Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,19

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“So we’re square, okay? I didn’t want this any more than you did. That leopard was a case of kill or be killed. Survival.”

She continued to stare at him, and he knew what she had to be thinking—what woman had died at his hand? Brandt gritted his teeth, swinging the wheel too hard to the right to avoid a boulder that appeared abruptly in his lights. The vehicle slid sideways in mud, tilting almost onto its side as they traversed the escarpment.

Dalilah gasped, clutching on to the roll bar.

Brandt cursed and stopped the jeep. Focus, dammit. But this woman was messing with his head and his memories. And his anger had pushed him to take chances with the terrain. He wiped sweat off his brow, then slammed the vehicle back into gear.

Slowly he coaxed the wheels forward, crawling out of the tight spot. He sped up when they hit flat ground. There was little scrub now, mostly grassland. Rain was whipping sideways under the canopy, and the wet grass made a clacking noise under the carriage as he gunned forward.

Brandt could smell smoke again, getting stronger as they got closer to the river. Not good.

Fisting her blanket tight around her neck, Dalilah turned away from him and glared ahead.

They’d been driving in silence for maybe half an hour when she said, “Would you like me to hold the hunting spot so you can see better?”

He cast her a glance. “I didn’t think you’d even noticed there was one.”

“I’m not totally useless.” She reached for the game spotlight on the dash. With her good hand, she fiddled with it, clicked it on, held it forward. Stark white light illuminated terrain to the periphery of their headlights.

“Thanks. Makes a big difference.”

After a few more kilometres, he said, “I don’t know many people who could bring down a leopard at close range with a broken arm. You were right, you are good with a gun.”

She snorted, but said nothing. Brandt knew it must be killing her to have that dead leopard, evidence of her skill, on the backseat right now. He stole another sideways glance at her.

Even with the muddy, wet hair, the leaked mascara, the ripped outfit, her profile was aristocratic. Chiseled cheekbones that flared sharply under her almond eyes. The full mouth, determined set of her chin. Yeah, she was regal, even now, shivering under a blanket. And she was holding that spotlight steady like a trouper in spite of the pain and fear she must be feeling.

A grudging admiration curled through Brandt. Not only was the princess blessed with killer looks, she was a survivor—this woman had what it took. She pressed all his buttons and she was not averse to giving him a run for his money.

That made him like her, against his best effort. It made him care.

And Brandt knew then—he was in more trouble than he’d thought.

* * *

Almost an hour later they crested a ridge and saw a deep, dark line of vegetation snaking across the plain.

“The Tsholo,” Brandt said, halting the jeep. “Douse the spotlight.”

Dalilah looked at him. “Why?”

“Too bright. There could be people down there—illegals trying to cross from Zimbabwe into Botswana before the waters come down. I want to keep as low a profile as possible in case Amal comes this way and starts questioning stragglers.”

Nerves bit into Dalilah. She killed the light with one hand, her other arm too painful to move.

“What about our headlights?” she said, replacing the spot on the dash.

“I’ll cut them when we get closer, drive in the dark. We’ll go slow.”

He began to take the jeep down a precarious, rocky drop.

“So the riverbed is dry?” she asked, peering ahead at the dense vegetation snaking across the plain.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

The jeep jolted suddenly and pain sparked up her arm. Dalilah’s eyes watered and she clenched her teeth. She’d felt a sense of foreboding when she’d sat on that riverbank and that crocodile had come from nowhere, but not in her wildest dreams had she imagined this—being attacked, knocked unconscious, kidnapped and hauled off on the back of this man into the African wilderness.

Dalilah stole a sideways glance at Brandt. Her abductor and rescuer.

Mostly rescuer, she hoped. Because there was something scary about him. Perhaps it was his sheer physical size, his brutal capacity for analysis in a dire situation. She wondered what woman he’d killed. And why. Who was Brandt Stryker when he wasn’t paying back a debt to her brother, and what had Omair