“He would make a fine catch for some clever woman,” Roger said, prying for a confidence.
“You like women, don’t you, Roger?” Janet asked, putting her glass down. The glass wasn’t empty, but she was through with it. She needed her wits, and alcohol wasn’t going to help matters. “I mean, you really like them, yes?”
“Sure,” he said suspiciously.
“Then don’t do any woman the disservice of wishing a man like Christopher Van Hoon on her, will you?” she said. She smiled, wanting him to know she forgave him. It wasn’t his fault he equated money with happiness. Many people did, but it was a mistake.
No insurance company would touch Bob, the odds accurately projecting him dead by thirty. But he had been frugal. There were few luxuries in the jungles, deserts and war-torn cities where he went with his beloved camera. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. His job was his only vice and his chief pleasure. He had left Janet very well fixed… financially.
She went to her room. It smelled more of roses than when she’d left it. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the clock. Three-thirty. In four and a half hours Christopher would be in the lobby. Janet was determined not to be there with him.
* * * *
BY SEVEN, she was packed. Her lone cocktail dress had been the first thing in her suitcase. She had arranged it to maximize wrinkles. It was impossible to get to it now without disturbing everything. She was protecting herself, raising small obstacles to prevent any change of mind.
A few things remained unpacked: her toiletries for morning and the skirt, blouse and shoes she was planning to wear the next day. Someone who “dressed” for supper at home, like Christopher, would consider any of her presently readily available apparel as unsuitable for dining out.
Her black silk negligee was still unpacked, too, substituting for the pajamas still reeking of perfume. She should have sent them to the laundry. The scent, like the fragrance of the golden roses, conjured up unwanted memories and emotions. She was tempted to set the roses in the hallway. She couldn’t do that, though; they were too beautiful. Besides, it was a long time since she had last received flowers from any man.
Three years ago, John Pettering, an old friend of her father, had sent flowers to celebrate the high ratings following the debut of Animal Kingdoms in the Wild. It had been John who had initially suggested that Kenneth Bainbridge talk to Janet about hosting the show. Kenneth, a Seattle producer, was looking for a program to syndicate in the family-hour time slot. He approached John with the idea of the animal format. Many people seemed to find the intricacies of nature quite fascinating, and John was a logical choice to head the project. He was director of the Seattle Zoo, a position Janet’s father once held. John had trained under Jack Kelley in the old days.
John, though, was aware of his limitations as well as his strengths. He was confident and knowledgeable in his field, yes. Those qualifications held him in good stead in his chosen profession, but they wouldn’t charm middle-America on a weekly basis. He didn’t see himself as a television personality, and no amount of support from the most charming of four-legged critters was going to help him, either.
John suggested Janet for the job. She was at loose ends since Bob had died. She had literally cut her teeth at the Seattle Zoo, had spent some time in Africa, and her husband’s profession as a cameraman had given her more than a nodding acquaintance with the media. Besides which, she was strikingly beautiful—an interesting counterpoint to the cuddly domestic animals, and a complement to the more exotic types. If she wasn’t outgoing at the time, it was because she was unhappy.
Based more on John’s recommendation than on Janet’s resulting interview, Kenneth had given her a chance. If Janet was unsure at first whether it was the right step for her, she was soon glad she had made the commitment. It gave her something to do. The show required location shooting. Africa was a possibility. Christopher and childhood memories were in Africa.
A big mistake: the detour to Lionspride. She should have gone immediately to Great Zimbabwe. Her future was with four-legged animals, not with the two-legged kind Christopher had become.
She slipped off her robe. The clothes she had worn that day were in the suitcase. Her negligee was soft against her fingers. Christopher’s hair was soft. She had buried her hands in the glistening strands while fighting him off in the locker room at the mine.
Christopher was out of her life. She was thinking about him too much.
The sensuous slide of the material over her naked body wasn’t appreciated. It recalled to her the black dress at Lionspride, the one Christopher chose for her to wear at that painful charade.
She went to the vanity table to brush her hair. The smell of the roses was especially strong. She moved the flowers to get better access to the mirror.
The roses were lovely, a unique shade of antique gold. She touched one, tracing the intricate layering of petal over petal… so soft. Christopher’s body was hard to the touch, golden with tan.
She refused to look at the clock behind her by the bed. She consciously avoided focusing on the clock hands reversed in the mirror. It made no difference what time it was. She was going to bed. There was an early plane to catch in the morning. She needed her rest, and a supper with Christopher would be anything but restful. She was only now recovering from the strain of being with him that morning.
She put her brush to one side and stood up. Her negligee molded her body with sensuous flowing drapery. The black emphasized the ebony of her hair and her deepening tan. Her adventure at Lionspride had left her pleasantly brown, as Christopher had predicted.
Janet had bought the negligee during one of Bob’s lengthy absences, to reaffirm her femininity. It was a magic talisman to keep her husband around longer next time. Bob, though, hadn’t cared what she wore to bed, hadn’t mentioned it when he finally saw her in it. He’d said he was going to Central America on assignment. So much for magic!
She didn’t wear it for a long time after his death. Black might have been the traditional color of mourning, but silk somehow seemed inappropriate for widow’s weeds. The feel of it against her skin wasn’t conducive to grieving.
Men who imagined silk lingerie as a tool primarily to aid in their seduction were dead wrong, she mused. That was a lucky by-product, although a pleasant one. In truth, the feel of silk against a woman’s body was a pleasurable aside from the reaction of any appreciative male. Wearing it made Janet feel more a woman.
In sleep, she found the silk a stimulus to make her dreams more vivid… dreams of happier days with Christopher.
She was tempted to strip off the offending nightdress and put it in the suitcase. She would sleep without it or pajamas, as she had the night before. But nakedness, for someone who grew to maturity wearing a nightie to bed, was disturbingly sensuous in its own right. She couldn’t win either way.
It was seven-thirty.
Her suitcase was across the room on a luggage rack. It was locked, secured with an additional belt that was buckled. The key to the suitcase was on the dresser, easily reached. There was time to unpack her cocktail dress. There was time to steam out any wrinkles in moist heat from the bathroom shower. She could dress within minutes, despite the stumbling blocks she had cleverly laid in her way.
She went to the phone and dialed. She opened the room service menu. Supper in her room was one incentive to stay put. Appetizer: Hoenderersmeer. Soup: Hoender en noedelroomsop. Entrée: Kopenhaagse schnitzel. Did she want dessert? Yes: Verskeie soorte roomys. A drink? “Milk. No, wait!” she insisted. She scanned an accompanying wine list. “Oude Libertas Dry Steen,” she said, having picked a bottle at random. That was her meal. She didn’t have the vaguest notion what it was. She went back over the menu, looking for an English translation. She was having tasty chicken livers, blended with brandy and cream into a smooth light pâté; cream of chicken and noodle soup; veal steak garnished with smoked salmon, Danish caviar and anchovies—she hated anchovies. As well as assorted ice cr
eams; and a full-bodied, dry white wine with a fragrant bouquet.
Red wine went with red meat, white wine with white fish. Veal vaguely seemed an exception. Christopher would know. She laughed nervously. This was ridiculous! She wasn’t even hungry.
What would the room steward think when she greeted him in a slinky negligee, like some character from a sleazy, X-rated movie? She put on her terry-cloth robe. She wasn’t dressing for the short time it took someone to wheel in a serving cart. Waiters saw hotel guests in one state of undress or another during every workday. With her robe pulled tightly around her, Janet was the only one who knew what was underneath. Besides, dressing now, for the waiter, would make it too easy for her to be dressed for Christopher who waited for her downstairs.
When the knock came, long minutes later, it startled her. Reflexively, she checked the time. It was after eight. Christopher was taking matters into his own hands. Nonsense! It was the waiter. Christopher wouldn’t show. The victory wasn’t worth the effort of the chase.
She opened the door. The waiter smiled, said good evening and rolled in the cart. He didn’t give her a second look. Real life wasn’t the movies. She tipped him from the small pile of change on the dresser. He left.
The meal was enough to feed two people. Christopher would take one look and think she had arranged for them to have a quiet supper in her room. She would point out there was only one place setting. Better yet, she wouldn’t let him in far enough to see the cart.
She was playing mind games. He wasn’t in the lobby, or in the elevator, or walking down the hall. He had crossed her off as a lost cause. He thought her a tease. He couldn’t know it, but whatever she had done had been done to renew an old and precious acquaintance, not start a new relationship based on less than mutual respect.
She lifted a cover from one of the chafing dishes, revealing the beautifully prepared veal dish. She tried to recall the Afrikaner name from the menu, was distracted by a sound at the door.
Someone was there. She didn’t need to see to know. The presence announced itself clearly in her stomach. Her heart beat faster. She glanced at the clock and then at her reflection in the mirror. She looked excited. She was.
A light knock. Deceptive. Christopher was the type to batter down the door. Another knock—harder. The waiter was back, delivering something he’d forgotten the first time. He knew she was in the room. She wasn’t dressed to go out. She couldn’t have finished eating already.
“Janet, are you in there?” It wasn’t the waiter. It wasn’t Christopher.
“Tim, I’m sorry. Do come in,” she said, opening door. “Have you been there long?” She sounded guilty. She felt silly. “I was occupied in the other room.” She let him in. She was as safe with him as she was with Roger. She preferred a sense of danger.
“Looks like there’s little point in asking you to join your crew for supper,” Tim said, eyeing the overflowing service cart. “Smells good, though. Maybe we should join you.” He lifted a lid to reveal a drooping mountain of multicolored ice cream.
Tim was the youngest member of the film crew. He looked young, too; the type who would look twenty when he was forty. He was blond. Christopher was blond. His eyes were blue. Christopher’s eyes were golden. He was a boy. Christopher was a man.
“I decided to pamper myself on my last night in Johannesburg,” Janet said, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall. She heard the elevator opening. No, she was mistaken. “I didn’t feel like dressing up to go out.”
“We’ll miss your company,” he said. He was charming. He had been charming from the start, and he could have turned out to be such an obnoxious person. He was the producer’s nephew, after all, joining the show after he’d dropped out of his senior year at high school and had given his parents apoplexy. School was “a drag,” to hear Tim tell it. He’d never given Janet any cause to bemoan his uncle’s nepotism.
“You’ll see more than enough of me before this trip is over,” she joked. Christopher had said he would wait until nine. It wasn’t nine yet. He wouldn’t come up until he was sure she wasn’t coming down.
“Maybe so,” Tim said, giving her a smile. His cheeks dimpled. He looked nothing like Christopher although some of the same basic ingredients were there: “Probably not, though,” he added gallantly, his smile growing wider. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to resume your gourmet glut and beauty rest. Roger said to tell you the tapes turned out A-OK—nothing erased. He ran them this afternoon. Do you want them shipped this evening, or is tomorrow at the airport, on our way out, soon enough?”
“Tomorrow is fine,” she said. There was no hurry. Christopher didn’t want them. They didn’t threaten him, his precious family name or his corporate profits. Such a confident egotistical bastard “And speaking of tomorrow, I’ll expect to see three of you bright-eyed and bushy tailed,” she said.
He left her with her meal. She picked at the veal, methodically shifting the decorative anchovies from one side of her plate to the other and then back again. The meat grew cold. The ice cream grew warm, melting into an attractive rainbow of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.
It was after nine. Christopher wasn’t knocking on her door. He wouldn’t, either. She had been crazy to think he would. Look how many times she had shot him down. He was tired of trying, bored. Janet wasn’t such a good catch that he would go out of his way any more than he already had.
She lay on the bed. The silk of her negligee settled provocatively around her. She shut her eyes. Had she played her cards right, she wouldn’t be alone. Had she not insisted on love, Christopher would be here—except her need for Christopher was so tied up with feelings of love that she was cheating herself even to consider settling for less. Lust wasn’t the stuff of which romantic dreams were made.
She was on the verge of tears. She had cried when she’d left Lionspride and Christopher the first time. She had come full circle.
She had cried when her father died. She hadn’t cried when Bob died. She’d expected Bob’s death and was prepared for it. She should have been prepared for this. She wasn’t, because dreams died hard.
And that was why she was crying.
CHAPTER FIVE
“JANET?” SHE THOUGHT IT WAS CHRISTOPHER, because she was thinking of him. A mistake. He wasn’t there in Salisbury with her. He was a plane ride and a country away. “I’m Craig,” the man in the office doorway introduced himself, noticing her confusion. “Craig Sylo.”
“Oh, of course, Craig,” Janet said, standing. “Dr. Cunningham mentioned you were in the city.”
He wasn’t Christopher. Not in voice—more gravelly. Not in appearance—as opposite to a blond as most white men would likely ever get. He was handsome in his own right, though, rugged and dark complexioned, lacking Christopher’s outward polish.
His hair was coal black, and his eyes were large and velvety black, like those of a deer. His eyelashes were sooty, his eyebrows thick, dark and lush. Good bone structure enhanced his square face. His powerful neck flowed into a vee of hairy chest visible at the open collar of his shirt, which was short sleeved and well-tailored, displaying his impressive arms and muscled torso to good advantage. He had narrow hips and a flat stomach. Beneath his shorts, his legs were solid, brown from many hours in the sun.
His short haircut was decidedly military, which was appropriate. Craig Sylo was the captain in charge of the military contingent assigned to the Great Zimbabwe Wildlife Reserve. His job was protecting—trying to protect was more accurate—the elephants scheduled for relocation to Wankie. Land reform had diminished the size of the Great Zimbabwe Reserve to the point where it could no longer support either elephants or big cats.
Craig took her hand politely. There was no electricity—not like when Christopher touched her. Of course, she hadn’t expected any. Her chemistry with Christopher was unique, the result of misunderstanding, disappointment, and frustrated love.
“I’m told there’s a transportation problem,” Craig said. He held her hand l
onger than necessary, but she didn’t mind. Here was a man to take her mind off Christopher. He was on her side, unlike Christopher, who was the enemy.
“A short delay,” she said. “Our flight has been canceled because of engine trouble. Things are supposed to be straightened out by tomorrow.”
“I’m here to offer on-the-spot aid,” Craig said. “I’m heading back to the reserve this afternoon. My plane is small and pretty cramped with supplies, but I can squeeze in one passenger. Are you interested?”
“Am I?” she asked. Interested was an understatement. She couldn’t believe her good luck.
“I’d take your whole crew if there was room. As it is, they’ll find tomorrow’s commercial flight more comfortable.”
“I’d love to go in today,” Janet said and shuffled data sheets on the table into an unruly stack. She knew the facts and figures on them too well. Going over them wasn’t holding her interest. She had spent the morning mentally rehashing her catastrophic confrontations with Christopher. Getting her mind off him in this way would be a welcome relief.
“We’re in no big hurry,” Craig said, smiling at her eagerness. He checked his wristwatch. “How about we meet up, again, here, in an hour? After which, I’ll take you to your hotel to pick up your things, and even buy you lunch before take-off.”
“It’s an offer I can’t refuse,” she said and meant.
“It’s settled, then,” he said, giving her a smart salute. “An hour it is.”
The time didn’t pass fast enough. As soon as Craig left the room, Janet lapsed into thoughts of Christopher. How badly things had turned out between them. The tragedy had plagued her since she’d left Johannesburg. She needed immediate and deep involvement in the project at Great Zimbabwe, work that would snap her out of her depression. The cancellation of their scheduled flight that morning seemed like a horrible conspiracy. Craig Sylo’s arrival and rescue were heaven-sent.
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