by Hazel Hunter
CONTENTS
Title
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Note from the Author
Copyright
DESERT THIRST
An Erotic Expedition Novella
PART 1
By Hazel Hunter
CHAPTER ONE
Lou wiped the sweat from her forehead as she shouldered the camera bag. It was spring, not yet midday, and already one hundred degrees. When the plane had taxied toward the lone building on the tarmac, the pilot of the Air France flight had rattled off the local conditions in Tamanrasset, her final destination in Algeria. The key conditions that struck her were the single digit humidity and the triple digit temperature.
As she emerged from the front hatch onto the metal stair landing, she shielded her eyes from the sun.
God it was hot–an intense heat unlike any other. Then again, it was the Sahara desert.
She shuffled in line with the men. Ever since leaving Algiers, she’d been the only woman except for the stewardesses. Stolen looks and not-so-stolen looks surrounded her.
Let them look. There’s nothing to see.
Although it was insufferable, she wore long sleeves and capri pants. Not only did local culture dictate it, the intensity of the sun on her fair skin did as well. As she slowly made her way down the stairs, sweat trickled from her temple and she wiped it away. Some of the heat she felt was the climate but some of it was him. She glanced at the terminal. Quinn would be waiting there.
Tall, gorgeous, and scary. That’s how one of the girls at the Washington D.C. office had described him but the group photo she’d posted on Facebook didn’t do him justice. Lou had discovered that on her first visit. But scary wasn’t the right word. There was something beneath his gruff exterior and it wasn’t soft or sensitive. It was hard, even dangerous, and it was anything but scary. It was irresistible.
She started down the stairs, grasped the rail to steady herself, but immediately yanked her hand back.
“Ow!” she exclaimed.
It was hot enough to burn! How quickly she’d forgotten.
The man below her paused and turned. He was smirking.
“Never touch metal in the desert,” he said in French.
Like most of the other men, he wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and long pants. His dark eyes glinted but never met hers. Instead, a few steps below her, they were level with her chest. He stared.
Lou drew her mouth into a tight line and quickly grasped the camera bag strap at her shoulder with both hands, using her arms to cover herself. She’d been about to make a retort when he turned, still smirking, and continued down the stairs.
She took the next few steps slowly, to keep away from the man below her, and didn’t touch the handrail. The checked luggage was already arranged in rows on the ground in the shadow of the plane.
Though it hardly seemed possible, the black surface of the tarmac was even hotter. As she bent to pick up her backpack, she felt the heat radiating upward. For once, she was glad for the thick-soled boots. She put on the large backpack and held the camera bag by the handle. It contained all the tech-gear that she couldn’t trust to the luggage system. The terminal building was only a couple hundred feet ahead. The line of passengers had broken up and the men were moving at different paces but the one who’d been in front of her was still nearby, looking at her with sidelong glances.
She ignored him. In a few moments, he’d want nothing to do with her. On the other side of that dark glass, Quinn would be waiting.
At least Lou hoped he was.
• • • • •
Quinn stood with his arms crossed, watching through the tall windows as the passengers headed across the blacktop. He’d recognized Lou the moment she’d exited the plane. Her red hair stood out like a beacon.
Few foreigners ventured this far into the south of Algeria–mostly people like himself or Lou, field agents for the World Wildlife Fund or working for some other international groups. There were also some adventure travelers and eco-tourists but they almost never travelled alone. Quinn scanned the men around Lou but no one spoke to her or even walked near. She seemed to be alone.
Where’s the partner?
He hadn’t looked closely at the email except for the date and time of her arrival. Technology frustrated him. He’d just assumed the guy would be with her. He watched with new interest as she approached and the men hung back around her, trying to get a look. The turquoise blouse hugged her curved figure. Along with the thin and clinging pants, she might as well be wearing a sign that said ‘look at me,’ which Quinn was content to do. Behind her, the metal gangway was empty and no more passengers were visible at the plane’s door.
It’d been four weeks since he’d sent his infrared photo of the Painted Hunting Dog to the local field office. Once thought extinct in the Ahaggar Mountain region of the Sahara, his finding had sent shock waves through the conservation community.
He had been tracking it for months without success and though his gut instinct had told him that the elusive creature was there, he hadn’t had the evidence he needed. He’d been patient, though, something that bushcraft and desert survival had taught him. Eventually, it had paid off.
At the plane, the crew was disembarking.
Easily a head taller than anyone else and standing behind the crowd, Quinn could see everyone. As Lou entered, she saw him immediately and altered course, all without breaking stride.
And she was alone.
• • • • •
“Hello, Quinn,” Lou said, smiling.
Her heart raced a little and she realized she was actually nervous. He was exactly like she remembered him. Olive-skinned, dark-haired, with deep-set eyes, he looked like he might be an exotic mix–maybe part Berber–though he’d never said. He wore long, nicely fit pants and his half-sleeve shirt seemed overstuffed–in a good way. His hair was a little longer, a little wilder, and she decided that suited him. With his arms crossed and the easy stance, he looked like an Olympic athlete, as well as a bit imposing.
“Your head should be covered,” he said.
She stopped smiling.
Same old Quinn. Not even a hello.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he said. “Wearing clothes like that and not covering your head.”
“Clothes like what?” she asked, immediately annoyed.
“Pants that aren’t long enough,” he said, looking down at her shins.
“Not long enough?” she said, looking down at herself.
She put her hands on her hips. The clothes she was wearing were already too hot. The last thing she needed was to wear more.
“Do you have something for your hair?” he said. “Like a scarf?”
She looked back up at him and exhaled.
“Look, it’s not like I’m a local or that I’ll ever look like one. This is already way more than I had planned to wear in weather like this.”
“Exactly,” he said.
Exactly?
“You’re not a local,” he continued. “And drawing attention to yourself is the last thing you want to do. Things have become a little tense since you were here.”
“I see,” she said, feeling her jaw tighten.
She’d read the brief on the plane. This part of Algeria had been a crossroads for centuries. Several violent elements traditionally intersected here and those now included terrorists. The rate of kidnappings of foreigners had recently surged.
He stood there looking down at her, waiting. The square jaw that seconds ago had been handsome now looked set.
“Do you have a scarf?” he asked.
She sighed, setting her camera bag and backpack on the floor.
“A bandana will have to do,�
� she muttered.
“Fine,” he said.
She dug around in one of the middle pockets for it.
“It’s for your own good,” he said, as she took it out. “Every man in here is watching you. A woman who looks like you needs to be extra careful.”
She hesitated. A woman who looks like me. She almost smiled.
“The scarf will help,” he continued.
She found the bandana and also the small canister of mace.
“What’s that?” asked Quinn.
“Mace,” she said, dropping it into a side-pocket of her pants. “I hear the situation in the area has become tense.”
“If you think that’s protection, you’re wrong.”
She ignored him and started to drape the bandana over her head.
“Not here,” he said quickly. “Do that in the restroom.”
“Okay, Quinn,” she said, putting it on. “Let’s get this straight now. I don’t take orders from you. I know this is Algeria.” She tied the corners of the bandana at the back of her neck, under her hair. “I saw plenty of women in Algiers who dressed more modern than this.”
She picked up her pack and slung it over both shoulders but took the opportunity to quickly scan the terminal.
“This isn’t Algiers,” he said, glancing around. He looked back at her, directly in the eyes. “And I’m not giving you orders. I’m trying to help.”
He’d softened his voice.
She nodded and picked up the camera bag, trying not to be aware of his dark eyes on her.
“It’s been a long trip,” she said, softening her tone as well. “Maybe we can just get going.”
“Where’s your partner?” he asked, looking over her head toward the plane.
“I don’t have one.”
He looked down at her.
“I told you last time, I don’t have a partner. Jim was only here because he was interested.”
Quinn actually smirked at that, which, for no reason she could put her finger on, was infuriating.
“Can we just go?” she said.
“Sure,” he said, not offering to help with the backpack or the bag.
“The Rover’s out front,” he said.
She had actually been looking forward to seeing him. Apparently the feeling hadn’t been mutual.
CHAPTER TWO
Still the same temper, Quinn thought, as they bounced along the dirt road.
But what he’d said had been the truth. Lou Thornton was a beauty, even after a day of travel. She’d taken off the bandana, put her hair in a ponytail, rolled up her sleeves, and opened the top of her shirt a couple buttons as soon as they’d cleared the edge of town. In this part of the world, she wasn’t just pretty, she was striking. As they’d left Tamanrasset behind, he couldn’t help but look in the rearview mirror. No doubt being with him afforded some measure of protection from the usual male scrutiny but the looks in the village had been strange.
Kidnappers of various flavors abounded in Saharan Africa: any type of terrorist you could imagine, of course, but the most present threat to either of them would come from poachers. While the WWF was trying to preserve the Painted Hunting Dog, herders were trying to rid themselves of it even as poachers were trying to capitalize on its mottled, colorful, and valuable hide. He looked in the rearview mirror again.
“How far did you say it was?” she said, over the sound of the engine and tires coming through the open windows.
“Twenty miles as the crow flies,” he replied.
He let the Rover slow as a particularly large pit in the road became visible. As the front left wheel dipped into it and then out, the vehicle tilted and righted itself. He and Lou swayed in unison as he gripped the steering wheel and she held onto the handle above the passenger window.
Then the back left wheel did the same. She did a good job of rolling with the vehicle, paying attention to the road, and not getting unnecessarily jolted.
“What does that mean in terms of time?” she asked, watching the road.
“We should be there by the end of the day,” he replied.
He glanced away from the road to see her reaction.
As she swayed back into position, he couldn’t help but notice the seat belt pressing between her breasts, highlighting them. He forced himself to look away.
When the vehicle was moving slowly, as it was now, he could smell her perfume. Like any natural tracker, his sense of smell was excellent. It had given him that extra advantage on more than one occasion and he’d always been glad for it–except for now. The smell of her was everywhere. It immediately put him into tracking mode, as though he were a predator and she was–
“So what happened to Jim?” he asked, to distract himself.
She took several seconds before answering.
“He didn’t particularly like the field,” she said.
Quinn gunned the engine a bit as the dirt road flattened out. The wind helped to clear his head.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said.
In fact, it was a gross understatement. He hadn’t seemed accustomed to the field at all but the way he’d hovered around Lou had made it very clear why he was there.
In his peripheral vision, he saw her look at him.
“He seemed a little green,” he said. “Unlike you.”
“I was hired specifically for the fieldwork.”
He already knew that she’d been with the WWF for about five years, since leaving school. She looked like she might be thirty–such that the end of school probably meant a master’s degree in her mid-twenties. He stole a quick look at her as dirt and small rocks pinged against the underside of the SUV. Fieldwork suited her. She was most definitely physically fit.
“Stay hydrated,” he said, returning his attention to the road. “The low humidity makes it seem cooler than it is.”
She must have already been thirsty because she immediately reached for her water.
“The thirst will creep up on you,” he said.
“I remember.”
No doubt she did. Jim had tried to compete with Quinn. Even now, it almost made him shake his head. Green and on Quinn’s turf, Jim had tried to compete. It’d be laughable except for how close he’d come to dying. Heat stroke, plain and simple. It was a killer. They’d evacuated him in the nick of time. The whole expedition had been a loss. They hadn’t even come close to a Painted Hunting Dog.
As she took a drink from the wide-mouthed plastic bottle, the SUV rocked. It lurched left as one of the front tires found a rut and quickly aligned with the middle of it. Water poured down her chin and then the front of her throat. It quickly splashed onto her breasts and the outline of her bra became apparent under the thin blue material.
“Great,” she said, wiping her chin.
He made sure to look at the road but he no longer saw it. His hands automatically turned the wheel, avoiding the largest holes, taking the ones that couldn’t be avoided slowly. Instead of the road, his head was filled with what he’d just seen. It was going to be a long drive.
• • • • •
Lou admired the muscles of Quinn’s arms as he worked the steering wheel. He wasn’t much for chitchat, which was fine with her. She wasn’t particularly good at it. She’d been hired to do fieldwork because she preferred it. The simple world of animals was straightforward and understandable. There were no egos or lies, no pretending. Few people that she’d ever met had managed to behave as well as an animal. Over time, she’d learned to get to know people as little as possible and enjoy the illusion of their integrity. Quinn, however, intrigued her. She’d learned next to nothing about him on that disastrous first trip.
“How long have you been in Algeria?” she said as she opened the camera bag.
“Three years,” he said. “I came for the WWF but I stayed for the Sahara.”
“The Sahara?”
The most forbidding and desolate desert in the world?
“You’ll see,” he said, smiling.
It was the
first time he’d smiled since she’d arrived. Despite his age, maybe early thirties, his smile was boyish. She remembered being pleasantly surprised when they’d met, a time and place that now seemed like another world.
She took out her camera and turned it on. The GPS unit was already logging their route. She’d chosen to ignore Quinn’s grimace of disapproval when she’d attached it to the windshield. He was a low-tech guy. He didn’t necessarily believe what a gadget said but he did believe a topographic map and compass.
Ahead, the road was already gone. In the distance, a jagged set of red, rocky peaks shot upward against the pale blue of the sky. They were headed for the Ahaggar Mountains, where he’d reported the sighting of the Painted Hunting Dog. She remembered reading the report and the excitement of seeing his infrared photo of the animal–and also the thought of seeing Quinn again.
He was guiding the Rover around a low, shrub-like tree and avoiding rocks at the same time.
“How long have you been tracking the Hunting Dog?” she asked.
“About two months,” he said as he downshifted.
Two months in the desert? Wow. That’s dedication.
Quinn Caldwell was a name she’d heard in certain circles for some time. “Master tracker” they called him. As they bumped and lurched along, she took a sidelong look at him. He was so unlike other in-country trackers she’d met. First, he was American, like her. How he’d settled into life in the Sahara she couldn’t quite imagine but he seemed in his element. She’d discovered that on the first trip. Second, he was handsome–very handsome. Men like that didn’t do jobs like this. Invariably, in-country guides were stringy, average-sized, bearded, and older–as though it were a requirement for the job. They also talked incessantly. Most of them weren’t loners by choice.
But two months of tracking an animal? Then knowing it well enough to set up cameras in likely locations? It was more than a job to Quinn. At least she understood what that was like. He must have sensed her looking at him because he quickly glanced at her. Only then did she realize she’d been staring. She looked away.