rocks, she said, “When did you come to live in Botswana? How long have you actually been here?”
He blew out a breath of irritation.
“Ten years.”
“The length of your vow not to kill.”
His stomach tightened and a warning buzz started in his brain.
“Whereabouts in South Africa were you born?”
“Nelspruit,” he said crisply. “Small Afrikaans town founded by Boers along the Crocodile River. Or it was then. It was renamed Mbombela after apartheid.”
“So you grew up there?”
He grunted and bent down. More tracks. He looked up, watching the sky, birds. Listening.
“So why did you become a mercenary in the first place?” She was circling back to how he knew Omair, and how, exactly, Omair had saved him ten years ago. His head started to throb and his chest went tight. Carla was not her business. His failed marriage, his son, his farm, his old life in South Africa—not her damn business, either. Brandt had blocked that part of his history right out of his consciousness. He just didn’t go there—no point. He was no longer that man.
“Dalilah, please, do me a favor, just stop talking. Just for a while.”
Her jaw firmed and her cheeks pinked, a flare of hurt darting bright through her eyes. Then those almond eyes narrowed.
“I don’t usually have to work this hard to get people to be civil to me.”
Frustration flared across his chest.
“Then don’t. Save your breath.” And mine.
Her jaw dropped. “Look,” she snapped, “if I’m going to spend the amount of time with you that it takes to get up that cliff—” she jabbed her good arm at the red-rock wall ahead of them “—and over the plateau on top, then across another half of Botswana, we might as well be civil, get to know each other.”
“I know all I need to know about you, Dalilah,” he said quietly. “You’re Omair’s kid sister. And you’re a princess—a precious commodity to your kingdom, and you’re about to become queen of almighty Sa’ud. People want you back. A desperate man wants you dead. I’m the lackey in the middle.”
“You know nothing about me!” She spat the words at him in exasperation. “I’m more than someone else’s princess, someone’s fiancée. Someone’s commodity. I’m my own damn person, too!” She fisted her hand, and beat it against her chest. “I worked hard to get where I am, and I pay my own way, I’m a foreign investment consultant with a solid legal background. In my spare time I volunteer for ClearWater, and if I do spend my family fortune, it’s always for my volunteer work. If I do use my family name, it’s to raise funds for impoverished villages so that they can get access points to clear water. And yes, I attend a ton of glitzy charity events, but it’s to raise funds so I can come here, to Africa, to places like Zimbabwe, and do good work. Work that makes a difference in people’s lives, Brandt! And I might live in a plush Manhattan penthouse, but I paid for it, and I have friends there who like me for who I am....” Her voice hitched, and she swore, turning away, her eyes bright with tears.
She was cracking, thought Brandt. He had to go easier on her.
She spun back, calming her voice, but when she spoke it was shaky. “The only reason I’m in this position now is because my brothers weren’t open with me, and I couldn’t take adequate safety precautions because of it.” She took off her hat, shoved back her hair, damp, tendrils stiff with mud. “How do you think that makes me feel? My controlling brothers taking over my life again, and then lump me in with someone like you.” She rammed the hat back onto her head.
Surprise rippled through Brandt.
Then he said, very quietly, “Are you going to keep doing this charity work, keep your nice Manhattan apartment when you marry in nineteen months?”
She stared at him, the pulse at her neck racing, color in her cheeks high, maybe too high. Grasses rustled softly in a sudden hot breeze.
“Well, will you?”
Her hand went to her stomach, pressed, as if she suddenly felt sick. And he could see her searching for an answer.
“No,” she said after several beats of silence, her voice not sounding quite her own. “I will work, though, for the Kingdom of Sa’ud, Haroun’s diplomatic functions. I’m sure I’ll find some charities—I...I’d have to live there, of course.”
He took a step closer.
“And that makes you happy—that’s what you want?”
She met his gaze.