“Why are you asking me this?”
“Because you sound pretty damn passionate about the other stuff you were just yelling at me about. And you were so darn motivated to get me to take you to Harare to ink that water deal that you weren’t even thinking about the attackers on your tail.”
She swallowed, glanced away. “It’s because this was my last opportunity to do something with my ClearWater work.” She inhaled deeply. “I wanted to leave some kind of legacy, show that my freedom was worth something. Apart from...” She faded, her eyes gleaming with emotion.
“Freedom?” he said. “Versus marriage—is that how you see it?”
She moistened her lips.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes going to her ring. “Give it all up for some dude who owns most of the world’s oil. For a moment back there in Zimbabwe, I was really impressed. But I read you wrong.”
“You’d respect me more—be impressed if I wasn’t going to marry? Marriage takes compromise.”
“And what’s Haroun giving up—what’s his compromise?”
Her eyes flickered.
He snorted. “You’re talking to the wrong man about marriage, Princess. Been there, done that, failed miserably. Sometimes compromise is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
“So you were married once?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
She blinked, then gave him a measuring look. Brandt swallowed, his gaze locked with hers.
“What does impress you, Stryker?”
“If you’re following your passion, Dalilah,” he said quietly, “I’m impressed, whether you marry or not. And ClearWater, your job, your independence, is very obviously your passion.” He shrugged dismissively. “Trade it all off for a life behind palace walls? I’m not seeing a clear picture here.”
When she didn’t reply, he said, “It must make you happy. Or you wouldn’t do it.”
“Yeah...it makes me happy,” she snapped, though she looked anything but.
He regarded her intently, nodded his head, then turned and began to march on.
Dalilah felt sick. She couldn’t move. He’d laid it all out right there. She couldn’t do it—she couldn’t marry Haroun. Tension coiled in her gut. But she couldn’t call it off now, either. It was a binding contract, a treaty between countries. Her brother, King Zakir, was relying on it, so was his King’s Council—her whole family. Her nation.
“You coming or what?” he yelled over his shoulder.
“I didn’t ask for your approval,” she called after him. “I don’t care what you think!”
He spun around again. “So why’d you just tell me all this? Why’d you kiss me like that, Dalilah, huh? What are you not getting with Haroun Hassan?”
She swallowed. She’d fallen right into it. She’d set herself up.
She turned her back to him, looked out over the gold grass, the big sky, the route they’d traveled. Immobilized. Trapped.
“Dalilah?”
She couldn’t move. Tears filled her eyes and she wouldn’t let him see.
“Dalilah?” She felt his touch, gentle on her shoulder.
Her heart began slamming against her ribs. She felt dizzy. Confused. It was fatigue, she told herself. Critical incident stress. She waited until her vision came fully back into focus.
Then she turned. Spine stiffening, she lifted her chin, met his eyes and forced a dry laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself about that kiss. Like you said, an itch to scratch.”
He moistened his lips, nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.
A bird flew overhead, big wings whooshing, a momentary shadow.
He swung his rifle back onto his shoulder, muzzle aimed into the air, and resumed his stride into the veldt.
“Damn you,” she muttered softly in Arabic. Then she cursed herself—why should she even care about explaining herself to this broad-chested mutt? Why did she want his approval so desperately?
But she knew why. She liked Brandt—there was something about him she respected, and there was a profoundness buried in him.
Most of all, she was trying to explain it to herself, and he was the punching bag in the way. And a catalyst.
They neared the bottom of the cliff and it loomed even higher than Dalilah had anticipated. The red rocks trapped the heat of the sun, radiating it back like an oven.
Dust devils swirled near the base, fine sand sticking to perspiration on Dalilah’s skin. The game trail to the approach petered out, and grass grew shoulder-high, scrub dense.
Brandt stopped, shaded his eyes, searching for a route up.
She heard a sneeze in the grass to her left and froze. Brandt spun around, lowered his rifle and clicked off the safety, attention trained on the grass.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He put his finger to his mouth.
Another sneeze.
“Impala,” he whispered. “Warning.”
A group of antelope suddenly flew at them from the grass. Dalilah shrieked and ducked as the buck