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. Findingan 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 hadall 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,
After university, because he was used to being the best, he’d gone big, aiming to establish a six-star lodge—exclusive, expensive, elitist. Findingan 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 hadall 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,