Wild About the Man

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. Clem fanned her face and plucked her white shirt off her overheated skin. ‘I’m so hot I could die. Is it always this hot?’

‘It’s Africa. Spring going into summer. It’s hot but it helps if you’re appropriately dressed. Shorts and T-shirts, yes. Tights and boots, no.’

‘Get me some water …’ Clem started to say please and sneezed instead. She watched his eyes narrow and she knew that he didn’t like spoilt, annoying, demanding women. Well, that suited her just fine because she didn’t like the fact that he made her skin prickle and …

‘No.’ Nick pointed at the plane. ‘Feel free to climb the stairs and get it yourself.’

Clem shrugged and called up the stairs. ‘Jace? Please ask Chloe for a bottle of water for me, I’m melting.’

‘So, you do have a vague concept of what passes for rudimentary manners,’ Nick commented.

Jason appeared at the top of the stairs, a bottle of water in his hand. He scooted down the stairs, handed it to Clem and sent Nick a sympathetic smile as he shook his hand and introduced himself. ‘Clem’s always impossible when she’s in a mood.’

‘I am not in a mood.’ Clem stamped her boot and dust billowed. She coughed and waved it away. ‘And if I were, I’m entitled!’

‘Not around me you’re not,’ Sherwood stated.

‘You are exceptionally rude.’

‘Ditto.’

Clem gestured to his vehicle with her oversized glasses. It was more rust than paint and looked about fifty years old.

‘So, I suppose that’s your vehicle?’

‘It is.’

Huh. Mr Talkative he was not. Normally, most men would be falling over by now, chatting her up, fluffing their feathers. He just stood there, looking sexy. And hot. And annoyed.

Clem twisted the top of her bottle of water but the top held firm. After a couple more tries, Nick took the bottle, cracked the lid in one try and handed it back to her.

‘Thank you.’

Nick smirked, which made Clem just want to poke him. ‘So, is it your job to pick up guests?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘And does your boss know you’re picking up guests in a battered, rusty car that looks like it’s about to fall apart? It’s not the right image for a luxury lodge.’

Nick narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. The veins in his forearms raised his skin and she swallowed. She’d always found that physical indication of fitness sexy.

‘No, the guests are normally collected in the game viewing vehicles but they are all being used at the moment.’

‘It’s six in the evening. What are they being used for at this time of night?’

‘Oh, let’s think. We’re on a game reserve. What would game vehicles be used for …? Um, maybe game viewing?’

Oh, could she sound any more stupid if she tried? Clem winced, looked down and kicked a loose stone with the toe of her boot. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ she muttered.

‘I haven’t even reached sarcastic yet.’

Ooh, fighting talk. Clem snapped her head up. ‘Do you talk to all the guests like this?’

‘Not usually.’

‘So, why do I get your special treatment?’

Nick stepped over to the Land Rover and yanked open the passenger door, ignoring the fact that the door was attached with just one hinge. ‘You’re not a guest. You’re me doing your father a favour. Get in.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re muttering about and my father won’t like your attitude. So check it or I will have you fired.’

Clem caught the light roll of his eyes and realized that this man wasn’t in the least bit fazed by her unusually sharp tongue and simmering temper. She looked into his cool grey eyes and saw that he didn’t give a flying fig for what she thought.

While she didn’t like him, her respect for him soared. When last had she met a man with a healthy ego?

‘Your father is old friends with my attitude and, unlike you, knows exactly how far he can push me. And, since I own The Baobab and Buffalo Lodge, your threats are both childish and unnecessary,’ Nick said in a cool, calm, measured tone. The lack of temper in his voice made her feel about two feet high.