Wild About the Man. Joss Wood

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      But sunsets like these were one of the myriad reasons why he’d worked sixteen, eighteen-hour days for the best part of a decade. He considered it a privilege to watch the sun go down and listen to the night song of a little piece of Africa that was under his protection.

      From his first memory of walking this land with his paternal grandfather at the age of four, he’d felt an affinity for this place, this soil. He loved the element of danger, the age old fight of the survival of the fittest. Two-B had always been his sanctuary, his favourite place in the world, the place that fed his soul. As a child he’d run to his grandfather and this land when being the only introvert in a large family of noisy, outspoken, non-privacy-respecting, intimacy-demanding party animals became overwhelming. He’d find the peace and solitude here he needed and never found in his chaotic family home, surrounded by four siblings and left-of-centre parents. He could never imagine living or working anywhere else.

      After university, because he was used to being the best, he’d gone big, aiming to establish a six-star lodge—exclusive, expensive, elitist. Finding an investor had been a hassle but his father’s old school tie network had come in handy and his parent had browbeaten his school buddy Copeland into meeting with him. He’d walked away with thirty million in his pocket and minus a twenty-five per cent share of his company.

      It had been a good day.

      Working his dream of creating one of the premier game reserves in Africa had meant sacrifices: time, money, a social life. His need for stability and … serenity … had led him into a five-year marriage which, ultimately, resulted in him being estranged from his family.

      Choices and consequences were a bitch.

      But his wife was long gone and he was content being single. Besides it was, Nick decided, too much of a fag to look for a woman who could, firstly, tolerate living in isolation and then would be prepared to live with a man who’d made the conscious decision to remain emotionally unavailable.

      Essentially, he wanted a witty conversationalist with superior mattress skills who’d be happy to be ignored as and when he pleased.

      Unfortunately, he’d hadn’t yet heard where those aliens had landed.

      Brief affairs, he’d stick to those. Tidier, easier, less complicated … and not difficult to find when he felt the woman was interesting enough to make the effort.

      He rubbed his hand over his face. Where had all these thoughts about love and life come from? Must have been triggered by hearing that Copeland’s daughter had come an emotional cropper …

      Nick heard the distinctive sound of turbine engines and picked up his hand held radio. He glanced down the runway to check that it was still empty—it wasn’t uncommon to see lions stretched out on the tar or impala nibbling at the grass on the edges. He tuned into the open frequency and informed the pilots that they were good to land. The plane rushed past him and he stayed were he was, watching as it slowed, turned at the bottom of the strip and taxied back up the runway towards him. The door opened and the co-pilot dropped the stairs and jogged down, holding out a hand for Nick to shake.

      ‘Nice landing,’ Nick said, jamming his hands into his khaki shorts.

      ‘Thanks.’ He looked around. ‘Wow, seriously wild. So, no lions, huh?’

      ‘Not today.’ Nick turned and looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway of the cabin. Her hair was a long fall of pale rust, several shades lighter than his wife’s fire-red, shot through with strawberry-blonde streaks that even the most expensive salon could not recreate. Sculpted cheekbones, a pixie chin and a body that was long, lean and scrawny.

      ‘Jace, I’m going to miss you. Thank you.’

      ‘Keep in touch. You will get through this.’ The voice was deep and rumbling.

      ‘Call me when you get home.’

      The words floated down to Nick and her voice was low, melodious and as smooth as syrup. English, with the slightest crisp that good schooling added. She sauntered—he doubted this woman knew the meaning of the word walk—down the steps dressed in a white man’s style shirt, a strip of fabric across her hips that might, when it grew up, become a skirt, solid black tights and knee length boots. She looked like every one of the several million dollars she was reputed to be worth. Then he noticed her father’s eyes, the colour of seedless green grapes, and forgot how to breathe. Long lashes and arched brows framed them to perfection.

      He’d been fired on by poachers, faced down a charging elephant and had an engine out in his Cessna but his lungs had never just stopped working like this before. Breathe, you idiot, he told himself, before you pass out at her feet.

      Nick sucked in a hot, deep breath, needing the air to smooth out his bumping breath, his racing heart. While his wife had been all banked flames and controlled heat, he suspected this one was a raging bush fire.

      Lord, another redhead. Like malaria, buffaloes and black mambas, experience had taught him that they were best avoided.

      Three things slapped Clem simultaneously as she stepped out of the plane. It was scorchingly hot, it was desperately wild and she was totally out of her depth.

      She wanted to go home.

      She nearly turned around, opened her mouth to tell Jason that she was returning with him, when she saw him standing on the tarmac, looking up at her. For the first time—ever—she forgot what she’d been about to say.

      Nut-brown hair, overlong and shaggy, topped a face that was as rugged as the land surrounding them. Light stubble, thin lips and can’t-BS-me—grey? green?—eyes. He was tall—six two, six three—and built. A swimmer’s body, she decided, her eyes tracing his broad shoulders and slim hips. It was easy to imagine his rippled stomach, the long muscles in his thighs.

      Her earlier description of the land applied to him as well. Scorchingly hot and desperately wild.

      Clem caught the intelligence in his eyes and the wry twist of his lips told her that he’d already made up his mind about her. Spoilt, snobby, stuck up. The hell of it was that he was right, she was all of those things and, oh, damn … she instinctively knew she couldn’t play him, couldn’t charm him, couldn’t snow him. And she, especially, didn’t like being summed up so quickly, and so well.

      He angled his head when she reached the bottom of the stairs. She noticed, and was glad, that he didn’t hold out his hand for her to shake. ‘Ms Copeland, I’m Nick Sherwood.’

      His voice was moderately deep and held more of an English accent than she’d expected. It sent a shiver skittering along her spine and she frowned … What on earth was wrong with her?

      Clem watched as he shot a glance at Joe, who was transferring her luggage from the hold onto the back seat of what she thought might have once been a Land Rover, checked his watch and tapped his foot. He couldn’t have made it clearer that she was an imposition and a waste of his precious time.

      Really, who did he think he was? King of all he surveyed? He was very confident—almost insolent—for an employee. Pity that impertinence came wrapped up in such a smoking hot package.

      ‘Aren’t you going to help him?’ she demanded.

      Nick looked at Joe, looked back at her and shook his head. ‘He’s got it under control.’

      Grrr. СКАЧАТЬ