Wilder

An eRedSage Publishing Publication This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form whatsoever in any country whatsoever is forbidden. Information: Red Sage Publishing, Inc. P.O. Box 4844 Seminole, FL 33775 727-391-3847 eRedSage.com

Wilder An eRed Sage Publication All Rights Reserved Copyright © 2011 eRedSage is a registered trademark of Red Sage Publishing, Inc. Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.eRedSage.com ISBN: ISBN: ISBN: ISBN:

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Wilder Wilder Wilder Wilder

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Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows: Wilder © 2011 by Em Petrova Cover © 2011 by Rae Monet Printed in the U.S.A. ebook layout and conversion by jimandzetta.com

Wilder ***

Elle couldn’t believe how arrogant her new mentor was…or how titillating his hand against her ass could be!

4

Chapter One “Here he comes.” At her father’s excited words, Elle faced east and shielded her eyes from the blistering sun. The plane bobbed in the sky like a metal toy and whined as annoyingly as a Mozambique mosquito. She swatted one of the offenders, squashing it on her sunburned upper arm. She flicked it away without removing her gaze from the approaching bush plane. As it screamed toward earth, anticipation raged in her belly. Her father had hired a professional to guide hunters on safari at their exclusive lodge, and to act as her personal teacher so she could achieve her final papers. She was one dangerous hunt from being certified as a professional hunter, too. But she was excited to meet this man in person for other reasons. For years, she’d had a crush on him. Though she’d never met him, his photos and stories appeared in several publications she frequently read. She had acquired a little collection of fanfare, as well as a nice compilation of fantasies. She shook herself a little. He’s here to show you how to guide for Cape buffalo. Not introduce you to the intimate workings of his full lips. What was she thinking? She wasn’t a girly girl, she didn’t wear dresses or tidy her hair. She wasn’t one to swoon over males. Besides, she had her sights set on that certificate. She didn’t have time for a relationship, and in the dangerous wilds of the Africa, there was no room for tender embraces or kisses, even if his lips were worth exploration. Her father, Barnabas Bekker III, let out a whoop as the landing gear touched down. Elle coughed around a cloud of choking dust and squinted at the shiny vessel tearing to a stop. A group of Swahili tribesmen who worked for her father ran along behind, singing and chanting their welcome. 5

She peered through the waves of heat dancing over the golden savannah. The little bush plane wasn’t new, but had been well cared for. She wondered how it would feel to fly in it, soaring through the sapphire sky, just the two of them. The dust began to settle and Elle focused on the man climbing from the cockpit. His rough boot appeared first, followed by a long muscular leg in safari shorts. Quickly, she drank in the lines of his body, comparing them to the photographs she’d seen. A chest as powerful as a beast’s, roped biceps and forearms. Thick neck with the glint of a lion’s claw worn on a leather thong. Her breath caught when she reached his face. A grin broke over his features, cutting lines around the corners of his firm mouth and crinkling his eyes. He was deeply tanned from years spent under the African sun, and his hair had been bleached almost white. Heart quickening, she waited for him to see her. Standing on the wing of the plane, he reached into the cockpit. He swung up a leather bag and allowed it to drop to the ground. One of the tribe rushed forward to pick it up. Peter Dumont, the best professional hunter in the bush, jumped down with his rifle case slung over his shoulder. Eyeing his small amount of luggage, Elle wondered about the length of time her father had hired him for. She didn’t want him to run off too fast, though she was confident in her ability to tackle the last leg of her training, and knew she could learn quickly from this man. In the past year, she’d soaked up as much as she could from her father and the tribesmen when it came to hunting. She’d taken every animal except one. The most dangerous animal alive in Africa, the Cape buffalo. Peter’s specialty. The tribesmen crowded around him and he greeted each with a smile. Her gaze zoomed in on the broad set of his shoulders. They looked much bigger in person. Of course, in his pictures he was always posed with an enormous animal. But his smile was the same, and it did things to her insides. The way he stood, legs flung wide and arms relaxed at his sides exuded confidence. She stared at his hands for a long minute, 6

Wilder watching them twitch as he talked excitedly. Noting how the nails were clean and cropped short, the fingers strong and long. Sometimes his thumb would work against his thigh as if massaging a bruise. Slowly, back and forth. Heat climbed her face. Feeling a little shy, she hung back. Butterflies took up residence in her stomach as she waited for him to notice her. Soon she’d have his attention full time when they trekked into the wilds together. There would be plenty of time to talk. For half a century, her family’s ranch played a crucial role in the well-being of the peoples around her. The income brought in from the wealthy hunters provided prosperity to the tribe. Someday she hoped to take over the business for her father and care for the people, too. The first step was getting that certificate. Peter was shaking hands with the tribesmen, and then he lifted his head and sought her father. Striding forward, her father pumped his hand and clapped him on the back. “Welcome, Peter. So glad you made it safely. The skies were good I take it?” Barnabas folded his arms over his chest. Once he’d been broader and stronger, but age was stripping some of his heartiness from him. However, his green eyes still twinkled like gems and he had a quick grin for all. As he talked with Peter, he toyed with the wide, battered brim of his tan hat, bringing it low over his eyes, and then pushing it back again. Peter listened with interest. When he spoke, his deep timbre kissed with the South African lilt sent Elle’s heart into an erratic beat. “I had a very good trip. Thank you, Barnabas. I’m very happy to be here.” He planted his hands on his hips. His gaze swept the landscape. Did he see the things she saw? Like the baobab trees stretching their arms toward the sky, the bright, almost blinding quality of light playing off the savannah? Did he see the crown of Kilimanjaro in the distance, hovering in the atmosphere, so faint it was like a negative? Or the lush strip of land on either side of a wide stream leading to their ranch, the only source of water for miles? 7

His gaze collided with Elle’s. She gulped as a pair of smoldering brown eyes focused on her. Her heart pattered faster. He stared at her for a long moment. His gaze was riveting, dark and predatory. He focused on her so completely, she felt like a vulnerable animal in the sights of a hunter. Shivers rippled up her spine. He gave her the barest hint of a nod, and then turned away, dismissing her. Hurt tinted her mental photograph of him. Warped it. What was that about? He was here because of her. The least he could do is speak to her. When he continued to ignore her, defiance rose up in her sharply. So he’s got the body of a god and the rugged beauty to go with it. You’ve been dreaming of the man in the photograph. But that man apparently exists only in your imagination. He’s here for one purpose, and that is to teach you all there is to know about hunting buffalo. Still, she felt more than a little injured by his indifference. She’d thought he might be interested in her because she was one of the rare females who had taken up this profession. Though she hadn’t secured her certificate, she had achieved much. She’d looked forward to facing him as an equal. Before she could think twice, she charged after him. Her long strides ate up the ground between them. Her skin prickled and her spine stiffened with resolve. No way in hell was he ignoring her. Her daddy would call her impulsive. She considered herself assertive. The scent of spice was in her nose, and the heavy aroma of wood smoke. In Africa, something was always burning. Not just camp fires, or bonfires in the villages, but wild fires. Her senses sharpened. She threw out her hearing, listening for the roar of flames eating up the landscape. When she heard only the low noises of birds and the sigh of tall grasses in the breeze, she breathed easier. She drew up before Peter, and he glanced away from her father to fix her in his solemn gaze. Instead of sticking out her double 8

Wilder rifle, she gave him her hand. Without hesitation, he gripped it. His warm, dry clasp engulfed her hand. His broad palm dwarfed hers, his thick fingers splaying hers apart. At a foot away, his clean, leathery scent overwhelmed her feminine senses, stamping on her brain one more reason to love this land. The musk of a virile man. She fought her urge to step back, not wanting to seem rude. But dammit, he was huge and overwhelmingly male. “You must be Miss Bekker.” His South African lilt washed over her. He’d just come from Capetown, where it smelled of oranges and the sea. Was it her imagination, or did she detect a faint trace of those notes clinging to his clothes? His eyes were shot with golden flecks around big, dark centers. Beneath his level gaze, a nose slightly crooked as if he’d broken it once or twice gave his handsome face more character. Her stare dipped to his mouth. A knot formed in her belly, the ends of the unfamiliar rope of desire yanked in two directions. He wet his lips. In the back of her mind, the voice of a good hostess played. He was probably thirsty after his long trip. She thought of fetching him a cool glass of lemonade and curling up in the study with him to talk for hours. This close his lips didn’t look as hard as she’d originally believed from his photographs. A tingle of warmth spread through her, and to her horror, a creeping blush. At one time, she’d attempted to test out those lips by pressing hers to the glossy magazine and his devilishly grinning face. What’s the matter with you? All you should care about is how big his gun is. The flush crawled up her body and devoured her cheeks. Thank God he couldn’t hear her thoughts. What was wrong with her? She spent days alone with men in the field, but never did she feel her womanly needs like she did at this moment. Staring at his pictures in those books and magazines had addled her brain. She yanked her hand back and chaffed her fingers together to dispel the feel of his touch. But her body was singing. His dark, level gaze rooted her when all she wanted was to spin 9

away and head back to the lodge. “Nice to meet you. She’s a slight little thing, isn’t she? And a tomboy.” He spoke to her father, who slipped an arm about her shoulders. Her daddy squeezed her close and pressed a kiss to the crest of her cheek as if she was ten years old. “Elle is unbeatable in target practice and a very accomplished tracker.” Peter’s hot gaze flickered over her hair and face, and downward to her thin tank top and khaki shorts. Her hands twitched with the urge to cover her breasts and her traitorous nipples, which were bunching at the searing kiss of his eyes. “Is she? I’ll look forward to seeing her in action.” Peter turned away. She wadded her fist against her side at his obvious dismissal. It doesn’t matter. You’re an accomplished hunter, and he isn’t here to sweep you off to a ball. Worse than her irritation at being called a tomboy was his indifferent tone. As a woman on a man’s field of battle, she couldn’t help but feel he automatically placed her on unequal ground. Just wait, Dumont. We’ll see how you feel after a few rounds of target practice. She watched his chiseled back move off toward the lodge with the tribesmen flanking him three wide. And when her father jogged to catch up to him, she was left in the background, feeling rejected and overlooked. ***** Elle found the men on the veranda, enjoying cool drinks and a spot of shade. The fierce afternoon sun baked the land. Mirages of heat wavered in the distance, but here there was a cooling breeze. She drew a deep gulp of the air. It smelled dry and dusty, but with the faint aroma of the well-tended gardens behind the lodge. The long, low ranch house had been erected by her grandfather, solid enough to withstand a stampede by a herd of elephants, yet it sprawled across the land like a woman across a bed. 10

Wilder She crossed to the antique wooden sideboard, aware of Peter’s eyes on her. Her skin prickled and a wave of heat caressed her, leaving behind a faint dew. She wrapped her fingers around the cool glass pitcher and poured herself a glass of lemonade. She wanted to scream at herself to meet his gaze, to let him see the strong emotions roiling through her system. She didn’t fully understand them. When she’d flipped through the magazine articles featuring him, fantasies had played through her head. But that’s all they were: fantasies. At the time she’d never expected to meet him in person. After she learned the Peter Dumont was coming to teach her his secrets, her logical mind had told her he was nothing more than a man who would share his knowledge. Unfortunately, her body didn’t know this. Keeping her gaze downcast, she took up a chair on the outer ring of the group. Peter and her father sat in the center. They were silhouetted by the deep blue sky which was filled with long, curling clouds. Clouds that seemed to be rendered by an artist’s brush. The grasslands were yellowed during this dry season, but here and there bits of green grass peeked through. The herds would graze the area and pluck every green stalk they could find, but after one soaking rain, new growth would occur. The breeze freshened, bringing with it the scent of a nearby herd. She lifted her head and sniffed the air, aware that Peter was doing the same. Animals had a distinct scent. Wildebeest had a cow scent, if cows were cleaner. Elephants smelled like the dirt they liked to coat their skin in to stay cool and Cape buffalo smelled like hell. There was no mistaking their pungent, sometimes eye-watering scent. Plains game. Maybe antelope. She relaxed against the wicker back of her chair and took a sip of the sweet lemonade. Peter and her father continued talking about the ranch’s abundance of water and food for the wildlife. She listened with half an ear and allowed the atmosphere to fill her with ease. She never felt relaxed unless she was outside. She and the land understood one another. She loved it dearly and in return, it 11

treated her well, supplying good herds to hunt and experiences to store in her memory bank. Peter commented that the herds were well managed here. Pride swelled in her chest. Her father took care to only harvest the biggest and oldest of the species to ensure the animals thrived. Peter’s double rifle lay across his knees, and he held a polishing cloth in one hand. The familiar scent of gun oil reached her as he worked the fluid over his weapon. The big pad of his thumb poked through the fabric in a circular motion. As she sipped her drink, she grew mesmerized by the movement of that thumb. She tried to tear her gaze away, but couldn’t. She’d spent the past few years wishing she’d run into Peter in the wilderness, and now he was here. Within arm’s reach. Images flitted through her mind—erotic images involving his thumb and the sensitive spot behind her ear, his thumb and the tip of her breast, his thumb and the seam of her buttocks. But he was completely uninterested in her, though she was his reason for coming to Umbulu Ranch. From lowered eyelids she studied the bulge of his thigh muscle and the tendons in his forearm as he worked over his rifle. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t attracted to him. Every line of his body made hers ping to life. If only he’d talk to her. They had so much in common. Hunting and managing the herd was her life. Taking over as professional hunter on her father’s ranch was her dream. Peter’s smoldering gaze lifted. She felt the touch as acutely as if she’d been prodded with a searing poker. She opened her mouth to say something, to add her stories to the many tales being passed through this makeshift family. But his eyes slid away before she could speak. ***** Elle’s bullet sliced through the air and struck the nick that Afla, her father’s lead tracker, had carved into the baobab tree as a target. For hours, she’d followed her father and Peter through the 12

Wilder halls of the ranch and listened to them talk about the terrain and game. She’d padded down the stone corridors in their wake, admiring the rectangles of light the long windows threw across Peter’s tall form, illuminating him like a bronze statue. When he stepped into the shadow, she took his place amongst the swirling dust motes, and a little thrill went through her at occupying the same space. Confidence oozed from him, and it was quite apparent he was suited to the job. Not once had he spoken to Elle, but she’d caught him looking at the most peculiar times. During their noon meal, she’d looked up to see his gaze fixed on her mouth as she chewed. Appalled by the thought she might have food on her face, she excused herself to the bathroom. A glance in the mirror told her nothing was amiss, but her blood heated as if a hot wire ran through her system. He’d been watching her mouth as she’d watched his earlier today. Yes, he’d looked at her plenty, but spoke only a cursory word or two when forced. He was staring at her now in that intense way that raised the hair all over her body. She felt like she’d come out of the high grass and been pinned down by a predator. What did that look mean? Extreme dislike or the opposite? The more she thought about it the more she believed he didn’t have time for teaching a woman how to hunt. She couldn’t help but feel he possessed a level of animosity for her. Certainly he treated her that way. Or, maybe he only cared about the bucks her father was paying him. He might be a handsome, virile bushman who could handle any danger, from a stampeding Cape buffalo to a poacher, but he was proving himself an ass. Satisfied with her shot, she swung her rifle to the ground with a hint of smugness, silently daring him to best her with his shot. The sun was behind their group, casting spindly shadows before them, and his shadow straightened as if he was surprised by her marksmanship. She grinned. She hadn’t gotten through so many rounds of testing to become a P.H.—a professional hunter— without skill. “Well done,” her father boomed. He grinned at her and her 13

heart swelled for his solid presence in her life. Though he’d spent much of her childhood running through the bush with hunting parties, he’d always returned with a smile and a kiss for his 'Little Elle.' Over the years, the den had become a bonding area for them. At five, she’d curled up on his lap and listened to him recount hunting stories until she drifted off to sleep. At fifteen, they’d discussed the ranch’s herds over a pot of spicy Kenyan tea. And at twenty, she’d looked him in the eye and told him her dream of becoming a P.H. and taking over the business. Peter’s gaze rooted her to the ground. Her knees weakened and she clung to her gun, using it almost as a crutch. Why did he have this effect on her? It must have been all those articles revering his prowess in the field. Somehow her female mind had translated that to skill between the sheets. “Good job, Elle.” Several of her Swahili friends congratulated her and patted her shoulders. “She’s been well trained. Good work.” Peter’s gaze slid away from her and he spoke directly to her father. “But she might keep her head down for better follow-through.” All thoughts of her, Peter and a set of crisp cotton sheets fled her mind. Sharp words rose on her tongue and she bit them off. Dammit, her follow-through had been perfect. Her shot perfect. Yet a voice in the back of her mind niggled her. How many times had her daddy told her to keep her head down while she squeezed off the shot? Still, she didn’t think she’d flinched. Irritation prickled down her spine. Instead of addressing her, Peter talked to her dad like he was a dog trainer and she his prized Labrador. How would he possibly help her on the hunt if he didn’t give her direct advice? She bit back a fresh retort and ejected the round from the chamber. The warm steel felt good in her hands. Her gun was an extension of her body. A P.H.’s security blanket. She experienced the most ease when hefting her weapon. The kick against her shoulder thrilled her. And the power of taking down a beast before it killed her was the best adrenaline rush. From the corner of her eye, she studied Peter. His legs were 14

Wilder thrown wide and his elbow cocked as he steadied his rifle on his shoulder. The muscles of his back flexed, his face almost fierce as he concentrated on the far-off target. Her body stirred at the sight of the setting sun gleaming along each indentation of his muscled body and sparking off his pale hair. Her own blonde hair hung in a windblown tail down her back, the ends frayed from chewing them. She was a full head shorter than Peter, which was new to her. The Swahilis were small compared to her five-foot-ten-inch frame, and she even topped her father. Peter’s shot struck the tree. Bark exploded. A cheer went up from her father and the Swahilis. They crowded around him to compliment him on a perfect shot, abrading Elle’s nerves. They’re used to seeing you shoot. The wind kicked up and blew her ponytail across her mouth. The strands stuck on her lip balm and she palmed them away. When she glanced up, Peter was staring at her. Her heart flipped. Their gazes locked, and electricity crackled between them. A small shiver tore down her arms and into her core, where it suddenly blossomed into white heat. In her mind’s eye, she saw him gripping her upper arms and throwing her against a tree, tearing off their clothes while kissing, kissing, kissing. She twisted away, shouldered her rifle, and took off toward the main house without a backward glance. Strange feelings coursed through her. She’d always found him handsome, but these were unaccustomed feelings. Feelings that left her body pulsing with strong sexual need. The primal strength he exuded called to her. Not only did she want to make love to him, she wanted a display of power. While she disliked him treating her as if she was unequal in the bush, a display of his power erotically was a turn-on. That’s what you get for fantasizing about him, for taking his pictures to bed and using them to. . . A scorching blush enveloped her face, and that was only the surface. Her insides were ablaze. It wasn’t as if she’d never had a lover before. She was twenty-six years old after all. But she’d never known such blood-pounding desire as she did right now. 15

Desire for a man who was a pompous ass but looked like an Adonis. A man who would most likely take her place at the Umbulu Ranch if she didn’t get her certificate. Hastening her step, she paced toward the stone ranch house, trying to flee from the memory of Peter’s dark brown gaze. Her boots stirred up the dust and it coated her calves. Perspiration dewed her spine and her cotton top clung to it. And a trickle of moisture flooded her panties. She slammed through the entrance, set her gun on the hooks above the door and took off for her private quarters. The house smelled good, smelled comforting of leather and gun oil and the Kenyan tea she and Daddy drank together. Unfortunately, the essences of home did nothing to dispel her attraction to Peter Dumont. Desire battled with disgust and her good sense. Peter was obviously a chest-thumping chauvinist who believed she wasn’t tough enough to reach her dream of becoming a P.H. While he hadn’t said that, she knew by the way he spoke as if she wasn’t there. And he’d called her a tomboy! In her fantasies, she’d always worn a filmy white negligee and he’d looked at her with glowing eyes, his thick cock dancing against his muscled abs. Another cascade of irritation washed over her. You’re not that feminine creature of your fantasies, Elle. You wear the same smelly socks for days at a time on the hunt. And you don’t even own a nightgown let alone a negligee. Yet, her body pulsated with lust. Everything about Peter’s big body enticed her, from his musk and leathery scents to the bulge of his thigh muscles. And damn those black eyes to hell. They made her blood pound with need even as they taunted her. In her bedroom, she stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes and crossed the cool tile to the bathtub set into the stone floor. With a flick of her wrist, she turned on the tap. Water rushed into the tub. She uncapped a bottle of bath oil, which she rarely used because no hunter wanted the animals to catch her scent. But this evening, she hoped the vanilla would soothe her flayed nerves. In mere 16

Wilder hours, Peter had made her feel lesser than any other man she’d ever encountered. She stared at her reflection in the short mirror above the sink. The tip of her nose had gotten too much sun and her eyes were feverishly bright. How did Peter see her? Certainly not as an equal. I want this, dammit, and I will achieve it. Hunting was her passion, her life. Deep down though, her womanly flesh screamed to be heard. Part of her wanted him to see her in a different capacity. And that scared the hell out of her. She twisted sideways in the mirror to study the slope of her breasts. They were small but perky with little garnet tips. Why are you thinking about your tits, Elle? Especially in conjunction with Peter Dumont? With jerky movements, she unknotted her hair from the elastic band. It fell in a sheet across her back. The silken tresses against her skin aroused her. Mental flashes of Peter’s beautiful hands sent a spike of need straight to her pussy. She sank into the hot water until the tops of her breasts were submerged. Releasing a sigh—part pleasure, part frustration—she let her head rest against the lip of the deep tub. For the first time in a long time, she thought of her mother with longing. She wished she had a female to talk to frankly about these conflicting feelings in her. When Elle was twelve years old, her mother had left because the wilds of Africa were not 'her thing.' She hadn’t been close to any woman since. Outside, the tribal drums were starting early. She looked out the window at the twilit sky. The first star winked from the velvety vastness. At the front of the house, she heard her father’s booming voice, and wondered if he and Peter had come in to clean up, too? Just the thought of that rugged blond man sent her senses into overdrive again. Her pussy pulsed as the water swirled around it. Her nipples bunched up into tight buds. Through the walls, Peter’s deep voice sounded. Yearning spread through her veins as fast as a cheetah taking down a young gazelle. All at once, she pictured him kissing her, his unshaven jaw scraping her cheeks deliciously, his mouth firm and 17

yet pliable as his tongue stroked the seam of her lips. . . . She circled her nipples with lazy strokes. They puckered up hard as she imagined his thick fingers fumbling over them, flickering each before dropping his lips and suckling her until her head swam. A flood of cream seeped from her engorged pussy, and she abandoned one nipple to plunge her hand into her wet curls. Slowly, she edged her fingers down the tight seam, spreading her outer labia to expose her sensitive inner flesh to the heated water. Her breath rasped in her ears, mingling with the exquisite drone of Peter’s voice in the other room, talking to her father. A thrill shot to her core, and her passions flared. Her eyes slipped shut as she nudged her swollen clit. She bit down on a groan of bliss as she wiggled it back and forth. Her slit contracted, and she dipped two fingers into her tight sheath, pulsing them in and out. The water lapped the sides of the tub in time to her thrusts. Images swirled through her head. Broad shoulders hovering over her, his biceps flexed. The hard length of his body pressing her down into her plush mattress, his spicy male musk filling her nose, filling her mouth, filling her. And a look of utter desire in his fathomless eyes. She could almost feel the levity of his gaze as she had when she was shooting. Her flesh had risen to the caress of his eyes, and now it lifted to her memories. Just as she had used his photograph to satisfy her craving for a strong man, she used his voice now. His low rumble filled her with need and with an opposing anger. At him, but also at herself. So what if he could shoot the mark off a tree at seventy yards and was a natural leader of men? So what if the sight of his long, tapered fingers and broad palms sent tentacles of need through her? Again, she imagined him using her roughly, lifting her against the stone wall of the house, his mouth bruising, his touch ferocious as he sank into her again and again. With her other hand, she drew figure eight patterns over her needy nubbin while her other fingers dipped into her cavern. Her inner thigh muscles quivered as the pressure grew within her. 18

Wilder Demanding ease from the day’s frustrations. Demanding release. Peter’s lilting speech filled her ears as the vanilla bath oil filled her head. She slicked her fingers over her hardened pearl faster, faster, faster. Until the knot of wanting stretched and broke. She came with a soft cry. Waves of ecstasy broke over her, taking her up the steep incline of bliss. She continued to finger her clit until the last contractions ebbed away. Her breathing slowed, but it still sounded loud to her, echoing off the tile walls. As she came back to herself, she focused on the world around her. The cooling water in the tub. The scents of wood smoke from a bonfire outside. And Peter’s voice. Now as she listened to it, a hard blush frosted her cheeks. Suddenly she was mortified by her behavior. She’d never used a particular man to fantasize before. Besides, how could she so easily forget he was a chauvinistic pig? And that he’d take her place as Umbulu’s professional hunter if she didn’t succeed? Self-disgust replaced the pulsations in her core. Trembling slightly from emotion and her release, she climbed from the bath. She snagged a thick towel from a glass shelf and wrapped it tight around her breasts. Her hair dripped down her nape, and her inner thighs were moist with come. Her blood still hummed in her veins. But now she didn’t know if it hummed with lust or anger with herself.

19

Chapter Two Peter took a sip of his strong, aged scotch and settled into a leather chair across from Barnabas. The man had just emerged from his quarters in a fresh linen shirt and shorts, his hair neatly combed and his nails scrubbed. Only the man’s graying hair gave away that he wasn’t in his prime. But Peter noted a wince on Barnabas’s face as he sat, indicating arthritis had settled into his joints. Other than that, he was hearty and spry. And his direct gaze was disconcertingly like Elle’s. Unease settled in Peter’s gut. A sensation as foreign to him as tenderness. In his line of work, there was little room for it. His relationships were carved out of the land, floated on the shifting African winds and born of the struggle to stay alive. He knew true companionship with fellow P.H.’s and warmth with the men of his hunting parties, but he knew little of caring for women. The women in his past were given up for his love for the land. They didn’t understand his connection with nature and disliked waiting for the call that he’d been gored by a buffalo or his throat had been ripped out by a lion. His mind spoke up with alarming swiftness. Elle is out here living that, too. Barnabas drank off his scotch and water, and set the glass on the side table with a quiet clank. “The men have given you their loyalty already.” He smiled through his well-smoked mustache. Peter concentrated hard on his surroundings, hoping to dispel the enchanting images of Elle. The thick wooden timbers framing the walls cut through the stone, proving the solidness of the house. Below the dark, irregular stones was a gleaming mahogany wainscoting. Various photographs spattered the walls. Barnabas with his camp staff, posing behind a trophy elephant, a photo of him in profile, body cocked back in laughter. 20

Wilder And a photograph of him with a little blonde girl on his knee. Peter swallowed the rest of his scotch in one gulp, reveling in the path it blazed to his stomach. The last thing he needed was to lose his concentration on the hunt, but dammit, that woman’s ass could make a wildebeest’s balls blue. What the hell was he going to do when he had to follow those succulent globes through the bush? Just the thought of her full buttocks made him harden. Her shooting stance had nearly made him come. The flex of her long thighs, her breasts thrust outward and the smooth muscle of her backside drove him wild. Barnabas cleared his throat and Peter focused on him again rather than his state of arousal. What had the older man said? The men had given him his loyalty. Peter wasn’t worried about the trackers and camp staff. He had spent his life dealing with them. Give them respect and it was easy to gain theirs. He scratched his jaw with his knuckles. His new apprentice was another story. “And Elle?” Barnabas settled further into his leather armchair, tilted his head and pursed his lips. His gaze flickered to the picture of her on the wall, a fragile girl with blonde waves seated on her daddy’s lap. “She’ll come around.” Would she? Peter detected a note of stubbornness in her fivefoot-nine inch frame. The thought almost made him smile. His first clue to this character trait had been in the way she stalked up to him and thrust her hand into his. She’d shaken hands like the best of men, and met his gaze without an ounce of trepidation. On the other hand, she’d stormed off to the house after target practice. He wasn’t certain she would give him her allegiance or follow his guidance because she was afraid of him. “She fears I’ll take her place.” Barnabas tucked his lips together, making his wide moustache undulate like a small animal attached to his lip. “There’s that, yes. But I believe she’s a little nervous around you.” Surprise flitted through him. He wasn’t getting a nervous vibe 21

from her. Animosity and defiance? Absolutely. “Why would she be nervous?” Barnabas held up one meaty finger and sprang from his chair. He crossed the room to a grand mahogany desk facing a window and a view of this gorgeous ranch he’d built into a very profitable enterprise. The sun was sinking, spreading its golden light over the land. The stream that meant the well-being of the herds cut through the grasses, and as Peter looked on a gazelle picked her dainty way to the bank and drank. Her slender throat arced gracefully to the water. The water made the ranch more prosperous than others Peter had worked on. Someday he hoped to have a sprawling house like this with all the comforts a man could want. Even now the hearty smells of meat cooking over a fire reached him. He lifted his nose and sniffed the air. Was that a trace of vanilla he detected? His stomach growled at the thought of a delectable dessert. Barnabas rifled through a stack of books and drew a few from the pile. He returned to his chair and passed them to Peter. “Seen those before?” Peter smoothed his hand over a glossy magazine cover. This famous publication had featured him four years in a row. Looking through the other covers, including a thick leather bound volume, he found they all held articles about his life and his prowess in the field. He raised a brow at Barnabas. “Elle has read them cover to cover many times. But she lingers over the articles about you. She looks up to you.” Peter flipped one open. It fell automatically to a picture of him posed with a hunter behind a lion which had been killing locals. He glanced at the dog-eared corners of the pages and knew her father wasn’t exaggerating. Flattered and a little discomfited, he moved to close the book. The fading afternoon sun streamed through the windows and fell across the photo, revealing a very clear lip print over his face. His breath caught and his heart flipped. What the? Carefully, he 22

Wilder brushed the edge of the lower lip with his finger, smearing a bit of lip balm. Emotions boiled in his chest. The unfamiliar blossom of warmth threatened to tear away his precious control. If Elle happened to walk in at this moment, what would he do? No way could he pretend indifference to the golden-haired goddess. Not when he was sporting an erection the size of a walking staff. He folded the magazine back and stood. “Excuse me for a moment.” “Of course.” Barnabas had lit a fat cigar and his head was wreathed in fragrant smoke. “Take some rest. Soon we’ll eat.” Peter nodded and turned for the corridor leading to his room. What could it mean? He racked his brain for any glance or word Elle might have said to indicate she was interested in him as a man. And yet, if she hadn’t kissed that photo, who had? Inside his room, he went directly to the bank of windows, pulled the cord on the blind and let the sunlight flood over the photo. His stomach fluttered, images of Elle’s pink mouth flitting through his mind. Her square white teeth nibbling her plump lower lip. The sweet upper bow. And the twist of disgust when she looked at him. He shook his head and let the hand with the magazine drop to his side. Looking across the knee-high grasses of the ranch, he wondered at the bizarre sensations warring in his chest. Was it possible that her father was correct? That her unease was born from admiration? Peter struggled to deny he wished it was strong attraction. He leaned his forehead against the window, letting the warmth of the day soak into his skin. A long, stuttering sigh fogged the glass. Then he very lightly pressed his mouth to it, making his own imprint. ***** The low throb of drums and the singsong chant of the Swahilis filled Peter’s ears and filtered into his blood. The tribal songs 23

always created an itch in him, a feeling of excitement and need. But now his need was ratcheted up by the sight of the lovely young Elle. He stared at her through the flickering flames, mesmerized by the firelight dancing on her skin and hair. Shadow and light played over her loose khaki pants and a thin cotton shirt. When she’d taken a seat around the campfire, Peter couldn’t tear his gaze from the swell of her hips, hips that made him want to grab onto them and yank her into him. He’d stared at the dip of her waist until his eyes blurred and his cock felt as if it’d burst from the mounting pressure. And the little smiles she bestowed upon the people around her made his heart ache to be one of them. She tipped her head up to gaze at the night sky, drawing his attention to the slender column of her throat. Firelight played over her flesh and shadows pooled on her delicate collar bones. When he’d first set eyes on this beauty, he’d been stunned speechless. He hadn’t expected to find such a little stunner in the bush, let alone a woman whose chief desire was to become a P.H. Perhaps he’d been a little more standoffish with her than usual because of it. Maybe it’s time to close the gap. His body urged him to do just that, but his logical mind warned him against it. Feeling out of his element, he turned his sights to the one thing that would ground him. The land. Beneath the crackle of the logs and the beat of the drums was an inner stillness. Peter had traveled to big cities and known the screech of traffic and the pungent scents of exhaust and rubbish. If Africa’s major ports and cities were the limbs of the continent, ever moving and changing, the wilderness was the heartbeat. Constant. He drew deep breaths, filling his lungs with wood smoke and the tang of meat. Underneath these smells was the musk of men and the earth itself—animals and grasses and mud on the stream banks. Resting his gaze on the dark horizon, he saw a lone animal sprint across the landscape, silhouetted by the midnight sky. The Swahili village of straw huts dotted the distance, but the villagers 24

Wilder were all here, celebrating his arrival. They were all happy to have his expertise, which would bring income to their tribe. Barnabas was thrilled Peter was here. What about Elle? That heavy ache in his heart began again, throbbing in time to the music. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with the boss’s daughter, but goddammit, he wanted her. Her plush lips were beckoning him, ripping his attention from the land that had given him comfort his whole life. Tonight, though the world was beautiful and peaceful and joyous, he wore torment like a scar. That lip mark had turned his life upside down. At that moment, she got up and headed toward the wooden table where the drinks were. As she bent over to draw a cool bottle of beer from the ice chest, Peter’s gaze fixed on her luscious behind. She straightened up as a villager neared. A brawny man with roped biceps, his tribal scarred chest glistening in the moonlight. Together they faced the fire and stood talking in quiet tones. The man leaned close to say something to her, and she laughed. She laughed and her face transformed. She laughed and Peter’s heart clenched. A string of emotion pulled taut, stretched so thin he feared it would snap and he’d never be whole again. What was it about this woman? She’d shown him little more than defiance and the stubborn streak her father conveyed. Peter’s fingers curled into a fist and he pressed it to his lips. If he didn’t, he might call out to her to gain her attention, so that for one brief moment she might smile upon him the way she did the villager. “Right, Peter?” His head jerked up at the sound of his name. Barnabas was speaking to him, and instead of remembering he was here to help his daughter obtain her goal, he was thinking of pressing her into the earth and taking her. He could almost smell the fecund crush of grass mingled with. . . what? How would she taste? Keeping his gaze from the tormenting beauty, he threw himself 25

into conversation. As he talked to the team of trackers and skinners, Elle returned to the fire. She sank to her wooden seat again and watched him with a small furrow between her brows. What was she thinking to put that crease there? He wanted to smooth it away with a thumb or lean in and kiss it. The urge spread through his veins like wildfire on the Serengeti. The loud, frightening roar of a blaze out of control, rather than the soothing crackle of a campfire. Focus, Peter. Think of the men. Think of Barnabas. Think of your duties, which are not to ravage Elle Bekker’s lips or sink your fingers into her round ass and jerk her against you. Thankfully, someone asked him for a tale about his origins, and he was able to lose himself in the story of his first hunting experience. He tried not to notice that she hung on his words or the way her mouth turned down at the corner, as if she chewed the inside. When he launched into more recent hunts including plains game and dangerous game like the Cape buffalo, she gave a derisive snort. The noise sent his mind into a tailspin. His thoughts of her had been far from the angry, wary woman. When he looked at her, she appeared to not be listening, and he wondered if she’d really made the sound. She tossed the bone from the meat she’d eaten into the fire. Carefully, she licked her lips, and then from her pocket retrieved a tube of lip balm. Flames of desire clawed at him from the inside like a trapped beast. Across the leaping bonfire, their gazes collided. “You will find the buffaloes are plentiful here at Umbulu,” Barnabas said from beside him. “Lately the herds have grown. Elle and I have spent much time tracking them and seen great numbers. There’s one I’d like her to hunt for specifically though.” Peter fixed her in his gaze, wondering how it would feel to wrap his fingers around the tender flesh of her upper arms and kiss her sweet, lip-balmed mouth. “Oh?” 26

Wilder She spoke up. “A wounded animal. Afla has seen it. A big male with a poacher’s snare around its right foot. I’ve seen the track. It’s very distinctive.” “It should be an easy stalk,” her father said. Peter’s gut bottomed out. Barnabas was a fool to suggest this most dangerous stalk for his daughter’s first challenge. A wounded buffalo would be aggressive. One misstep could mean death for one of the Swahilis. Or for her. “No. Hunting a wounded buffalo is not a good idea for you.” Her face hardened. Her lips curled and her eyes snapped. “I’m quite capable of taking a wounded beast.” He opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly she leapt to her feet, tossed the remainder of her food into the fire and stomped off toward the house. Her arms churned at her sides and her bare feet flew over the dark ground. As he watched her stride away, his hopes plummeted. He’d incited her resentment again, but she had to know his word as P.H. was final. After all, he was responsible not only for his paying hunter’s life, but for the tribesmen who hunted with them. And he’d also be responsible for Elle Bekker’s. He stared at her stiff back vanishing into the house and his cock stiffened against his fly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat to ease it, acutely aware of the pang in his chest. You can’t lay a hand on her, Peter. She’s off limits to you. Besides, she now officially hated him. Was she reasonable enough to listen to caution? Or would her stubborn streak place her directly in the line of danger? Only time would tell. She was keen enough with a double rifle to make a good shot. Her father had praised her tracking skills, but Peter would draw his own conclusions. Soon they’d head out on the first hunt. He prayed he could keep her safe while making her see the importance of listening to someone more experienced. He prayed her stubbornness wouldn’t get her or someone else killed. And he prayed his raging hard-on and the tender thoughts surrounding 27

her would soon disappear.

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Chapter Three The wind ruffled the plains grass, laying it almost flat. Above that, the sky was almost white, bleached by heat. And on the horizon, the black specks of a warthog family sped by. A female followed by her piglets, marching along like little ants, bunching close, and then spreading out in a long trail as if they were on a spring. The sun scalded the top of Elle’s head and a rivulet of perspiration trickled from her hairline. The big truck driven by their tracker, Afla, bumped along over the land. In the back, Elle stood, leaned against the wooden side and brought up her binoculars. A thrill went through her. She never felt as alive as she did on the hunt. But this particular feeling had everything to do with the man beside her. To keep her gaze from his broad shoulders and the tilt of his jaw as he peered across the landscape, she looked through the lenses. She spotted golden-furred lions pacing from cover of the taller grass, watching the antelope grazing in the plains below. Not an ugly black Cape buffalo in sight. Two steps away, Peter glassed the area too. He gave a shrill whistle and Afla braked. Irritation stabbed at Elle’s good nature. She was thrilled to be on the hunt, searching for the elusive beast that would earn her certificate. And hopefully get Peter off her back and out of her life. With memories of her bathtub fantasies fresh in her mind, her body screamed for him. Repugnance at her actions overrode any fight her body put up. “What do you see?” It was impossible to keep the sharpness from her tone. He shot her a sideways glance and pointed. The hot kiss of his eyes sent snakes of unwanted desire through her. “There. See the way the grass is shifting?” 29

She followed his finger to the western part of the knoll. Lifting her binoculars, she scoured the place he meant. The grasses were moving more here, but they were also taller and therefore less trampled by roving herds. “I think those grasses are more apt to sway in the breeze. There isn’t necessarily a buff there.” “Ah. Good observation, but you’re underestimating the nature of the buffalo. They stick to the taller grasses.” A backhanded compliment, but still, he was talking to her. Teaching her even. For long minutes he stood at the rail and watched the slope. Elle looked at the yellowed grasses until her eyes burned with strain, and then she dropped her binoculars and watched the antelope. The calm and elegant animals spattered the low ground, stretched out for about half a mile, totally uninterested in the lions that waited for an opportunity to hunt. Until the plains herd felt the threat of a big cat bearing down on them, they’d hold their position. A sound broke from Peter’s chest, and Elle turned to him sharply. “What is it?” “Get your lenses up and look for yourself, young hunter.” It grated on her nerves to be called this. Peter had been younger than she was when he’d become a professional hunter. According to the biographies in various books, he took trophy elephants at fifteen. Besides, she had a lot of experience under her belt. Her field glasses flashed to her eyes and she peered at the grass. Sure enough, the tip of a black horn appeared. Excitement replaced her annoyance. “Remember to achieve this you can’t only be the hunter. You must be the guide.” She blinked at him. Her belly bottomed out at his quiet, dusky tone. What had he said? She fought to connect her ears with her brain and not her pussy. Why did his deep voice have to sound so beautiful? His words sank into her slowly, but they were like a dozen blades slicing her heart. His insult went deep. So he only thought of her as a hunter, in the same way he’d think of a spoiled rich girl 30

Wilder who came to Africa with her family to photograph the wildlife and perhaps take down an animal as a status symbol. “I am in this for life. To take over as Umbulu’s P.H. To manage the herd and help hunters fulfill their dreams of harvesting game.” As she spoke, Peter met her gaze fully. His dark eyes penetrated to her soul. Her heart flipped, tripped, and sped out of control. When she’d spent hours studying his handsome face in the photographs, she’d never guessed the force behind those chocolate eyes. And she’d never guessed what a prick he was in real life. “First you must know your game, know your areas, and your grass situation. And then you must know how to get your hunter out alive.” Without another word to her, he leaned over the side to talk to Afla, who was hanging out the window. After a few directives, the truck lurched forward. They would circle the knoll by vehicle and try to get closer. Still, they’d stalk on foot for miles. In a good day, they’d hike some twenty miles in order to find an animal. Excitement slithered through Elle’s belly and she embraced it. She shouldn’t care what Peter thought of her abilities or her goal. Her course was set, and this was her favorite part. If she quickly located the buffalo and took one down, she’d be free of him. As he straightened, his forearm brushed hers. A shock of sensation ran through her. “Sorry.” He turned to her, and their eyes caught. Held. The electricity throbbing between them commanded her body to take action. Her fists clenched at her sides to keep from grabbing his damned face and kissing him blind. What the hell’s wrong with you, Elle? His gaze traveled over her and locked on her mouth. Her lips seemed to swell at the touch. They felt too big, too out of place on her face. For a moment, she couldn’t think what to do with them besides kiss. She slipped the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. Peter jerked and twisted away, leaving her more confused than ever. She had no idea what had passed between them. Her mind told 31

her she didn’t want to spend more time with him than necessary. But her body had very different ideas. ***** By the time they reached the truck again, night was falling. Elle was exhausted and most of the camp staff surly as a wounded buffalo. They’d been hot on the trail of a single male, a giant when suddenly the wind shifted, the rains blew in, and they lost the tracks. That left Elle, Peter, and a party of twelve men soaked to the skin and a long distance from the truck. Ordinarily they’d have the supplies needed to set up camp wherever they were, but Peter had given Elle the final word on the situation. And like an idiot, she’d said, “Leave the items in the truck. We won’t need them tonight.” Now her face burned in shame and defiance. The first rule she’d learned about the wilds of Africa was that conditions change and she should always be prepared. The men wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she knew they were annoyed by her poor judgment. Hell, she was too. Her hair hung limply in her eyes and she flicked it back for the four hundredth time. Somewhere in the bush, her ponytail holder had slipped free and she’d lost it. Unfortunately, she’d also been too stupid to bring a spare. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement and looked up to see Peter delving into his pocket. He came out with a packet of note cards. To her surprise and unease, she found him striding toward her. “Here. Take this.” He stopped a foot away, so close. Close enough to torment her senses with his nearness. He smelled of clean sweat, gun oil, and the sweet grasses she’d seen him chew all day. She looked up at him quizzically. “Note cards?” His smile spread in the tanned leather of his face and seemed to cleave her heart in two. “Well, I was thinking more of the elastic band holding the cards together.” When she continued to blink at 32

Wilder him blankly, he clarified. “For your hair.” Realization brought a bright blush to her cheeks too. Not for the first time, she was thankful for the darkness. She held out her hand and accepted the packet, trying not to think about how warm the paper was from riding in his pocket all day, next to his flesh. She removed the elastic band from the sheaf and started to hand it back to him. “No. You keep those. They’ll help as well.” With that, he spun away and loped off to the fire once more. He ducked his head to say something to the cook, raising a roar of laughter from those within earshot. She clamped the cards in her teeth, bundled her thick wet hair into a tail and secured it. Feeling much improved, she headed toward the tent Afla had erected for her with the cards in hand. Her legs ached and her feet were damp. She wanted to kick off her boots, lay her socks by the fire to dry, stretch out on her warm blankets and sleep. Pushing aside the tent flap, she saw that the lantern had already been lit in her tent. With a smile at the comforts this small addition provided, she sank to the small sleeping pallet crosslegged. The cards fluttered into her lap. She plucked up the top one and read it. “Midday. Tracks heading west. Twist in the mud indicating a run. Tricky wind. Unpredictable.” She smiled at the dip and loop of Peter’s letters, but also at the treasure he’d given her. His personal notes. He was helping her. She didn’t know if she wanted to mother him, marry him or murder him. He was the most 'man' she’d ever met. A hard man tinged with passion for his profession, a love of the land, and a nurturing side when it came to the tribe and animals. Outside she heard the men setting up the rest of the tents and beginning meal preparations. As she flipped through the handwritten notes, her eyes grew heavy. She switched off the lantern, stretched out her thin pallet, and was fast asleep in minutes. 33

A flapping noise awakened her. Her well-trained mind was instantly on the alert for danger. Lions would often come into camp, and the coughing sound they made was the most primal, terrifying sound ever. She’d first heard it at the age of thirteen, shortly after her mother had left and her father had taken her on a hunt. Since then, she’d heard it plenty, but it wasn’t a sound one grew used to. Before she twitched a single muscle, she threw out her hearing and cracked one eye minutely. Silhouetted in the entrance of the tent was a tall man who could only be Peter. His broad shoulders cut off the moonlight and the light from the fire, but she knew him by his size. And by the heady scent of his musk. Her mind sped out of control. What was he doing here looking at her? Surely if something was wrong, he’d alert her immediately. Instead, he simply stood watching her. She cracked her eyes a scant bit more to get a better look at him. His pale hair was clear to her, but his features were in shadow. She wished with all her heart she could see his face. Her lonely and needy heart ached to see an expression of longing on his handsome countenance. A prickle of awareness ran through her body. Perspiration dewed her breasts and throat. Peter tilted his head, and through her lidded eyes, she was able to make out the set of his mouth. Relaxed. Soft almost. He shifted again, and the moonlight sliced across his face, revealing a tender expression. Her heart burst. At that moment, shots rang out. Before she could even sit up, he’d vanished. She leaped up, grateful to be still fully dressed, and ran out into the night. The camp was in chaos. Men shouting. Ammunition fed into rifles. And at the center of it all was Peter, barking orders. The staff scrambled to find what he needed. Rush torches were dipped into the orange flames of the campfire and pulled out ablaze. “What’s happening?” she called, striding directly up to the group and pushing her way through the knot to reach Peter. Tremors took root in her core. That shot could only mean one 34

Wilder thing. Poachers. “I’m taking Afla and six men. You and the rest of the staff are to remain here.” Peter leaned over her as he spoke, curling around her somehow. Her trembling increased. Her hands snapped into fists as she fought to keep from cupping his precious face and kissing him for good luck. Hunting a poacher was deadly business. When she didn’t respond to his explanation, he gripped her by the upper arms and pulled her onto tiptoe. He thrust his face into hers. “Elle. You must heed me. Remain here with the others. Keep your gun ready and shoot any man who is not one of ours.” In the back of her mind, she recognized the chanting tone of one of their men blessing the guns. Peter released her so abruptly, she swayed. For a horrific moment she watched him stride away, wondering if she’d ever set eyes on him again. Too late now to make amends, to figure out if she could get along with him. And to let him know she did truly appreciate him and what he was doing for her. The search party disappeared into the night, their lights dancing overhead as they carried their torches on their upraised arms. Going into battle for the rights of her father, the land, and the animals. The war was on. ***** At midnight, Elle harvested a young buck to use as camp meat. It wandered within short range, and desperate to care for her African family in any way she could, she shot it. Her father’s favorite man called Ghost flashed his approving grin at her, drew his knife, and set about skinning it. The meat was cut into strips and hung over the fire. The juices sizzled and the mouth-watering aroma made her stomach cramp. But she couldn’t eat if she had to. Her nerves were wound into a tight wad. She hugged her knees to her chest and rocked a little. She stared off into the darkness. Images of Peter and the other men rushing through the tall grasses with their guns trained for beasts 35

or the poachers who would shoot back, sliced her control. Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her rifle and started across the clearing without as much as a torch. A voice in the back of her head prodded her. What do you think you’re doing? You know Africa—a world of death and danger. Another voice inside her answered. Yes, but I don’t know it when it comes to Peter. Dammit, when had her feelings switched from anger and animosity to this? She couldn’t even put a name to it. But her soul knew, and it spoke up now. The instant he stood watching you, believing you asleep, with his face softened and a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “Elle!” She turned at the familiar voice. Her heart exploded at the sight of the trackers returning with Peter in the lead. Her muscles bunched with excitement, and she lurched forward. Peter raised his head, searching the fire lit clearing. “Fuck,” she heard him say clearly. She stepped into the ring of light. Their gazes clashed like shards of steel. Her heart soared to see him whole and safe. But in the same instant, her stomach bottomed out. Blood spattered his shirt and a smear was on his cheekbone. His big hand clamped around her elbow and he propelled her out of earshot. “Where do you think you were going?” Trepidation sidled down her spine. How could one man be so duplicitous? Gentleness and toughness, recklessness and caution. “Do you think I want you running after poachers?” His voice cracked. Her head reeled. Harshness and poetry. “I was going crazy waiting. I am a woman who thrives on action.” “Out here I am your guardian.” “I don’t need a guardian.” His teeth met in a snap as he bit off whatever had sprang to mind. For a throbbing moment, he glared down at her, his features harsh, his eyes glittering dangerously. In a tight way he said, “I beg 36

Wilder to differ.” And shot off toward his tent. She watched his long legs devour the distance in a heartbeat, wondering how she went from adoring this man to despising him in thirty seconds flat. Guardian! She almost growled her frustration. So that’s what he thinks of me. I’m an annoying child to be dealt with, and he is the schoolmaster. Nothing more. Outside his tent he stopped to rest his double rifle against his thigh, pinched the fabric between his shoulder blades and tore his bloodied shirt over his head. Ghost was there to receive the shirt, and Elle knew by dawn, it would be scrubbed clean and draped over a tent line to dry. Peter ducked into the darkness of his refuge. But not before she saw his eyes flash toward her, and the hard look that accompanied it. She strode toward Afla. The skinny lead tracker was covered in blood too, and appeared bone-weary. Creases slashed his forehead and bracketed his mouth. “What happened?” She came near enough to smell the gore of guts on him. Her active imagination kicked into overdrive. What had they run into? She needed to know for the sake of Umbulu Ranch. But also for the sake of Peter, who wore his distress like a shroud. Afla waved his hand in a great arc. “Elephant. Poached on the savannah. Still steaming. Freshly killed, but with its tusks slashed off. We knew the poacher was not far. Peter tracked him through the high grass. We crawled some distance on our bellies.” He swept the front of him, which was caked in muck. “When we caught up to him, he pointed his gun at us, and Peter shot him.” Her eyelids fluttered as a wave of sadness seized her. Taking a poacher’s life was common in these parts. A fact of life for a rancher or P.H. But it was never easy. Still, if the offender was given to the authorities, a worse fate would come to him. A round through the heart was humane in comparison. Africa took their game seriously. She turned to look at Peter’s tent. Maybe she should talk to him. 37

Talking about it might ease him. Then she remembered the fury in his eyes and decided against it. Spinning back to Afla, she rested her hand on the man’s slumped shoulder. To his people, death was always a catastrophe, whether it was a man’s life or a poached beast’s. He lifted his gaze to hers and nodded hard. She left him then to sit around the fire with the grim group while she stared at the flap of Peter’s tent and wished she could comfort him in some way.

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Chapter Four Peter slung an arm over his eyes, trying to ignore the men relating the details of their hunt for the poacher to Elle. He wished he could protect her from harsh realities such as this, but then again, she knew. She’d grown up in the wilds, been carrying a gun alongside Barnabas since she was old enough to shoot. Then why did Peter think of her as soft and easily harmed? Perhaps it was her slender frame. Or the fringe of dark lashes around her wide eyes. “Damn.” He cursed into the silence of the tent. She’s no woman for you. Wasn’t she? Who else would ever be suited to his lifestyle? Most P.H.’s were solitary men, married to their career and the land. But Elle wanted this as badly as he had when he’d started. He recognized the hunger in her eyes. He flopped onto his side, hoping to sleep. He was physically worn from their long, hard slog through the wilderness to reach the poacher. The surface of his soul was eroded from taking another human’s life. Still, it was justice. The way poachers were dealt with in Africa. If you hadn’t shot first, he would have gladly killed you. That was the truth of it. He simply couldn’t risk his crew. Once before he’d made the fatal error of releasing a poacher, only to have him circle their camp and shoot his lead tracker in the back. What if that had been Afla? Or Elle? Peter pinched the bridge of his nose hard against the stinging emotion. The fierce need to guard Elle had risen in him. During the day’s hunt he’d grown keenly aware of her every shift and footstep. So aware that he knew her as an extension of him. Therefore, he felt close to understanding how the drive to reach her goals also pushed her to be unbelievably thick-headed when it came to the 39

hunt. She must overcome this, and soon. Such inflexibility had no place in this job. He drifted off, darting in and out of dreams. He dreamed of the poacher’s dark eyes. Of the sword grass cutting his hands as he crawled through the thickest cover. And of the feminine curve of Elle’s lips. He awakened slowly. Cool air kissed his skin and dried the night’s sweat from him. Images from his dreams danced through his mind, mingling so that Elle was looking down the barrel of the poacher’s gun. Or she was lying beneath that man, kissing him. Peter sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face to dispel the pictures. He threw out his hearing. Afla and two others were talking nearby. Ghost tended the campfire, saying the meat Elle had procured for them yesterday was almost dried. When had she shot the buck? Peter wished he’d been there to see it. And something else was happening far to the right where Elle’s tent was erected. A flurry of activity. Sharp orders given in her high voice. Quickly he stomped his shoes into place and ran out of the tent without bothering to tie them. Elle whirled at the rustle of him emerging from his tent. The sight of her was a punch to his gut. She was covered in blood. With a cry, he flew across the clearing to her. Leapt the fire, knocking over the frame used to dry meat. As he ran at her like a madman, shock crossed her face. She paled. Dear God, had she lost that much blood? They were a good day’s ride and a two hour flight from a hospital. His mind raced ahead, imagining her passed out in his plane as he pushed the engine to the max to get her there in time. “For God’s sakes, what’s happened?” He had to put his hands on her. Had to make sure she wasn’t going to fade before his eyes. He grabbed her. “It’s Smiley. He’s cut himself badly.” 40

Wilder Peter stared at her hard, trying to make sense of her words. Smiley? The tracker? His gaze flittered over her face. It was shiny with perspiration and tight with fear, but the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He scanned the rest of her form. Blood drenched her shirt and most of her pants. Her arms were bathed in it. “Smiley?” “Yes. Let me go. I’ve sent for my suture kit.” Without waiting for him to release her, she pulled from his grasp and ran back into her tent. Peter jammed a hand through his hair. His fingertips tingled with relief. Not her. He threw open the tent flap to see the slight Swahili upon Elle’s pallet. His complexion was gray and his eyes pinched shut tight, but his bleeding had been staunched. A pile of blood-soaked cloth lay heaped beside him. Warmth blossomed in Peter’s chest as he realized this was Elle’s own clothing, yanked from her pack and used to stop the bleeding. “How did this happen?” He sank to his knees beside Elle, getting a whiff of the blood. His own ran cold with renewed horror that it could have been her. “The lorry is stuck. Bogged in a sinkhole. He was using his machete to cut away some of the brush around it so the men could try to pull it out.” Peter glanced over his shoulder. In his haste to get to Elle, he hadn’t noticed the enormous truck, but now he heard shouts and spinning tires. A Swahili entered the tent and a lean brown hand thrust a small metal box onto Elle’s outstretched palm. Without turning, she thanked him. “What can I do?” Peter asked. The scent of blood fogged the air. Hunters were used to animal blood, but a man’s was much stronger and often turned even the stalwart tribesmen. Peter looked at her calm expression and respected her strength. “Hand me that bandanna. The blue one, yes.” He placed it into her hands and she folded it into a triangle and then tied it around her hair, securing the honey locks off her face. 41

“Now the alcohol.” With a nod, she gestured to a bottle of spirits unearthed with the contents of her pack. Admiration infused him. She obviously came prepared. “Uncap it and pour it over my hands please.” He did so, eyes smarting at the strong scent. He focused on Smiley’s strained face. “Maybe he could use a tipple.” He meant it as a joke, a way to lighten the mood, but she nodded. “It wouldn’t be amiss. But not too much. It’s 120-proof.” Smiley opened his mouth eagerly and gulped as Peter filled it with the deadly drink. “No more,” she commanded, her soft voice taking an edge of authority. With clean hands, she sloshed more alcohol onto a bit of cloth Peter recognized as being torn from her white linen shirt. Just the other day, he’d seen that garment hanging on the line at the ranch, and he’d stopped in his tracks to study the play of light through the thin fibers, visualizing her golden skin peeking through it. Now it had been torn into rags and used for Smiley’s medical care. Peter would never get to see her wear it. He shook himself. What was he thinking? Elle pressed the soaking cloth to a ragged wound on Smiley’s thigh. No wonder he’d lost so much blood. It was very close to the artery. Another half inch and she wouldn’t be preparing to stitch it. She would have been preparing a body. The metal lid of the box squeaked as she opened it and stared at the contents. A fine thread of golden hair escaped her head wrap. He stared at the way it shivered and caught the gleam of lantern light. Every cell of his being demanded he touch it. He found himself leaning in, straining toward the woman who had so swiftly eclipsed his universe. His life had once been Africa, game and the land. Now knowing she walked the wilds, the continent seemed more vast and rich. He watched her economical movements as she readied the needle, thread, and a length of gauze to bandage the wound afterward. Her eyes flashed at Peter. “Hold him steady. He won’t like this.” To Smiley, she said, “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll fix you up.” 42

Wilder Peter gripped the patient firmly as Elle slipped the curved suture into the flayed flesh, wishing her sweet tone was for him. Smiley hissed his pain, but didn’t budge an inch as she drew the edges together. The skin flexed and pulled taut beneath her attentions, a sight that left a hollow feeling in the pit of Peter’s stomach. He stared at Elle’s face, anticipating a flinch or wince, but the lines of her forehead were smooth, her mouth soft and full and without a hint of tension. She’d obviously performed such duties before. Often the villagers would come to a person like her for help. For long minutes she worked stoically, never turning a hair, focused solely on her task. Smiley’s breathing grew labored and she asked Peter to give him another drink of the alcohol. Her soft, throaty tone filled Peter with desperate longing. His hated that his cock responded as if she’d physically touched him, but damn, she was sweet and tender and the most beautiful person he’d ever encountered at that moment. Rubbing a hand over his face, he stole a glance at her. She hovered over Smiley on her knees. Her lower back arched dramatically and then swelled into the firm globes of her ass. Peter’s balls drew up tight against his body, aching to spill his seed. Faint memories of his previous dream flitted through his mind. Had his mind really conjured in sleep images of her lying face down across his sheets? He wanted to plunge his tongue between her lips and learn her taste, run his hands all over her womanly curves, his touch light and rough in turns, learning her passions. One thing was certain. He did recognize the plumpness of her lower lip from the magazine photo. He’d studied every line of the imprint. Elle shifted and he realized she’d finished the suturing. Smiley wore a more placid expression and Elle’s was unchanged. After she knotted the threads, she poured more alcohol directly onto the wound. Smiley reared up, and she pressed him down with a gentle hand on his chest. “It’s all right now. We’re finished, and you’ll be fine. Here. 43

Drink more and try to sleep.” Cradling the back of his head, she helped him to sit up a little to sip the pungent alcohol. When he released a stuttering sigh, she lowered him again. She caressed his cheek, and Peter’s jealousy flared. As he had watched the big Swahili at the camp, looking for a connection to her, he found himself searching her face for signs of attraction, of interest in anything but Smiley’s well-being. She gave the wounded man a gentle smile, and then leaned back with a sigh. Her bright gaze fell upon Peter and opened a chasm in his soul. “Thank you for your help. It was much appreciated.” “You were fantastic.” Her pink mouth tilted up into a smile that knocked the breath from him. The emerald depths of her eyes shone. “I appreciate that, Peter.” A shiver of need rent his body at the sound of his name falling from her lips. His cock stirred with need. Suddenly, he could think of nothing but grabbing her lithe body and bending to her luscious mouth. Drinking from her. Taking what he wanted. At that moment, Afla and Ghost ducked into the tent. Afla was covered in dust, and Peter instantly knew he’d been working to free the truck. The truck which was bogged down. The truck which was needed to get Smiley out. Peter gained his feet. Impulsively, he reached down for Elle. For a throbbing heartbeat, she stared blankly at his offering. Just when he thought better of it and started to pull away, she slipped her warm hand into his. As the first time they’d shaken hands, electricity crackled between them. Threatened to stop his heart. She blinked up at him. He drew her to her feet, fighting the absolute, all-consuming desire to yank her against his body and claim her sweet mouth. “Boss, we’re unable to free the truck.” Afla’s voice broke through Peter’s errant thoughts. He released her. “I’m coming.” “Ghost, please stay with Smiley.” Elle followed the men out across the plain. Her long legs caught up to them easily. 44

Wilder Peter circled the truck, assessing the situation. The rear tire was completely submerged in a sink hole, setting the vehicle off-kilter. Impossible to get out without another powerful truck to pull it. Barnabas owned another, but it was parked at the ranch. A hard day’s walk from here. Maybe two if they ran into trouble. The hair on his nape lifted. He couldn’t simply send men after the truck. He needed to go with them. But that left the camp attended only by Elle. Was she capable of handling more poachers if the need arose? He’d only killed one man, and poachers typically ran in small bands of three or four men. The possibility of the dead man’s friends seeking revenge was too good. Send Elle after the truck, his voice of reason said. If she went, she might be put into more perilous situations, and Smiley might need her here. Peter had some training with wound care, but it was obvious she was more equipped to handle an emergency if the injured man took a turn for the worse. Peter slammed a palm into the side of the truck. “Dammit.” It came down to the fact that he was reluctant to be separated from her. But for the sake of the hunting party, he must. “Afla, you will remain here with Elle. I’ll take three men and return for the other truck.” She stepped up, twitching her tormenting curves within reaching distance. The wind lifted the blue scarf on her head and ruffled her blood-soaked shirt. “I’ll go. I’m quick.” He gave her a dark look. “My decision is made.” Her mouth hardened. “Are you certain it’s the best decision for the group? It makes sense that if more poachers are in the area, they’ll snoop around our camp.” “Afla will be here to protect you.” She released a loud groan. “I’m not afraid, you infuriating man! I am quite capable of taking care of my staff.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “There’s a greater possibility that poachers will be hunting. Out there.” He gestured toward the herd of grazing zebras dotting the hillside. In the distance, he spotted the black blotch of a Cape buffalo. Their reason for being out here returned to him. 45

“My decision is final, Elle.” Her thin blonde brows knitted together like two thunderclouds and she kicked a heel into the dirt, raising a cloud of dust. A laugh threatened to rumble up his throat. She looked more like a child than ever. And yet her lower lip beckoned to him with its enticing womanliness. It was downright sultry. But she was still staying at camp. “I won’t argue the point. You stay here and care for Smiley. Afla, you’re guard.” Peter could see by her murderous expression she disliked his ruling. He didn’t care. As a P.H., his job was to keep his party safe. And as a man, he needed to keep Elle safe. ***** Did the woman have any idea of her allure? Peter didn’t think so. She’d gone to scrub up in a nearby spring and don clean clothes. While she was away from him, he paced the camp incessantly, unable to stop looking at the V cut into the high grasses where she’d gone. Washing up in a watering hole was dangerous enough without poachers on the loose. But Peter couldn’t exactly suggest someone accompany her. Though he’d wanted to go very badly. Images swirled through his head of spreading her out on the bank, pinning her wrists to the mud and kissing her senseless. He was desperate to learn the heat of her and taste the soft underside of her jaw. After long minutes, she reappeared wearing a tank top that clung to her breasts and showcased the hardened tips. Peter nearly came undone. From several yards away, she gave him a haughty look, and then turned her back on him. That was almost worse. Her round ass in short khaki shorts threatened his control. Her freshly washed hair wet the back of her shirt, and her pink skin glowed through the thin cloth. His cock stiffened. Hiding a raging erection in his current attire 46

Wilder was damn near impossible. He already noted Afla’s knowing looks. The man had been raised in a hut alongside eight brothers and sisters. From his parents, he knew all too well what sexual attraction looked like. Peter crossed the clearing to his own tent. Elle was distant once more. The brief moment they’d shared in her tent over the wounded Swahili was long gone. For the past hour, she’d alternately raged at him and given him the cold shoulder. He sank to his pallet and stared at his hands. Thinking of her fingers against his. Thinking of brushing her golden hair over her shoulder and lowering his mouth to hers. Thinking of commanding her body if he could not command her compliance. Heat pooled in his groin. His cock swelled, snaking down his leg. Hard and pounding with blood. How long had it been since he’d gained release? Not since he’d met Miss Elle Bekker, though God knew he wanted to. Visions of her flitted through his head. Elle with her knees hugged to her chest, her full breasts squashed into ripe mounds. Her honeyed locks blowing in the breeze as she glassed the plains. And the smear of lip balm imprinted on his photograph. In seconds, he’d unzipped his fly. The length of his phallus slid into his palm. The skin was hot and tight, the tip glistening with a drop of pre-come. With a quiet moan, he wrapped the head tight in his fingers. Rolling it. Stroking the sensitive underside. He lashed his balls to his body with one hand while pumping his shaft with the other. His thigh muscles tensed as pressure built in his core. Her name was a hot litany in his mind. Elle, Elle, Elle. Luscious lips and her silky hand in his. The shadowy place at the back of her knees. A long braid over her shoulder and wisps of hair stuck to her lip balm. He exploded in a blinding haze of feeling. Pearly heat shot over his fist. He rubbed the head of his cock more briskly, squeezing out every last drop and extending his orgasm. His balls ached with a delicious empty feeling. Perspiration broke over him, and all he wanted was to kiss her. Dip his tongue into her sweet mouth and 47

swirl his tongue against hers. He caressed his shaft one more time, knowing there would be little satisfaction for him in that way. She wasn’t about to let down her walls and allow him to touch her. In fact, she seriously disliked him. And though he enjoyed looking at her, and felt protective toward her, he admitted he had an aversion to her spoiled, knowit-all act. Unless she suddenly grew up or he was able to sway her to his way of thinking, he was stuck with his fantasies. ***** God, if Elle bent over and pointed her round little ass in Peter’s direction again, he was going to lash an arm about her waist and mount her. For miles, she’d been tormenting him whenever she stooped to examine a turned leaf or an animal track as they looked for sign of the herd. With the truck back on the trail and Smiley happily convalescing at the ranch, the hunting party was deep in the bush again. Elle and the rest of the camp hadn’t been engaged in any excitement with poachers in his absence. And on the return trip, he’d run across the poachers’ tracks heading off Umbulu Ranch and into the neighboring wildlife preserve. Peter was allowing Elle to lead them, and so far she was doing well. He was watching her closely. Her glorious globes were only half the reason. As she approached a tree with a branch broken off about chest height, he waited for her to recognize this sign. When she passed by it, he stopped. “Elle. You’ve missed something important here on this tree.” Her back stiffened. She gave him a disdainful glance over her shoulder. “Oh?” He felt the needles of her irritation, and when she pivoted to fix him fully in her stare, her eyes shot bullets. Her father’s warnings about her personality drifted through his mind. The word stubborn might be kind. Obstinate, inflexible, 48

Wilder immovable and mulish came more easily to him. He gripped the broken branch and waggled it. One of the camp staff carrying supplies for the party grinned broadly, his white teeth flashing in the midday sun. Elle’s eyes narrowed at him, and his smile fell away. She stomped back through the brush to examine the tree. If she looked at the angle it was broken off, she’d see which way the animal had traveled. Her slender finger pointed in the wrong direction. “That way.” The party turned to follow her instructions, but Peter stopped them with a word. “No, look more closely. Their tracks are fresher here too.” She glared at him. Her face was flushed, perspiration dappled her forehead, and wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail. She might be wrong, but she was sexy as hell. His heart sped up. His senses sharpened. Awareness settled over him. Awareness of the insanely tiny dip of her waist, which he could span with one broad hand. Of her flashing eyes the color of a verdant valley during the rainy season. And of her small teeth sunk into her glossy lower lip. She bit off a growl of frustration and one of the trackers laughed. She whirled on him, finger wagging. “Out here, I am the boss.” “Saying you’re the boss and being followed because the party knows you are in charge are two different things, Miss Bekker. You must earn their respect.” She thrashed through the bush to him, knees lifting high and her full breasts swaying under her top. Inches from his chest, she stopped. Her hair swung forward to kiss her cheek, and she hitched her big game rifle higher on her shoulder. She was tall enough to tuck under his chin if he wanted. His hands twitched into fists, and he fought the need to grasp her hips and yank her against him, to learn her scalding heat. “I’ve been leading this party for nine months. I know what I’m doing,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Miss an important clue like that, and you’ll lose time and 49

clients.” He pitched his voice low to try to keep the group from overhearing, and to save face with her. But she was having none of it. She all but screamed her response like a frustrated child. “Umbulu is one of the greatest places to hunt in this part of the world. My father would never entrust his livelihood to me if he didn’t think I can do the job.” Peter noted the sparks of rage in her eyes and the twist of her plump lips. A waft of vanilla scent reached him on the breeze. He didn’t want to goad her anger, but she needed to understand the levity of the situation. “He hasn’t entrusted you yet.” A scream of fury burst from her. She whirled on her boot heel and tramped off through the brush. For a moment, he gaped at her back, wondering how the hell his body could respond to her womanly assets when she was behaving like a juvenile. To her back he called, “P.H.’s don’t wear body scents. Ever. Next time, Bekker, lose the vanilla.” Let me cover you in my scent instead.

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Chapter Five Elle pressed her spine against the rough bark of a tree and ground her molars against her impending tears. She hadn’t cried in years, and certainly never over a man. Peter Dumont was an arrogant know-it-all, and she couldn’t do anything right for him. He’d instructed her on the correct way to position her feet after he chided her on walking too heavily in the brush. She’d been ridiculed for overlooking signs, and after she’d failed to take down a small buck for their evening meal, he had lifted his gun and picked a weak one out of the herd. Now he sat amidst the camp party—her party—and regaled them with stories about his prowess. If he wasn’t trying to impose on her longed-for position on her father’s ranch, she’d eat her boot. She might have to anyway, since she’d refused to share the meat he’d shot. Her stomach berated her for her stupidity. The scent of cooking meat was mouth-watering. The men had fallen on their food like vultures, and when Peter had gestured for her to join them, she had simply turned her back. With a heavy sigh, she uncapped her canteen and swigged long and deep. The warm water slaked her thirst, but didn’t do much for her rumbling belly. Small curls of smoke from the fire reached her on the wind, making her very aware of her father’s teachings. Every little thing in this country was crucial, from the direction of the wind to the hardness of an animal turd. At that moment, as she glared at Peter’s handsome profile, she hoped she ran across a nice soft one soon so she could hurl it at him. Nothing short of that would wipe the infuriating smile off his beautiful lips. The moments they’d shared over Smiley’s wounded body were long gone, leaving only frustration for both parties, if his thunderous brows were any indication. 51

To her horror, he gathered his long legs beneath him and stretched before making a beeline for her. She stood too. No way was she taking another lecture sitting down. She brushed the dirt off her backside and squared her shoulders for battle even as a tingle of heat lit low in her belly, reminding her of her fantasies. His broad shoulders pressing her down and his hands rough on her needy flesh. His power shouldn’t make her so fucking hot but it did. Using his strength on her would only prove her femininity, something she’d never realized she needed until recently. In the bedroom she wanted his dominance, but in the wilds, she demanded equality. As he approached, her body responded to the pull and release of fabric over his big thighs and the way his pale hair fell boyishly into one blazing eye. Dammit, why did he have to be such a spectacular specimen? He held aside a low-hanging branch to duck under, and then he was within grabbing distance. She twisted her hands into fists. “You should eat.” His lilting voice washed over her like icy water after a day’s walk in the blistering heat. The hair on her arms lifted, and she folded them behind her back. “I’m not hungry.” At that moment, her stomach took the opportunity to protest loudly. The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched upward. “As a professional, you must know the toll a day in the wild takes on a person. It’s essential you eat to maintain your health and stamina. Remember you’re hunting for your own reasons right now, but your desire is to someday hunt for your clients.” She opened her mouth to spew her reply, but shut it abruptly as the breeze freshened, bringing his masculine scent dancing into her nose. A dark need swallowed her. His chocolatey gaze was a drug, and her nipples and pussy main lines. His eyes dropped to her breasts as her nubs bunched up beneath her shirt, and she cursed her choice to never wear a bra. No one took notice of her feminine curves. Until now. She felt the caress of his eyes as acutely as if he’d thrummed her 52

Wilder nipple. He stood shirtless, his feet planted wide. Since he wasn’t looking at her face, she took a moment to drink in the swell of his pecs and the rippled plane of his abs. A golden love trail blazed its way into the waist of his low-riding khaki shorts, inspiring images of a long cock upon a curly bed of pubic hair. Her pussy contracted and love cream squeezed from the pulsating lips. “Come and eat.” She folded her arms over her chest and set her jaw. “No.” Damn him and his irritating demands. If anyone was getting their way here, it was her. What exactly do you want, Elle? His gaze flashed to hers, and for a long heartbeat, they warred with one another. A battle of wills ensued. She could almost hear him gearing up to command her to do as he said, but Africa would freeze over before she did anything purely to soothe him. Ruffling his hair with those big, rough fingers distracted her from her thought path. Jeez, Elle, stay focused here. She felt about as focused as she had lying in the bathtub fingering her pussy. Then she’d been focused all right. Focused on Peter’s voice, fantasies of Peter, and images of well Peter’s peter. He started to turn away. “Suit yourself.” She watched him disappear into the thick cover, annoyed that he’d done so noiselessly. Just as she was gathering her senses again, his voice split the night. “Since you’re not eating, you might want to find a spring and wash that vanilla off. I’m not going into the bush with you smelling like a dessert.” ***** He wasn’t either. If he had to follow her luscious ass for another day, plagued by the faint trace of vanilla, he’d give into his needs and take her. Throughout the day, he’d spent long hours thinking of little more than that. Throwing her up against a tree. Stretching 53

her upon the dry grass. Delivering kisses that would anesthetize her snotty comebacks before plunging deep into her hot, sexy body. He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a detour from the group settled around the campfire. The mystical notes of their chanting song enhanced the night. Insects piped up with their own music and the breeze against the grasses was the woodwinds. A beautiful evening. If only it was cooler. As long as that woman is out here, you’re going to be hot. More than hot. Aching. His cock throbbed with need. Another whiff of her damn vanilla scent and he’d stomp back to her, scoop her up and spear her with his thick shaft. The memory of her lip print on his photograph fueled his passions. If he could break through her animosity, he might have a chance to ease into her mind, and later perhaps, her heart. She was a kind and caring woman. The way she talked to her Swahili family and healed Smiley revealed as much. Also, she was a conscientious hunter and respected the land. Giving that same respect for his advice and instruction was proving impossible, however. He leaned his forehead against the prickly trunk of a tree. His heart was still tripping out of control from the sight of her tiny nipples poking through the thin cloth of her shirt. He’d battled like hell to keep from dipping his mouth to one and suckling it through the fabric, drawing it onto his tongue and bathing it with sweeping strokes. Oh, God. He nudged the front of his shorts to ease his steely hard-on. After days of aching for a woman who hated him, he was close to cracking. If he drew his cock out and fucked his fist to completion, would anyone notice? He could remain quiet enough, but someone might worry for his safety and come searching for him. No, he had to push through. Only two more days in the wilds alone with Elle at maximum. Sooner if they ran across the herd and she harvested an animal. So far, they hadn’t crossed the tracks of the wounded buffalo, and he prayed they never did. He wanted 54

Wilder her as far from it as possible. As he rubbed his hot forehead across the tree bark, he found himself praying that one way or another, his misery would end soon. By dawn, he was in no better shape. During the night, she had crept back to the fire and unfurled her blankets a few feet from him. From hooded eyes, he’d watched her curl onto one side facing him. He’d been unable to sleep and stayed up most of the night watching the firelight glimmer on her beautiful, sleeping features. During repose, she softened and he fantasized about the sweet words that could drop from those sweeter lips. But the instant she awakened, she donned her hard outer shell again. In fact, her armor shielded her from everyone. She walked some distance ahead of the group, ignoring even those who she’d been friends with for years. Men she must depend on, and who must rely upon her. If she didn’t get over herself, she’d never make a good P.H. A noise sounded on his right. A rustle of leaves. He let out a low whistle, and immediately the party stopped. Except for Elle. Damn woman. She’s going to get herself killed if an elephant or a big bull charges out. With a flick of his head, he gestured to Afla to stop her. The man loped off stealthily. Peter hitched his gun up, the safety off, the round waiting in the chamber and ready to fire. Under his breath he said, “Where are you, you sneaky bastard?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Elle swing her gun to her shoulder. She waved a hand for Afla to hang back. A snort came from upwind, directly opposite where she stood. A hard ball of dread lodged in Peter’s gut. Adrenaline surged to his fingertips and made his blood run cold. Suddenly Afla issued a yodeling cry as the herd appeared through the thick cover, splitting off the hunting party from her. “Guns ready,” he bellowed and took off at a dead run, skirting the mass of two-thousand pound animals. The air was thick with 55

dust and the stench of beasts. His eyes watered from both but he had eyes only for Elle. She whirled in a circle, realizing her perilous position. She trained her gun on one great-horned animal, and then another as they thundered past her. The ground trembled beneath their feet. Black bodies blurred by, their hooves cutting into the earth. Being charged by one of these beasts meant certain death. “Don’t move,” he roared at her. Her head snapped up. She met his gaze for a chilling heartbeat as he realized what stood mere feet behind her. The wounded buffalo. Her features shivered as she realized it too. And then the enormous beast was bearing down on her, its hooves deafening, its head lowered. The herd reacted to the situation by stampeding in circles. Dust lifted and threatened to camouflage Elle in utter chaos. Peter’s finger twitched on the trigger. He rested his sights squarely on the buffalo’s high shoulder. He had to save Elle. Fleetingly, a voice in the back of his head cursed her, but there was no time to dwell on her mistakes. He fired. A cloud of smoke oozed from the double barrels of his heavy rifle and his nose stung from the gunpowder. He followed the trace of the bullet straight into the buffalo’s thick hide. It jerked and wheeled around, clipping Elle in the hip as it did. She crumpled. Peter ran into the fray even as he reloaded. Afla ducked between two angry, confused beasts, trying to reach Elle. Horns whipped past his vision in rapid succession, dizzying him. He fought to see her through their churning hooves. The tail of her honey blonde hair was like a flag to him. All at once, extreme tenderness flooded his system, rushing alongside his rage. A kernel of understanding bloomed in his chest. If ever there was a mate on earth suited to him, it was this feisty, strong-willed woman. But if he didn’t reach her quickly, she’d be trampled beneath dozens of furious hooves. He fired again and a second beast dropped. Breath rasping in 56

Wilder his lungs, he ducked between surging bodies and caught Elle under the arm. He plucked her into his hold, and she latched on tight, her soft arms clinging to his shoulders, her warm thighs gripping his waist. Their best chance of surviving a stampede was to mount the felled buffalo. The others would swarm around it as they fled. He climbed up the side of the dead beast and held onto Elle while steadying his rifle on another target. A shot rang out beside him. Afla fired into the midst of the herd, and the beasts scattered. Peter kept his sights trained on the black creatures, his trigger at the ready. And Elle in his arms. I’ll be able to breathe in another five seconds. Yet, five minutes passed and he still couldn’t catch his breath. Seeing her amidst the chaos of a stampeding herd like that had taken a decade off his life at least. Finally holding her in his arms, no matter what the reason, had taken two decades. As the last of the animals scampered into the bush, he let her slip to the ground. The silken feel of her supple body gliding against his brought his cock to straining attention. Her nearness clouded his senses. But the instant she stepped away from him, his anger returned with a vengeance. “Leave us.” His bark sent the stunned members of the hunting party fleeing. Elle started to walk away from him, but he grabbed her upper arm and yanked her back. His chest heaved with the exertion it took to keep from roaring his wrath. She could have been killed. Could have gotten the hunting party killed. In all his years as a P.H., Peter had never had such a close call. That’s because you aren’t a stubborn ass who thinks only for yourself and goes your own way. “Let me go. My hip is injured. I need to bathe it.” There was a spring nearby, and he had seen the big buff knock her down. He studied her face intently. Was she using this as an excuse? Was she seeking shelter from his wrath? 57

Her shaky words told him she hadn’t been completely unaffected by her near-death experience. But what she said next did. “What were you thinking to rush into the herd?” White hot rage thundered through his veins. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, nothing came out. “Saving your ass, you infernal woman!” She faced him fully, her eyes sparking green fire. “I was perfectly fine—” “In the sights of a wounded beast! Surrounded by angry and confused buffaloes!” “I knew what I was doing. If you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of my hip.” She whirled on one boot and stormed through the high grasses with her gun at the ready. Her words drove him over the edge. If having to take down two animals because of her stupidity didn’t teach her a lesson, what would? He planted his hand on his hip and watched her disappear through the weeds. Damn her sexy little ass too. At that moment, sex was the last thing on his mind. Making her understand the gravity of the situation was of utmost importance. However, ravaging her sweet mouth was a very close second. For long minutes he stared at the place where she’d gone. His instincts screamed for him to go after her. She was far from safe alone in the wilds, and while the smell of buffalo had lessened, there might be a stray separated from the group. He hefted his gun over his shoulder and waited, ears straining for a muffled cry. Where the hell was she? His thigh muscles quivered. Should he go after her? If he did, he’d risk her fury, but if he didn’t and something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. Taking off into the tall grass, he left behind the quiet voices of their hunting party, along with all his good sense. Being alone with Elle this far from the others was a danger of its own. A danger bred from extreme lust and anger at her failure to listen to him. I should…I should… Even thoughts failed him. 58

Wilder As he burst through the weeds, he spotted her at the spring, up to her ankles in clean water, her khaki pants around her upper thighs, exposing her entire backside to him. Peter stopped. His heart kept going. It pattered out of control, faster and more furious than it’d ever beat. Words filled his mind. I should. . . . He should beat her ass. Sloshing to her side, he swung his arm and caught her off her feet. At the same time, he dropped to one knee and flipped her face down over his upper thigh. She twisted in outrage, but he pinned her firmly, shoving her down with a hand on her nape. Crack! He brought his palm down squarely on her plush ass. The blow radiated up his arm to his elbow, giving him a certain amount of pleasure. Better than that was the sight of his palm print pink on her white cheek. She reared up, heels kicking and an enraged bellow bursting from her. He forced her down again, focusing all his frustration on her firm little buttocks. Fear still raged in his chest. When he’d seen her fall after the buffalo struck her, he thought he’d go insane. But the worst thing was she had no remorse or idea she was to blame. Well, he’d spank it out of her. She howled as he swatted her harder, lifting her hot globe on his palm. He didn’t think it was possible for his cock to grow any harder, but the sight of her blonde hair falling over her reddened cheek sent a shock of throbbing need to his straining rod. God, she was delicious. “How dare you touch me this way!” “I’m showing you how dangerous that situation was, you little brat. Since reason doesn’t sink into your thick skull, you deserve a little corporal punishment!” The head of his cock swelled as he warmed her ass again. The flesh grew hotter with each crack of his hand, feeding his need. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the marks he’d given her to even follow the line of the seam of her ass down to the plump lips that made up her pussy. Her heels churned the air and she issued a cry that startled a flock of roosting birds into flight. “You pig,” she spat. 59

“You stubborn child.” Damn, she certainly was not. She was all sensuous female, writhing against his thigh, the undersides of her breasts brushing his leg and her round thighs stiffening with every blow. He stroke her again, overjoyed at the noise of his hand against her bare ass. She shrieked. Deciding her left cheek was a perfect hue, he turned to the right. Never had he guessed at the excitement behind an act like this. Had there ever been such an erotic act? Nothing compared to having her over his knee, warming her tight globes in the open land that he called his own. His shaft thickened as she squirmed. “I’m no child! You can’t treat me this way.” The tears starting in her voice wheedled into the folds of his brain. He was far from out of control, and though he gained great release from the stinging slap of his hand on her ass, he didn’t want her to frighten her. Only to teach her a lesson. She craned her neck to pierce him in her wrathful gaze. “Let me up,” she said tightly. He smoothed a hand over her lower back, noting the perspiration there and resisting the ache to lap it away with his tongue. “Have I shown you that out here with me, I am the boss?” Her eyes flashed. “You’ve shown exactly what kind of man you are.” With that, she wiggled free and stumbled away from him, hitching up her pants as she did. Slowly, he rose to his feet. His body was humming with the need to draw her against him again. That brief contact with her had lit a fire in him and no amount of water would douse it, just as it hadn’t soothed her hip. He’d seen the bruise welling on her side. Well, now she had two matching hand marks to go with it. She smacked a fist off her thigh, and her mouth was clamped tight. Satisfaction sidled through him. Maybe he had taught her to guard her words. Their gazes locked. Electricity thrummed between them, sharper and more powerful than before. She whipped around, stalked over to pick up her rifle and took off into the thick cover. 60

Wilder “Dammit.” In five strides, he caught up to her. His hand closed around her elbow, aware of the delicate shift of her bones. Protectiveness rose in him, and in a moment, he realized that in less than a week, she had walked into his heart. She struggled to free herself. “Elle.” Planting a hand on her waist, he swung her to him. He pulled her onto tiptoe, lashed her against his body, and crushed his mouth to hers. Her lips melted beneath his, warm and soft and utterly giving. Heat roiled through his chest, accompanied by that heavy ache he’d experienced at the camp while they’d tended Smiley. His tongue circled hers in velvety flips as he gathered her flavors into him. Sweet musk and pure woman. Not any woman. A strong woman. His woman. Salty emotion burned the back of his tongue. Thrilled she was unresisting, he plundered her more gently. Vanilla filled his head and stirred his cock against her belly. His hands tingled on her wrist and waist, and he slid one up her silky forearm, feeling the fine golden hairs against his palm. She gave a hitching sigh, and the precious threads of his control snapped. With a growl, he bent to her mouth again and again. Each sweep of her hot mouth was ecstasy. Her taste enveloped him. He cupped the back of her head and angled her to receive him more fully. She quivered, her breasts thrust against his chest as she returned his kiss stroke for stroke. The satiny flip of her tongue on his drove his passions higher. With a hand on her lower back, he molded her to fit him. Without a doubt, he knew that she fit him more perfectly than any other woman ever had or could. Soft squeaking gasps escaped her as he bathed the sweet walls of her mouth with his tongue. He delivered nipping bites down her jaw and around to her ear. Gooseflesh rose beneath his mouth, and he smiled against her skin. Dipping his tongue into the sensitive spot behind her ear, he reveled in the salty taste of her, mixed with the sun and glorious 61

female musk. With a groan of need, he walked her backward until her spine came up against a tree. At last, she lifted her arms and held him. Amazement lifted inside him, coupled with the desperation to possess her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers into his hair, and drew him back to her mouth. Between gulping kisses, he stole a peek at her eyes. They were half-lidded, smoldering. “Beautiful woman. I’ve wanted to taste you since I climbed out of my cockpit.” “You’ve driven me nuts, listening to your voice as you talked with the men. Wishing you’d talk to me. Watching your hands as you polished your rifle. Wishing you’d glide your thumbs over my flesh the same way.” He moaned. A shudder of emotion gripped him. “Is that so?” He raised his hands to her face and plied the corners of her lips with his thumbs as he stared into her sultry gaze. She rocked against him, and a spear of desire sank deep into his core. “Let me show you how infinitely more precious you are than my rifle,” he rumbled. He caught her up in his arms and walked deeper into the bush with her. ***** Elle’s mind reeled. Five minutes ago, she’d been in a state of utter outrage, bent over this man’s knee, taking his hard blows on her ass. Now she was spread on the dry, springy turf with him stretched atop her, kissing the living hell out her. His rough jaw scraped her skin deliciously, while his firm lips ravaged every inch of her mouth and neck. The point of his hot tongue flickered into the hollow of her throat, and she clutched his head to her with a gasp. She splayed her fingers in his thick hair, drawing deep breaths of his spicy scent. Pressure clawed at her insides as he worshipped her, kissed along her collar bones, and finally worked downward to dip his tongue into her cleavage. 62

Wilder His hair was soft against her skin, but his body unbelievably hard. In his arms, she finally realized how big he was. Strength radiated from every toned muscle as he suspended himself over her. The events of the past half hour fell away and she only knew the touch of his rough hands, the feel of his mouth against her, and the emotions tearing through her body. You’re getting what you wanted and then some. He’s claiming you, proving his strength. She’d been dying for it. Her ass burned deliciously from the spanking, and her pussy throbbed from the memory. She arched her back, almost begging him for another round. He slipped his thumbs down her torso over and over again, working them closer to the sides of her breasts with every pass. Once again, she saw him polishing the steel of his heavy rifle and the care he’d taken to oil each inch. Now he was showing her the same attention. Her nipples drew up tight as pearls as his knuckles brushed her mounds. A shiver ripped through her. “Sweet. Gorgeous. Talented. Strong.” He punctuated his words with kisses on the tops of her breasts. Suddenly he lifted his head and met her gaze. “Stubborn.” The corner of his mouth stretched upward into a heart-melting smile. She stretched to meet his kiss. Driving her tongue deep into his hot mouth. Her pussy pinched hard and released a flood of cream. The reality of him touching her was so much better than her fantasies. He slid his hands under her ass and drew her up to him, grinding his hips into hers. The hard length of his erection chafed her needy pussy through the fabric of her shorts and sent a jolt of bliss straight to her pulsing sex. She hitched one ankle behind his back and locked him to her, raising a growl as she rubbed him. “You needed that spanking to soften you, you little vixen.” A blush flared in her cheeks again at the reminder of her humiliation. Her awareness. And finally her arousal. She’d never felt as feminine and wanted as this moment. She pushed on his chest and wriggled from under him, flipping 63

onto her hands and knees to present him with her buttocks again. “Oh, my God, Elle.” She looked over her shoulder to see him pass a hand over his face. His bare chest gleamed in the midday sun and his shorts rode so low on his hips, she was enticed by the span of muscle leading to his groin. One big hand fondled the curve of her ass cheek. “You liked that, did you?” “Yes.” Her voice was a breathless whisper tinged with embarrassment. She’d known a moment of complete freedom when he was spanking her. Freedom to explore her feminine side. Freedom to give up control. “It fucking turned me on like nothing else,” he rasped. He pinched her sore skin hard. Before she could squeal, he gripped her hips and jerked her ass against his rock-hard cock. Her breasts jiggled beneath her as he slammed against her. Erotic pleasure washed through her pussy. The folds grew slippery. Her nubbin swelled and throbbed. Lost in sensation, she exclaimed when he smacked her left globe. The sound of his palm meeting her body sent need pounding in her veins. She wriggled her ass, begging for more. “You need this, don’t you, baby? You need me to show you how good I can make you feel.” He swatted her again, and this time, his other hand slipped between her thighs and traced the outline of her netherlips. As he smacked her, he smoothed her soaking pussy until she thought she’d come. Suddenly he tumbled her into the grass again and claimed her mouth with a possession that was almost violence. She curled around him as she kissed him, running her hands over the hard planes of his spine, his chiseled buttocks, and around to the thick member between his legs. A full-body shudder shook him. He thrust his cock against her hands. It was longer than any she’d had before, and she pulsed with the need to feel it gliding silkily through her fingers and lower, nudging her soaking hole. She reached for his waistband, but he withdrew with a shake of 64

Wilder his head. “I want you so badly, but not yet.” His callused fingertips grazed the skin on her belly as he lifted her shirt hem. She sucked in her breath and held it. His gaze blazed into hers. Small lines carved out his lips, revealing just how much he struggled to control himself. Passion burst in her chest, along with something deeper and warmer. The emotion took root. “Peter.” His eyelids fluttered as she said his name. “Elle. My beauty. I want to drive into you and feel your walls clench around me, to watch your face as you splinter in my arms.” She bucked against him, urging him to do those things and much more. Every bit of animosity she’d known for him gave way to his loving gaze. Their mouths collided again. She opened to him, drew on his tongue until he writhed, thinking of sucking his velvety shaft and tasting his musky love fluids. Drawing her top over her ribs, he caressed her flesh as he went. She clung to him, ignited by his kisses and the weight of his body. When her breasts were bared to the cooler air, she sucked in a sharp breath. Before she could release it, his scalding mouth closed over her nipple. The sensitive nub strained on his tongue as he lapped the perimeter and flicked the tip. The knot of need tightened in her belly until she thought she’d burst. How had she come to this place in her life? In a week, she’d gone from fantasizing about a man she’d only seen in a book to disliking him to making love to him. He bathed her throat in soft kisses, and she twisted her hands into his hair and yanked him against her harder. “Please, Peter.” He lifted his head to meet her gaze, giving her a very close look at his blazing eyes. Did she imagine the things she saw in them? Tenderness and admiration? His big hand gently brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “God, you’re beautiful.” A waterfall of emotion trickled through her and sent a rivulet 65

straight to her sex. “I thought I was a tomboy.” “You’d have to be a little bit of a tomboy to have the passion for hunting Africa the way you do.” Sweet satisfaction wheedled into her heart, replacing some of the hurtful things he’d said before. “But it took me all of five seconds to notice these curves,” he rumbled, running a hand over her hip. A flush stole over her at the memory of how many nights she’d dreamed about him after studying his articles. The woman in her who admired Peter Dumont had wanted to spend hours talking to him, hearing the things he had to say and sharing her ideas. Somehow when she’d been presented with him in the flesh, things had gotten messy. And now she wanted so much more. She found him staring at her mouth. His chest worked as if he’d taken on a marathon against a cheetah. She started to speak, but he pressed a forefinger against her lips. “I’m going to make love to you because you’ve been driving me crazy for days. Because you scared the hell out of me when I saw you in the midst of that herd. And because I cannot deny myself the woman who fits me so perfectly.” His mouth slammed over hers. Rough jaw scraping her sensitive flesh. Tongue sweeping against hers, demanding more. He rocked his hips and she ground back, her wet pussy begging for him to stretch her, fill her. He cupped her breast and pinched her nipple hard but slow. She writhed in his hold, meeting his tongue and hip thrusts and clinging to him. The world shrank around her. No longer did she hear the wind soughing through the trees but only the rasp of his breath. The sun faded and she only knew his heat and light. She reached for his waistband, following the long lines of his cock through the cloth, and then with a flick, she loosed it. He groaned into her mouth as she drew his thick shaft into her hand, her fingers pattering over the sensitive head and down the shaft again and again. Before she could slip her hand into his boxers, he knelt up. 66

Wilder In a blink, she was stretched beneath him. Her nipples puckered and her pussy squeezed hard as he proceeded to peel away the last of her resistance. She ran her hands over his hard abs and down to his cock, taut in his white boxers. “Come to me, Peter. I need you.” With a growl, he shoved his shorts and boxers away, taking a moment to kick off his boots. He hovered over her. For a brief moment, she knew the kiss of his entire body. And then he was gone, nipping a path between her breasts. Down he went, his tongue dipping into her navel even as his fingers traced a maddening course up her inner thigh. His hand and mouth met at the heat of her. She gave a harsh cry as he stroked her slippery folds, gently parting the inner labia until he found the pool of nectar, even while his tongue met her stiff clit. She fisted her hands in his hair, her hips lifting to receive his consuming kiss. The soft movement of his tongue drove her up the steep incline of bliss. But when he drove his fingers into her honey hole, she began to pulse. In a blaze of white heat, she came, driven by the memory of him raining blows on her ass. Her pussy contracted again and again. Cream flooded his face and he lapped it up with a groan. The juicy sound of his fingers working her slit filled her ears as her pulsations continued on and on in mind-blowing splendor. Before she could come down from her high, he drove into her. His cock buried to the hilt. Deep. The head nudging her womb. Their gazes clashing. “Baby, you’re so hot.” He bit off the words and started to move. Drawing his shaft through her silken walls until the head chafed her sensitive G-spot. He bucked and she watched his features open with pleasure. Another orgasm was not far off, especially if he kept up his divine torture. As his cock worked her soaking hole, she drew him in for a kiss. Tasting his unique flavor combined with hers. Tongues twirling in mindless need. He gave her pleasures she’d never known. She dug her fingers into the muscles flanking his spine and forced him harder, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. He tore his 67

mouth away and suckled her nipple, sending her over the ravine of ecstasy once more. Her body quivered and clamped down on his long cock, milking every glorious inch. “Take it, Elle. Take my cock. I’m gonna fill that tight pussy with my come!” Pearly heat seared her sex as he emptied into her, jerking with his pleasure. Their bodies slammed together again and again. The world narrowed and she only knew Peter. His taste and feel and scent. He collapsed forward, dragging his breath through his lungs. She twitched when the final contractions ebbed away, leaving only raw emotion. When he drew back to look at her, tears filled her eyes. “Oh, gorgeous woman. Come here.” He bound her tightly to his chest and smothered her face and throat in kisses. If she never drew another breath, she knew she’d feel complete. Letting this man make love to her was the best thing to ever happen to her. No longer did she feel the sting of his slight or the longing for his kind words. Now he showered them on her. Even if she’d had to drive him to it with her lack of cooperation. In the end, she really had gotten what she wanted. That spanking was an ecstasy she hadn’t known she craved. “I’m sorry, Peter. I was wrong to defy your order and go off on my own. I could have gotten someone killed.” A rasping breath burst from him and he dropped his forehead to hers. “Sweet woman, thank you for that.” He trailed his lips over hers lightly, bringing more tears to her eyes. “I want you to realize I don’t plan to rule you. But to ease you into the role of a P.H., even if I have to throw you over my knee again.” A little laugh bubbled up in her. He kissed her softly on the tip of her sunburned nose and then searched her eyes. “You’re a strong woman, Elle, and determined. I greatly admire both traits. But you’re so much more. Tender and giving. I admit to being a little lovestruck. I thought I’d go mad when I saw that lip print on my photograph.” 68

Wilder She jerked. “What are you talking about?” He ran a fingertip over her lower lip, his eyes close and dark, the pupils blown wide from his recent pleasure. “In the safari guide publication. The wear on the page showed me how often you’d read that article about me. But when I looked closely, there was a small kiss over my face. Your lip balm gave you away.” Her cheeks scalded. Now that he mentioned it, she clearly recalled the moment she’d pressed that kiss to the glossy page. After her father told her Peter would be coming to help with her training. With a laugh, he hugged her closer. She inhaled his musky scents and knew only extreme joy. She relaxed, loving that their first encounter was out here in the bush, where both of them were most at home. “You know why I didn’t want you to hunt that wounded buffalo, don’t you, Elle?” She shifted at the mention of it, her toes curled against his muscular calves. At the time, she’d been certain he thought such a hunt was beyond her, but now she was unsure. “No.” His gaze penetrated her to the tips of her toes. “It frightened me unlike anything I’ve ever known. I couldn’t let you take the risk.” A wellspring of tenderness rose inside her. Hot tears overflowed and he swallowed one on his tongue. “I’ll show you the path, Elle. I want to give you all the knowledge it will take to reach your goal. And I believe if anyone can do it, it’s you.” “I’ve never wanted anyone else to show me the way,” she murmured. For a long minute, she simply shared a smile with him. Peter Dumont. Her new lover. Finally a giggle escaped her. His grin widened, a bracket cut around his chiseled lips. “What’s funny?” “I might need another good spanking.” His chest rumbled with laughter. He rolled suddenly, flipping her atop him, and delivered a light smack to her still-heated bottom. “You know I’m all too willing to accommodate you, you 69

stubborn beauty.” Before she could blink, he gripped her and rolled again, settling her firmly on her knees. Her pussy gripped and released, squeezing out a fresh flood of cream and the residue of his lovemaking. A trickle ran down the inside of her thigh. Peter positioned himself behind her. His palm lingered on her lower back, and she could almost feel the brush of his eyes. She’d never felt quite so exposed to a man before, and yet it titillated her. Their past arguments flowed away from her like sand through her fingers. All at once, she only saw Peter as he was—a good and just man. An amazing hunter and leader. And a tender lover. He traced a zigzagging pattern over her back from nape to the cleft of her buttocks, making her arch like a cat. Her breasts wobbled beneath her, the tips hard as jewels. Being touched by the man she’d dreamt of but not being able to touch him was wearing on the frayed cords of her control. Her mouth watered to taste every inch of his delicious suntanned flesh. To kiss him, lick him, bite him, lap him, flicker him, swirl him. She ran her tongue over her lower lip as the string of images unraveled in her mind. Smack! A cry tore from her chest at the unexpected slam of his hand into her ass cheek. The sound reverberated in her ears while the jolt ran the pathways of her nerves. Being struck gave her a surge of adrenaline not unlike that she got while stalking game. She saw him again as he’d been an hour ago—steely-faced with determination, eyes fierce as he swung his double rifle up, his shoulder taking the recoil as he fired upon the buffalo. Saving her. Emotion merged with the adrenaline and pleasure coursing through her veins to create a thick rope binding her to him. Smack! His hand lifted her stinging globe again. Without warning, he plunged two fingers into her dripping hole. He found the small knot of nerves on the front wall of her cavern. Stroked them once. Twice. She drove her ass into his hand, whimpering for more. 70

Wilder “More what, Elle?” The dark notes of his voice snatched the last bit of footing from under her. She pitched headlong into desperate need. “I want your cock.” A wisp of hair glued itself to the perspiration on her throat. He drove his fingers deeper, added a third. Lifted her on his hand until her knees no longer touched the ground. A white glare of ecstasy coated her brain and she saw nothing, heard nothing, only felt. The flat of his hand warmed her ass again. His gritty voice broke through to her. “You want me deep inside you?” “Yes.” A sharp gasp. Thigh muscles quivering. Pussy weeping, flooding his fingers. Heat built in her core and long tendrils radiated throughout her body. He plunged his fingers deeper until she quivered all over with the need to come. She twisted to look at him. “Peter.” His face was hard, his mouth stretched tight as he gazed at her ass and slash. “Sweetheart, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” “Good. Then get inside me.” He released a harsh bark of laughter. Before she could think twice, she pulled away from him. His fingers slid from her needy pussy. It gasped once upon the emptiness, and then she lunged for him. Catching him squarely around the waist, she hurled them both backward into the soft, springy grasses of a dry season. Their spicy scent enfolded them. She straddled his broad chest, grinding her snatch into his washboard abs. Her hair tumbled around them as she leaned down for a kiss. “My turn,” she whispered a scant second before she claimed his mouth. His flavor exploded on her tongue. She swirled her hips, dragging her wet curls over his flesh. Their tongues warred for supremacy, but this round was hers. She intended to have one hell of a romp with him. This time she held the reins. His grin stretched slowly across his face. His teeth flashed white against his tanned skin and small lines played about his eyes, born 71

from thousands of hours squinting into the blistering African sun. “I could throw you off, you know.” She shook her head, trailing the tips of her hair over his chest. “Uh-uh. I’m going to tease and torment you. Maybe deliver a spanking on that hard ass of yours.” A rumble of laughter wove through his chest and vibrated against her pussy. Her clit swelled. “I don’t think so, my African princess. You’re too tame for that.” As if to prove how much she’d been broken by him, he sunk his big thumb into her soaking folds. It worked only an inch or two inside her, and then he circled it, running it around the lip of flesh. She leaned back to give him better access, her head angled sharply up to the sky and shudders coursing through her. “See how I can handle you?” With extreme difficulty, she tore herself from his erotic touch. She leaned forward and slowly sank her teeth into his hard nipple. He gripped her nape with a moan. She worried the small nub between her lips and tongue. His breathing grew labored. She splayed her fingers over his abs and took nipping bites down to his love trail. The soft hairs tickled her mouth. She opened her mouth wide, stuck out her tongue, and gave him a slow lick while holding his gaze. He gasped. “God, baby.” She moved downward, swallowing his cock to the root. He stopped breathing. As she sucked and stroked his silken shaft with her tongue, she fanned her hands over his inner thighs. Slowly, she spread her fingers, and then closed them, caressing this sensitive area. He tensed under her hands and she knew she was driving him wild. He pulled her hair lightly, manipulating her head to better accept his throbbing rod. The head nudged the back of her throat again and again, and a string of salty come bathed her taste buds. She swallowed around him and he jerked in her mouth. “Sweetheart, I’m going to blow. I can’t hold back.” She clamped her lips over his base and waggled her tongue 72

Wilder around his head. Through gritted teeth he issued a guttural groan. His hips lifted, he locked her head to him, and fucked her mouth hard. A thrill shot through her, knowing the pleasure she was delivering. She let the tips of her fingers brush the space between his anus and balls. And sent him over the edge. With a roar, he pumped hot come into her throat. She gulped up the delicious fluid, swallowing as fast as he spurted. She didn’t let up her assault until she’d drunk down every last drop and he began to soften in her mouth. His tanned fingers closed on her paler upper arms, dragging her up his body. He nestled her beneath his chin. She settled with her head pillowed on his hard pec, inhaling his scent and gazing out through the thick brush. Their clothes littered the area and at any moment one of the trackers might come looking for them and find them locked in the throes of bliss. But she didn’t care. Peter felt too good against her. And her pussy was sopping wet for more. Coming to his senses, he seemed to remember this too. His hand slipped between her thighs again and found her hardened pearl. She opened to him immediately, dying for his long fingers inside her. “Let me help you now.” His lips moved over her hair. She made a sound in her chest, begging him to give her completion once more. She wanted him every possible way. As long as he was showing her the love and pleasure she craved. He pulled back the fleshy hood covering her clit and exposed her pulsing core to his other finger. At the first touch, she melted. Her nipples strained. Love cream trickled from her folds. He found the perfect place to plant his fingertip, and wiggled it gently. She dug her heel into the turf and tossed her head with delight. The breeze rushed over her naked body, cooling the moisture there and the birdsong had returned. In the distance, she heard the voices of the trackers. She gave herself up to Peter’s attentions. He dipped a finger into her slit and gathered her nectar. Smoothing it over her clit again, he worked it double time. 73

Heat broke over her body and throbbed low in her belly. Squeaking gasps burst from her. She was on the verge, tipping, falling over the edge. Starbursts appeared behind her eyes as a blinding orgasm swept her away. She shook with convulsions. He never let up for an instant, but continued to finger her. When the last pulsations slipped away, she opened her eyes into his dark gaze. His tender smile melted her heart. Gently, he stroked her slippery labia, and then drew his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean. A shiver tore through her. He hitched her closer. “How much bliss can you take?” His question seemed aimed at himself. “I’m going to find out. I plan to draw every obstinate thought from your perfect little head with orgasm.” “I can promise to listen to you, but I can’t promise not to be stubborn.” “That’s one of the things I love most about you, Elle.” His thumbs probed the corners of her mouth. “Don’t change. I like you wild. But grow with me. I promise to love you no matter what.” A lump of salt broke free in her throat and drained away with the knowledge he truly loved her for who she was. When her smile spread, it enveloped her heart too. “Yes, Peter. I love you.” They spent long hours enjoying one another as the sun traveled across the sky. The Swahilis had set up camp, and the sounds of their drums and chanting reached them, their song letting Peter and Elle know they were butchering the felled buffaloes and the village would be happy for the meat they carried out. Elle leaned against Peter while she dressed, sneaking kisses and caressing all the places she hadn’t yet explored. He slipped his big hand into hers and led her through the thick cover to the camp. When her African family let out a rousing cheer at the sight of their disheveled state, she knew true happiness. ####

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About The Author Em Petrova is a writer of hot, lover of all things coffee, devotee of books, and worshipper of the iPod. She penned her first novel at the age of twelve, and after gaining an arts degree, has returned to her literary roots. She loves to dig deep into the souls of her unique characters and uncover their secret desires when she doesn’t have her nose in a great new read. You can find more about her sexy stories at http://www.empetrova.com

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