Rare Breed

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I’m the outdoorsy type. Isn’t that what lures most people to Africa?”

She suspected there was a lot more to his motives than he was admitting. “Where are you staying?”

“Why, you wanna join me for a drink?”

She wanted to toss him in the river, too, and said, “Just answer the question.”

“At Hellstrom’s Tours. Signed up for a safari.”

Wynne’s gut clenched. Hellstrom. There was his name again. Was Cowboy Jack just a tourist? Or sent here to throw her off, or perhaps alert the poachers? The way to the truth stood before her, one hundred and ninety pounds of Texas machismo packed nice and tight in a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. For some reason the sausage tree fruit ritual popped into her head.

She quickly squelched that line of insane thinking. He was the enemy. She said curtly, “I’ll take you back to Hellstrom’s.”

“I’m fishing Jefferson Davis out the river first.”

“Jefferson Davis?”

“My gun.”

“Help yourself. I’ll keep watch for the baboons.”

“Baboons?”

“They like to tease the crocs, so it’s like a natural alarm. But there’s no warning for hippos.”

“I don’t care how many crocs or hippos I got to fight to get my gun. I’m gettin’it.” His voice held an Alamo, Davy Crockett, do-or-die tone.

Something told her this was just the beginning of her night.

MacKay had refused to leave until he’d found the gun. The man was determined, she’d give him that. It also had helped that the gun had landed close to the shore and sunk in the mud. They had walked back the two miles to where she had hidden the Rover, and now they bumped along the road. The faint clicking of The Simpsons dolls and the road noise filled the interior of the truck. Hellstrom’s compound bordered the Great East Road, a forty minute drive from Sausage Tree Camp. With MacKay in the truck, the miles seemed to drag, the trip taking forever. He seemed unusually quiet, distracted.

She chanced a few quick glances at him while driving. She hadn’t really looked at him before. Damp jeans stuck to long muscular thighs. His soaked forest-green shirt was glued to washboard abs. His gun holster crossed over his broad chest and hung beneath his right shoulder. Dash lights glowed along his chiseled features and short cropped blond hair. He had a Brad Pitt face on a Schwarzenegger body. Not a bad combination, she had to admit. But it was obvious he was an expert at using his facile charm and good looks to his advantage.

As if he felt her gaze on him, he said, “Thanks for letting me find ol’ J.D. here.” He used that affable tone of his and patted the gun in the holster.

She didn’t deserve his gratitude. The whole time he was searching for the gun she had visions of a croc running him out of the water. No such luck. She could have confiscated the gun, but if he were going to use it he would have long ago. And he seemed genuinely attached to it, like it was some kind of Texas security blanket, and she had to be at least civil to him. He was the key to getting inside Hell-strom’s compound. Since he was feeling indebted to her at the moment, Wynne figured now might be a good time to find out if he was connected to the bush meat operation, so she said, “No problem. So how did you hear about Hellstrom’s safari tours?”

“Internet—you never did tell me your name.” He pulled off a soggy river reed stuck to his shirtsleeve, then flicked it out the window.

She didn’t want to be on a first-name basis with him, and said, “Sperling.”

“Your first name?”

She hesitated and said, “Wynne.”

“Wynne Sperling?” He tried the name out. It sounded like Spuhlin’ when he said it. “Sperling. I knew some Sperlings. You got family in Amarillo?”

“No.”

“Where’s your family from?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Visited the District once. Climbed the Washington Monument in the summer. It was one scorcher of a day—”

She interrupted his tourist anecdote and said, “Washington can be murder in the summer, but probably not any hotter than Texas. What part of Texas are you from?”

“All over, but mostly Austin. My life is pretty boring. Now yours is different. How’d you get all the way from D.C. to Africa?”

She didn’t like the adroit way he kept turning the conversation back to her. “I majored in wildlife ecology with a minor in criminal justice. I thought I could do the most good here on the front lines. So what do you do for a living?” she asked, getting back to his life.

“I’m a businessman.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“Just about everything. Whatever strikes my fancy and turns a profit.”

Was bush meat poaching one of his fancies? “How do you go from ex-SEAL to businessman?”

“I kinda teach aikido to kids, too. Keeps me in shape.”

“I see.”

He reached over and touched Bart’s head, watching it bob. “What’s with The Simpsons fetish?”

“Birthday gifts. From my little sister, Cody. It was one of our rituals to watch The Simpsons every week. She likes to tease me because I don’t own a television here.”

She recalled snuggling on the couch with Cody, a bowl of Doritos between them, watching The Simpsons. Wynne missed hearing Cody’s nasally laugh, the peachy-bubblegum teenage scent of her hair, the way she always used to get in Wynne’s makeup and wear her clothes and swear she hadn’t. The dolls connected Wynne to home, to her sister, to a life that was no longer her own. Wynne cherished the six dolls. She couldn’t bear to see him abusing Bart’s head and said, “Please, they’re fragile.”

“Sorry.” He drew back his long arm and let it rest on his thigh. “You miss your family?”

His insightful question surprised Wynne and she said, “Very much.”

“What about your folks? They alive?”

“Yeah, but divorced.” Wynne thought of her father and smiled. “My father is a veterinarian for the National Zoo in Washington, and my mother…” Her smile melted. What was her mother? A bulldozer in stockings, heels and a Chanel suit. “She’s in corporate law,” Wynne finally said, realizing she’d said too much. “What about your parents?”

“My parents?” He gave a little taut laugh. “They consisted of the nuns at St.Anthony’s Orphanage, and Clarence, the grounds man.” A wistful tone entered his voice.

“Clarence?”

“Yep, old Clarence kinda took me under his wing, taught me how to box, work on cars and how to hunt—the sisters didn’t like that though. He took all us boys hunting on weekends, told the sisters it was a camping trip to commune with God. Ha! I think they were wise to him, but they didn’t say a word. Beside the priest, he was the only male influence in our lives—not knocking Father Reilly, he could go a round in the ring with the best of them, but he liked gardening. We boys just weren’t into perennials….” His words trailed off, and he seemed lost in memories.

The kind of silence that accompanies too much personal disclosure dragged between them. She wished she hadn’t asked about his parents. Was he lying to gain her sympathy? No, there had been an unmistakable honesty in his voice. All she really wanted to know about him was if he was involved in the poaching.

“This is a mighty fine ride you got,” MacKay said, glancing around the interior of her truck. “It’s not standard issue.”

“It’s mine.”

“How does a warden in Zambia afford something like this? Isn’t the government strapped? Your salary couldn’t be but so much. You probably can’t afford to put gas in it.”

“I didn’t exactly take this job for the Wall Street salary.” He didn’t need to know she lived off a trust fund her grandmother had left her. Any momentary sympathy she might have felt for him flew out the window. He was becoming annoying again.

He lifted his beefy hand and began methodically cracking each knuckle. “So are you one of those bleeding-heart, bunny-hugging activists? That it?”

Make that extremely annoying. She jabbed back, “Are you one of those guys who prays to Charlton Heston every time you pay your NRA dues?”

“Touché.” He wrote an imaginary one in the air, then went back to work on his knuckles. “Score one for the liberal. But don’t you use a gun in your job?”

“Hardly ever.” The popping sound of his joints grated on her eardrums like sandpaper.

“Now that is different.” He spoke as if he didn’t believe her. He stopped torturing his knuckles, then said with a smirk, “But you gotta admit being a warden is not a fit job for a woman, even if she were packing.”

She fought the urge to stop the truck and leave him for roadkill, but she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of letting him know he was getting to her. She smiled at him as if she’d just been impaled by a rhino. “And what kind of jobs are fit for a woman in your opinion?”

“I don’t know….” He shrugged and rubbed his chin. “Air traffic controller, astronaut, lobbyist, lawyer, veterinarian, detective. See, I’m not as chauvinistic as you thought, darlin’.”

“It’s a good thing you can’t read my mind.”

“Maybe I can.”

“You don’t seem psychic to me.”

“No, but I know you’re probably the only female warden in all of Africa. Hell, there’s probably not that many in the States.”

“I don’t defend how I live my life to anyone.”

She’d had to do enough of that with her mother, who would never understand why Wynne stayed in such a dangerous job. It wasn’t just about preserving the last great wilderness on earth, but also about the challenge. She thrived on overcoming the danger and the obstacles, and experiencing the amazing rewards which kept her here, like watching a lioness teaching her cubs to hunt, or the beauty of a herd of impala or zebra grazing. Africa had a wild but beautiful rhythm to it, and that rhythm was in her heart. It was well worth the fight to save it. Something this arrogant Texan would never understand. Or her mother.

“Are you a thrill-seeker, or you just got a death wish?” he asked.

“Do you?” Wynne added enough bite to the words that they came out as a threat.

It actually worked and for once he was speechless. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her in a probing, contemplative way.

She didn’t realize she’d driven past Hellstrom’s compound and she skidded to a stop. The Simpsons dolls whip-lashed on the dash and MacKay braced himself, uttering something about female drivers. She shifted into reverse and pulled into the drive then slammed on the brakes.

A man stood in the headlights, a rifle pointed at her.

Chapter 3

Wynne stared into the face of the guard. The headlights glowed along his dark skin and sunken cheeks and eyes. He wore a tan uniform with Hellstrom’s Tours embroidered on the shirt pocket. One hand held the rifle, while he grabbed a walkie-talkie on his belt with the other. He looked at her license plate, then spoke into the radio.

“Hellstrom’s got good security here.” MacKay grinned over at her.

Maybe too good. It hadn’t seemed extreme to her before now because all wildlife ranches and safari owners had secure compounds. But as she gazed at the ten-foot-high barbed wire fence that encompassed the compound and the guard’s AK-47, a rifle more suited to stopping armies than people, she had to wonder what he was hiding. “I guess he has his reasons for it.”

“You ever been here before?” MacKay asked while he rolled down his window, his attention on the guard.

“I ride by on my rounds sometimes.” Hellstrom’s compound was about twenty-five miles south of base camp, in a valley surrounded on one side by rolling hills, a prime area for grazing wildlife. When elephant herds went in search of fresh pasture, she sometimes drove past his compound to monitor them. She remembered the area before Hellstrom built the compound, when nothing was here but open spaces and herds of buffalo, eland, zebras, wildebeest and giraffe. She felt a tinge of loss.

“Can’t blame a man for putting up a fence.” MacKay didn’t wait for her comeback and stuck his head out the window. “It’s okay, Cephu. She’s giving me a ride.”

Cephu dropped the gun, smiled and said in English, “Oh, Mr. MacKay, it’s you.” The guard’s joy at seeing the Texan beamed in his face and a broad smile showed his white teeth. He dropped the walkie-talkie and stepped aside, waving Wynne through. “Have a nice night, Bwana MacKay.”

Bwana was a Bemba term for “Mr.” or “Master.” Wynne didn’t know if MacKay deserved such deference.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you know all the staff?”

“What can I say? I kinda grow on people.” He shrugged, then gave her a sympathetic glance, as if the only way she could grow on someone was if she were toenail fungus.

“I can grow on people, too.” The moment the words were out, she regretted them.

“I bet you do darlin’, I just bet you do.” Good-humored irony laced his voice.

Wynne couldn’t believe what she’d just blurted out. Why did she care what he thought? She didn’t need his approval. She let it drop and looked out at Hellstrom’s compound. It consisted of two hundred acres. Most of the ground had been plowed. Rows of tobacco, yams and maize grew along the drive.

MacKay saw she was looking at the fields and said, “I hear Hellstrom donates food to the Zambian government for the indigent.”

“I know. He also started an LZCG trust for local orphanages and AIDS clinics.”

“I believe someone told me he worked at a mission feeding the poor, too. Gotta respect a man who’s generous with his wealth.”

“Everyone respects him, no doubt about that.” Wynne frowned. “He knows how to win friends and influence people.”

“I wonder when he finds time to kick back and raise a little hell,” MacKay said, forcing a smile. “Everybody’s gotta have a little fun sometime. I sure have to.”

“Around here living is about survival, not about fun.”

“It’s gotta be godawful taking life so seriously. You gotta kick back.” MacKay chuckled. “You’re about as up-tight as a beer can without a pop-top. You’re gonna explode one day and it ain’t gonna be pretty…although come to think on it, it might.” His lips turned up into a sensual grin.

Wynne realized for the first time he had deep dimples, and she said, “Thank you for your candid six-pack psychological evaluation.” Wynne glowered back at him. Was he one of those American guys who hadn’t outlived his adolescence? Or was this part of his happy-go-lucky facade that was meant to fool her. “And you may think life’s an amusement park, but it’s not.”

“Nobody knows that better than me, but it doesn’t hurt to jump on a ride sometime.” He winked at her, his long-lashed eyes gleaming purplish blue in the green dash lights.

She could have fun. Couldn’t she? She loved her job, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really had fun. There had been the picnic she’d arranged for the kids at the Big Five Habitat, yet she hadn’t been able to go. A lion had been caught in a poacher’s snare and had gotten his head loose, but the snare had remained embedded in his neck. Wynne had been forced to dart him, while Dr. Leonard, the on-staff veterinarian, worked on him. Had she been in the bush so long she’d forgotten what fun was? She didn’t need the answer to that and certainly not from some stranger involved in poaching.

At her silence MacKay spoke. “In case you haven’t noticed, darlin’,” he motioned toward the fields they drove past, “Hellstrom doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble surviving.”

The Texan was more right than he realized. Hellstrom was too good to be true. Wealthy. A philanthropist. Conservationist. A living breathing paragon. He had to have a dark side. Didn’t he?

MacKay pointed ahead of them. “Just drive right on up to the front door—looks like Hellstrom’s got himself some company. Maybe another fund-raiser dinner. I hear he has lots of them. He’ll probably hit me up for a donation before I leave.”

“When will that be?”

“You sound like you’re in a hurry to get rid of me,” MacKay said, pretending to sound hurt. Or maybe he really was.

“Do I?” Wynne said it in such an innocent Scarlet O’Hara way that MacKay chuckled.

She glanced toward Hellstrom’s house, an expansive two-story Spanish Colonial Revival with iron-railed balconies, arched windows, cornices and parapets. A row of bungalows flanked the right side of the house, the servant and guest quarters. In the back were two large garages, a barn and a landing strip. It was bigger than some villages in Zambia.

She remembered taking a tour of Hellstrom’s house when he had finished building it several months ago. He had given a housewarming party and invited all the wardens and the LZCG members and supporters. Wynne hadn’t wanted to go, but the commander had made it mandatory.

Hellstrom had been his normal charismatic self, delighting everyone with anecdotes and playing the perfect host. At one point he had singled Wynne out, and she had sensed his attraction to her. Thankfully Kaweki, the commander, had interrupted them and introduced Hellstrom to his wife. Wynne had slipped away, relieved, feeling as if she had just escaped before Hellstrom had asked her out. After the incident at the party, she felt self-conscious around him and tried not to be alone with him ever again. No matter how handsome and appealing Hellstrom might be, she didn’t approve of how he made his living.

Safari owners, like Hellstrom, reaped most of their income from wealthy hunters—mostly English and American. Hunters paid safari operators large fees for supplying guides to take them into game-managed areas to hunt. The problem arose when corrupt hunters paid safari owners under the table and killed more animals than their government-issued licenses allowed. Coupled with native poaching, bush meat poaching and loss of habitat, animal populations just couldn’t recover. But Hellstrom did have an altruistic side that made him more likeable. And other than his dismissal of her DNA lab idea and the interest he appeared to have in her, he really wasn’t a bad leader for the LZCG. They had a good working relationship so far, and she meant to keep it all business—unless he proved to be the duplicitous head of this bush meat ring.

She pulled in behind a line of Toyota Land Cruisers, Rovers and Hummers. Some of the trucks had zebra-striped tops with logos from local tour businesses. She parked at the end of the line. Then she spotted the Zambian Wildlife Authority jeep. Rangers weren’t allowed to take the only ZWA jeep out for personal use, which meant the commander must be in attendance. It didn’t surprise her. Commander Kaweki worked closely with Hellstrom, and he was invited to all of Hellstrom’s social functions to represent the ZWA.

“Thanks muchly for the ride, darlin’. It’s been real interesting.” MacKay saluted her and opened the door.

“Wait, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

MacKay’s sandy blond brows rose a fraction and a lazy victorious grin spread across his mouth. “You change your mind about that drink?”

To make her plan work, she had to play along and seem interested. He probably knew she wasn’t. But the pretense would give her a reason to get inside Hellstrom’s office and do a little reconnaissance, and it would keep MacKay guessing. “Let’s just start with the drink, shall we.” Wynne jumped out of the Rover and breezed past him.

“The night is young yet, darlin’.” He sugarcoated the epithet, then fell in step beside her.

Wynne rolled her eyes. She could stand one libido-horned Texan for a few minutes. She stepped into the path of the lights that shot out through the front windows and glanced inside. It was a large solarium type room. A yellowish haze of cigarette smoke bathed a sea of white and black faces. She recognized the LZCG treasurer, Mr. Masamba, and the vice president, Mr. Njobo. They were talking, their wives at their sides, nodding. Thankfully, the commander was nowhere to be seen. She really didn’t want to explain why she had lied earlier and radioed that her 10-20 was the Rufunsa game-managed area and not Sausage Tree Camp. She couldn’t risk tipping off the poachers. She didn’t know who at the LZCG might be monitoring the transmissions.

Abruptly the door opened, and Hellstrom himself stood in the doorway as if he were expecting her.

“Wynne, so nice to see you. Jack.” Hellstrom’s sophisticated English voice held a warm welcome. His yellowish gold eyes brightened. “Come in, come in. A pleasure.”

“I got a bone to pick with you, Noah,” MacKay said, stepping past Wynne.

For once Wynne didn’t mind the Texan. He had gained Hellstrom’s full attention. She followed MacKay up the steps, adrenaline flowing, her body wired. Stay cool. Breathe. Search his house for evidence, then leave. How hard could that be? Yeah, right—about as easy as falling off a cliff with no parachute.

Once inside the foyer, Wynne paused next to MacKay, still feeling that roller coaster ride sensation that left her stomach in her throat. A set of closed double doors stood to the right and left of her. Muffled voices and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifted from behind them.

MacKay was rambling on about the jeep breaking down. The guy knew how to beat a topic to death. “You need a new mechanic. That radiator had a leak. You couldn’t miss it.”

Hellstrom was listening, nodding, with a gracious smile, but his deep-set gold eyes were on her. His straight black hair tapered to a razor-sharp widow’s peak on his tanned brow. Several strands fell on either side of his temples and made him look younger than his thirty-something years. His features were sharply chiseled, beautiful in a Michelangelo’s “David” sort of way. He was a walking Ralph Lauren ad. Charisma oozed from him and she found herself unable to look away.

Was he wondering why she was here? She felt the roller coaster take another dive. Just breathe. Smile. Be friendly.

MacKay seemed to realize he’d lost his audience and he said, “Better have your vehicles checked out by someone competent.” Then he remembered Wynne and said, “Look what I dug up.” He gestured toward her.

“Wynne, how have you ended up with my guest?” Hellstrom’s voice held a hint of an apology.

“I found him lost down by the river. Next time a guest ventures out alone at night, I’d make them take a guide along—for their own safety. And make them aware of the park’s hours.”

“Of course, how remiss of me.”

“And you might want to instruct them about firearms.”

“Of course.” Hellstrom pulled at a ruby cufflink.

“Don’t read the riot act to the man. It’s my own fault.” Oddly MacKay’s grin had been replaced by a sober expression. “I thought it would be all right to look at the park. He didn’t know I took off and went sightseeing.”

Wynne thought MacKay had jumped at that too easily. And there was a note of falseness in his voice. He was covering something. He and Hellstrom were probably better acquainted than MacKay had let on.

“You’ll know better next time, won’t you, Jack?” Hellstrom said smoothly.

“Sure.” MacKay nodded, not at all contrite, just unusually curt with his one-word reply.

“I’m sorry he took you away from your duties, Wynne.”

She waited for the invitation. It didn’t come. Hellstrom seemed to be giving her an entry for an exit.

“I should go.” Wynne turned to leave.

MacKay said, “Wait. You’ve come this far. You can’t leave now.”

Hellstrom shot MacKay a glance, but the four hundred-watt smile never left Hellstrom’s face. “Quite right.” He took in her appearance. “But you might want to freshen up a bit.”

Wynne glanced at her torn shirt. The slingshot was wrapped around her waist, bits of leaves stuck in it. Her hiking boots were slathered in river mud. The mosquito remedy still caked to her neck and her face was beginning to itch. She hadn’t realized just how grubby she was. In her line of work, she was used to getting dirty. She had never been more aware that her femininity had taken a back seat since coming to Africa.

She maintained a smile and felt her cheeks straining in an attempt to be civil. “You’ll have to forgive my appearance. I’ve been working.”