Proud Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 2) (22 page)

What did I want?
That was a loaded question.

I wanted all those women in Chris’ past to have never existed.

I wanted Gary to have kept his mouth shut.

I wanted…

Damn it, I wanted
him
.

But first, I wanted to keep my—
our
—lions safe.

“I want you to describe everything, down to the helicopter, on camera, and then we’ll hide that memory card in case something happens to us.”

On alert and sniffing the air every few steps, Sheba padded our way. I hoped she and the others wouldn’t associate us with rifle shots and the scare they’d no doubt had from the helicopter.

“So you’re okay with me staying?” The question, as with Chris’ explanation, sounded sincere.

“Yeah. Did you really cancel your
Late Show
appearance?”

“Yeah. But I meant are you okay with me staying now, not next week?”

“I meant that too. You’re going to leave a lot of women disappointed before they go to bed that night.”

“Probably. But think of all the happy men who won’t have to compete with me for attention. I’ll be saving marriages.”

Sheba butted her head into the hand I held out to her. It seemed she, at least, didn’t hold us responsible for the helicopter and gun play earlier. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I told her as I scratched her ears, amazed still by her show of trust in us. To Chris, I said, “About last night… I
was
being an ass.”

“I know. At least you were being an honest ass. And there’s a lot to be said for angry, drunk sex. It really doesn’t deserve the bad rap it usually gets.”

“I’m not apologizing.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“What do you expect?”

“More sex. Less anger. More”—his expression softened as he dialed down from snark back to sincerity—“more time with you, without the shadow of my past forever being that awkward third wheel that’s always there between us. You’re fresh. This is fresh. I expect—no, I
hope
—you’ll give me a fresh chance.”

That only seemed fair. It wasn’t like he could change his past, but he did have full control over his future. “As long as I don’t have to apologize, then fine, fresh it is.” I held out my free hand. A handshake, a promise, a contract.

Chris shook it like a business partner, held to it after like a lover.

Sheba nudged her head over to inspect our clasped fingers, nuzzling their union with curiosity, approval. Satisfied, she rubbed her head along Chris’ waist. Showing him the same trust and affection she’d shown me.

The handheld caught the extraordinary moment, and I took it for the final seal, her notarization, of our deal.

From the stream, Brutus
whuffed
, sending along his approval as well.

If Sheba and Brutus accepted Chris for what he was, then I supposed I could too.

Over the top of our lion’s head, by the stare of eyes that held all the heat and wild of the African savanna, we kissed—the voyeuristic eye of the camera, our fourth wall, capturing it all.

It was mid-afternoon when the rude
thwock-thwock-thwock
of the helicopter broke over the buzz of insects that was the veldtland’s constant orchestra. The lions scrambled to their feet, agitated but not frightened. Not enough to run anyway.

Chris and I pressed up against the trunk of our tree, the camera in my left hand on
record
, the .38 in my right feeling more and more like the pitiful toy Chis had accused it of being as the breeze from the chopper blades’ downdraft found its way under the arch of our leafy umbrella tree.

In the open hatch of the bubbled cockpit hovering only a couple of hundred feet overhead, the barrel of a shotgun snaked into view. A single shot pumped out, hitting well in front of us, between the Rover and where we stood. A hasty glance showed the lions prowling the bank of the stream, half-growls grumbling their unease. I prayed they wouldn’t break and run.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Chris whispered, “but why aren’t they shooting at the lions again? Pretty sure these guys don’t seem to care much about the law.”

“They’re hunters, not poachers. They probably want to pretend they’re squaring off on equal ground with a lion. Like real men. You know, a hundred yards away with a high-powered rifle and 3-inch bullets, shooting at an arthritic lion because they have more money than brains.”

The next shot landed behind us, but closer this time.

“They’re trying to herd us.” The snarl in Chris’ voice was unexpected. “They want us out of here.”

My heart pounded and deep inside I was shaking with terror. Outside, though, training kicked in and I was journalist-calm. Stepping away from the tree, I brandished the camera at them, hoping if they knew we were filming them, they would go find another pride to hunt. Beside me, Chris brandished his middle finger.

Whether it was the finger or the camera that affronted the hunter most, he motioned to the pilot. For one brief moment I hoped that meant they were done with us and with our lions.

The bullet that tore through the hood of the Rover as the cockpit nosed around said otherwise.

Very deliberately, with an exaggerated gesture he could be sure we saw, the hunter held out his fist and turned his thumb down.

I didn’t know what nationality the hunter was, but like Chris’ eloquent middle finger, the hunter’s thumb transcended all language. The threat was plain. If we didn’t get out now, we would never get out at all.

The hunter cradled his rifle as the helicopter dipped and turned and
thwocked
away.

They’d be back. And they expected to be alone with the lions when they returned.

Chris turned the camera in my hands on himself. “This time it’s personal.” His Schwarzenegger
impression was all wrong, for what it mattered, as my hand holding the camera began to shake uncontrollably. We dealt with fear, it seemed, in different ways.

Chris still had the keys to the Rover and he slid behind the wheel. The engine turned over, caught with a momentary hope, then guttered out. Real fear fingered its way through me. No phone or internet was one thing. No way out of here was quite another. Chris pulled the hood latch on the inside and I lifted the heavy metal bonnet, peering into the hose-and-valve interior like I knew what I was doing.

Chris joined me. “Well?”

“I know cameras. I know lions. I know the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow. I know squat about engines. How about you?”

His brow crinkled as he peered under the hood. “I know bullets and engines are probably not a good mix.”

“Sorry you stayed now?”

He shook his head. “Are you sorry I did?”

“Only if we wind up murdered.”

“For a lion’s head? A legal one at that? No one’s going that far. They’re just trying to scare us. Besides, it’s not like people don’t know where we are. Well, our general area, at least. Both of us going dark on social media will raise questions. And if I miss my flight, the showrunners will find out why.”

I frowned. “Yeah, thanks for that extra week you decided to stay.”

“Only the best and brightest ideas from me.” He fixed me with those idol-blue eyes. “Assuming we’re not murdered, would being marooned with me for a few days be so bad?”

“So the choice is being dead or being with you? Give me a minute…”

He scowled.

I, however, was still trying to get past the possibility we really would be dead. “You know what would’ve helped me decide faster? If that game warden in Angola hadn’t been shot dead from a helicopter by poachers last week. A pair of ivory tusks was worth killing over.”

“But you said this guy’s a hunter not a poacher.”

“That was before he shot the Rover. That makes him a crazy. And crazies this far out in the bush—who knows what they’ll do?” My stomach knotted in horror. “Oh god.”

Chris went on immediate alert. “What?”

“What if they really do slaughter the rest of the pride too—out of spite?”

“You mean after they kill you, me and Brutus? Does it really matter then?” He wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned into the wide protection of his strong, waxed chest. “Look, we have cameras, a gun and a nice vehicle. We’re white, Westerners. They’ll know we must have connections. They won’t know who we’ve told about our whereabouts or how long we planned to be here. They’d be stupid to come back for a single lion when there are thousands more out there. What possible reason would they have to chance that?”

The same reason that drove an inordinate amount of human stupidity. The same reason Nana and Sheba had gone after the leopard. The same reason I’d lured Chris into bed last night.

“Revenge.”

Nothing was more nerve-wracking than waiting—waiting for the reappearance of the helicopter or for a hunter to stalk up on foot. There was, of course, nothing stealthy about a helicopter—we’d know it was coming far in advance. Not far enough for any real safety, but there was something to be said for at least knowing where your enemy was. For anyone coming on foot, we had the lions to warn us.

At some point that afternoon, each of the girls wandered up into the camp, making themselves at home as they explored the tents and rubbed against us.

Brutus, probably still remembering how Nana had rebuffed him, stayed by the stream, roaring his disapproval of his harem’s extracurricular activities. Caesar, keeping Brutus company, was in and out of the stream several times, looking stronger and less stiff each time.

Late afternoon, when Portia wandered up to the camp, her cub started to follow, making it only halfway before he turned back. Physically, taking it slow, I was pretty sure he could make it the short distance between tents and stream. It was, I thought, his position in the pride that was challenging him. Was he a mama’s boy, following the women around, or was Brutus his role model now? Or was that early independent streak in him going to allow him to follow a third path—that of his own heart, not what others suggested for him?

Early evening, just after the set of the sun and our hurried dinner of ready meals, the lions, restless by the stream,
whuffed
in warning. Chris and I froze, scanning the twilight for hunters taking up position to rush us in the coming night.

But the dark, semi-bipedal shapes working their way toward camp weren’t human.

Nana growled, half-threat, half-annoyance. One of the shapes screeched and the others chided back.

“Baboons.” I laughed nervously.

“Dangerous?” Chris asked, looking toward the air rifle on the ground close to hand.

“They can be. They do have some impressive teeth and don’t mind using them. These might even be the same troop that ransacked the tents come back to see what they might have missed. In the past, I’ve scared baboons away just by yelling and waving at them like a crazy woman.”

Chris peered closely at me through narrow eyes.

“What?”

“I was picturing you looking like a crazy woman. Suits you.”

I scrunched my nose at him.

“Seriously, I’m thinking about you out here all alone, chasing off baboons and who knows what else. Gotta admire that in a man, much less a woman.”

Praise always made me uncomfortable. “Having the lions around helps.”

“And for most normal people,
that’s
the crazy talk right there.”

“Says the man who lives in bear dens and shark cages for a living.”

His laugh was easy, free and sexy as hell.

There were a couple of things about last night I didn’t regret in the least. Things my body wanted to try with him again, only sober—things we couldn’t do if we were dead by hunters’ bullets.

Meanwhile, there was a troop of baboons as peeved to find us returned to camp as the hunters had been. Swooping up the handheld, wishing there was more light, I charged out into the veldt, whooping and waving my free hand and slapping it on the shot-up hood of the Rover as I ran past. Chris, about ten feet away, followed my lead, and I turned the camera on him to preserve his antics for generations.

I was swinging the lens back toward the baboons, hoping to get some good footage of them before the light faded completely when a big male with more bravado than good sense peeled away from the surprised troop on the verge of fleeing and gallumped his way toward us, screeching as he came and showing off some impressive canines.

Damn monkey.

I pulled the .38, hoping not to have to use it. Chris raised the air rifle, loaded with a red dart—that was adult lion dosage; too much tranquilizer for a baboon, but not inordinately so, and certainly a better option than a bullet.

Twenty feet away, the baboon brought up short. Had he figured out his ruse wasn’t working so he was ready to be a sensible monkey again?

I held my camera on him, the nose of the .38 also pointed his way. To my right, Chris, too, was taking careful aim. The baboon, still screeching, jumped up and down as the rest of the troop abandoned him, disappearing in the night.

Chris and I held our line.

Only it wasn’t Chris and I that had stopped the baboon.

A tawny streak bounded between us.

Sheba.

It wasn’t her hunting charge, low and flat to the ground, although baboon could easily have been on the menu for the night. And might still have been if the male hadn’t finally decided his life was worth more than his macho pride and turned tail to chase after the rest of the troop.

Sheba gave one last bound after him to assure he wasn’t going to change his mind about fleeing, then, arching her neck with pride of her own, she padded back, Chris crossing the distance between us only a moment before she did.

“Good Sheba.” I ruffled her ears in thanks.

But I couldn’t hold back the tears. Not because of her lovely, selfless, protective behavior. Not because she had chosen to treat us as part of the pride. No, her actions in that regard had touched me too deeply for tears.

I wept because the hunter in the helicopter would be back. Maybe not the same hunter, maybe not the same helicopter. But she and Brutus and the rest of the pride were targets in a country that invited more and more hunters in each year.

I wept because I’d put the pride at greater risk. Because they had a shade more trust in humans now.

I wept because the touch of Sheba’s fur under my hand was such a miraculous bond—and such a deadly one. God, the last thing I wanted to do was give up that bond, but it was the first thing I had to do.

I wept because my heart was breaking.

Because once I knew Brutus was safe—this time—I would have to leave.

They were my family, my pride.

I would do anything for them.

Why did that anything have to be to leave them?