the night away.”
“Yeah, because my social life is that exciting.”
“Don’t do it, friend. You’ll only make yourself feel wretched with what you can’t have.”
“I just want to look, to see how the other half lives.”
“Pfft! What do they have that we don’t? I mean,” he qualified, “apart from fame and fortune and genetic giftedness?”
“They have a life,” I said. “Unlike us, they have a life filled with fun and excitement and travel and magic-making. And freedom!”
Above all, freedom.
“You really think?”
“I really think.”
“Well, do what you must then, but don’t get arrested for stalking or trespassing. And don’t completely lose your head, or your heart. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “a chunk of flesh to the sharks.”
Easier said than done, I think now, as I bob out on the open ocean, circling the yacht, waiting for him to appear.
Someone clinks a glass three times, and the musicians bring their tune to a rapid end.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice, strong and female, cuts through the hubbub.
I train my binoculars on the speaker, who stands near the bar on the upper deck. She’s older, tall and striking in a flowing black dress. I suspect she’s not an actor — her nose is too long and her jaw too firm for Hollywood’s idea of female beauty — but I can tell from her aura of power and confidence that she’s somebody important. When she turns her head to glance behind her, I see that a bold slash of white streaks her black hair above her right temple.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she repeats over the quieting voices. “I give you — the Beast!”
A loud chorus of cheers and applause greets her announcement, and the musicians strike up the Beast theme music. Craning my neck and straining to see the tall figure who’s just appeared on deck, I curse the people who crowd around him, greeting and back-slapping and blocking my view. Then the throng parts, and he steps forward. And speaks.
“Please, just call me Logan.”