“Run, Dalilah! Jump in!”
She leaped in, scrambling up onto the seat as he increased gas, steady, steady, until with relief he felt the sand turning solid beneath the tires. Behind them on the Zimbabwe side from which they’d come, the riverine fringe was now completely ablaze. Even if they wanted to return, they couldn’t. There was only one way, and that way was forward.
He blew out a breath, dragging his hand over wet hair, his heart thumping. He shot her a glance. “You okay?”
She nodded, but she was white with pain, her eyes huge. Brandt felt a sudden punch of affection. Quickly he turned away, concentrating instead on driving. They were reaching the brown pools and water was flowing in widening streams between them. Tension wound tighter.
“How deep do you think that water is?” she said.
“Don’t know.” He entered the narrowest part of a stream between two of the deep-looking pools. Water swirled dark in his lights. The front tires went into the water, then the back ones. As he drove, the jeep went deeper, water coming up over the wheels now. Brandt kept the forward motion steady. Then suddenly the jeep plunged abruptly forward, water sloshing up over the running boards and flowing in under the door. He could feel it soaking into his boots. His mouth turned dry and he quickly changed direction, steering upriver instead, trying to keep the jeep level and keep it from becoming immersed even more deeply. Water churned around the wheels.
“You know how to swim?” he said.
She gave a snort.
“That’s a yes?” He was worried now.
But she didn’t reply, her gaze fixated on the water still rising around them, her knuckles white as she gripped the top of the door. A wave rolled suddenly over the bonnet. Water leaked under the fold-down windshield, wetting their knees.
The engine burbled strangely and Brandt swallowed. He knew as long as he could maintain forward momentum, the diesel engine would be fine. But if the sand turned to mud, and the wheels slipped just once, the engine would take in too much water and seize. He wondered about crocs—these pools were a lot deeper and bigger than he’d thought.
The engine gurgled again, and Dalilah shot him a hard look. He said nothing, kept his attention on driving. Suddenly he felt the jeep wheels levelling out. The tires found harder purchase and they shot up the other side of the pool. He kept revving until they slid onto firmer ground, then he gradually eased up on the accelerator. Slowly Brandt breathed out the air he’d been holding in his chest—they were out of the water.
But now they were sandwiched in a V of sand between the rising flood on one side, and the high-bank cliff, and the only way was north, even farther upriver, where the bank seemed to rise even higher.
“We’ll keep going,” he said. “Until we find a way out.”
Ahead in their headlights the rain was silvery, and the strip of white sand between cliff and water grew narrower and narrower as the river continued to swell. Urgency bit into Brandt.
They could be trapped.
“If a full flood comes down,” he said, trying to keep her positive, “it’ll keep Amal and his men on the other side for at least a day or so until they find a way to cross.”
Dalilah’s gaze flicked to the high bank on the Botswana side. “Yeah, and at least we’ll be driving head-on into the wall of water if it does come down,” she said. “Always nice to face what’s coming.”
Brandt laughed, a great big booming release of tension. He loved that Princess had a sense of humor on top of her bravado.
“Hold tight, Princess!” he yelled as he veered left and zoomed through more water that was closing them in. It splashed up the sides of the vehicle, higher, higher. Then something hit them with a hard thud.
Oh, Jesus.
“What’s that?” she hissed.
Then he saw—the carcass of a bloated cow, floating down. For a minute he’d feared it was a croc. Relief rushed out his chest once more and he laughed again. But this time she remained wire-tense, her fist clutched with a death grip on the bar.
Brandt drove fast, denying the first stirrings of panic licking through his gut as his headlights kept illuminating more and more cliff. The clock was ticking—they had to get out of here.
Dalilah reached suddenly forward, grabbed the hunting spot off the dash, flicked it on. She panned up the river, farther than his lights reached. All caution about being seen was now completely overridden by a desperate urge to get out of the riverbed, away from rising water.
“Over there!” she yelled. “A gap!”
Sweet heaven—she was right. A break in the cliff wall, a gentle incline up onto the high bank. Sweat dripping into his eyes, Brandt raced for it, water chortling at the wheels. He swung the jeep up onto the banking incline, and the jeep stuck. He revved, hard, tires spitting out wet sand. The engine cut, and they stalled. Brandt cursed viciously as he tried to restart it, praying there was no water damage somehow. The engine coughed, turned, then died again. He tried again, slower on the gas. The jeep growled to life. He said a silent prayer as he began carefully edging the four-wheel drive up the bank, all the way up. They shot out over the top onto hard grassy ground fringed with tall fever trees.
He hit the brakes. Put his head back and inhaled deeply.
“Oh, God,” she said at his side.
He shot her a fast glance, worry spurting through him.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, tears of relief pouring down her face, and she smiled. “We made it,” she whispered. “We actually made it!”
Her emotion made his eyes prickle, too.
“Yeah,” he said, placing his hand on her knee, his throat going tight. “We bloody well did. We make a good team, Princess.”
She bit her lip to stop it from trembling, and nodded.
Brandt maneuvered the jeep a little higher onto the hard ground and into a grove of tall fever trees, where he parked under the canopy. They sat for a few minutes in silence, mentally regrouping as drops of water from the leaves plopped onto the canvas above their heads. There was a sudden shaking of the ground and an explosive roar. In their headlights they saw a wall of chocolate-brown water streaked with foam come crashing down the river, swallowing up logs, fallen trees spinning, dead cattle bobbing, along with an old tire and other unidentifiable debris. Waves licked and churned and danced up the banks, pulling in great blocks of sand that crumbled away into the flood. On the far side of the river, the flames ate at the blackened trunks of trees, the orange glow of the fire casting a coppery sheen over the churning brown water.
Finally Brandt doused the headlights.
Neither spoke as they listened to the roar of the floodwaters, watching the strange interplay of ghostly orange light on the raging river. A few more minutes and they would have been swallowed by it, too.
In silence, Brandt reached into the backseat, found the whiskey bottle, uncapped it. He held it out to her. Dalilah hesitated, then took the bottle from him. She took a deep swig and coughed, eyes watering.
She handed the bottle back to him, and he took a deep drink himself.
For another few seconds they sat like that, stunned, the adrenaline still humming through their bodies as the severity of what had almost happened sank in. She reached for the bottle, took another sip, put back her head and laughed. Husky, deep, real gut-laughter, a little crazy.
“Dalilah?” He touched her, worried. “You okay?”
She wiped tears from the corner of her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether they were tears of laughter or not. Or both.
Then she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes black and luminous in the faint coppery light being cast by the fire on the opposite bank.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as right now. Even though the pain is killing me.” She took another swig, handed him the bottle, wiped her mouth. Then closed her eyes as she let the whiskey do its thing.
Brandt was startled by a dawning realization—this woman was fired by adrenaline, adversity. It fueled instead of cracked her
. He got this. He got her—she was like him. And the knowledge gave him a deep twisting feeling in his chest, a sense of kinship. A bond he didn’t want. With it came a whisper of fear—they had a long way to go yet.
She laughed again, softly, more sadly, her eyes still closed. “God, when did drinking get to be so good?”
And now all he wanted to do was kiss her, so badly he thought he’d burst. He wanted to feel her lips against his, rip her out of that torn, wet cocktail dress, hook his fingers into that scrap of a G-string and just bury himself in her, have those firm dusky thighs wrapped around him. Become one. Defy death, affirm life—an urge as old as time.
Her eyelids fluttered open as she sensed a shift in him, and something in her features stilled as she registered the look on his face. Their gazes held as something dark swelled between them, the pent-up emotion almost tangible. Raindrops plopped onto the canopy above. Brandt could smell the smoke, the mud in the churning water, the heat of the jeep’s engine. And he leaned forward, inexorably pulled toward her by some undeniable force. He could detect the faint scent of coconut in her wet hair. Their mouths were so close he could taste the whiskey on her breath. Her lips opened.
The water rumbled and there was a dull boom as a tree thudded into the bank below. Another grumble of thunder growled far over the plains.
He began to throb, ache, in places so deep he didn’t know they even existed anymore. His vision narrowing, he leaned in closer and gently cupped the side of her face. She tilted her chin to him.
Their lips touched, brushed, lightly as feathers. A volcano of lust erupted fierce into his belly, molten desire firing into his chest, quickening his breathing. She arched up into him, her hand touching his waist as he pressed his mouth to hers and her tongue found his. Brandt stroked his palm down the length of her arm, his fingers softly covering hers, kissing her harder, deeper. Then he felt the rock on her hand, the diamond. Christ, what were they doing!
He jerked back, shocked.
She stared into his eyes, just as stunned. Silence—heavy, loaded with crackling tension—filled the space between them. Words defied Brandt.
Sorry didn’t cut it. Because he wasn’t sorry. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.
And that’s when fear plunged its blade really deep into his heart—this woman scared him. She made him want. In a way that was raw and deep and very dangerous. A way that he hadn’t wanted in years, not since a time when life still held possibilities and dreams. She’d reawakened a part of himself he thought long dead. Dalilah really was too hot for him to handle. And for the next few days, it was going to be his job—to handle her.
“Brandt,” she said.
“Don’t,” he said. “Please, don’t say anything, Dalilah. It… Nothing happened.”
Her mouth went tight, and he saw something heavy and sad in her eyes. He also saw her complexion was suddenly wan, and she was starting to shiver again.
He cursed himself, resenting the erection still hard and hot in his pants—a mocking reminder he was a damn fool. He was supposed to be taking care of her, not satisfying his own lust.
Self-recrimination slicing like ice through him, he flung open his door. “Let’s find you some dry clothes, take a look at that injury, get some food into you.”
He put the Petzl headlamp back onto his head, clicked it on, and rummaged around in the back for a second headlamp, which he’d taken from the bush camp. He looped the strap of the second lamp over the roll bar, under the jeep’s canvas roof, so that it cast its light down into the interior of the vehicle.
Survival lust. That’s all it was, he told himself as he tossed things out of the backpack. It was normal. Survivors could become euphoric in the face of cheating death. Humans were hormonally primed to jump each other’s bones after times of war. This ensured propagation of the species, survival of the tribe. There was a design to nature, and that’s all this was. Humans, at the base level, were programmed no less than other mammals.
Focus. Get over it.
But Brandt knew he was fruitlessly trying to justify his actions. Actions that were inexcusable, the same kind of actions that had gotten Carla tortured, raped and murdered while he’d been forced to watch helplessly.
He tossed a pile of clothes into the front seat beside Dalilah. “Put those on.” His words were brusque, and he knew it. He saw a glimmer of hurt in her eyes, but he didn’t care—couldn’t afford to. It was best this way. She gathered up the clothes, and her gaze held his for several beats.
“What?” he snapped.
“Nothing.” Her words were just as terse.
“Dalilah,” he said, then hesitated. “It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
She bit her lip and turned away from him.
Brandt cursed again to himself as he dug a kikoi out of the backpack. He held up the woven African sarong. It looked brand-new—those poor German tourists must have bought it at some market recently. He draped it over the roll bars that divided the front from the backseats, making a curtain to afford Dalilah some privacy while she changed.
From behind the curtain he said curtly, “If you need help changing, tell me.”
“I won’t,” she said crisply. “I’m fine.”
Silence.
Brandt scrubbed his brow and blew out a chestful of air. He’d crossed the line, but she was just as guilty. She was engaged to another man, and Brandt held on to that. Women could not be trusted. They broke promises.
Especially women like her.
Chapter 6
Dalilah tried to sort one-handed through the jumble of clothing Brandt had thrust onto the seat beside her, but she was shivering badly now. Temperatures had dropped, but she knew the kiss had shaken her more than the cold. She didn’t want to articulate what that really meant to her, or her future. But she sensed a seismic shift had taken place somewhere deep down within her and it had all started with this last ClearWater mission to Zimbabwe. Dalilah suddenly had no idea what she was doing anymore. After all these years of knowing with crystal clarity that it was her royal duty to marry Sheik Haroun Hassan, after knowing she had to come to the marriage a virgin, as per the contract her father had signed, Dalilah had gone and kissed a virtual stranger—and liked it. A lot. Too much.
She’d barely ever kissed a man in her life.
Stupid, she muttered to herself. Damn stupid. You’re drunk, stressed and in shock and in pain, and it’ll all look different in the morning. Just shut it out, like it never happened. In daylight you’ll be able to see your path again.
Dalilah struggled out of her torn gown and into the light safari pants. She pulled a long-sleeved cotton shirt over a T-shirt, and fumbled to get her feet into the socks and hiking boots Brandt had given her. The dry clothes were deliciously welcome, if a little big.
As she tried fruitlessly to do up the buttons on the shirt, Dalilah glanced at the sarong Brandt had used to partition off the driver’s seat from the back of the jeep. He might be a brutish, scarred lion of a man, but there was a gentleman buried deep inside that tawny brawn somewhere. And the tenderness in his touch had not gone unnoticed in spite of the way he’d shut her down—he was struggling with something inside himself, also. It made her even more curious about him.
Cursing as a button refused to slide through the tiny opening, she glanced again at the curtain. Behind it she could see Brandt’s shadow moving as he organized things in the back.
If you need help changing, tell me.
No way on this earth was she going to ask him for help dressing, not after what his touch had already done to her body. And her mind.
While she struggled, Dalilah could hear Brandt going around to the rear of the jeep. The vehicle began to bounce around as he hefted and grunted. Then she heard his boots crunching through twigs as he left the vehicle. Quickly she leaned forward and peered around the sarong curtain.
He was carrying the stiff leopard carcass across his shoulders, the headlamp lighting his way toward a cluster of trees. With a grun
t, he lowered himself to his haunches and tilted the leopard’s body onto the dirt. It landed with a soft, dull thud. Dalilah closed her eyes.
She’d forgotten for a moment the leopard was still on the backseat. She’d forgotten, too, in their struggle to get out of Zimbabwe alive, about the little cub left behind in the tree. Emotion ballooned painfully in her chest.
It had all been too much. She breathed in deeply, steadying herself as she opened her eyes and watched Brandt.
He was on his haunches, his forearms braced on his muscular thighs for balance, as if he was just sitting there, thinking. Then he reached out and laid his palm gently on the animal’s fur, something reverent in his gesture. Something very private. Then as if sensing her watching, he suddenly spun around.
Dalilah ducked quickly back behind the kikoi. She heard him returning, opening the tool compartment at the rear. Then she heard a clunking sound as he removed something, and his boots crunched over to the leopard again. Once more she peeked round the curtain.
He had the shovel in his hand. The blade chinked against small stones as he thrust it into the soil—Brandt was digging a grave for the female leopard.
Dalilah’s chest hurt as she watched him gently roll the dead animal into its resting place. He began to cover it, his muscles rolling under his soaked shirt, and it struck her how tired he must be. How long he’d been at it since flying his plane into Zimbabwe, hiking up to the lodge to rescue her. Finding all this equipment and getting them both across the river. Now he was taking time to bury the leopard in a way that revealed a respect for life.
Compassion washed through Dalilah. And for a brief moment she wished she hadn’t witnessed this vignette. It was bad enough falling in lust with this man, but feeling this kinship, this compassion—it complicated things she was already struggling with in her own head.
Guarding the Princess Page 7
