Guarding the Princess (3 page)

This part of Africa was rife with expert military trackers trained guerrilla-style under the infamous Selous Scouts of old Rhodesia. Probably some of the best in the world, men who didn’t need modern GPS or infrared, or topo maps with contour lines. Hunters who knew the bush like the backs of their hands.

He should never have taken that damn phone call from Omair.

Brandt sucked it up, the whiskey helping a little, and jumped lightly down from the plane. Clouds had thickened and the sky was black as pitch now. The air had a heavy, crackling weight to it. Brandt used his flashlight to make his way back to the woman crouching in the long grass.

He panned his beam over her, taking a good study now that they were going to be forced to walk. Her stilettos were a ridiculous height, and the heel of one was broken in half. She couldn’t go any real distance in that footwear, and he could only piggyback her for so many klicks at a time. There was no way his boots would even begin to fit her. He might have to carry her the whole goddamn way. Conflict twisted through Brandt as he considered his options. Then it hit him—there was a satellite bush camp run by one of the safari lodges about fifteen kilometres to the north. He knew it was still there because he’d seen it while flying over this afternoon. It would mean a big detour on foot, one that would cost serious time and might lose them any window to cross the Tsholo before the river came down. But it could mean supplies and survival in the long run.

It was a risk he had to take.

Brandt crouched beside her. “Here’s the deal, Dalilah. My Cessna has been stripped. We need to make a detour to—”

“Stripped?”

“Just the bones left.”

“By who?”

“Could be anyone. Leave anything in the wrong place for too long, and Africa’s recyclers will find it and get to work. There’s not one part of that plane that won’t be used to make everything from shoes to furniture or toys and cooking utensils. I reckon whoever did it will be back at first light with equipment to drag off the rest.”

“But you do have a cell phone, right?”

He snorted. “Cell reception out here? You must be joking. And even if there was, who you going to call—Mercs-R-Us?”

“You’re telling me you left your phone on the plane?” Anger sparked through her voice. “Because that’s damn stupid—at least we could’ve tried to call my brother for help when we got closer to a cell tower or something!”

“I lost my sat phone and GPS in the battle to save your life.”

She went silent, her black eyes glistening in the dark.

“You coming?”

She didn’t move. He began to walk without her, exasperation sparking through him.

“I don’t believe this!” she yelled behind him.

“Welcome to Africa, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder.

“Speak for yourself,” she snapped, coming after him. “I was born on this continent. It’s mine as much as it’s anyone else’s. I don’t need
your
welcome, and you call me sweetheart, I’ll—”

He spun around. “You’ll what?”

She glowered at him. Thunder crashed again, and he saw her flinch. Under her bravado, the princess was scared. She was feisty, though. If he could keep her angry, it might help keep her focused. The main trouble was her gear. He hoped he’d find some clothes for her at the camp.

“We have a long way to go, Dalilah. Save your breath, okay?”

“You mean we’re actually walking to Botswana?”

“Unless you have a better idea,” he replied, raising the beam of his light, watching her face, her flashing eyes, trying not to think how stunning she was, even in this light, even disheveled like this. A honey badger, he decided, fierce in spite of fear—he liked her this way. Not exactly the pampered, whining princess he’d expected her to be.

But he didn’t want to dwell on this thought. Mostly he wanted to keep her alive, then get her the hell out of his hair. ASAP.

“We need to cross the Tsholo into Bots before the rains flood the riverbed. If the waters come down suddenly, we could be trapped on the Zim side for a full day or two. We’ll be safer in Botswana. Even so, it’ll only be a brief respite, because I don’t doubt Amal will try to cross and come after us there.”

“How far is the Tsholo?”

“Too far in those shoes. We need to make a detour to the north first where we can liberate some supplies from a bush camp.”

Silence hung thick and swollen with electrical-storm energy rustling between them as she challenged his gaze. He could feel her mind computing as she tried to accept her situation. Begrudgingly, he could only admire that.

“You’re from South Africa?” she said quietly.

“Originally.”

She shot a glance out over the veldt, then she looked up at the lowering, black sky. He could see her figuring her odds.

“Which way is north?”

He jerked his chin into the distance. “That way. The detour will cost us time, but it might buy us mileage for the long haul if we can find you some boots, water, food. And it
is
going to be a long haul now.”

“How long?”

“Several days, if we’re lucky.”

She pushed a fall of dark hair off her face. “And you have no compass, no GPS, there are no stars visible.”

“I have my wits, sweetheart.”

She muttered something darkly in Arabic.

Brandt held up his palms. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have a whole truckload of habits. All good ones, too.” She brushed past him and hobbled off on her lopsided stilettos in the direction he’d indicated, leaving him behind this time.

“And don’t whine that I’m going slow,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You have better shoes.”

Another smile tempted his lips and Brandt trotted up behind her. Grasping her arm, he turned her back to face him. “That’s why you’re going to ride on my back.”

“You’re not going to
carry
me.”

“Why not?”

“You...can’t.”

“Piggyback. Just the detour. Come, hitch up that frock and hop on up.” He held his hand out to her.

She stared at his hand, then lifted her eyes. “You’re some piece of work, you know that?”

“That’s exactly why your brother sent me.”

She pulled what was left of her dress to her hips and Brandt swung her around onto his back. Her thighs were firm and smooth, her body lean yet full in the right places. He swallowed as she settled against him, hooking her arms around his neck and gripping his hips between her thighs. Her massive diamond engagement ring butted against his chin, rubbing her nonavailability right into his face, even as he could smell the shampoo in her hair, her expensive perfume, feel her breasts pressing against his back.

And as he began to jog, Brandt forced himself not to focus on the friction of her pelvis against his hips, but all he could think about suddenly was the scraps of silky G-strings he’d seen, and touched, in her drawer. And what she might be wearing now. A scrap of that same sensuous fabric was probably all that separated him from the most intimate parts of her body.

Brandt inhaled, readjusting the rifle across his chest, his tiny flashlight panning the ground. He figured Amal and his thugs were probably ransacking the lodge in search of Dalilah right now, not anticipating someone had whisked her away. As far as he could tell, only one man had seen him trying to rescue the princess. And he’d killed that man.

But come daybreak, they’d see his boot tracks. They’d come at a clip.

Brandt began to move at a faster trot, wanting to reach the escarpment and descend into thicker riverine foliage as soon as possible. They’d be less visible there. The locals had already spotted—and stripped—his plane, which meant there was a chance he and Dalilah might be seen, too. Although he hoped the looming storm would keep most humans battened down in villages.

Dalilah readjusted her position on his back, finding a better grip with her thighs. Desire swelled hot and sudden in his groin as her body rubbed against his. Brandt cursed softly to himself—physically, this woman really did it for him, in every way. She was his type, as Carla had been. And look what had happened to Carla.

It hit Brandt hard right there—no matter what dangers the next hours, days or weeks brought, his biggest personal challenge was going to be proximity to the princess herself.

He had a feeling she was going to be a little too hot for him to handle, and Brandt had zero intention of getting burned again.

Chapter 3

D
alilah felt herself slipping down Brandt’s back and once again tried to maneuver herself higher, squeezing her thighs tighter around his body as he trotted through long dry grass. But he was big between her legs and the strain of holding on was making her muscles burn. The back of his shirt was damp from exertion and his neck smelled very faintly of aftershave. It made her wonder about him—who he really was, where he’d been going before he’d suddenly been diverted into this mission. She wondered if he’d had any idea it was going to turn into this—a manhunt.

Thunder grumbled again and the wind felt hotter. She peered into the darkness trying to get her bearings, but there was nothing to orient her, just shadowed shapes of trees, scrub, rocky outcrops.

He stopped suddenly, breathing hard.

“What is it?” she whispered near his ear.

“Elephants,” he said as he set her gently down to the ground. “Over there.” He pointed.

Dalilah heard the crack of a branch, and a crunch. Then a monstrous, ghostly shape seemed to materialize out of the darkness itself. More followed, big hulking forms moving slowly across the land, ears silently flapping, curved tusks gleaming ghostly white. A sense of awe washed over her skin and she rubbed her arms, instinctively moving closer to Brandt, knowing at the same time a small machete and rifle were nothing against these beasts.

Neither of them spoke, just watched in humble silence as the ghostly gray Goliaths moved quietly in single file across the plain. There was a baby behind one and Dalilah’s thoughts turned to the vicious crocodile fight she’d witnessed back at the lodge, the Czech with the gin and tonic, the strange portent of danger. She glanced at Brandt. It was a feeling she should have given more weight to.

The matriarch leading the herd paused suddenly and turned to face Dalilah and Brandt, lifting her trunk as she sniffed them, her ears flaring out wide. Brandt reached for Dalilah’s hand, and he brought his mouth close to her ear.

“Whatever you do, don’t run,” he whispered, breath warm against her skin. “Out here, only food runs. Besides, there is nothing here that you
can
outrun.”

She swallowed, heart banging against her ribs. He gave her hand a squeeze, reading her fear, just letting her know he was there, and Dalilah moved closer to him. His air of confidence made her feel safe.

Satisfied that the humans posed no threat, the giant pachyderm turned, and lumbered on. Her tribe followed.

“Wow.” Dalilah exhaled after the night had swallowed the animals. She realized she was shaking.

“See how all the Mopani trees here are short and squat?” Brandt whispered. “They’re eaten like that, by the elephants.”

Dalilah realized she was still holding his hand tight, and she awkwardly extracted herself but stayed close, her body almost touching his. She was suddenly acutely aware that any number of creatures were probably watching them from the darkness right now, assessing threat, waiting for opportunity.

The Czech’s words filtered back into her mind.

We’re put on this earth to eat or be eaten. To kill or be killed, except with us humans, it’s not always about food or water. Sometimes it’s just for fun, or revenge
.

Like with Amal. Watching, waiting all these years. Dalilah rubbed her arms again, cold suddenly in spite of the heat.

“You ready to move again?” His voice was a little kinder, gentler. He’d been as affected by the animals as she had, Dalilah noted. He might be experienced, but not jaded, not when it came to something like this.

“Come, hop on.”

“I’m walking, Brandt.”

“You’ll hurt your feet, then we’re done for.”

“Forget it, you can’t carry me all the way. I th—” Abruptly he grasped her by the hips and swooped her round onto his back. As he did, his fingers caught on the thread of her G-string, and she felt him stall. It made her suddenly conscious of the intimacy of her position on his back, and it clearly hadn’t escaped his notice, either.

He started to move again, this time at a faster trot, his small flashlight bobbing in a little yellow circle on the ground immediately in front of them. Lightning forked again over the horizon. The terrain began to change, thorn trees getting taller. After several miles he was breathing hard, his body wet with exertion.

The smell of smoke grew stronger. He coughed.

“Brandt, put me down.”

He kept going.

“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t put me down—you can’t keep going like this.”

He gave a snort.

“I mean it.”

He trotted faster.

She gripped his hair, pulled. “Put me down!”

He dumped her to the ground, hard and sudden.

“Dammit, woman. I should leave you out here for the bloody jackals!”

“Give me that machete,” she demanded.

“What in hell for?”

She took off her shoe. “Please, just give me that blade,” she said, holding her hand out.

He met her gaze, the paleness of his eyes unnerving in this light. Caution snaked through Dalilah. She didn’t know how far she could push him. She knew nothing at all about him other than Omair trusted him. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Her brother knew some rough and dangerous people.

Slowly he unsheathed his blade, handed it to her by the hilt, and in the faint beam of his flashlight she caught what looked like a twist of amusement on his lips. Irritation spiked—he was humoring her, waiting to see what she was going to do. Well, she’d show him.

She crouched, and balancing her stiletto against a rock, Dalilah raised the blade into the air. As she brought it down, he caught her wrist midmotion.

“Don’t be a fool!” he growled. “You’re going to slice off your goddamn fingers like that!” He pushed her aside and lopped off the heel in a clean swipe.

“Other one,” he said, holding out his hand.

She gave him her other shoe. He matched what was left of that heel to the other with a neat slice of his blade.

Dalilah put the decapitated sandals back onto her feet. Gritting her jaw in determination, she stood. The shoes were uncomfortable, but the soles had enough give so that she could walk, and it was better than having lopsided stiletto heels pinning her into the ground with each step.

He resheathed the blade. “Fine. Walk then. But there are three rules. One—we walk single file. You stay right behind me. Two—I give an order, you jump. Three—you keep pace or you’re back on my shoulders. Got it?”

Before she could retort he strode off, his flashlight a tiny yellow beam on the ground. “And it’s a panga, not a machete,” he called over his shoulder.

She hobbled after him, immediately struggling to match his pace.

“You’re going faster to spite me, aren’t you?” she said after a few minutes, already breathless.

“Believe me, if I wanted to spite you I’d do a lot more than walk fast,” he grumbled.

“Look, I didn’t
ask
to be rescued,” she retorted. “Especially by some pigheaded brute with a massive chip on his shoulder.”

“I didn’t ask to rescue you, either, sweetheart.”

“What’s your problem under it all—you don’t like women? Where’d you earn that chip on your shoulder anyway?”

He didn’t bother to reply.

“What did Omair do for you that you owe him?”

He was quiet for a moment. “If it wasn’t for your brother I’d be dead.”

Surprise chased through her. “What do you mean?”

“Save your breath, woman, you’ll move faster.”

“Dalilah! My name is
Dalilah!
” Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes as she tried to run faster behind him, fear crackling at the corners of her mind. The scent of smoke was growing stronger and she could feel static in her hair—electricity quietly rustling everywhere in the dark. And her feet were already hurting, stones hard under the soles, grass cutting her skin.

He picked up more speed as the clouds seemed to lower even farther, and she felt a bullet of rain hit her shoulder. Big marbles of water suddenly began to bomb into the dry, dusty earth, the scent of soil was pungent, and she heard him curse ahead of her.

“Run,” he called out, breaking into a trot himself. “This is going to be a mother of a storm. We need to get gear and make for that river, stat!”

Gathering up what was left of her cocktail dress, feet sending sparks of pain up her legs, Dalilah ran as best she could. Raindrops were attacking them now, crashing into the earth, slamming into her head, onto her shoulders, wetting her hair. Wind gusted, thick with smoke from a nearby bushfire. Her hair was quickly plastered to her face.

Brandt reached a slope of smooth stone and began to descend rapidly ahead of her. But the rock was slick with water, and with no grip on her soles, Dalilah went down hard, smacking onto rock as her shoes slid out from under her. Her arm caught in a small crevice and torqued against her weight as she slid. She cried out in pain.

He spun around instantly, and swore. Dalilah couldn’t hold back the tears of pain that pooled in her eyes and ran with the rainwater down her face.

Frustration licked through Brandt as he aimed his flashlight at her face—it quickly changed to worry as he saw her complexion was bloodless, her eyes black, shimmering holes of shock and pain. Quickly he panned the light over the rest of her body. She was hunching over her left arm, her gold dress wet and glittering against the red rock.

“You should’ve let me carry you,” he said, crouching beside her.

“You were getting tired,” she snapped.

“That’s not for you to decide. Let me see your arm.”

But she kept her arm tight against her stomach. “It’s fine.” Rain pelleted down and thunder crashed right above them. They hadn’t seen the brunt of the storm yet, and in his mind Brandt could visualize the rivers filling, their window to cross the border closing. Urgency bit at him.

“Dalilah—give me your arm.”

She glanced sharply up at his use of her name, and she met his gaze. Something punched through his stomach, low.

“Let me see,” he said softly, taking her arm in his hands.

Her skin was slick with water as he felt carefully along the bone. She sucked in air when he neared her wrist.

“It hurts there?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

Brandt concentrated on the area, detecting a slight grinding feeling under her skin—crepitation. She had a fracture.
Damn!

“Can you wiggle your fingers, move your hand?”

She wiggled, but not without obvious pain.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve fractured it.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking truly frightened for the first time since the ambush at the lodge.

His tone grew gentle. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get you somewhere we can splint and bandage you up properly. There should be some first-aid stuff at the camp, maybe even some painkillers.” As he spoke, Brandt squinted through the sheen of rain, scanning their surroundings. “See that cluster of baobabs down there, below the cliff?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to leave you down there, with my rifle, while I run the rest of the way to the camp. Those trees are over a thousand years old—they’ll protect you from the worst of the storm. That cliff reaching up behind the baobabs—it’s the highest point of this terrain and it will take any lightning strikes. You’ll be safe there, okay?”

As safe as one can be out here.

“Brandt—”

Something in her voice cut through him.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been difficult, I’m sorry. Thank you—for coming, for saving me. I...I don’t think it’s really all sunk in until now.” She sounded beaten suddenly.

He nodded, instantly erecting his own emotional walls. He should be the one apologizing for being so brusque with her. But he wasn’t going to. He needed to maintain distance, and if she disliked him for it, so much the better. Because he needed her to focus. He wasn’t going to lose another principal.

His big mistake had been falling for Carla all those years ago. And because he’d become vested, because he’d lost focus, she’d died the most horrible death one could imagine.

He took Dalilah’s good arm, helped her to her feet. They began to move down the rest of the rock slope, carefully this time, him holding her by the elbow and steadying her around the waist, rain drenching them.

“Do you think there’ll be people at the camp?” she asked as they neared the prehistoric-looking trees with branches that resembled roots upturned to the sky.

“It’s a satellite bush camp. I know the outfit that runs it—I’ve flown for them before. They might have a party of guests there,” he said. “If not, there might be someone sleeping there to guard the place.”

“They could help us.”

“No, they can’t. We don’t know who’s heard of the bounty on your head and this is a hungry country—life is cheap. I’m not trusting anyone. We’ve got to look after ourselves.”

They reached the grove, the ancient trees dwarfing them, and Brandt was relieved to find they were in the lee of the cliff and protected from the real teeth of the wind.

“How much is this bounty on me, Brandt?”

“One million dollars. For your head. Five million if you’re brought to Amal alive.”

He felt the spark of shock run through her body.

“My
head?
”

“Yes.”

She swallowed, staring at him.

“How...can he promise so much?”

“Omair expects that Amal will try to extract a large ransom from your family, and he’s intending to use this to pay the bounty if need be.”

“They won’t do it—my brothers will not pay that bastard. They will
not
negotiate with the devil!” A sudden defiant anger crackled through her words and Brandt felt a spurt of relief. Anger was good. It would keep her sharp, ward off the real shock he figured was yet to fully hit her.

“I know your brother, Dalilah. Omair will do
anything
to save you.” He gave a dry laugh. “Including trust me.”

“You say that like it was a mistake.”

“His options were limited. Come, we need to get you up onto that fork between the trees, off the ground, out of the worst of the rain.”