Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) (7 page)

“Is it only people that get it?” Kayla asked.

“The last I read, its behavior is a lot like West Nile virus, which mainly affects people and horses and birds. Other animals can get West Nile too, they just aren’t as susceptible. And only something like 20% of humans who get West Nile ever show any symptoms. I haven’t heard of any animals being carriers of
Subs
much less being infected. Still, it’s a fairly new disease, and for all we know, it could still be mutating. And if it is affecting wild species, like maybe chimps and gorillas”—I cast a glance Jengo’s way—“it may have not been noticed yet. Or it may present with entirely different symptoms in non-humans from what people do. We just don’t know yet.”

“So what do we tell the children?” Nuru asked.

“What we should always tell the children,” Kayla said. “The truth.”

I had to admit, I envied Kayla’s future kids for having a mom like her.

Nuru and Mosi had gone home and Mark was in the bathroom cleaning up when I pulled a lamp close and examined my hands.

I didn’t want to be the person who did that. I didn’t want to be someone fearful of touching another human being. But Mark had reminded us all that the
Subs
virus could be transmitted through the blood—and only a few hours earlier I’d been cleaning his wound.

Not that Mark was likely to have
Subs
, and he certainly wasn’t showing any symptoms, but the foreman’s wife, Lisha, hadn’t seemed sick either only a day or two ago and now here she was in her early 30’s about to leave behind family and friends who loved and needed her.

If I were to die, what would happen to my strays? Or to the plantation my family had put their sweat and blood and love into for a century-and-a-half? They needed me—alive.

It was also just as possible the mosquito that would kill me had already bitten me or was taking aim even now. I couldn’t lay my mortality in the spatters of a stranger’s blood. Life was far more complicated than that. And far more indiscriminate.

By the time that stranger emerged from the bathroom, trailing hints of coconut-perfumed soap and wearing only his elastic-waisted scrub pants and a bandage, I had made the firm decision I wasn’t going to be taken out by
Subs
.

Confronted by the half-naked man in my hall, I was jolted by the strong memory of hard muscles and the tight ripple of flesh beneath my fingers. Quick inspection had proven my hands whole and unblemished—no cuts to let any virus in. Now I wanted nothing more than to touch the broad expanse of his chest, lay my palm over his ribs to catch the steady beat of his heart, and to knead away whatever tension those sturdy shoulders carried.

“Something I can do?” he asked. My mind tumbled over a dozen things I would very much like for him to do before I realized he meant helping with any final household tasks before retiring.

From behind, Jengo took my hand. Then, in a surprise gesture of trust, he slipped his other hand into Mark’s. Mark inhaled sharply. Delight colored his eyes as he smiled down at my little gorilla. Jengo smiled back, baring teeth and gums as he rocked his body between us and grunted his contentment.

I shook my head in delayed answer to Mark’s question. “I just have to put Jengo to bed—he’s got the room next to yours.” That at least gave me an excuse to be here in the cramped hall with him. “I was also thinking of guinea eggs and wild boar ham for breakfast. Do you prefer fried or scrambled?”

“I’m betting I prefer chicken eggs. So, surprise me?”

“You’re not much of one for taking chances, are you, Dr. LeSabre?”

His liquid gaze swept over me like a tender wave, leaving me half-panting in its wake and fighting to keep my composure. “I think I’m taking one right now.”

My breath escaped in a rush, and I tried to recover it without letting on just how breathless he had left me.

“Besides,” he leaned close, “you haven’t disappointed me yet.”

Pulling on our hands, Jengo squealed and jumped up and down between us.

“An omelette, then,” I whispered. “Mild or spicy?”

“Who doesn’t like a little spice in their eggs?”

“I can do…spice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m looking forward to trying it.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

His invitation was clear. My feelings about it weren’t, even if muscles deep in my core were lobbying hard for me to say yes. My practical side won out. “Let’s see how things go…tomorrow.”

The bright anticipation in his eyes shifted into disappointment but not defeat. “Maybe I could get a little taste tonight?”

A kiss? How much harm could there be in that? I’d left my share of first dates with a peck at the dorm door—and none of them had come close to sharing as much as Mark and I already had.

Besides, a kiss would be an uncomplicated barometer to determine if there really was any real chemistry there, or if what felt like chemistry was nothing more than easy opportunity and availability tickling our pheromones.

I leaned in, at once hating and delighting in that awkward moment before a first kiss. I was hyper-aware of that face that loomed in as the light in the hallway emphasized each whisker of the five-o’clock shadow fringing his chin and darkening the skin above his lips. Lips that were the color of a rouged tan, parting slightly at their advance.

The fresh scent of coconut soap grew stronger as he neared. Then that finely chiseled face that lost none of its appeal up close tilted, angling slightly to my right to avoid the clash of noses.

Everything about this first time was awkward enough without the age-old wisdom of the schoolyard reminding me that which way a guy tilted his head indicated down which leg of his pants he hung himself. The handful of boys and men I’d had the opportunity to test that theory on proved it only slightly more probable than not. And now my inner giggling schoolgirl was obsessing over whether he was a “righty” as his tilt indicated, or a rebel lefty, unbound by convention or an intervening pair of pants.

When our lips met, I had no expectations beyond a quick sampling, cool and judgmental, of any chemistry that might reside between us.

Wholly unexpected was that surge of desire that overwhelmed me at first touch. Chemistry? The whole lab was burning as I inhaled the essence of him, sending flickers of flame deep into my pelvis and down my legs, melting them with the intensity of the passion.

I felt his surprise as our lips ground together. His free arm circled my waist and drew me close as he stepped into me, so it wasn’t just the narrow plane of our lips kissing but our whole bodies, from the heave of our breasts to the tickle of our stomachs to the jolt of our hips to the sizzle of our thighs.

Rigid desire rose, a hard rod that bumped against the silk of my inner left thigh through the cotton layers of his scrubs and my khaki shorts. He was indeed, I noted casually, a righty.

My own free hand roamed the wide expanse of his naked back, squeezing handfuls of solid flesh and muscle as it went.

Jengo let go of our other hands then, freeing Mark’s to slide up between our bodies to cup the swell of my right breast, and mine to spread over the hard muscles of his butt and press him closer. It took all the control I had to not give in to the undulating rhythm of the primal dance that would signal an invitation for this night to go further.

Then a third arm snaked around my hips and the sudden pressure on my outer thigh had nothing to do with Mark’s proven virility. Through the corner of my slitted eyes, I saw a little gorilla face smiling up as Jengo hugged us even closer together.

If it hadn’t been for that small distraction, I might yet have given in to the heat of the desire burning hotter and hotter the longer and deeper our kiss went on. But when Mark’s tongue pushed inquisitively at the entrance to my mouth, asking permission to enter, I gave his bottom lip a final nip and slipped my lips away.

For a moment, I thought my body would betray me as every muscle clenched in protest and he responded with a well-timed thrust of those firm hips, another plea for me to finish the night with him.

I opened my eyes to the echo of the invitation sparkling in his.

My resolve wavered, but in the end I gave my head a gentle shake. “Not tonight,” I whispered, although already I could feel the pangs of regret prickling through the passion still burning hot between us.

Jengo grunted at my thigh.

There was still time to say
yes
.

Still time to change my mind.

Still time to give in to the wild desire that drummed in me with every beat of blood through my veins.

Still time.

Until there wasn’t.

Disappointment flared sharp at Kayla’s refusal, but only because my body had been so well primed. She wasn’t some frat night party conquest or bar pickup to be used for a night and then tossed aside.

Holding her, kissing her had been an experience like no other. Not that I hadn’t held and kissed other women. Not that I hadn’t responded to them as well, with the same rush of lust, with the same invitation to slake our heady desire. I couldn’t remember another time when the answer was
no
; then again, the whole purpose of those other encounters was driving to a
yes
. That
yes
was the whole reason we had come together in the first place.

With Kayla, there had been no such expectations. Sure, that
no
could have been an ego-bruiser, evidence that the only women who wanted me were the ones looking short-term, ready to be satisfied by a one-night stand. Except Kayla’s
no
was conditional—
not tonight—
leaving open the door to later opportunity.

I wasn’t a fool. Of course it could have been a polite blow-off. Like the exchange of phone numbers in the morning’s stark light and the promise, “I’ll call you soon.” But there was something about the way Kayla said it, how she looked when she said it that made me believe she was sincere.

Maybe, too, it was being here that convinced me. Here in remote Africa, deep in the unchanging rainforest. Here on the plantation passed down through the generations. There was a quality of permanence about Kayla. She stood with an anchor in the past and a promise of future written in her eyes. In between that past and future was the quality about Kayla that most appealed to me—comfort.

I felt that comfort with me still, even after she led the little gorilla to his nursery and closed the door to her own room and I closed the door to mine. Comfort was in the smell of the sheets, the quiet of the big house, the orphans sleeping in peace, and the Rottweiler on vigilant guard.

It felt like a household.

And, strangely, right before I drifted off into a Percocet-fueled sleep, it felt like family.

I woke to the memory of Kayla’s warm lips and the gorilla’s trusting hand in mine, and to the smell of breakfast pork cooking in the kitchen. If not for the pain in my side, I would have indulged myself with a few minutes more just lying in bed and enjoying the memory, the smell and the strong feeling of rightness about the morning.

The pain, though, was a reminder how little right there was in the world.

There was no sneaking up on Kayla. Gus whined a greeting to me as I stepped into the kitchen where a barefoot Kayla was busy at a commercial-size stove that had to be twice as old as her. At the table, Jengo peered at me over a bowl of dry cereal. On the other side of the table was the bottle of Percocet and a small glass of juice.

“Good morning.”

Yes, I decided, hearing the lilt of Kayla’s distinctly clipped voice, it was a
very
good morning indeed.

“Good morning.” I wondered if I looked as rough as my voice sounded. I downed a Percocet with a swallow of juice, watching Jengo mimic me with a bite of cereal and a swig of juice from his bottle. I grinned at him and he grinned back. “It seems we understand each other.” He grunted back in agreement.

“That’s very smart of you!”

I thought Kayla was praising the gorilla until I realized she was staring at me with a smile and—dammit—a wink.

A moment later she set two mugs on the table, motioned me to sit, and poured hot coffee into them. The aroma overwhelmed the room, and suddenly I was anxious for a taste.

“Milk or sugar?” she asked.

“Would that be insulting?”

“As in…?”

“To your coffee.”

She laughed, which would have been the insulting thing if it hadn’t been such a pure sound devoid of any snark. “That’s not
my
coffee. Besides, we just grow the cherries. They still have to be washed and processed. There’s a washing plant a few kilometers from here that all the plantations use, so everyone’s crops are mixed together and bagged. Then the dried beans are shipped out to be processed and packaged—depending on contracts, they could go to Europe or the States for that. What’s processed regionally comes from a plant in South Africa that uses cherries grown on Kilimanjaro. It’s good coffee, but even I like it better cut a bit with milk and sweetened.”

“In that case, just milk. I’ve drunk so much sugar-laden coffee during late-night cram sessions and 24-hour internships that even thinking about sweet coffee makes me gag.”

“I have tea, if you’d rather,” she said, back at the stove.

“Not at all. It’s the sugar that’s the trigger. Besides it would feel…sacrilegious…to be drinking tea on a coffee plantation.”

Kayla laughed again. “True. You either become addicted or you swear it off forever. No middle ground.” She set out a laden plate and silverware in front of me, then returned with a second plate for herself. “Spiced omelettes, as promised. The cooperative here on Zahur keeps a flock of guineas, so we all have a steady supply of fresh eggs. The peppers and mustard seed and coriander are all home-grown. The ham’s from a wild pig some of the teenage boys hunted down, and the bread is baked by the women.”

Shaking my head, I reached for the white-cream butter in the bowl Kayla added to the table. “No doubt you churn your own butter too.”

“What do you think the teenage girls do while they talk about the boys who are off hunting?”

By the mischievous twinkle in Kayla’s eyes I couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not. Whoever churned it did a damn fine job, though, I thought, as I launched my way into breakfast.

A few bites of the ham in Kayla’s plate disappeared Gus’s way. Then, as we scraped the last of our plates clean, Kayla added a bowl of sliced papaya to the table, sharing it out between her, me, and Jengo, who pounded on the tabletop in obvious delight.

Like the rest of her routines, Kayla’s breakfast was efficient, well-structured and perfectly choreographed without feeling like it was any of those things. The flow felt natural and spontaneous. Only on close look was it clear Kayla was directing every wave of that flow with ease and capable hands.

Hypnotic in its way.

Comforting.

Seductive even, although not in the blatant Barry White
let’s get it on right now, baby
way, but in a more subtle hearth and home way.

That made her especially dangerous. She could assault from two fronts—purely physical arousal and a deeper emotional longing. Could I surrender to one without giving in to the other?

Would she let me even if I wanted to?

She had whisked our dishes off to the sink to soak and replaced them on the table with a bowl of soapy water and a soft cloth. Her warm hands on my chest startled me. “Are you ready?” She whispered, and I heard the echo of Barry White’s deep entreaty before I realized her touch wasn’t foreplay but the prelude to something decidedly less sensual.

“On three. One…” She ripped the bandage away.

Gasping at the sudden pain as dried blood and cloth were torn away, I glared at her. Already, though, she was pressing warm, soapy water to the bullet wound and the quick, superficial pain was easing, leaving only the dull, persistent throbbing the Percocet was keeping in check.

“Liar,” I accused her.

“So sue me for malpractice.”

The grin she flashed at me arrested every muscle in my body.

Suing her didn’t make the list of things I wanted to do to her right now. My hands folded over hers as she pressed the warm, wet cloth against me. I encouraged her hands towards a point south. “It’s not
tonight
any longer,” I whispered.

“No,” she agreed. “But we do have a full day ahead of us.” She squeezed my hands—an apology—before brushing them aside so she could dribble more penicillin over the wound before wrapping me up again.

I was already missing the feel of her hands when she leaned over and gave my lips a gentle kiss. Then quickly, before it could lead to something more, she retreated, following with a tender stroke of fingers across the hard line of my jaw and chin.

I tried to dissect her look. Regret…promise…apology…anticipation? All of the above? I peered closer, a microscope into her heart. As long as it wasn’t pity, I could still hope.

The baby gorilla slapped his hands together and gurgled something I took for approval. It seemed I could better understand him than Kayla’s enigmatic smile as she turned away.

“Right,” I muttered. There were indeed things to attend to today. No sooner had I thought it than Kayla’s laptop appeared in front of me. Pulling up my email client, I logged into my account, looking for a reply from Doctors MD.

“They’re acknowledging my request for extraction,” I relayed to Kayla who was busy at a cutting board on the counter, dicing eggplant and plantains. “They seem to be more concerned about arranging for another volunteer and for the security of the clinic and its supplies right now. What part about kidnapping and gunfire did they not understand?”

I scowled.

“Oh, wait. There’s another email. This one’s from the director. She agrees I shouldn’t go back to the clinic, and she’ll arrange for authorities from Hasa to check on it and secure it. They’ll re-evaluate the political climate after the elections and decide then whether to re-staff it or not. Meanwhile, she’s looking for a flight out sooner than the 14th.” I did the quick calculation. “That’s nine days!”

Surely that was a mistake. But no, not as I read on further.

“It’s the
Subs
epidemic. Tourists are apparently cutting trips short in the Sudans, Ethiopia, Uganda and the Congos. Also airports in the countries to the south are already starting to book up. There’s talk of a ban on air traffic into Sudan, South Sudan and the DRC, which means I’d have to find a connecting flight further away, which would likely mean a private hire. Upshot is:
We’re working on it
.”

Kayla had finished chopping and was lining up bottles by the stove, scooping separate powdered supplements into each, and listening with a grave face from what little of it I could see.

“They want to know if I’m somewhere safe meanwhile.”

She nodded. “Of course. You can stay here as long as necessary if—”

I waited for her to name the condition, realizing she’d be foolish to not want something in return for the inconvenience of her extended hospitality. Money would be easy—wire transfers from bank to bank with some hefty exchange fees, no doubt. Not that I had more than a few thousand tucked away since I was only a couple of years out on my own and with a mountain of student loan debt still waiting to be paid. Short of extortion, though, I had enough to cover a week or two of hoteling.

Drugs, however, would be a problem, both ethically and logistically, if that’s what she wanted. She had penicillin and Percocet . What else hid in her cupboards? Not that penicillin wasn’t readily available to any livestock owner even in the States without a prescription. And certainly not that anything about her suggested drug use. It was just, out here in the remote rainforest, coffee wasn’t the only thing being grown and trafficked.

I steeled myself.

“—if you make yourself useful. Like now, for instance.”

Kicking back out of the chair, careful not to move too quickly or two wrongly, I joined her at the counter. “Hold this.” She handed me a funnel and pointed to the bottles, before turning to the stainless steel kettle on the stove in which milk had been warming while we breakfasted. Using a spouted cup, she scooped the milk into the funnel as we filled the three bottles.

She didn’t need me for this. I’m not even sure a third hand made the task any easier or quicker. But drawing me in served two purposes. First, it gave me something physical to do so I didn’t dwell too much on the disappointing news that I might be stuck here for longer than I thought. And second, as we worked shoulder to shoulder, the big kitchen suddenly felt quite intimate, and the same feelings of
rightness
and
home
washed over me as when I’d first awoken between crisp, clean sheets to the comforting smell of breakfast ham sizzling in the pan.