“What I want is you. I want you. I want you in my bed.”

Shanna’s heart leapt to her throat. “Why does that scare you?” she whispered, tilting her head back so she could see his face.

“Because I don’t know how simple this is…or will be.” Rand paused. “And I don’t want you to get hurt in the end.”

“If I get hurt, I’ll take responsibility for it,” she said. “I am here with you out of my own free will. I can leave any time I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“You sound so brave,” he said quietly.

She felt relief at his smile. She smiled back. “You have no idea how brave.”

Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family as well and lived for a number of years in Virginia before going on the move again. After spending over a year in the West Bank near Jerusalem, they are now living again in Ghana, but not for good!

Rand’s Redemption
Karen van der Zee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

SHANNA noticed the man from quite a distance as he came striding down the busy street toward the Thorn Tree Café terrace. It was hard not to. Amid the colorful crowd of tourists sporting cameras, men in business suits, Indian women in exotic saris and Arabs in flowing robes, he looked tall and casual in his khaki slacks and short-sleeved shirt. He had long legs and he moved with the grace of an athlete. Or an animal, free and proud in the wild.

He entered the terrace where she was sitting with Nick and glanced around. His dark hair was curly and cropped close, his blue eyes clear and sharp.

He was coming toward them.

Her stomach tightened, her pulse quickened and she felt a delicious thrill of excitement—a different kind of excitement than she had felt ever since she’d woozily stumbled off the plane in Nairobi last night—a kind of excitement that made you think of romantic music and starry nights, the kind that made your heart do dance steps.

Barely off the plane and she was dreaming already. Well, why not. Today was a golden day.

A day full of exotic sights and tropical sunshine and bright promise. A day full of secret anticipation of what was to come. She was finally back in the place where she had spent the four happiest years of her life as a girl. Oh, how long she had dreamed of this!

She felt Nick’s arm around her shoulder. He smiled at her. “It’s good to see you happy,” he said. “Keep it up okay?”

She was touched by the warmth in his eyes. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Nick. A change of scenery will do me good, something to occupy my mind.”

He tightened his arm around her, kissed her cheek. “Good, then I’m glad you came.”

And then he was there, the stranger, looming in front of them.

Nick leaped to his feet with a wide grin and the men shook hands. The man was taller than Nick, who was tall by anyone’s standard. He looked like he belonged on a movie screen—confident, self-assured. As if he owned the world.

Well, he owned part of it.

Seventy-five thousand acres of hills and jungle and savannah in the Rift Valley, where he raised sheep and cattle and lived in a big, gorgeous house on the edge of a cliff. Just like in the movies. She’d seen the pictures Nick had taken some years ago, and last year a magazine had featured an article on the ranch and the research work conducted there by the Kenyan government and the African Wildlife Organisation. Looking at the man, she could easily imagine him in a Land Rover or on a horse, or flying a little Cessna, all of which he probably did.

Nick turned to face her with a smile. “Shanna, this is Rand Caldwell. Rand, Shanna Moore, my niece.”

She extended her hand and he took it in his huge hard one. For a pregnant moment he said nothing, just stared at her with his penetrating blue gaze. In the tanned face his eyes looked impossibly light, and disturbingly icy.

“Miss Moore,” he said in cool British tones, and released her hand.

Meeting new people was not usually a source of apprehension for her. However, this man made her feel off balance. Why was he looking at her like this?

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and offered him her cheeriest smile, trying not to show him he’d unnerved her, which he had. “Nick told me all about your ranch.”

Rand lifted a quizzical brow and glanced over at Nick. “You haven’t seen it in years,” he said dryly.

Nick grinned. “It made an indelible impression. Especially that lioness that nearly tore me apart.”

Nick was, biologically, her uncle, but in reality he was more like a big brother. He was a fun-loving guy with a sense of the adventurous, eleven years older than she. Since the death of her parents six years ago, it was at Nick and his wife Melanie’s home she’d spent Christmas and other holidays. They were her family now.

“How’s Melanie?” Rand asked.

“Very well,” said Nick. “Busy with the children. She’s sorry she couldn’t come along.” In his student days Rand had spent a couple of years studying in the States and had become friends with Melanie and Nick.

The men ordered beer and Shanna asked for another passion fruit juice, nectar of the gods. She listened absently to the conversation, sipping her juice and watching the colorful melee of humanity pass by in the busy street.

A tall blond woman maneuvered her way through the maze of chairs and tables, a baby in her arms, his little face blissfully asleep on her shoulder.

Sammy.

A rush of longing. Instant, fierce. She could feel the weight of his small body in her arms, smell his sweet baby smell. Tears burned behind her eyes. She glanced down at her lap, pressed her eyes closed and took a deep, steadying breath.

Sammy was all right. She had to believe that. She took another deep breath.

Think of something else, she told herself.

Like Rand Caldwell and his icy eyes.

Focusing on the men’s voices, she heard them talk about politics and her thoughts drifted to the ranch, the pictures she had seen.

The ranch, she knew, was only twenty miles from Kanguli, the village where she had lived with her parents as a child. What she wanted to do more than anything else was to run out into the street, hijack the first Jeep or Land Rover passing by and drive out to Kanguli right this minute. Unfortunately she’d have to wait till tomorrow, when she’d pick up her own rented Land Rover. She hoped she could still find the village. Would the people still remember her after all this time?

She watched Rand as he talked. He had a somewhat prominent nose, a square chin, a high forehead—a face like a living sculpture, angular and masculine. And those piercing eyes…

She glanced down at his hands holding his beer glass. They were big and brown and strong. Capable, competent hands. It would be interesting to see him in action on the ranch.

He looked at her suddenly, as if he realized that she’d been studying him. For a moment their eyes locked. The cool disdain in his face was unsettling. Why was he looking at her like that?

She heard Nick talking about her, telling Rand that she was writing an article for a university publication.

“And you’re here to do research?” Rand asked politely.

“Yes,” she said. This was partially the truth, if not the whole truth.

“And you happened to come out at the same time as Nick?” he asked levelly.

She nodded. “My schedule was flexible, so I made it fit his.”

“And what are you going to write about?” His tone indicated he couldn’t care less.

“I’m doing a piece on Kenyan women, how their lives have changed in the last generation, their position in the family, the society and the workforce.”

One dark brow cocked. “Really?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

She groaned inwardly, knowing full well what he was thinking. He thought she was here for two weeks. The idea of writing a well-researched article of that nature in two weeks, being fresh in a foreign country, was laughable.

Only, she wasn’t a stranger to the country, and she wasn’t staying for two weeks—not if her plans worked out, and she was determined that they should. However, she could not set Mr. Rand Caldwell straight because Nick didn’t know about her intentions yet. She didn’t want to worry him.

Rand was looking at her, narrow-eyed, contemplating no doubt if she were merely acting like a fool, or, in actual fact, was one.

Nick patted her hand and drew his tall body out of the chair. “I need to make a phone call. Can I trust you two alone for a few minutes?”

Shanna rolled her eyes at him and he grinned.

Left alone with Rand, Shanna was well aware of a certain disconcerting electricity in the air between them. For a reason she couldn’t begin to understand, this man did not like her. Perhaps it was best to simply ignore the vibes he was sending out and pretend she had no idea. Well, she didn’t. At least not why he seemed to be so chilly toward her.

“I understand there is a lot of wild game on your property,” she said, “and you’re very involved in conservation.”

He took a swallow of beer. “Yes.” His voice was curt and impatient.

“I saw the article they did on your work at the ranch last year,” she went on. “Why did you decide to allow your place to be used for research?”

“Because I think it is important,” he said, as if he were talking to a dim-witted child. She let it pass, trying to remember what else had been in the article. It had mentioned the house which was built on the edge of a wild and rocky gorge. Magnificent views, dramatic scenery, the report had said, and the photos had been dramatic indeed. She’d love to see the place.

She took a drink from her juice and a thought occurred to her. It was rather a brave thought, she had to admit, but why not take a risk? She had nothing to lose.

“You have a big place,” she stated. “Do you have women employees, farm workers?”

“Yes.” He reached for his glass.

“I wonder if I could visit some time and talk to the women. If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, of course.”

“I doubt it will be helpful,” he said with barely restrained condescension.

“I think it might be.” She produced a smile. “And of course, if you know other women who would be willing to talk to me, I would appreciate your help.”

His eyes narrowed slightly and he was silent for a moment. She had confused him with her appeal. He was emitting hostile vibrations and he had expected to receive the same in return. Instead, she was appealing to his gentleman instincts and asking for help.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes probing hers. “I’ll let you know.” His tone of voice indicated that she might as well forget the whole idea.

She smiled. She was determined to stay civil and keep her dignity. “Thank you. It’s important I talk to as many different kinds of women as possible to get a balanced impression.”

“And you think you can accomplish that in two weeks?”

She shrugged. “I’ve done extensive research.”

“I see,” he said in a tone that indicated he doubted it very much.

She pretended not to notice his animosity. The best defense was no defense at all.

They sat in silence, and she watched the people around her.

“Nick told me you were born in Kenya, that you grew up here,” she said after a while, making another effort at civilized conversation, “and that the ranch has been in your family since your grandfather came to Kenya from England in the early twenties.”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to…pry. I’m just trying to make conversation.” She smiled again, but it was taking quite an effort.

“Naturally.” He radiated cold dislike.

It was amazing. What was the matter with this man? She hadn’t asked anything that wasn’t printed in the article. She leaned back in her chair and decided to get away from the personal.

“It’s wonderful to be here. I’m looking forward to the party tonight, meeting people.”

She was quite comfortable with her own company, but now and again she enjoyed parties and other get-togethers where she had the opportunity to meet interesting people, learn new things.

He did not respond, but then of course she had not asked a question; she’d merely made a comment, and he certainly didn’t seem inclined to make an effort to keep the conversation going. Perhaps, living alone, he had forgotten how to talk and be sociable.

“Living in such an isolated place must get lonely at times,” she commented. “What do you do for entertainment?”

“Entertainment is not high on my list of priorities. I have a ranch to run.”

And certainly he had no time for anything as frivolous as entertainment, came the automatic thought. “Yes, of course,” she said evenly, “but a person can’t always work. A modest dose of fun now and then is good for the soul.”

He took a swallow of beer and said nothing.

“If you have one,” she added, unable to help herself.

He raised his brows in mild derision, still saying nothing and she was tempted to pour her drink over his handsome head but managed to contain herself.

“Do you?” she asked. “Have a soul?”

“I doubt it,” he said, and there was the merest quiver of his mouth, but she might have imagined it. She wondered what made him smile, laugh. What made him happy.

“What do you enjoy most about your work? What is it that gives you pleasure?”

He raised his brows. “You certainly seem to be preoccupied with fun and joy and pleasure,” he said, his voice sounding as if these were unsavory pastimes no moral person should get involved with.

“Not to mention happiness,” she added, smiling sweetly. “I enjoy my work, I enjoy my friends. I like being happy, and if I may be so blunt, there seems to be a great lack of all that in your disposition.” She came to her feet. “Excuse me, I think my hair needs combing.”

Rand watched her go. Lovely legs, sexy body. She was beautiful, with her blond hair and green eyes and that gorgeous sunny smile. An empty-headed party girl, no doubt. His stomach clenched painfully.

Blond hair and green eyes.

An image floated through his mind, the face of another woman, smiling. The scent of violets. He thought of the twelve-year-old boy lying in bed, trying desperately not to cry because men don’t cry. He thought of promises made and never kept. He squashed the memories forcefully, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to think of her. It was all in the past, done, over with.

Instead, he thought of Melanie, the way he remembered her, long ago, looking at Nick, hopelessly in love. Her happy face, the love in her eyes. So young and naive, so blind.

There was no denying that Nick had been a true friend to him in his college years in the States. There was also no denying that Nick had been an irrepressible skirt chaser, breaking hearts left, right and center. Rand sighed and rubbed his forehead.

He had warned Melanie, but she had not heeded that warning. Instead of running the other way, she had married him. And now here was Nick, far away from home, with this woman, his niece.

Shanna was in her hotel room, which adjoined Nick’s, and plopped herself down on the big, comfortable bed. It was a gorgeous room, nicely furnished with rattan furniture with cushions upholstered in some bright, tropical fabric, and interesting batik art on the wall.

She stretched out on the bed and let out a deep sigh. She had almost lost her temper with Mr. Rand Caldwell, but not quite.

After she’d returned from the ladies’ room, she’d found Nick back at the table and soon after that they’d left to go back to their hotel, and Rand to the house of friends where he was staying.

His supercilious manner was infuriating, not to mention offensive. For some incomprehensible reason, he did not like her. Or was she just imagining it? Was she paranoid? Certainly not. She’d never been paranoid, so why now? Surely it was not a virus one caught on a plane or from drinking alien water.

She yawned, feeling exhausted. She glanced at the bedside clock. She had two hours before they’d have to leave for the party, enough time for a nap. And tomorrow the Great Adventure would begin in earnest.

A thought suddenly occurred to her. Giving a frustrated groan, she slipped off the bed, opened one of the dresser drawers and took out a thick, padded envelope. It was too big to fit in the small safe in her room and she’d intended to put it in the hotel’s safe but it had been too late last night. And this morning she’d forgotten to take care of it in her eagerness to start exploring the city.

Slipping back into her shoes, she grabbed her purse and key card and left the room. She stood in the elevator and hugged the envelope to her chest, smiling to herself. She would take no risks. The originals were in her safe-deposit box at her bank in Boston and she’d brought a photo copy as well as a copy on disk to use with her laptop.

Oh, Dad, she said silently, I’ll get it done! I’ll make you proud! Her eyes blurred suddenly and she swallowed hard. She was going to do what she had planned for some time now, and she was going to do it right here in Kenya. Pressing the envelope even tighter against her, she blinked back her tears, feeling an odd mixture of both sadness and joy.

Nick would not be happy when she told him she intended to stay in the country on her own. He felt protective of her, which was nice, but she was twenty-seven and she knew what she wanted and he and Melanie did not need to worry about her anymore. She was going to be fine.

The elevator door opened and she stepped into the massive lobby with its potted palms and crystal chandeliers and exotic artwork. All very comfortable, very luxurious. Tomorrow she would be out driving in the country, see the lush green hills planted with tea and coffee, the flat bush, the tall giraffes, the leaping gazelles. Excitement tickled her blood and she could hardly wait.

After the envelope had been safely tucked away, she went straight back to her room, stripped off her clothes and took a quick shower in the sumptuous bathroom. Draped in a cotton robe provided by the hotel, she collapsed on the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

It was not a restful slumber. She dreamed that she was back in Kanguli and the house was gone. All the huts were empty and there were no people. She called out for her father but he did not come, and then Rand appeared out of nowhere and stood there looking at her with his cold eyes, saying nothing. It was so awful that she could not stand it and broke into tears. Don’t look at me like that! she sobbed. Why are you looking at me like that? But he merely lifted a sardonic brow and gave no answer. I want to know where my father is! she cried. I have to tell him something!

Your father is dead, he said, and you can’t stay here. You have no business being here. And then there was the sound of drums coming from the village and suddenly she was awake.

It wasn’t the sound of drums she’d heard, she realized, but Nick knocking on the door connecting their two rooms.

“Shanna? Are you awake?”

Shivering, she hugged herself. “Yes, yes, I am.” She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. She had forty minutes. “I’ll get ready.”

She dressed in a simple silk dress of deep cobalt blue. It was slim-fitting and discreetly sexy. As she examined herself in the mirror, the image of Rand flitted through her head and a small shiver of apprehension ran down her back. She shook it away impatiently.

With more vigor than necessary, she brushed out her hair. She was not going to let the man ruin her good time. She intended to enjoy the evening. If he did not like her, it was his problem, not hers.

She left her hair loose, put in long earrings, and stepped into high heels. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and grinned at her reflection in the mirror. “Go for it, girl,” she said out loud, and knocked on the connecting door.

Nick was ready to go.

“Stunning,” he said and grinned at her.

“Thank you, suh,” she drawled and smiled back at him. Secretly she had to admit to herself that she was glad she didn’t have to face Rand by herself.

The man in question looked devastatingly handsome in his dark trousers and white jacket and her heart skittered crazily when she saw him enter the hotel lobby just as she and Nick emerged from the elevator. She willed herself to be calm, putting a little zip in her step as they crossed the lobby to meet him. She offered him a sunny smile which found no answer in his implacable face.

His frosty-blue gaze slipped over her from head to toe and he gave a tight little nod in greeting. “Ready?” he asked.

They left the lobby to find his car. It was a dusty Land Rover, a rugged vehicle that looked as if it was not used to an easy life.

“I apologize for the inferior transportation,” Rand said, sounding like he didn’t give a hoot.

She smiled brightly. “No problem.” She wondered if she’d manage to get a smile from him tonight. His face looked like he didn’t do a lot of smiling. How could you not smile owning your own piece of paradise in this gorgeous country?

Like a gentleman, he held the door open for her and she slipped in the passenger seat in front. Whatever his attitude, his manners were all there, which was reassuring. Nick got into the back. The interior looked clean enough apart from the dried-up reddish dirt on the floor where muddy boots had tracked it in.

The party was held at a large, beautiful house at the outskirts of Nairobi, the private home of Lynn and Charlie Comstock, people on the faculty of the university that had invited Nick to do his lectures.

Lynn Comstock was an interesting person of mixed Italian and English descent who had lived all her life in Kenya. She had very dark hair, dancing silvery-gray eyes and a lively face. She asked about Shanna’s work, and after several questions turned suddenly around, surveyed the guests and waved Rand over.

“Rand! Shanna’s been telling me about an article she’s writing about…”

“I know,” he said. “She told me.”

“You must invite her to your place, let her talk to Wambui! She’s perfect! And that old Pokot woman, now there’s a character for you!”

“I already asked,” Shanna said. “Rand does not think it will be useful for me to talk to anyone there.”

Lynn gave him an exasperated look. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rand!”

He gave her a steely look. “Excuse me, please,” he said politely, and strode away. Lynn rolled her eyes and turned away. “The man is impossible,” she said to Shanna. “He’s taking after his father more and more. Practically lives like a recluse, or at least that’s what it seems like. I can’t believe he made it to the party.”

“Does he have something against women?”

Lynn laughed. “He just doesn’t want them too close. Very standoffish.” She took a sip of her wine.

“So I’ve noticed,” said Shanna. Maybe it wasn’t just her, then. “I just met him this afternoon and he acted as if I’d crawled out of some primordial swamp.”

Lynn put her glass down. “He’s usually civil enough, in his own inimitable enigmatic fashion. But I find it amazing how the women go for that remote composure of his. They seem to find it intriguing.”

“But you don’t?”

Lynn laughed. “Hades, no. It annoys me no end. I like my men to be up front. I like to know what I’m dealing with. Well, more or less.” She grinned. “You’ve met my Charlie?”

Shanna had. Charlie was hard to miss with his red beard and exuberant personality. At this moment he was playing the piano and singing Irish drinking songs.

“Women are always after Rand,” said Lynn. “Slavering practically. Well, he is one handsome hunk, as they say in America, and having that fancy ranch and all that money doesn’t hurt either.”

Shanna could well imagine.

Lynn gave a crooked grin. “The naive idiots. They all think they’re the one who’ll break through his reserve and discover the passion underneath, but so far I don’t believe anyone ever has, not even Marina.” She took a fresh drink from a tray passed around by a handsome African waiter in pristine white. “Frankly, I don’t think there is any passion. I’m beginning to think he’s as unfeeling on the inside as on the outside and that he prefers the company of animals over humans.”

“Who’s Marina?” Shanna couldn’t help herself.

Lynn glanced at Shanna. “She lived with him for over a year. She’s a painter, Australian. One day she’d had enough, packed up and left. She stayed with us for a while. She said she’d had enough of living with someone who kept her at an emotional distance all the time.” Lynn sighed. “It was sad, really, because I think Marina really loved him.” She glanced at her wineglass. “Oh, I never learn,” she moaned. “Shoot me, please.”

“Learn what?” asked Shanna.

“To keep my mouth shut. Two glasses of wine and I lose all my discretion. All I do is talk and spout out whatever comes to mind.” She gave Shanna a pleading look. “I don’t mean to be such a gossip, really. I had no business telling you this, although everyone knows anyway, but…” She shrugged, making a face. “Sorry.”

The party went on. Shanna was standing with a small group of women, talking, when she noticed Rand nearby. He was observing something intently and the expression on his face made her breath catch in her throat. She stared at him, taking in the faint smile that softened his features, the eyes warm with amusement. Her heart made a leap that almost hurt.

She tore her gaze away and glanced in the direction he was looking and felt her own face warming with a smile. The object of his tender gaze was a little Indian girl, four or five years old, dressed up in a tiny party sari, a bright, shimmering affair shot with gold. Kohl circled her large eyes, blusher faintly colored her cheeks and lipstick brightened her lips. She looked like a delicate costume doll, perfect, beautiful—except for the expression in her dark eyes, which were full of very unladylike mischief.

Shanna had no idea why the little girl was at a grown-up party, but there she was, pretty as an exotic butterfly, fluttering among the adults, cooking up something naughty.

Shanna looked back at Rand, feeling a softening inside her, a strange, ephemeral feeling of elation. And then he met her eyes and his face hardened and all the amusement and warmth vanished from his eyes.

Her stomach lurched and she clenched her hands around her glass and turned away, giving her attention again to the Kenyan woman by her side, a doctor working in a maternity clinic.

Sometime later she found Nick standing next to her. “You’re not working, by any chance, are you?” he whispered in her ear.

She laughed and hooked her arm through his. “I’m just talking, enjoying myself.”

He grinned down at her. “You don’t fool me.”

“Women everywhere like talking about their lives, Nick. All I do is listen.” She laughed and then her eyes caught Rand’s cold gaze directed at her and her laughter froze. She let go of Nick’s arm and took a drink from her glass.

“My, that Rand is a cold one,” she said to Nick, and she saw him frown.

“He never was one of the world’s great extroverts, but I have to admit I seem to remember him as more congenial.” Nick shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I saw him last.” He studied her with a sudden gleam in his eyes. “Why don’t you warm him up a little, Shanna? You’re good at loosening people up. Give him some of that irresistible charm of yours.”

She grimaced. “I tried. He’s immune.”

“He keeps looking at you, I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, really? You must be imagining it,” she said lightly. But he hadn’t, and she knew it.

She was standing at the buffet table surveying the food when Rand appeared next to her.

“You’re quite the party girl, aren’t you?” he asked, an unmistakable hint of mockery in his voice.

For a moment she just stared at him. Since when was it a sin to be gregarious and happy, to enjoy being with people? Since when did that make you automatically a shallow or frivolous person? Well, apparently in his mind it did.

She resisted the urge to say something sharp in return. He wasn’t going to goad her, she was determined. Instead, she gave him a cheery smile.

“I’m enjoying myself. That’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t something wrong with having fun, is there?”

His mouth twisted and he reached for some of the food and placed it on his plate without answering her.

She tilted her head and made a show of observing him. “You don’t look like you’re having any fun. You ought to work on it a little, you know. Live dangerously. Smile a little. You might just like it.” She couldn’t help taunting him; his arrogant attitude was bringing out the worst in her.

He gave her a stony stare. “I didn’t come here to have fun.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, pseudo-sympathetic. “So, why are you here, then?”

“Business.”

“Oh, I see. Is that why you look so grim? Business is not fun? You don’t enjoy your work?”

There was a silence as he observed her with wintry eyes. “Not everything in life is fun. But if fun is what drives you, let me assure you that I have none to offer you.”

Shanna had had little experience being treated with disdain. Hot indignation welled up inside her. The man was offensive, insufferable and infuriating. It was tempting to tell him so, but presenting him with her opinion of him would only give him satisfaction, she was sure. She managed, with admirable control, to keep her cool and not show him the anger heating her blood. Instead, she nodded solemnly at his statement.

“I figured that one out all by myself,” she said calmly. “You’re no fun at all.” She sighed theatrically, she couldn’t help herself. “I’m afraid you’re a lost cause.”

“Oh,” he said lazily, “perhaps it depends on whose cause. Not all men are fooled by beauty and charm.”

His meaning was clear. She had beauty and charm, but he wasn’t fooled by her. The man was an ego maniac. Her stunned mind grasped wildly for an apt reply, failing miserably.

Rand picked up his plate, offering her a contemptuous look. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

He strode off, leaving her speechless and seething.

CHAPTER TWO

THREE days later, sitting on a rock in the bush, peering through her binoculars, Shanna was still seething.

She’d been trying very hard not to think about Rand Caldwell. It was not easy. Fortunately, baboons proved a great distraction, infinitely more amusing than the hermit man with the cold eyes. She focused the binoculars on the cliffs in the near distance, zeroing in on a tiny baby baboon clinging to its mother’s back, holding on for dear life as she leaped around with the rest of the troop, foraging for food. They were yanking out grasses, digging up roots, peeling fruits. Shanna could not believe she was here, by the cliffs near Kanguli, watching the baboons, as if she had never left.

She had found the village with its thatch-roofed mud huts, found the old house where she’d lived for four years, a dilapidated colonial settlers’ house abandoned by its English owners at Independence decades before. She’d seen a line of washing—jeans and T-shirts and brightly colored Jockey undershorts with some intriguing designs. A man lived in the house now, a male with a sense of humor, a Peace Corps or VSO volunteer probably, but no one had been at home yesterday, or today.

And she’d found the baboons. She did not recognize any of the animals, but of course she would not. Too much time had passed. The old ones had died, young ones grown up and new ones born. Also, it might not be the same troop. She ached to come closer, but she knew well enough it was out of the question. They did not know her and it was dangerous.

She was so entranced in watching the baboons’ activities, that the sound of a car engine startled her. A Land Rover came bumping over the uneven terrain toward the rocks where she was sitting. She trained the binoculars on the dirt-covered vehicle and saw Rand behind the steering wheel. Her heart turned over and she lowered the binoculars in her lap.

Rand? What was he doing here?

If fun is what drives you, may I assure you that I have none to offer you. His words flashed through her mind, the outrageous insinuation flooding her with new indignation. Her stomach clenched. Why was he here now, disturbing her peace? Sucking in a fortifying breath, she braced herself.

The vehicle came to a stop and Rand leaped out. He wore khaki shorts, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a battered bush hat. He came toward her with a long-legged stride and as she watched him, her anger whooshed away and all she could do was sit there and look at him, feeling…

She didn’t know what she was feeling.

She couldn’t help but notice how much he seemed to fit in the rugged landscape—the strength of his body, his hard, powerful features and the sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He was all male and the sense of it stirred the female inside her. There seemed to be nothing she could do about it. Her mouth went dry and she felt a sense of very elemental attraction, a primitive delight in the male beauty of the man coming toward her.

She sat motionless as she watched him approach, aware of nothing but him and the racing of her heart, as if everything else between them had fallen away, had never happened.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and it came out in a whisper.

“I was looking for you,” he said, his voice oddly low, as if it was hard to speak.

I was looking for you.

A simple sentence, yet it seemed imbued with meaning and it filled her head with light.

Sudden wild screams blew in on the wind and the fragile spell shattered, bringing back reality with shocking sharpness. Dragging in air, Shanna whipped her head toward the cliffs and automatically brought the binoculars to her eyes. Her hands were trembling.

One of the male baboons was romancing a female, who was not in the mood and shrieked at him. The male scampered off.

“What was that?” Rand asked, peering into the distance.

She lowered the binoculars and took in another fortifying breath. “A female chasing off a male.” The humor hit her as she heard herself say the words and she couldn’t help smiling.

His expression gave nothing away. He looped his thumbs behind his belt. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice businesslike.

It was as if those magical moments had never happened.

Maybe they had not. Maybe the odd awareness, the strange sensation of recognition had only occurred in her imagination, like a dream. Like a fleeting reflection in crystalline water.

She saw him watching her as she sat there in the grass behind the rocks, her shorts and T-shirt dusty and wrinkled. She’d been here for hours.

“I’ve been watching the baboons,” she said.

His brows shot up, his look incredulous. She could well imagine his surprise. The little scene he was witnessing did not fit the image he had of her—a femme fatale dressed in a sexy dress who used her beauty and charm to seduce men in wicked ways. Here she was sitting in the bush, wearing hiking boots, her hair a tangled mess, watching monkeys.

She gave a half smile. “I like baboons. They’re very smart, very human in many ways.”

He studied her for a moment, not commenting. “Nick told me you used to live here with your parents.”

“Yes, I did. We moved here when I was eleven and we were here for four years. My mother was a teacher and she home-schooled me. I spent hours watching baboons.” She’d pretended to be a scientist, like her father, writing her observations in a notebook. Drawing pictures. When she’d learned to recognize the individual animals, distinguish one from the other, she’d give them names—Snoopy, Frisky, Dreamer.

He looked meaningfully at her binoculars. “With the limited time you have at your disposal, I’d have expected you to be working on your writing, not watching baboons.”

She felt her hackles rise at his insinuated criticism. She came to her feet, pulled her T-shirt straight and dusted off her shorts. “I spent all day yesterday talking to the women in the village,” she said levelly.

They remembered her, of course, the girl with hair the color of maize, and it had been wonderful to see the recognition dawn in their dark eyes, see their smiles, hear their laughter. Suddenly she no longer was a stranger. So they’d sat and talked as they drank many glasses of hot, sweet chai—milky, sugary tea. They’d told her of deaths and weddings and births. The girls she had known as a child all had husbands, all had children. They’d wanted to know why she was not yet married, did not have babies.

It had been difficult to explain, so far away from the context of her life at home. Yes, she’d been in love, had wanted to be married, but how did you explain that the man you loved did not want to have children? That you had hoped over the years that he would change his mind, and that he had not? That eventually the distance between you had grown and you knew that the only way out for both of you was to break off the relationship.

Shanna still thought of Tom at times, although it had been three years since she had seen him last. They had parted friends, yet the breakup had been terribly painful. Still, now, years later, Shanna knew she had made the right decision. All she had to do was think of Sammy and know.

She did not tell the village women any of this. They would never believe her. A man who wanted no children? They would not believe such a person could exist.

“I haven’t found the right man,” she’d said, which was the truth. And yes, of course, she wanted a husband. Of course she wanted children. And of course at twenty-seven she was very, very old… She smiled now at the memory.

“I expect you used to live in the house?” Rand asked, gesturing at the village behind him.

She nodded. “Yes. No water, no electricity. Huge fire-places. I loved it.”

“Are you staying with Bengt?”

“Bengt? No. Is he the one who lives in the house now?”

“Yes. He’s a Swedish volunteer.”

“I haven’t met him yet. I’m staying at the Rhino Lodge, in Nyahururu.” It was a small hotel in a nearby town, not fancy, but clean and comfortable, and it served her purposes fine.

“Not exactly the Hilton.”

His superior attitude irked her, the presumption that coping in anything less than a five-star hotel was not among her talents.

She gritted her teeth. “No, it isn’t, but it’s perfectly adequate. And what business is it of yours where I stay, may I ask?”

He shrugged. “Just making conversation,” he said casually.

Conversation my foot, she thought. “Why are you here?” she demanded, feeling her control slip a notch. She raked her hair away from her face. “Haven’t you got something better to do? Herd some cattle, hunt some wounded buffalo?”

“Yes, indeed.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and considered her coolly. “I’ve considered your request. You can come to the ranch and talk to the workers.”

She stared at him, too surprised to think of something intelligent to say.

“We have an interesting tribal mix,” he went on, “in case you’re looking for variety—Pokot, Luo, Meru, Turkana.”

“You didn’t think it would be useful.” Suspicion colored her voice.

He shrugged again. “I changed my mind.”

He’d changed his mind, just like that. She wasn’t stupid, but looking at his face, she knew that Mr. Rand Caldwell wasn’t going to elaborate and that asking would be futile.

He glanced at his watch. “Nick rang this morning and asked me to send you a message. He said something came up and he won’t be able to make that trip to Mombasa with you this weekend. He said you were planning to drive back to Nairobi on Friday.”

She pushed her hair away from her face. “That’s what the plan was. It doesn’t matter. Maybe we can go next week.”

His face tightened. “You can come to the ranch. You might find the accommodations more comfortable.”

She studied his hard, unsmiling face. “Are you inviting me to stay with you?”

“Yes,” he said brusquely.

Something was wrong. Something was going on and she had absolutely no idea what it was. The man did not like her, yet he was asking her to be his guest. He thought what she was doing was ludicrous, yet now he was helping her.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. It sure wasn’t because he was interested in her work.

His face was expressionless, but something flickered briefly in his eyes. “Nick is concerned about you,” he said flatly.

She knew he was. Had he asked Rand to take her in? She did not cherish that thought, as if she were some poor lonely waif who needed looking after.

Still, she had the uncanny feeling that that was not the only reason behind Rand’s invitation. She stared at him and bit her lip, wondering. No matter what his motivation was, the invitation was interesting.

Here was an opportunity to enter the den of the lion so to speak, and find out more about Rand Caldwell.

Find out more about him? Now why was she thinking that? Why would she even want to find out more about him?

Because the man intrigued her. She wanted to know what lay behind that cold, hostile front. An image flashed through her mind. Rand’s smiling face as he looked at the little Indian girl dressed up in her party sari.

There was more to him than met the eye.

She straightened and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I’d love to stay at your ranch if it will make Nick feel better, and I’m happy to have the opportunity to talk to the women.” She smiled politely. “I appreciate your offer.”

Again the slight narrowing of his eyes, the flicker of wariness, as if he didn’t trust her. What had she done to illicit this negativity from him?

“When would be a good time for me to come?” she asked.

“Anytime.” He gave her directions in short, clipped sentences. “I won’t be back at the house until tea time, but they’ll know to expect you.”

“Thank you.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, his eyes unreadable, then he turned without a word and marched across the uneven ground toward his Land Rover. She watched him go, feeling an odd mixture of excitement and trepidation.

The road passed through small villages, patches of green forest and cultivated shambas. Women worked in the maize fields and herds of goats and cattle roamed the land. Shanna drove with the car windows open, wanting to feel the air on her skin, smell the sun-warmed land. She’d be covered in red dust by the time she arrived at the ranch, but she didn’t care.

Why had Rand invited her? A man who was said to live almost like a recluse. Just because of Nick? Maybe going to this isolated ranch was not such a bright idea. After all, he had made it quite clear that he was not positively inclined toward her. It was not difficult to call up the image of his arctic eyes, his hard face. Even in the heat of the afternoon it made her shiver.

She kept on driving. The wind had freed a strand of hair. It was whipping annoyingly around her face and she tucked it behind her ear. Well, what was life without taking risks?

Finally, she saw the gate, and the huge sign reading Caldwell Ranching Co. The askari guarding the gate looked impressive—a tall, muscular man, wearing a uniform and carrying a gun.

“Jambo,” she greeted him and he gave her a friendly grin, returning the greeting. The bwana was expecting her, he informed her.

It was many miles yet to the house and she looked around carefully, aware now that she was on Caldwell land, a piece of private Africa with rolling hills and virgin forests, gorges and plains.

With increasing excitement she took in everything—the colors of the land, the herd of swift-footed Thompson gazelles, a giraffe in the distance, feeding off a tree. At night, lions hunted here and hyenas skulked around looking for leftovers.

As she reached the gorge, a deep rocky crevice, she saw the house, perched on the edge and for a moment she held her breath. It was built of rough stone and wood and other natural materials. It had a thatch roof and seemed to be part of its rugged surroundings—unpretentious yet magnificent. It was the most wonderful living place she had ever seen and she slowly expelled her breath. A lush, flourishing flower garden sprawled in front of the house, greeting her with a blaze of color.

Paradise. The thought came automatically, and it made her smile. Certainly she should be safe in Paradise.

She stopped the car and dogs came leaping out of nowhere, barking, wagging tails. There were three of them, and she considered them carefully for a moment. They were excited but friendly, she decided, and opened the car door. A tall, dignified African dressed in white emerged from the house, silenced the dogs and greeted her with a smile. His name was Kamau and he had been expecting her.

She was shown to an airy room with a view of the mountains. It was simply furnished and had a brightly colored bedspread and a soft, white sheepskin rug on the polished wooden floor. A small desk stood against one wall, obviously put there for her use. A bowl of fresh flowers adorned the dressing table; not a welcoming gesture initiated by Rand, she was sure.

Her luggage was brought in from the car, and after Kamau had left, she took off her hiking boots and socks and sat on the bed, contemplating her next course of action.

A sound made her turn around and Rand was standing in the door, which she had left open. Her heart made a silly little leap. He looked dusty and tired and she could already see the dark shadow of his beard.

“You have arrived,” he stated.

“Yes. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” She glanced at the spectacular view and she couldn’t help smiling and feeling warmth and joy spread through her at the sight of all that beauty. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He nodded, and his gaze left her face and traveled to the pile of suitcases and bags in the middle of the room.

“That’s rather a lot of luggage for two weeks,” he commented mildly.

She laughed. “I wanted to be sure to be covered for all eventualities.” That was one explanation. The other one was that she wasn’t staying for two weeks.

He arched one dark brow. “How many eventualities were you expecting?”

She grinned. “I’m very adventurous. Lots, I hope.”

The hard line of his jaw was indication that he didn’t think much of her reply. She felt herself begin to tense.

“Tea on the veranda in half an hour,” he announced. “Through the arched door at the end of the passage,” he added, and turned away.

Half an hour. Enough time for a quick shower and some clean clothes.

She had her own bathroom, spacious and charming with a rustic stone floor and gleaming white fixtures. More fresh flowers on a small rattan table, along with a basket of small soaps and other toiletries. Somebody here knew how to make a guest feel comfortable. She showered, washed her hair and dried it with her blow-dryer.

What to wear? Shorts? Long slacks? A dress? She picked out a long slim cotton skirt and a white, sleeveless top that exposed nothing below her collar bones. Very demure, she thought and she looked at herself in the mirror and grinned. A little fresh makeup and she was ready.

Rand was already on the veranda when she arrived, one of the dogs asleep next to his chair. A man in shorts and work shoes sat across from him and was introduced to her as Patrick Collins, the ranch manager. He was about thirty, she guessed, with sandy hair and brown eyes in a tanned face. “Shanna Moore,” Rand introduced her. “She’s doing research for a university journal in the States.”

Patrick was interested and asked questions. “Come meet Rosemary,” he said, “she’ll help you find the right people to talk to.” Rosemary, he said, was his wife. They lived in a bungalow next to the ranch office just outside the workers’ village, which was four miles away. Rosemary knew everybody and would love to have her visit.

A teapot, cups and saucers, sugar and milk were set out on a low table. There was a plate of small sandwiches—cucumber and tomato. Very English. And peanut butter cookies, very American.

“These are good,” Shanna said, chewing the nutty cookies. “Taste like the ones my mother used to make. Fannie Farmer’s cookbook.”

Rand’s face tightened almost imperceptibly—she had not imagined it. She stared at him, wondering what it was she had said. He took a sandwich and ate it, not looking at her, and began a conversation with Patrick about the cattle dipping the next day and other ranch business matters. His left arm dangled over the armrest of his chair, his hand absently stroking the comatose dog by his side.

She couldn’t help looking at his hand, the gentle stroking of his strong fingers.

She listened to the men talk, drinking the strong tea and eating the sandwiches and cookies. It didn’t escape her that Rand did not take any of the cookies. Well, maybe he didn’t have a sweet tooth.

After the men left to take care of some more business, Shanna decided to get her notes for her article and work on the veranda for a while. Large open doors led into the sitting room and she looked around with fascination at the cheerfully decorated room—bright-colored paintings on the wall, Arab carpets on the polished floors. No ceiling, but the wooden beams and thatch of the conical roof were visible high overhead, the design a work of art in itself. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall. The large cane rattan furniture with its thick cushions looked wonderfully comfortable, and a wall of shelves held books and African carvings. Blooming branches of pink and purple bougainvillea were arranged in a large glass jug which perched on a big round wooden coffee table.

This was not a house with cool elegance or showy opulence, but a living place with natural charm and a casual richness of comfort and color. She resisted the urge to linger and examine the artwork and books, feeling a bit indiscreet about it.

Having collected her work from her room, she returned to the veranda, finding Kamau, clearing away the tea things.

“The cookies were delicious,” she said in Swahili. “Did you make them?”

He nodded politely. “Yes, memsab. I always bake them for visitors.” He took the tray and left.

Shanna stared after him. Had there been a touch of sadness in his dark eyes, or had she just imagined it?

“I read that there’s a lot of wildlife on the ranch,” she said. “Doesn’t it interfere with the herds?” She’d seen the humpbacked Borana cattle this afternoon on her way to the house.

She and Rand were having dinner in the dining room and Shanna was trying to keep a conversation going, which was proving quite a challenge.

“Not generally, but sometimes.” On occasion a lion would become a problem, killing lambs or calves, and would have to be shot, he told her. He spoke in short, clipped sentences.

“What about poaching? We hear a lot about that these days.”

“Not on my ranch. We have a security system with guards who patrol the property boundaries. We haven’t had a problem for years.”

It was an awkward, stilted conversation. Not a real conversation at all. She was asking questions and he gave answers in an automatic fashion, as if they had rehearsed the lines from a script.

She looked down at her plate of beef in a wild mushroom wine sauce. “This is delicious. Did Kamau cook this?”

“Yes.”

“Who taught him how to cook?”

He drained the last of his wine. “My mother,” he said curtly. He reached for the wine bottle. “More wine?”

She nodded. “Please.”

Nick had told her that Rand had lost his mother when he was a boy. The cook must have started work in the ranch kitchen as a young man. Rand’s father had died five years ago, she knew.

From his responses, it was obvious that Rand had no desire to discuss anything remotely personal. She had, however, found out he had grown up an only child and had learned hunting and fishing from his father, had studied in both the U.K. and the States, and had returned to take over the running of the ranch.

“Was it lonely, growing up here?” she asked.

He raised his brows as if the question had never occurred to him. “No.”

“Where did you go to school as a child?”

“In Gilgil and Nakuru, boarding schools.”

He was not generous with information and seemed intent on keeping a careful distance, which did not make for a relaxing atmosphere. Standoffish, Lynn had called him. Well, he was. She found his reserve unnerving and it took an effort to be her cheerful, friendly self. He was excruciatingly polite and it was obvious that she was far from a treasured guest. She was relieved when the meal was over. Rand pushed his chair back and came to his feet.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do in my study.”

“Of course.” She stood up as well and he held open the door for her.

“Wait,” he said as she moved past him. She stopped, surprised, saw him looking at her left shoulder.

“Your…earring…” he said, and she automatically felt her left ear and found the ring gone. Somehow it must have worked itself loose.

“It’s caught in your hair,” he said, reaching for it, as she reached for it.

They both froze, their hands gripped together in her hair. Their eyes met and all she could feel was his big hand, his fingers tangled with hers, the warmth of them. The sudden crazy pounding of her heart.

For a moment that seemed like an eternity they simply stood there looking at each other, not breathing. Then they both let go at the same time and the earring slipped lose from her hair and fell to the wooden floor where it bounced harmlessly under a chair. He rescued it from its hiding place and handed it to her, dropping it into her palm without touching her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it.”

And then she moved past him into the hall and went into her bedroom while he continued to his study.

She sat down on the side of the bed and let out her breath slowly, realizing her body was all tensed up. She unclenched her hands, rubbed her forehead.

This was too nerve-racking for words. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here. Maybe she should have stayed in the hotel in Nyahururu.

No, said a little voice, you were curious about Rand Caldwell.

Impatient with her own thoughts, she came to her feet and picked up the big, padded envelope she’d put on the desk when she’d unpacked her luggage. She opened it and slid out several notebooks and a sheaf of manuscript papers.

Her father’s personal journals. Four years of observations, thoughts, notes, and anecdotes, written while living in Kanguli. Like the man he had been, his handwriting was simple and clear and easy to read.

Using the journals, her father had started writing a book for publication. It had only been half-finished when he and her mother had died tragically when a drunken driver had careened into their car at high speed.

It had taken her a long time to gather the courage to read the journals, and once she had, a floodgate of emotion had been opened inside her. He had written about people and animals, about loving and living African-style. The stories were touching or humorous. She had wept and laughed. She had known then, that the book could not go unfinished. Other people would be entertained and inspired by her father’s work. It deserved to be shared.

Like the scientist he was, her father had made a detailed outline and plan for the book. She had studied the finished section, discovering that the material was in essence taken straight from the journals, organized and rearranged in a new format.

She had sat at her desk, her hands trembling, her heart pounding. I can do it, she’d thought, and the words had echoed in her head for days like a secret mantra. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

Her love of writing, of expressing her thoughts and feelings on paper, she had inherited from him. She was her father’s daughter and she’d felt the swelling of joy and pride inside her.

I can do it.

She could do it. She was, in fact, uniquely qualified to do it.

And so the planning had begun. She had found a publisher who was interested in the project—in actual fact, she’d found two. She’d made a choice, signed a contract and received an advance large enough to make her stay here possible, backed up with the money from her parents’ life insurance policy.

Shanna looked down on the papers and smiled. And here she was, back in Kenya, where her father had begun the journals, and where she would finish the book. In the next few days she’d have to tell Nick that she had decided to stay and was not flying back with him to the States at the end of next week.

She did not want to go back to her apartment where so much reminded her of Sammy. It would be easier to deal with her feelings here, in another environment, doing something interesting. And certainly finishing the book here would be so much easier.

She settled at the desk and switched on her laptop computer. She studied the outline for chapter eight and found the journal entries assigned to it, absorbing the sounds coming from the bush outside through the open window.

Three hours later she came to her feet, stiff and tired, but feeling a great sense of accomplishment. Too keyed up to go to sleep, she quietly slipped out of her room, along the passage to the veranda.

The air was cool and the only light anywhere came from the stars and a half moon. The world was dark and full of sounds—mysterious, frightening. Below in the gorge animals were sleeping, or hunting. It was wild, secret and dangerous out there and she shivered a little.

From the house behind her came footsteps and Rand appeared next to her with a drink in his hand. Her heart made an awkward little leap as she looked at him in the pale moonlight and a thought floated through her mind. Rand was like the gorge below—wild and secret.

And dangerous.

She could sense it, yet not understand it. If he were a threat to her, then why?

It wasn’t physical, she knew that. It was a more subtle danger, more insidious, more devastating. He could hurt her.

She shivered again. What made her think like this?

“You’re up late,” he said evenly.

“I was working. Now I’m too excited to sleep.”

“Excited? Why?”

“I still can’t believe I’m really back here after all these years. In a way I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“To spoil my memories. I was afraid I would be disappointed.”

“And you’re not.”

“No, oh, no! Not in the least.”

A coughing sound came from somewhere in the darkness.

“Leopard,” said Rand, “down in the gorge.”

Leopard.

She hugged herself.

“Cold?” he inquired politely.

She shook her head. “No, just…I don’t know. Overwhelmed, I think. At home I’d hear cats meow or dogs bark. Now, here I am, listening to a leopard.”

They were silent for a while, standing there together listening to the mysterious darkness.

She glanced at his shadowed face. “Did you ever think of settling in the States or England when you were there?” she asked.

“No,” he said shortly. “This is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

She could well understand it. The place had a hypnotic atmosphere, a magnetic pull. “I imagine it’s too romantic a view, but it seems a wonderful kind of life here.”

He gave a short laugh that held no humor. “Romantic indeed. And naive. Not many people can take this kind of wonderful life for very long.” His voice held a note of disdain. “Most people need the excitement and stimulation of cities and people around them,” he said flatly. “You live in Boston, you must know.”

“Yes, but city life can get very stressful. I like to get away. I often do. I enjoy being with people, but I also like to be by myself.”

“Where do you go to be by yourself?”

“The beach, the woods, the park. I like to walk. It gives me a chance to hear myself think. I rather like my own company at times.”

There was a silence.

She glanced over at him. “Does that sound conceited? That’s not how I mean it.”

He raised his brows fractionally. “How do you mean it then?”

She frowned. “I think…” What she wanted to say was that she was comfortable with herself, with the person she was. She was not afraid of her own feelings or her own thoughts. She had no idea how she was going to say that without sounding over the top.

“You think what?” he urged.

She took a deep breath. Well, she had to finish what she had started. “I’m comfortable with myself,” she said. “I’m not afraid of my own thoughts and feelings.” She didn’t care what he thought.

“And what does that mean?”

She searched for words. It was a strange conversation to be having with him. “I’m quite aware I’m a flawed human being, but I try to live…honestly, to be aware of other people’s feelings and needs, and not to be too judgmental.” That sounded pretty good, but she had to admit that not being judgmental wasn’t easy where it concerned Mr. Caldwell.

“Judgmental?”

“It’s easy to criticize other people, but you can’t tell what’s in someone’s heart, and you don’t always know the reality of someone else’s life.”

“How very noble,” he said, and his voice was coldly mocking. “Is this little speech for my benefit? A less-than-subtle hint perchance?”

His voice chilled her to the bone. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play the innocent, will you?” He turned and strode back into the house.

Her astonishment overwhelmed even her anger. She had no idea what he had been hinting at. She stood motionless at the veranda railing, staring out into the darkness. Then anger took the upper hand. This was outrageous! This was going too far!

She stormed in after him. “Rand!” she called, and he stopped and turned, hands on his hips. Brows arched sardonically.

“Yes?”

She moved in front of him, heart racing, legs trembling. “I’d like to know what’s going on here!” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You don’t like me. First I assumed it was something general—your not liking women, or just simply having a rotten disposition, but now I know it’s more than that. I’m not given to paranoia, but I’m beginning to think that this is a rather personal thing and I’d like to know what you’ve got against me. You don’t even know me!”

“Oh, I know you,” he said frigidly. “I know your type.”

“My type?” It was getting more preposterous by the minute.

“Beautiful, selfish, and deceitful.”

She felt her mouth begin to drop open and she clamped her jaws shut just in time. The man was a lunatic! She took a steadying breath.

“If you feel this way, why in the world did you invite me to stay at your house?”

His mouth curved with faint contempt. “To keep you from going back to Nairobi. Nick told me that Melanie arrived unexpectedly, to surprise him.”

Melanie was in Nairobi? How was that possible? Nick had tried to persuade her to come along for a while, a week, even just a few days, but she’d not wanted to be away from the kids, not so far. And now she was here anyway? It had to be a mistake.

“Melanie?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, Melanie,” he bit out. “Nick’s wife. You do know he’s married?”

“Of course I know he’s married! What—”

“Well then, perhaps you’ll agree it would be more discreet to stay out of their way?” His icy gaze bored into hers. “Surely you’re not totally without scruples?”

CHAPTER THREE

RAND opened the door and marched out as if he could not tolerate being in her presence a moment longer.

Stunned, Shanna sagged into a chair and stared at the door. Suddenly it was all very clear—all the pieces fit. Rand thought she was having an affair with Nick. She was the woman Nick was fooling around with on the side and this trip to Kenya was a perfect opportunity to be together. His own wife was too busy with the children, wasn’t she? Shanna could hear Rand’s thoughts as if he were talking out loud.

It was so absurd that when the initial shock wore off, she could only laugh. It was too crazy for words.

He was seeing her as a femme fatale who’d trapped his poor friend in a web of sin. He did not approve of such immoral behavior. He had standards.

Well, having standards was good. She liked men who had standards. However, judging and condemning others was not such a good idea always. And certainly not when you weren’t in possession of all the facts.

For a while she sat in the chair without moving, going over it all again, and the humor faded. No one had ever thought so badly of her, not to her knowledge, and it wasn’t a good feeling. What had she done to make him judge her this way?

And then another thought occurred to her.

Why did Rand care? What was it to him who she was? He and Nick hadn’t seen each other in years. It was none of his business what Nick did with his private life.

She sighed wearily, feeling suddenly exhausted. Well, there had been enough upheavals for one day. Perhaps this mystery would be solved later. In the meantime, she was tired and she wanted to go to bed. Tomorrow she’d set the high-and-mighty Mr. Rand Caldwell straight, explain to him that he was quite mistaken in his diagnosis of the situation and that perhaps he should not jump to conclusions quite so quickly in the future.

She awoke to a glorious morning. The open window revealed a square of vivid blue sky decorated with a blooming branch of amethyst bougainvillea which swayed gently in the breeze—like a living painting. She lay still, absorbing the sounds coming from outside—chickens clucking, birds twittering in the bushes. What joy to wake up to such serenity every morning. She let out a languorous sigh.

A soft, tentative knock came on the door. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Rand. Tentative was not one of his behavioral characteristics.

“Come in,” she invited.

A young girl in a pink cotton dress came in with a tea tray. She smiled, her big eyes looking at Shanna with curiosity.

“Good morning, memsab,” she said in Swahili. “I have brought you your chai.” She placed the tray on the bedside table, picked up the small pot and poured the tea in the low, wide cup.

“Asante sana.” Shanna smiled back at the girl. She was sixteen or so, and very pretty. “What is your name?”

“Catherine. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, I will.”

The girl withdrew and closed the door behind her.

Shanna looked at the tea. It was very dark. She was used to drinking coffee in the morning, but this seemed to add a touch of authenticity. Tea for breakfast. Very English. She added milk and sugar and contentedly sipped the strong, sweet brew.

After she’d dressed, she found Rand in the kitchen talking to Kamau. Bush hat on his head, keys dangling from his hand, he was ready to leave. For some perverse reason she felt a twinge of disappointment.

Disappointment? What was wrong with her? Did she want to sit across from him while she ate her breakfast?

“Good morning,” she said, trying to sound light.

His cool gaze barely met hers. “Good morning,” he returned in a businesslike tone—a tone so impersonal it set her teeth on edge.

“We have to talk,” she said, bracing herself. Might as well get it out of the way.

“It will have to wait,” he said and strode out the door without giving her another look. A moment later she heard the car engine start and Mr. Rand Caldwell had departed for the day, she assumed. Well, good riddance.

She ate a solitary breakfast, prepared by the dignified Kamau, sitting on the dining room terrace. The air was crisp and effervescent like champagne. Feeling restless, she decided to go for a walk before settling down to work. Strolling through the garden, she reveled in the joyous color and fragrance of the flowers, the many blooming bushes and trees—frangipani, jasmine, bougainvillea. Who had designed and planned this gorgeous place?

She left the fenced-in garden, but stayed reasonably close to the house, not leaving the established paths, trying to get closer to the gorge. Below pools of water shimmered in the sunlight. Birdsong filled the air, and butterflies fluttered around the blooms. She sat down on a large bolder and surveyed her surroundings with her binoculars.

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