She head-butted my hand, running her cheek against my palm. As she twisted her head, I scratched whatever she presented me—cheek, chin, top of head.
“Sheba.” I spoke her name, softly, gently. I had spoken to her, to the lions, every day for eight months so she wasn’t startled by its sound. Her ears swiveled to catch her name. “What a love you are!” I half-whispered. She tilted her head at the words as though she approved, even as Cleo came bounding up from the stream to join us.
A dozen feet away, Cleo paused. Fear and habit in her amber eyes warred with curiosity and a burning desire to copy the behavior of her favorite aunt.
Sheba whuffed at her. Whether it was simple assurance or an invitation, the effect was the same. Even the camera caught the way Cleo’s eyes lit up as she crouch-trotted the last few feet over, clearly afraid of a possible rebuff at any moment, but equally delighted to be joining in on something new. A foot away, she stopped, stretching her neck the final distance to the back of my hand that I presented her.
When she wrinkled her nose, my heart skipped. A nip or even a warning swipe from a cub her size—easily half of her aunt’s hefty 300 pounds—could be potentially dangerous.
Sheba, taking her teaching duties to heart, stepped smoothly in, rubbing her cheek against my outstretched hand.
Cleo’s nostrils flared, but when Sheba retreated, she butted her head into the back of my hand without hesitation. What fear I had fled as my fingers disappeared into the soft down of fur at the base of her ears. The tremble in my heart was no longer trepidation but jubilation. My reward for opening my heart up to new possibilities by giving myself permission to trust.
They stayed only a few minutes more after that, nosing the Rover and peering into Chris’ tent before sauntering back to the stream to join the others on the shaded bank. Chris, meanwhile, had eased into the back seat to film them from the tripod.
I’m not sure why it didn’t hit me fully until just then that all of these moments, private or otherwise, would no longer be just ours. That they would be shared with millions. Perhaps not even in the context they occurred but through the vision of a film editor and producers who might have a different story they wanted told.
I wasn’t naïve; it was something I’d known on a logical level since the day I’d signed away all my rights, all my say in whatever form the final version of the episode might air.
“How do you deal with it?” I asked Chris as we sat daringly exposed beside the righted camp stove in the circle of tents and SUV, cameras and guns both close.
He shrugged, and something about that honest, languid movement here in the African heat seemed so…right. When had he become so easy to be with?
“I remember it’s Hollywood Entertainment. Just because the rest of the world might believe something different, I always know the truth. And the fact is, that truth is usually a lot more boring and a lot less real than the edited version.”
“So boiling down all of yesterday and all of today into whatever five minutes of it they use is how you’ll want to remember it?”
“Remember this”—he swept a hand out toward the napping lions—“or us?” Those ice-blue eyes chilled right through me.
“There isn’t any us,” I protested, although what wall I’d built between us was crumbling fast. He and I both knew the lie of it, and if I demanded honesty from him, I’d have to find it in myself first. “Not on film,” I amended, weak though that defense was.
“No? Out here, we see what we want to see. In there,” he pointed toward where the handheld strapped around my neck bumped lightly against my chest, “we see truth.”
I shook my head. “That truth can be framed and edited to be anything we want it to be. What isn’t filmed or caught in a shot is often as important to truth as what is.”
He quirked his lips as he tilted his head to the side, a finger of sunlight through the leaves highlighting the golden 5 o’clock shadow fringing a face he’d had no chance to shave this morning. “What makes you think I was talking about the camera?”
Because he had pointed… I looked down, realizing he hadn’t pointed at the camera, but past it, to my heart.
It was early dusk when the lions woke and stretched.
“Hungry, I imagine,” I told Chris. “The leopard alone wouldn’t have made much of a meal for the pride.”
The leopard kill had been nearly three days ago. Working with satellite images, physical maps and memory, we had pinpointed the location we thought we were now. The nearest body of water was two miles north. Our small stream emptied into a larger one about half a mile away, and that one led to a small lake. Big pond, really, as it barely blipped on the maps. Perhaps even seasonal, little more than a catch-basin in the middle of another swampy dambo. In a few weeks it, as well as our stream, might even dry up. For now, it would attract disenfranchised herds looking for new homes.
Whether the lions knew what they would find, we couldn’t be sure, of course. But that they struck off north following the flow of the stream seemed to indicate both their instinct and heightened senses acted like their own personal GPS and satellite imagery.
Caesar whuffed forlornly after them, although he did get up and stretch and pad around a bit, which I took as a good sign that he was on the mend.
Chris shouldered the tripod. “We’re just looking at a two-mile hike, right?”
“And back…in the dark.”
“You’ve got the guns and torches. And I’m already feeling lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“Here we stand and the lions are going elsewhere to find their dinner. Any day a lion doesn’t think I’m easy prey is a lucky day in my book.”
We crossed the choppy savanna, dodging the occasional thickets of thorn trees without incident. Except for migratory periods and rare disasters like veldt fires that drove herds together on the run, even populations of hundreds and thousands in unsanctioned land outside of government protective services didn’t translate into a landscape of wall-to-wall beasts. And when we came upon the pond that looked even smaller in person, we saw only a small herd of kudu on the closer bank and some angry-seeming Cape buffalo further on.
So long as the buffies minded their business while we minded ours, I was delighted to capture on video the herd of massive chocolate-brown beasts with horn spans that rivaled any longhorn steer back in the States. American cowboys had it easy compared to the bush tribes that had tamed African stock millennia ago.
“They aren’t endangered are they?” Chris asked.
“No. Plenty of game. Plenty of land. There are still healthy populations of both kudu and Cape buffalo.”
“So it’s legal to hunt them?”
“In Zambia it’s legal to hunt most anything. Even lions, as of recently. The government survives on tourism these days, and they’re happy to attract the hunters who can’t get permits elsewhere.”
“If that’s the case, then looking at the herds we saw yesterday and now these guys that don’t seem to care we’re here, this close to them, why is there so much hunger on the continent? Isn’t there enough meat-on-the-hoof out here to feed everybody?”
“You’d need stable governments first and monied ones second. The hungry are also the poor. Raising or hunting the meat, processing it, transporting it—there are time and dollar costs all up and down the food chain, including management oversight and lobbies to determine who gets what and when. Look at America. The folk who can afford to hunt deer legally usually aren’t the ones who need the meat to survive.”
I gave Chris credit for asking, for caring. After all, he probably never bothered to find out where his dinner came from beyond asking which restaurant he had reservations for.
Then I pointed to a tawny shape crouching in the gathering dark maybe 50 yards away. “Portia,” I whispered, just as I made out two other shapes in the tall grass. “Sheba and Cleo. Looks like the cub will get another chance to make her own kill.”
Hurriedly we set up the tripod and fitte
d on an IR night lens.
It was a herd of Lesser Kudus by the pond, and the calf that Cleo targeted was sized just right for her own weight and skill. Her take-down, captured on camera, was flawless. Together, Portia and Sheba brought down an adult, scattering the rest of the herd and rousing a flock of guineas ground-roosting by a date palm that set up a cacophony of alarmed squawks.
By the time the commotion from the agitated guineas died down, Brutus and Nana were feasting on the first adult kudu, and Portia and Sheba had added a second to the night’s menu.
For 40 minutes they gorged themselves, ignoring the brace of jackals that appeared out of the night like magic, yipping an alert to the rest of the pack that showed up only moments later, ready to claim the spoils.
When the lions, finally full, left the adult kills, the jackals descended on the remains with an ear-splitting clamor, snapping at and jockeying with each other for the best bits.
Portia swung by Cleo’s kudu calf and patiently dragged the carcass back to camp where Caesar waited, with a proud Cleo trotting along behind.
While Caesar ate his dinner, Chris and I ate ours, lighting the camp stove so we could see our phones and devices before the batteries ran down and the darkness closed in.
“A wrinkle,” Chris said, checking text messages. “Gary’s step-father had a heart attack. A pretty massive one by the sound of it. He’s going back to the States with Reena and moved her flight out a day to accommodate—from tomorrow afternoon to …oh, it’ll leave at 6 a.m. How about I ask him to book us a room for tomorrow night wherever he’s staying and still leave for town early in the morning like we’d planned? That way we can sight-see, pick up a few supplies, have a nice dinner and take a hot shower. Maybe even get in two hot showers before coming back. I’m guessing our stuffed lions won’t be going anywhere. Any objections?”
She shook her head. “Sounds like a good plan. If you meant asking Gary to book us each a room. Or, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing with you.”
Chris laughed. “Probably not.” He grew quiet then and frowned.
“Were he and his step-dad close?”
“Not really, but he and his mom are. It’s a long flight back. I’m sure he and Reena will be glad for each other’s company.”
“That puts you flying out solo in a few days.”
For a moment he seemed extra pensive. Then, “I can always watch a few of my old movies. I’m easy to entertain.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Bet you didn’t know I was a cheap date.”
“How cheap?”
“Only what you can afford.”
We laughed a bit at that before he returned to texting his reply to Gary. I stared at my journal screen, trying to parse out that last remark. Did he really mean it as nothing more than a cute, throw-away line? Was you generic, or did you mean me specifically? And what currency did he mean when he said afford? Sex?
Under normal circumstances, whatever he meant wouldn’t have mattered. But tonight wasn’t shaping up to be normal. Trusting the lions while we were awake and alert was one thing. Trusting them while we were sleeping in canvas tents…that wasn’t going to happen. Which meant we’d be sleeping in the Range Rover.
Alone.
Together.
CHAPTER 25
Dee
It was nearly 11 o’clock when I powered up the generator, only to be met with an angry growl and a reluctant rasp. I frowned sternly at it before it settled into its normal, reliable hum. That stern frown was about the extent of my mechanical skills. Operating electronics and machinery didn’t daunt me in the least, but confront me with their inner workings and they were as a much a mystery as trying to read someone’s future in knucklebones or tea leaves or the circling stars.
Still, my layman’s frown worked as well as any professional’s this night, and I plugged cameras, phone and laptop into the power strip. Taking my cue, Chris powered down his own phone and tablet, plugging them in by the satellite receiver.
It was comforting, this little piece of civilization here in the bush, two short miles from where Nature had burned clean all trace of the light footprints humans had made in these thousands upon thousands of hectares of wild veldt. Unlike our ancestors, mine or anyone else’s, I was not only ill-equipped to handle Nature without electronic crutches and firearms, I had no desire to. I had no ego to bruise or machismo reputation to uphold.
Besides, I had scratched the ears of wild lions.
What else in the world held a candle to that?
I clung to the euphoria of those moments while I spread a blanket over the opened sleeping bags in the back of the Rover. Punch-fluffing my pillow into the far corner, I crawled in, waiting in awkward silence for Chris to join me.
A few minutes later, he turned off the light from the camp stove, and the SUV rocked as he climbed in beside me.
Great. He was wearing only a pair of loose basketball shorts.
My eyes adjusted quickly in the light of the nearly full moon that bathed the savanna, the camp, and found its way through the Rover’s windows. That naked breadth of chest gave lie to the Jaguar company’s claim of a roomy cargo bay. He was stifling close, sucking all the oxygen from this too-cramped space.
“I-I should sleep in the back seat, give you more room.” I started to pull the blanket up to drag along with me, but his hand on mine made me forget what I was doing.
“There’s plenty of room for two,” he whispered, his voice deep and husky and calculatingly seductive.
In that moment I had a decision to make. If I stayed, it was a tacit yes. Not just to lying next to one another on a single blanket, but to anything and everything that might come after. It wasn’t in me to tease—or be teased—and not follow through. Clear boundaries, clear go signals. If I didn’t have enough respect for someone to give them that, I had no business being in a position with them that demanded that kind of respect.
But this was Chris Corsair, seducer of who knew how many women past. Knowing that history, there was one boundary I refused to cross no matter how uncomfortable it might be to voice. No matter the promise implicit in the question, even more so than the simple act of my staying.
Because I was staying.
Not because of the pounding of my heart and the heat that burned through me at the nearness of his perfect body. Certainly not because of the Mr. Hollywood blue of his idol eyes.
I was staying because he had saved the life of a lion.
I was staying because when I’d told him no he had stood down.
I was staying because underneath all the plastic charm of Chris Corsair, Christopher Darnelle was a true hero.
Still holding a corner of the blanket, I asked the question that would make or break this night. “What about protection?”
With a subtle flex of his hips, he slid closer. “You have the rifle don’t you?”
Scowling, I tugged at the blanket again.
His hand disappeared into a pocket before reappearing to scatter a half-dozen packets before me like alms before a supplicant. “I hope it’s enough.”
That forced a laugh from me. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “I think a lot of you.”
Damn but he was smooth.
Damn but I was ready to be smoothed.
His lips, full and tender, found mine, but tender was for next time. As our tongues sparred, my hands roamed eagerly across his shoulders and down his rock-hard biceps. His hands cupped the nape of my neck, his fingers lost in the mane of my chestnut hair.
But nice as arms and hair were, they weren’t our ultimate goals. And as romantic as slowly exploring one another sounded, that would have to wait till next time too. Kiss and touch alone had ignited a flame of desire that only grew more demanding, overwhelming in its intensity, pushing out thought of anything else. Deep between my legs a passionate pulsing began to beat.
Our lips broke apart and my palms sought the waxed planes of his chest, the smooth ski
n taut over the ripple of tight muscle. When I tweaked a nipple between my fingers, it and he both responded—it by twitching erect, he with a satisfying groan. When I bowed my head and replaced my fingers with my teeth, his groan deepened.
Leaving the hardened nub, I ran my tongue to his centerline, licking my way down those magnificent abs to the exposed belly button—an inny—that begged a dip and swirl.
Below, past the elastic waistband riding low on his hips and beneath the thin nylon that outlined every bit of him it draped, it was clear he was far from indifferent to my tongue in his navel or the run of my fingers over the lower abs of his 6-pack.
Breath shuddered in my chest as the pulsating beat deep within me quickened, growing more and more insistent. There was only one mystery left to resolve—was that shadowed length of Chris, hidden beneath the tease of his shorts, just as magnificent as the rest of him? Determined to find out, I slid my fingers under the waistband.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
Clasping his hands over mine, he guided them back up to his waist. Then his fingers were at my shirt’s hem, unbuttoning from the bottom up. “Let me see you first.” He tweaked the top button open, and the cotton shirt fell away from my breasts.
In sudden shame, I thought to pull the shirt together again. I wasn’t flat, but I also didn’t have the deep cleavage cameras loved to peep at on movie stars. But Chris’ hands were already there, cupping them, lifting them, creating cleavage as he admired them, running his thumbs over their peaks and watching them respond in moonlight.
“You’re so beautiful, so natural,” he murmured, right before placing his mouth over the tip of the right mound and laving the nipple with his tongue. When he began to suck, I felt a bolt of electricity leap through to my toes.
His right hand worked its way down, trailing fire to the top button of my khaki shorts. Without protest I let him unbutton me and ease the zipper down over the cotton of my boy-cut undies.
Mouth still on my breast, his left hand snaked around to the lever that lowered the seatback I was pressed against, his weight against me reclining me in the now-extended bay. Shifting above me, he tugged at my shorts, and I lifted my hips to help ease them off.
Proud Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 2) Page 13