Safari Moon

by Rogue Phoenix Press

  Maybe she wasn’t smart enough to understand the requirements for the job, or perhaps she’d misunderstood. Solo slipped between the cool, crisp sheets of his bed. He had two hours sleep left to him before he had to make the thirty minute drive to Bend.

  What could the ad have said? After all, Kitty thought she qualified for the job. Yet there was no way that woman could have any requirements he might need to work alongside him as a wife or as an assistant--then to imply that he was needy--that he burned.

  He was in the process of acquiring help for his trip to Alaska. He had a contract for pictures of wolves and first hand observations of their daily routines.

  To be eligible took time and he wasn’t needy.

  But, he acknowledged gravely, that was not what his grandfather wanted. Colonel St. John wanted him to follow in the paper mogul’s footsteps. But an office man Solo was not. He loved the outdoors too much to allow himself to be confined in an office day-in-and-day-out. So, his grandfather had given up one objective but might be going after another one as ferociously and furiously as he did everything else. This meant he had better hide fast.

  By the time Solo hit adulthood, all he wanted was to photograph the wild outdoors. His most avid desire was to see every spot on earth. From the North to the South Pole, from the tropical rain forests to the top of the Himalayas, he wanted to record the beauty of the world.

  Solo had been pleased with his efforts. He attended college, managed his master’s degree in another year then headed to the wilds of Africa to research the rhino. In the next five years, he’d had adventures he’d never forget and learned more from them than any of the college courses he’d ever taken.

  By his own admission he was a workaholic. So why would anyone want him?

  With a little grunt of discontent, Solo pushed the sheets off. He showered and without the benefit of breakfast, he began the long hike down the trail, praying Kitty hadn’t stopped somewhere along the way with plans of an ambush.

  Kitty and Juniper weren’t lying in wait for him, and his mood became more cheerful. He drove the thirty minutes to Bend, hoping the nightmare was over. His hopeful mood didn’t last long. Not even long enough to step inside the building that housed his office. Three women waited to attack the minute he walked into the elevator. As if they’d planned ahead each had a sign. Willing. Eager. Able. They must have been riding the elevator up and down all morning.

  He detoured to the stairs and raced up the three flights to his office. When he stepped inside, he was nearly scorched by six fire-breathing women.

  “I don’t believe this.” But one glance at his secretary’s scowl convinced him he was in for more of the same feather-brained confrontations he’d had earlier this morning.

  “My portfolio is right here!” A curvaceous brunette who had three cameras hanging around her neck sidled closer. She wore khaki brown shorts and a camouflage shirt two sizes too small.

  “Get in line, honey. I was here first. Don’t you know nothin’ about protocol?” cried a plump, short redhead who at least had the decency to look intelligent though her diction was sadly lacking.

  After that they all started to shoot pictures, flashes going off, blinding him on the spot. He pushed his way through the women and escaped into the inner sanctum of his office.

  Solo slammed the door shut then leaned against the wood as if the pressure of his body against the door would fend them off. Not one qualified applicant among them, he was sure of that without a look at any of their resumes. As for the lady’s portfolio, he’d caught a glimpse of the pictures spread out on the table before a blond elbowed him in the stomach during her over-exuberant efforts to get his attention. Photographers--not one among them. He’d bet his next month’s income not one of them knew how to compile research data either.

  He could hear them talk to his secretary, could hear the eager enthusiastic voices plead with her, and even if his secretary cut and run, he wasn’t going to open his door.

  He pushed the sofa in his office in front of the door just in case then retreated to the window that looked toward Pilot Butte. It struck home suddenly that he had no idea how to extricate himself from this problem. And if he knew anything about want ads, this was bound to get worse before he saw any improvement. A retraction in the paper would take time and his grandfather had enough influence in Bend to keep it out of print.

  Solo had no idea how to proceed. But he’d always managed to get out of sticky situations before, just nothing quite so sticky. He didn’t like scenes, and if he were to go out there and confront them in mass, or let them in one at time, there were bound to be scenes. He couldn’t hold his temper through six interviews or perhaps nine if he counted the women in the elevator.

  There was always the fire escape but it was three windows away from this one. He was on the third floor without a parachute.

  Absorbed in his own musings, Solo jumped when the private door to his office opened. It was Thelma, his secretary, waiting for directions.

  “Damn,” Solo said. The noise in the background had escalated to extreme decibel levels.

  “Is this Solo’s madhouse, sir?” she began in a stiff no-nonsense voice. “I hoped you could shed some light on a little problem I’ve had with my zoom.”

  “I haven’t a clue.” He wanted to laugh at her, but he reminded himself they shared a grave problem. “I guess I could grant each one an interview. Perhaps one has some qualification I’ve overlooked. I...”

  “Are you crazy?” Thelma closed the door behind her. “Don’t. You’ll regret it the minute you open that door. They’ll have their claws out and you won’t stand a chance.”

  “Then you think I should tell them all at once that I don’t want an assistant?”

  “No way!”

  Solo raked his hand through his hair. He looked out the window, still contemplated sliding along the outside ledge to the fire escape. “How long do you think they’ll stay?”

  “Until you make an appearance. They won’t settle for anything less than you.”

  This had gone past sane. He might starve locked up in his office before anyone could come to help.

  “Have you seen that ad? You didn’t place the darn thing did you?” she asked. “Really, Solo, I thought you had more sense.”

  “My grandfather got a hold of the original ad and changed the words,” Solo said. “I’ll print a retraction.”

  First Kitty and now nine more just like her. What had his grandfather thought? They were all out for blood. The Colonel couldn’t think he’d hire any of them. Could he?

  The worst part was the newspaper had only been on the stands for a couple of hours. What would his office look like by lunch?

  He swore out loud.

  Meanwhile, he had layouts to get ready and an itinerary to plan. One way or the other, with or without an assistant, he would go to Alaska, and he would study wolves. If his luck held, the next few weeks would generate a cover story that would knock the socks off his competitors.

  If there was one thing he couldn’t tolerate, it was public embarrassment. Bend was still a small town. If he left his office with a string of ladies behind him, the video would be on the six o’clock news that same day.

  He could hear the headlines already. Willing, eager, and able, Solo St. John takes no prisoners. No, Solo, grandson of wealthy newspaper tycoon, Colonel St. John, takes all women any way and every way he can get them.

  So what now?

  “I don’t suppose,” he mused, “we could shout fire and they’d all vacate the building.”

  “Brilliant.” Thelma whispered, even more quietly than before. “I’ll shout right away. But what do I tell them when one of them wonders why I haven’t called the fire department.”

  “Don’t worry. Not one among them is bright enough to figure it out.”

  “What about the paramedics?”

  He groaned inwardly. The headlines were growing by leaps and bounds. “No, Thelma, don’t call anyone. There has got to be a be
tter way. I’ll figure something out. Maybe they’ll just wear out and leave.”

  “Don’t bet on it. But I’ll keep thinking.”

  He heard the click as the door closed then a long silence. He drummed his fingers on the little white phone that sat on top of his desk and once again contemplated the fire escape. The window ledge looked better and better.

  “Grandfather, your timing couldn’t have been worse.”

  You never listened to me.

  The slight Irish lilt to her voice was crystal clear. No, she wasn’t in the room with him, but he could hear her, see her. His best buddy, Nyssa Harrington, could have been sitting right here in his office telling him that he should heed her words--that he should listen to her.

  She’d always had advice for him and true enough he’d always shrugged the suggestions off, assuming nothing bad would ever happen to him. Not that she was a doomsayer, but she did have an uncanny habit of noticing the women he surrounded himself with and informing him that one day he’d regret his nonchalant attitude. Someday he might want someone who had a few more brains, character beneath the surface of the great body Nyssa had thought he'd always been more interested in. He'd always surrounded himself with air-heads because he couldn't have Nyssa. Well, her words haunted him now.

  He could see her clearly, her perfect oval face framed by long strawberry blond hair swirling around her shoulders. She had a tiny waist but he always liked the picture he mentally kept of her, the one where she wore shorts, her slim legs accented by a pair of hiking boots and thick wool socks.

  Even now with all the commotion outside his office, the thought of Nyssa--ethereal, strong, an IQ much, much higher than his own--was daunting. He’d never taken her intelligence and her common sense for granted. Until a year ago she’d always been driven, a workaholic like himself. She’d been friends with a lawyer in New York City. Nyssa was an up-and-coming Wall Street wheeler dealer. Then out of the blue she threw her job away. A job that at one time had been more important to her than anything or anyone else.

  He’d talked to her over the phone, and she’d told him the days were too intense. Life wasn’t fun. The two women closed up shop, Nyssa turned in her blue chips, Candace her legal briefs and they both flew home to Oregon. But he always knew she hid her real reasons for leaving.

  With the help of another cycling business, they began an off roads bike touring company. Last time he’d talked to her she’d been on her way to New Zealand with a group of twelve.

  He’d never seen a woman in as good physical shape as Nyssa. And, as usual, he didn’t know how to argue with her when she informed him she had to ride more often so she’d be ready for the next trip. He couldn’t understand what motivated her anymore.

  Now as he thought of the mess he was in, he recalled some of her lectures to him.

  “Someday, Solo St. John, you’re going to wish you weren’t so single minded. You’ll wish you’d looked past the surface looks of a woman to see what’s underneath. You'll be sorry you don’t have a clue as to how a woman thinks and feels.”

  Trust Nyssa to foresee the future.

  When they were in college, when he was as driven as she was, he had faith in her. She was able to pick out the serious coeds, the ones who wanted to tie the knot from the ones who were out for a good time. She was shy and studious. If there was one thing about Nyssa Harrington he knew, it was that she’d never been able to let loose and have a good time.

  So, of course, he didn’t understand the drastic change in lifestyle she’d made a year ago.

  Always dependable Nyssa. The one person he could count on had become unpredictable.

  “Nyssa...” He left the window and the view he’d contemplated for the last hour. He’d never gone so far as to think he might understand the workings of a female brain, but she did. She was a woman and if anyone could tell him what to do next, she could.

  He crossed his fingers and prayed she wasn’t out of town on some long, tedious bicycle trip then hastily dialed her number. If she was in town, she’d be at the bike shop in the mall. Thank the stars for Nyssa.

  The phone rang several times before a very polite male voice identified the shop.

  “Is Nyssa there?”

  “Miss Harrington,” the male voice said with a slight disapproval that echoed in the tone, “is with a customer. May I help you?”

  “I need to talk to her right away. Have her call Solo as soon as she’s through. She knows the number. I’m at my office.”

  Did he hear animosity reverberate over the phone lines or was it his over-taxed emotional system? Possessive. That was how the man sounded to him. As soon as he identified himself the voice on the other end of the line shifted from polite to a jealous male animal.

  “If I can help you, there’s no reason to interrupt Nyssa’s schedule. She plans on a ride this evening, and I’m sure she’ll be with customers all afternoon.”

  “Tell her it’s Solo. I’m sure she’ll return the call.”

  “And what message should I give her?”

  “Just make sure she knows I called.”

  Solo was having difficulty maintaining a civil mood. He let the receiver drop loudly into the cradle of the phone before he plopped down in his chair.

  Solo covered his eyes with his hand. Women up to his ears filled his front office, and he had a photo shoot to get off the ground. His gaze fell on the Observer. The paper seemed to open all by itself to the want ads. The ad was big, bold, and very obvious. Where was his best friend, Nyssa?

  "Wanted: Willing. Eager. Able women to take pictures in exotic locations. Matrimony in mind. Wimpy, shy women need not apply."

  His grandfather had done it this time.

  Chapter Two

  Nyssa Harrington looked up from her crouched position on the floor of the bicycle shop with a bright smile on her face.

  Within a few minutes, she’d be off on an evening ride around the outskirts of Bend before heading into the hills. After the heat of the day cooled, the arid dry temperatures of summer in Central Oregon were quite pleasant.

  When she finished this ride, Nyssa would be one step closer to tip-top condition. Her clients counted on prime performances from their leaders, and she didn’t intend to let them down. Her Cycle the World Tours had guided vacation trips all over the world.

  On a normal day the riders biked fifty to one hundred miles on varying terrain. After showers, they dined on the most delicious food each country had to offer and slept in the most expensive hotels.

  “Just call me Ms. Fix-it,” she said with satisfaction. This was one bike no one else in the shop could put together.

  With a smile she pushed off the hardwood floor of what she hoped would one day be the best little bike shop in Bend. She was prepared to test-ride the new bike around the block, a very long block, which she knew would take at least fifteen minutes to negotiate. Another hour-or-so and she’d close up shop.

  Life was certainly worth living.

  When she saw her fiancé walk across the room, a definitive scowl on his face, she stopped smiling.

  “You had a message,” Robert said and he looked pointedly at the phone. “A prank call.”

  Nyssa gave him a curious stare. Robert had been her fiancé for one day, and already he assumed an air of possessiveness she didn’t think she could live with. Organized, handsome, and on the go --he was everything she’d left behind when she fled New York and Wall Street. Nyssa knew why she'd agreed to marry Robert. He was the direct opposite of Solo St. John. She hoped Robert would help her forget Solo.