Guarding the Princess Page 10

She bit her lip, nodded, thinking that even while on the run, Brandt had stolen a moment to stop and point those animals out to her, that he’d stayed to appreciate this world he inhabited, this Africa that she, too, loved. Curiosity about him deepened within her.

  “Your name, Brandt,” she said quietly. “It comes from an Afrikaans word, doesn’t it?”

  “Dutch. It means burned, or to burn.”

  “Figures,” she said with a wry twist of her mouth.

  He raised his brow, glanced at her.

  “You were born in South Africa?”

  “Yeah.” But he offered nothing more. Dalilah figured it was as much as she was going to get right now.

  *

  The early-morning sun had turned the raging floodwaters of the Tsholo River a burnished, seething chocolate color.

  “There’s nothing here!” Amal snapped at his tracker. He could feel time bleeding through his fingers and he was not prepared to lose the Al Arif princess’s trail. Not when he’d gotten so close, had almost tasted his revenge.

  Sweat beaded along his tracker’s brow as the man once more tried to cut for sign along the riverbank. But there was no trace of them at all along this stretch of the Tsholo. Horses whinnied and his other men shifted on their feet.

  “Mbogo,” Amal yelled. “Fetch Jacob!”

  Mbogo went to get the old man and pushed him in front of Amal.

  “Why do you think they went north from the plane and not down here?”

  “If they came by the sky,” said the old man, “then they probably have a long way to go. And now they have no more transport. If they are to go this long way on foot, they’ll need water, food, some shoes for the lady. Maybe they’ll want some more transport. From the sky the pilot would have seen a safari bush camp that lies north of here. A smart man would go to the camp first for supplies, and then try to cross the river before the flood. I think they’re on the other side already.”

  Amal’s body vibrated with rage.

  “Get my tracker,” he growled quietly to Mbogo through his teeth, then he turned back to Jacob. “Are you certain?”

  “No, boss, but a hunter must track with his eyes and his head and his heart. This is what things are telling me.”

  Amal inhaled deeply as Mbogo brought forward the tracker he’d enlisted in Zambia.

  “Get on your knees,” Amal commanded as he unholstered his pistol. The man looked shocked.

  “Now!”

  He knelt before Amal, who pressed the nose of his gun to the man’s forehead and looked at Jacob. “This is what’ll happen to you if you mislead me.” Amal curled his finger round the trigger.

  Jacob closed his eyes, turned his head away.

  “Watch!” Amal yelled.

  Slowly, Jacob met the Arab man’s eyes. In their depths he saw the Devil. Amal fired.

  His tracker slumped forward to the ground.

  “We try it your way now, Jacob. Find that pilot and the princess for me, and you’ll live.”

  Not for one moment did Jacob believe this Devil would allow him to live once he’d found his prey. From the bottom of his soul, Jacob understood he had to kill this man before the man killed him. But first he would have to lead him close, very close, to what he was seeking. Then it would be Jacob’s chance.

  Quietly the old man clicked his tongue for Jock to follow him and started back across the grassland toward Tautona’s airplane.

  *

  They passed through an area of tall trees where baboons swung, limb to limb in the canopy above them. The animals stopped and stared as they drove under the branches.

  When they left the trees, all the birds seemed to fall mysteriously silent apart from one. Ha! Ha! HaaHaa!

  Dalilah swatted at a cloud of insects, tension coiling tight inside her.

  HaHa-di-Daaaa!

  Brandt flicked open the glove compartment, took out a plastic tube and tossed it to her.

  “Bug repellent.”

  Silently Dalilah opened the tube and patted the white cream around her neck, the chemical scent making her feel queasy.

  Hah hah haaaa! Di daaaaaaa…Ha! She willed the bird to shut up as she scanned the trees for sight of it. But she couldn’t locate it.

  HahaHaHaaaa!

  Again, that ominous feeling of being observed by unseen eyes came over her. As if their progress was being communicated and telegraphed ahead of them as they went, as if the bush was a whole sentient thing, merely allowing them passage. But always watching.

  “Do you think they’ve found our tracks on the Zimbabwe side yet?” she said.

  “Yup. But they’ll be held up by the river for a day or so. Once they cross and find our camp, however, they’ll come fast.”

  Dalilah’s thoughts turned to their campsite the previous night. The leopard. The baobab. Him.

  “What did you mean, Brandt, about a vow never to kill again?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not noth—”

  “It’s not your business, okay. Don’t worry about it.” His words were clipped.

  “I was just wonder—”

  “Forget it, Dalilah. I just said it to drive home a point, to get your mind back on track. It’s got zip to do with you.”

  Irritation spiked through her. Every now and then it was as if his guard came down, and she felt she connected with this guy, felt that they shared a bond. Then it was as if he flicked a switch.

  “It’s got everything to do with me,” she snapped. “You said as much yourself—that rescuing me forced you to kill a man back there at the lodge. You said I made you break a vow not to kill another man, or woman. Did you kill a woman, Brandt? What woman?”

  Any hint of congeniality vaporized instantly as a cold hard anger altered his features and his hands fisted around the wheel. Right away Dalilah knew she’d hit the nerve in Brandt Stryker. He had killed a woman.

  Part of her brain screamed to drop the subject right here. But she couldn’t.

  “Who was she, Brandt? What happened ten years ago?”

  “Dalilah,” he said very quietly, “I’m not looking to make friends, nor tell my life story. My mission is to get you to a safe place, and to call your brother. He will either come fetch you, or send someone to take you off my hands.”

  “So I’m just a package to be picked up and dropped off.”

  “Yes,” he said. Then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, either, he said, “And then you can be nicely handed over to King Haram.”

  “Haroun!”

  “Whatever.”

  She glared at him, her blood starting to boil, her face going hot. “Where do you know my brother from, anyway?” she demanded.

  “I told you, Omair and I used to work together.” His voice was going tighter, lower, even quieter. Warning flushed through her. But she was like a runaway train now, unable to pull the brakes, heading downhill no matter the cost.

  “And you said you owe him—why?”

  Brandt flashed her a fierce look, his wolf eyes like slits, warning her to back down. “I told you already. Omair saved my life. So let’s drop it.”

  “How did he save your life—what happened?”

  He fixed his gaze dead ahead, fists clenched on the wheel, as he negotiated a particularly rocky section. “Look, Princess,” he said, the jeep swaying, “save your energy, because you’re going to need it. This is not a social trip. You don’t need to know me, and I don’t need to know you. Let’s just get this over with.”

  She muttered in Arabic, repressing the urge rising in her to punch him, to beat out the information, make him drop the damn barriers. One trait she’d never managed to outgrow was curiosity and dogged determination to ferret out the truth, especially if someone tried to thwart her from doing so.

  He swerved sharply as the jeep cut too close to another acacia tree and the branches raked down the side of the vehicle, slapping inside. She ducked back, but not in time. A thorn ripped through her sleeve, splitting open her skin. Blood welled. Dalilah’s
eyes burned with pain and frustration.

  “I told you to keep your hands in!” he snapped.

  “I did! You’re doing this on purpose. You’re a pig!”

  “Yup.”

  “I know you care—I felt you care!”

  His gaze shot to her, eyes crackling. She was getting to him, rattling his cage. Things were shaking loose inside—she could see it in his eyes, in the set of his features, the tension in his neck.

  “You know nothing, Dalilah, and it’s none of your goddamn business what happened in my past. I don’t know what you hope to achieve by pressing me like this.”

  “I’m pressing because I want to know what happened to the nice guy who rescued me last night. The guy who fixed my arm and helped me through the darkest hours of dawn. Who…” Her voice cracked. “Who kept my morale up. Who…who kissed me.”

  Angrily she swiped the tears pooling in her eyes.

  “You want to know why I kissed you, Dalilah? Is that what this is about? I’m a red-blooded male, that’s why. And you looked pretty damn hot in that body-hugging cocktail gown. I carried you on my back, and it felt good—it gave me an itch I needed to scratch.”

  “Damn you,” she spat at him.

  “You did a bloody good job of kissing me back,” he countered crisply.

  Her cheeks went hotter, a fire burning into her stomach, embarrassment twisting through her chest.

  “Why did you do that?” he said.

  But as Dalilah opened her mouth, she realized the stupidity of what she was trying to say—that she’d kissed him because he…what? Had awakened something in her? Lust? A need she didn’t know she even had? Because in spite of his overbearing attitude she’d been drawn to the tenderness underneath all that brawn, and that he was sexy as all get out himself. Rough. Raw. Ready. And she hadn’t realized how much she liked that, or what she might be missing for the rest of her life. She inhaled deeply, scrubbed her hand over her face.

  “I must have had an itch of my own,” she said quietly.

  “Touché,” he said. “Next time save your itch for your fiancé.”

  “Oh, you’re a real bitter piece of work, you know that,” she whispered, turning away from him, humiliated.

  The humidity and heavy silence that weighed down between them became almost unbearable as they traversed an endless plateau of smooth rock that trapped the sun’s heat and radiated it back at them. A snake, long, black with a yellow stripe, slithered out of their way and into a dark crevice. Dalilah worried her engagement ring, turning it round and round her swollen finger, angry at herself for starting the argument, and for the need she felt now to defend herself. But no matter how she thought about coming at a defense, she knew this tough-ass mercenary who’d been around the block more than a few times would not understand.

  How could she explain that she’d been in Haroun’s company a total of five times in her life? She could count the occasions on one hand. And each time had been in the presence of a royal chaperone, as per traditional decree. The wedding contract stipulated the couple follow a traditional courtship, and as per Sa’ud custom, once a woman had met with a man in this manner, this many times, it constituted an engagement anyway, contract or not.

  But she’d never kissed Haroun, barely even touched him, apart from posing for official engagement photographs. It was decreed she come to the marriage utterly pure.

  Dalilah had been raised to accept this. It was her royal heritage, and her duty to her kingdom, to fulfill this political contract. And it was a relatively small price to pay compared to what the rest of her family had sacrificed and endured for their kingdom. Da’ud, her eldest brother, had been assassinated on his yacht in Barcelona as he slept. Her parents had also been assassinated—throats slit in their palace bed. Zakir, next in line to the throne, had been forced to give up his career to take the throne at a time of violent unrest while he’d tried to hide the fact that he’d been going blind. Omair in turn had been doomed to hunt the globe in an attempt to unveil the assassins and exact revenge. And pulling the strings, creating all the problems that had plagued the Al Arifs, had been the Ghaffars, led by Aban Ghaffar, aka The Moor.

  To learn that his son Amal was here, in Africa, alive—to discover that this violent battle for their lives and kingdom was not over—was terrifying. Overwhelming.

  The least Dalilah could do was forge ahead and fulfill her marriage obligations with Haroun. The political alliance would strengthen the Al Na’Jar army and economy. Sa’ud and other Middle Eastern allies would come to their defense if needed.

  She had to do this even more so now to protect her brothers, their growing families. And the innocent people of her nation.

  This was not a time for inner conflict and selfish desire.

  Dalilah stared out over the dry scrub, the red rocks of the Botswana plains, and wished she could return to the clear convictions she’d once held.

  It shouldn’t feel as difficult as it did—Haroun was a striking and likable man. He seemed kind, smart, easy enough to be with. But there was no chemistry at all. How could she tell Brandt what his kiss had truly done to her? Or why she had even kissed him, or how it all fed into the mounting insecurities and fears over her own future with Haroun?

  Sure, she might come to feel something for Haroun. But the idea that she might never, ever experience true love, the giddy highs of real passion—the stuff of films and great books, emotions that drove people to fight wars, create magnificent art, build soaring temples—depressed her.

  As much as Brandt mocked her for being royal, it wasn’t easy. She couldn’t have the things normal people aspired to, even though her needs as a woman might be just as deep and real as the next woman’s.

  He reached into the backseat suddenly, yanked out the whiskey bottle, held it between his thighs as he unscrewed the cap, took a deep swallow. She watched his Adam’s apple working, and slow fingers of desire tickled down inside her…she couldn’t help it. Even now.

  He held the bottle out to her.

  “Want some?”

  “No.”

  He took another sip, then recapped it.

  “What are you seeking alcoholic relief from? Me?”

  He gave a hard, dry, hard laugh. “I’m not seeking relief. It’s the breakfast of kings. Oh, wait, not your kind of king.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re jealous?”

  He barked another laugh, pressing down on the gas, and bouncing the jeep in a way that forced her to grab the roll bar for balance.

  “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, you know.”

  “Suits me just fine.”

  “I thought you’d want to stay sharp, not drunk,” she said.

  “This is me being sharp, sweetness.”

  She cursed at him in Arabic again and he drove faster, jouncing her around in the front seat.

  “So that’s it—you despise me because I’m engaged to a man with more money and power than you’ll ever have, yet I still kissed you.”

  “Jesus, Dalilah, give it up, will you? It’s just a freaking kiss.”

  “You think I’m promiscuous, cheating on him, betraying him, is that it? Is it that simple?”

  “I’m a simple guy.”

  “Oh, that’s amusing! Simple is the last thing you are. You’re a…a cantankerous bull with issues over your past and…God knows what else.”

  He snorted.

  “See? You even sound like one.”

  He spun abruptly to face her, and she recoiled slightly at the sudden ferocity in his features. “You want the truth, Dalilah? Here it is—” he turned back to face the terrain “—I don’t do commitment and I like to be with women who don’t do commitment, either. No promises. Just straight-up good sex. Both sides understand the equation and want nothing more. I do not have a problem with promiscuity.”

  Blood flared hot into her face. “So what is the problem?”

  “The problem is you. You do commitment. You made the choice to marry Haram—”

  “Haroun
!”

  “You made him a promise by wearing a rock big enough to feed a small goddamn country, and you know what? While I don’t do commitment as a matter of routine, when I do choose to make a promise, that’s everything in my book. Believe it or not, I do have honor, and I’m loyal to a goddamn fault. Just ask your brother. It’s why I went to work with men like him—men who promise to leave no man behind, and know how to keep that promise. And it’s why he came to get me out of a hellhole in Nicaragua—he wouldn’t leave me behind. And that, Princess, is why I owe Omair. That’s why I’m here saving your pretty little ass right now, because Omair knows I owe him, and that I’ll die before I let you get hurt.” He clamped his mouth shut as he swerved sharply round a steep rock, almost tipping the jeep onto its side.

  “Doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it,” he muttered as he gunned the jeep into an expanse of sand dotted with squat Mopani.

  Dalilah stared at his rugged profile, assimilating this new information, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. “You think I have no honor? You think I don’t keep a promise? Because that’s not true! You have no idea what I’m prepared to give up for a promise not even made by—”

  “Just stop talking, okay.”

  Her eyes widened. “Where in hell do you get off—”

  “I was in that other man’s position, Dalilah,” he snapped angrily. “Not once, but twice. Call me a fool, but I didn’t learn from the first time around and a woman just like you burned my ass. Then got killed for it.”

  Her mouth dropped. “That’s not…you don’t understand. I—”

  “I don’t want to understand.”

  He drove faster, harder, sending up clouds of fine gray dust that coated the trees, giving them a ghostly air of menace in the heat. Vegetation closed in again, as if the bush was deliberately trying to block their way.

  Brandt swung round a thick clump of Mopani, and dead ahead in the track, hemmed in by trees on either side, loomed a large bull elephant with crooked tusks.

  He slammed on the brakes.

  Silence descended as dust rose in soft billows around them. Time stretched, warped, shimmered in the heat. The elephant was so close Dalilah could see individual hairs poking out of its leathery skin. Two egrets rode on his shoulders and tracks of dark moisture leaked like tears from behind his eyes.