Beneath a Blazing Sun

by J. A. Clarke

Available now from LionHearted Publishing, Inc.

Excerpt

Chapter One

     "Damn, it's hot. I tell you Kat, this is Sheila's twisted idea of revenge for Italy last year. She decided to send us to Hell. She's --"
     "Oh, stop complaining, Ron! It's not that bad. Besides, you wanted to come." Kat Feldman was fast losing patience with her companion. She was tired, sweaty, dirty and in no mood for his whining. Another trickle of perspiration made its way down her damp side. She tugged again at the high mandarin collar of her neon pink blouse and vizualized a large, cold drink.
     The colder the better.
     Frozen would work.
     Then she could rub it all over her body. It crossed her mind that ice in this hotter-than-Hades place might not exist.
     "If he doesn't get here within the next thirty seconds, I swear I'll sue him. I'll make him wish he'd never heard of me. What does he think we're paying him for anyway?"
     Kat sighed and slid a tired glance at the tall man sprawled on the floor next to her. She decided the question was rhetorical. Ron was peeved and well on his way to becoming unreasonable. For the past half hour, he had alternated between trashing the judgement of Sheila, their boss, and building up a grudge against some poor jerk he hadn't even met yet.
     He sat with his back propped against a grimy wall; his belongings scattered in untidy disarray around him. His head was tipped back, his eyes half closed. The designer khakis he wore were crumpled and wilted and looked out of place--more like a poor attempt at a Halloween costume--on a lean, muscled body that filled a virgin wool suit to perfection. A full day's growth of dark beard covered the lower part of his face, obscuring the too-handsome features and lending him a piratical air. Sweat matted his curly hair and dripped off the tip of his perfect aquiline nose. Most days, Ron--with his successful, sophisticated, well-groomed appearance--could have stepped out of the pages of GQ.
     But not today. Today, he didn't look like anyone's idea of the consummate male cover model. He looked distinctly frazzled.
     Kat bit her lower lip and suppressed a hysterical urge to giggle. If only she had the energy, she'd try to find her camera. This picture would be outstanding blackmail material back at the offices of their decorating company, Designs and Dreams.
     Not that, in her present condition, she would take any prizes.
     This place was the pits. It had been pure torture getting here and her own bedraggled appearance testified to that. She could care less though after thirty-six long hours of grueling travel--of being bounced around in planes that rattled and groaned every time they hit an air pocket, of being stuck in a seat that refused to recline, of being forced to use a restroom that had become progressively grubbier and smellier, of delays and rescheduled flights.
     The last layover hadn't been her idea of fun either. The welcome committee had consisted of guards toting some wicked looking weapons and the pockmarked walls of the airport had attested to their use. Any thought of sightseeing during their four hours there had promptly died.
     At least there were no guards or guns in evidence here. She should be grateful.
     She followed her companion's example and leaned her head against the wall, too tired to care that it was less than clean. A fly buzzed with annoying persistence around her ear, and she felt its gossamer touch on her nose. Half-heartedly, she batted at it. She was entering a curious stage of apathy where all that mattered was the overwhelming desire to close her eyes and sink into oblivion.
     Exhaustion made her body ache. Every muscle screamed with the need to be horizontal on a soft surface in a cool room. Preferably back in the United States. So far, this so-called business trip with its thin veneer of a vacation was not at all what Sheila had promised. Quite the opposite, in fact. And as soon as she got some sleep and had cleaned the sludge from her brains, she intended to tell her boss so in no uncertain terms.
     Through a haze of fatigue-induced disorientation, she observed the scene around her. The lobby of the small airport was emptying out. Everyone on the small propeller plane that had delivered them here seemed to have been met or had made some other kind of arrangement.
     A few yards away, the British couple from the seats directly in front of them on the plane was having a heated discussion with the car rental clerk -- something about the vehicle he wanted to give them not being what they had reserved.
     Two Indian women swathed in colorful saris walked by laughing and chattering, oblivious to two people half lying on the floor. A bored airline official leaned on the ticket counter and stared into space. The area was bare of furniture--a contradiction to the welcome signs hanging on every wall--no doubt a discouragement to loiterers who also had one or two signs dedicated to them.
     A gust of air blew through the open doors. It brought with it another blast of heat and dust. The scent of livestock and the elusive, sweet perfume of some exotic bloom mixed with the unpleasant smell of stale urine. Curiosity and interest were briefly piqued. If she wasn't so tired, she'd be tempted to get up and go outside to--
     "Ms. Katrina Feldman and Mr. Ron Hallman?" The voice, deep and gravel-rough, came from somewhere on the other side of Ron.
     It produced an instant effect on Kat's tired body. A strange heat curled her toes and raced up her legs to the apex of her thighs, then even further to her breasts where it wrapped around her nipples until they tightened and hardened in pleasurable discomfort.
     That Voice didn't belong here in the heat and brightness of day. It belonged in the deep, dark hours of the night, in her dreams, attached to all the male fantasy figures that had come and gone over the years. It was weird, she mused, the way fantasy and reality sometimes got all mixed up. Her eyes still observed her surroundings, but the rest of her seemed to have succumbed to unconsciousness.
     In slow dream-motion, she swung her head around.
     A pair of heavy hiking boots and thick socks came into her line of vision. And rising in glorious nakedness from them were two beautifully molded, heavily furred male legs. Her dreams, Kat thought with happy anticipation, had never been this exquisitely detailed before.
     She examined the legs with care. A white scar slashed across one knee. Muscles bunched in the sturdy thighs. The legs shifted. The muscles flexed. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and continued her slow, intent perusal of the dream-image.
     With a vague sense of regret, her eyes encountered the barrier of mid-thigh length, khaki shorts, and traveled up over narrow hips and lean waist to a pale blue camp shirt. The man's head, wearing some sort of a narrow-brimmed hat, was a shadowy outline against the brilliance of the day outside. It didn't seem to matter that she couldn't see his face. She would just lie here and stare at those gorgeous legs until she woke up.
     "Roarke? Jackson Roarke? It's about time you showed up. I'm sweltering in this place. The air-conditioning is broken."
     Good grief! What was Ron doing in her dream? And sounding pissed off too.
     The Voice was amused. "Welcome to Africa, Mr. Hallman. I'm Jackson Roarke, and, no, it isn't."
      "What do you mean, 'it isn't?'"
     "The air conditioning isn't broken." The Voice was also patient and very polite. And sexy. So very sexy.
     "Well, if it isn't broken, why is it a hundred degrees in here?"
     Ron wasn't at his brightest and there was no doubt he was becoming belligerent. Kat waited in eager anticipation for the answer from the Voice. The legs in front of her shifted. She blinked hard and focused with fierce concentration. The smooth front of the khaki shorts had taken on an interesting...
     "This is Africa, Mr. Hallman. In these parts, air conditioning is a rarity. Are you ready to go?"
     "Wha--? Wait just a damn minute. Do you mean to tell me that even the hotel doesn't have it?"
     "No, not where we'll be tonight. Nor will most of the other places where we'll be staying. Don't worry. You'll get used to it. We really should go. Your friend, Ms. Feldman here, looks like she needs some rest. Is she all right?"
     Kind, too, Kat thought dreamily. There was without a doubt a tinge of concern in the Voice.
     "She's fine," Ron snapped. "And we're not staying. I'm booking us on the next flight out. Damn Sheila! What was she thinking? Next time she wants authentic 'primitive', she can get it herself!"
     Ron's whine grew fainter and Kat felt a stirring of concern. He couldn't possibly mean what he said, could he? No way could she climb back on a plane right away. It was just a mental impossibility, not to mention physical.
     The legs shifted again and she watched in fascination as they bent at the knees. In one fluid motion, chest replaced legs in her line of vision.
     "Ms. Feldman? Are you okay?"
     "Umm." Well, that was really intelligent. Kat tried without success to clear the fog from her mind. Not only her body, but now her mouth wouldn't obey her brain signals. She wanted him to stand up again so she could go back to looking at his legs.
     "Long trip, I know." The Voice held an overtone of amusement again. "We'll have you in bed in a jiffy. The hotel isn't far. Wait just a moment while I see if I can help the couple at the car rental desk."
     Bed! What a wonderful thought. And the way he said it raised an image in her mind that caused a dozen different nerve endings to do an energetic little dance.
     The hands hanging clasped between his legs moved to brace themselves on his knees as he prepared to rise. Kat felt a frisson of panic. He couldn't go yet. There was something important she needed to ask. Pushing the intrusive image of two naked bodies aside, she managed to croak out, "Ron?"
     "Don't worry. He's not going anywhere. There aren't any more flights out today and, this time of year, most are booked up anyway. Excuse me, please." The boots thumped away.
     Unwilling to lose sight of the legs or their owner, who seemed prepared to take on the responsibility of getting her to the place she most wanted to be, Kat turned her head with some effort to follow their progress. As they strode further away from her and approached the British couple, it became evident the beautiful limbs were attached to an equally fascinating rear end. The roll and shift of tight muscles mesmerized her.
     When the legs stopped all too soon, a deep groan of disappointment welled out of her throat. The sound was way too loud in a sudden pocket of quiet. Much ritual hand shaking and gesturing commenced in the group of three, then the legs turned and started back toward her accompanied by two other pairs.
     "God, I hate this place already." Ron's voice was an unwelcome intrusion into her fantasy. "No flights out today. The guy barely understood English--or pretended not to. Wasn't about to put himself out to help me, either."
     "It's okay. I just want to go to bed, anyway." Three pairs of legs were almost upon them.
     "Poor baby. You do look absolutely exhausted. Want me to carry you to the car?"
     "Huh?" An unwelcome shaft of reality penetrated the fog of insulating exhaustion. Six years of friendship had taught her that a sympathetic and nurturing Ron wasn't necessarily a good thing. She was too tired to figure out if his motivation, this time, was harmless or suspect.
     "Come on!" He grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. She was unprepared. Her legs felt like cooked spaghetti noodles and she sagged against him. "Whoa! Let's get a little cooperation here," he muttered in her ear. He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her close against his side.
     "Need some help?" The Voice, a note of concern in it, came from behind them.
     "No, I've got her. I'll take care of her. Could you grab the luggage?"
     Kat's fuzzy brain tried to form an objection. Ron's condescending tone was inexcusable and she didn't appreciate becoming his possession. She made a feeble move in the direction of the Voice.
     "Come on," Ron hissed in her ear. "Or do you want Tarzan here slinging you over his shoulder?" His arm tightened around her waist. Her feet left the ground for an instant as he swung her around then proceeded to drag her toward the source of blinding light.
     "Wouldn't mind, actually," Kat mumbled, enthralled by the picture of herself hanging upside down with a close-up view of those delicious buns.
     "You're delirious, darling. He's definitely not your type. But don't worry. I'll make sure he keeps his distance."
     Regret and puzzlement juggled in Kat's tired brain. In all the time she had known him, Ron had never been wrong about any of her romantic choices. Rebellion sparked a brief energy surge. If she wanted to lust after someone, goddamnit, she would lust. Ron wasn't her keeper and certainly didn't belong in her fantasies. She opened her mouth to tell him so just as they stepped through the doors.
     Instant fire enveloped her. The full blast of heat from the African sun at midday made her stumble and clutch at her companion who didn't seem to be faring much better. Brilliant color slashed and puddled randomly across an alien landscape. It seared her eyeballs and sent a piercing shaft of pain across her temples.
     She heard Ron groan and curse under his breath. He tightened his grip around her waist and together they staggered toward the only vehicle in sight, a white mini-bus with Spirit of Africa Tours emblazoned on the side.

     "Joseph?"
     Jackson Roarke stood in the shade of the airport terminal's overhang and watched as the tall man and petite woman reeled across the narrow street. They were a striking pair. His dark, lean handsomeness was a perfect contrast to the fragile, blonde beauty at his side. She was a porcelain doll if there ever was one.
     Despite himself, he wondered at their relationship. Separate rooms all the way, but that didn't mean anything. Something about Hallman made him think his sexual preferences might tend in another direction, but that didn't always mean anything either.
     And the expression on the blonde's face when she had given him a thorough inspection, then lingered on certain parts of his anatomy had indicated more than a slight interest--in him. She was exhausted--clearly not in control of her actions--and there wasn't any doubt in his mind he should ignore the whole incident. But there was the matter of his own reaction.
     Fierce and instant arousal.
     It mystified him.
     She wasn't his type.
     Impatiently, he dismissed the thought. Instead of wondering about his clients' sexual habits, he should be worrying about their stamina and ability to fit in. City born and bred, the both of them, and trouble with a capital "T". He would wager a month's pay that neither one of them had a clue what the next three weeks would hold.
     He glanced at the British couple at his side. Sensibly dressed in cool cotton clothing, they both wore sturdy walking shoes. Hats and sunglasses were now in evidence. Their faces bore looks of eager anticipation.
     A curse drifted across the road. Jackson looked around in time to see Miss Porcselain stumble in her high heels. He winced.
     What had his cousin been thinking when she'd maneuvered him into making a place for the two of them on the tour? Knowing Sheila, it could be payback for some childhood offense he'd long forgotten. Or maybe he'd missed her birthday, although God only knew he had it written down in enough places.
     "Joseph?" he called again with a touch of impatience.
     "Yes, sir?" A smiling dark face materialized from somewhere behind him.
     "There you are." With a sense of relief at having to deal with the mundane tasks of his job, Jackson introduced his chauffeur/guide/cook to the British couple at his side then motioned at the bus. "Help Ms. Feldman, Mr. Hallman and the Gordons here, then come back for the rest of their luggage, will you?"
     An unaccountable curiosity made him delay long enough to watch Joseph run across the street. His assistant opened the door of the mini-bus with a cheerful greeting and a flourish. Hallman promptly abandoned the woman and tumbled into the vehicle. Without hesitation, he chose the best seat for himself.
     The woman seemed uncertain about what to do and Jackson understood her dilemma instantly. In that bright pink silk blouse and pearl gray skirt, she was dressed as if she planned to spend a day at the office--an office in a big city. She even wore pantyhose, for God's sake, and the skirt couldn't have been much tighter. It was the kind of skirt that turned heads--male heads--when it was worn on the right body. There was no question it had found the right owner.
     But it was just tight enough that she would have a challenge navigating the high step into the bus.
     His interest fully engaged now, he folded his arms, propped himself against the wall and waited to see what she would do.
     Predictably, she twisted first one way then the other. She tried to raise a leg high enough to lever herself into the vehicle. Just as predictably, her attempts failed. With a sudden, impatient movement, she hiked the skirt up to mid-thigh and knelt on the narrow step of the bus. Swinging her legs around, she reached for the bar to pull herself up. Unfortunately, Joseph decided at that particular moment that Madam needed help. His grasp on her arm made her lose her balance. She fell face first into the vehicle.
     What ensued was an undignified scramble, a spectacular display of flashing, slender legs, abject apologies and more useless help from an embarrassed Joseph, polite pretense of not noticing from the Gordons and complete indifference from the man in the bus before the petite blonde was ensconced firmly in her seat.
     Grinning, Jackson turned away and strode back into the airport to collect several suitcases from the large assortment of luggage his charges had deemed necessary for the trip. With a sense of grim satisfaction, he looked forward to the moment he would have to remind them they were restricted to two pieces each on the tour.
     As he walked out into the blazing heat of the sun again, he hoped the blonde had brought more suitable clothing. Pantyhose and high heels were a rare enough sight on the streets of the town here and never in evidence where they would be traveling except, perhaps, on women of doubtful character.
     On the short trip to the hotel, he gave the standard welcoming speech and pointed out features of interest in the simmering African landscape to an interested audience of two. Hallman, sprawled in his seat, had adopted an air of boredom and clearly wasn't listening to anything. Katrina Feldman, wilted and listless, her honey-blonde head drooping on her slender neck, sat with eyes half closed, equally oblivious.
     It was going to be a helluva trip.

***********

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