Proud Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 2) (8 page)

“God, you’re tight,” Chris murmured. “Almost there... Almost. Can you take it? Just one more inch. Does it hurt?”

Was he kidding? I was being stretched in ways I hadn’t been abused in months. Years, maybe. Of course it hurt. But I wasn’t going to let him know that.

“The more we do this, the easier it’ll get,” he assured me. “Relax into it.”

I exhaled, long and slow, feeling all the way to the burn in the backs of my thighs as that last inch disappeared.

“Ready?” he whispered.

How foolish had I been to agree to this in the first place? Still, I nodded, my forehead knocking my knees as I held the arches of my feet.

Stretches done, I followed Chris into the thrust of the workout, only just keeping up with the slower pace he set. By the time we got to the push-ups, the only fantasies I could muster were of him calling time and me doing a controlled collapse before my arm muscles gave out.

“Right knee up in a lunge. Hold it—one…two…three…and…we’re done,” he said at last.

I half-staggered to the water bottle by the camp stove, swigging at in a vain attempt to cover my exhaustion. Shorts and shirt clung to me in places that might have been provocative if not for the pools of sweat and my half-strangled gasps for air.

I wasn’t too worn out, though, to notice Chris had indeed restructured his workout to accommodate my skill level, and we had finished far sooner than he usually did on his own. When I brushed the sweat out of my eyes to find him lighting the stove and starting the coffee, I also noted he hadn’t even broken a real sweat this morning. Could someone break a sheen? I wondered. How fair was it that he could come out looking so sexy and appealing while I no doubt looked, and stunk, like a warthog in its wallow.

He pressed a mug of coffee into my hands, then clinked his cup to mine. “You impressed me, Deidre Young. Brains, balls,
and
a killer body—with that kind of stamina, think of the fun we could have.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For dialing it back a notch so we could both pretend I was keeping up.”

“I didn’t have to pretend too hard.”

Vain, arrogant men who strutted around like they were God’s gifts—I knew the type well. I’d watched friends spiral down in those kinds of relationships. Relationships that burned hot for a few days, a few weeks at most, just long enough and hot enough that the women thought they had a chance, led on by lies and pretenses.

Chris Corsair fit the stereotype, I had been sure of that the moment I saw him. Yet each day I knew him brought new surprises, new dimensions to the man. The arrogant idol with the suave sunglasses and cocky attitude didn’t interest me in the least—well, except in that superficial, primal way nature ensured the survival of the species. The man I was offered only glimpses of, that was a man who could pique my interest. That was a man I wanted to know. If he would only stay around long enough for me to get to know him.

He slid a heated and reconstituted Western omelet my way along with a plastic fork. I could get used to being waited on, I thought. In fact, if I wasn’t so anxious to see how Caesar was doing, I could see myself enjoying a long morning of being catered to.

Two bites into my omelet the wind shifted.

When I saw Chris’ eyes narrow and nostrils widen as he scented the air, I knew the acrid odor wasn’t my imagination.

“We get fires in the hills outside of LA and the smoke drifts into the city,” he said. “It smells just like this.”

Pieces of information niggled at my brain for attention. “Veldt fire! Like a forest fire—they can be as hot, as big and as deadly. The lightning last night must have triggered one.”

I scanned the sky for signs of smoke. To the east, wreathing the low hills, a yellow-gray haze filtered the light from the rising sun. Throwing a handful of dry grass into the air, I watched the stalks swirl back down, lazy and directionless. Calm winds now, but they would likely pick up later. Which way would they blow?

“Think it’ll burn this way?” Chris asked. “Smoke seems a long away off except for that hint we’re getting.”

I shrugged. “How predictable is any fire? Some burn themselves out after just a few acres, some keep burning across thousands. Whichever way it goes, out here no one’s going to try to stop it. Nothing of human value, and fire’s a great way to rejuvenate the land.”

“Could it be a controlled burn? One of the parks, maybe?”

“West Lunga’s the closest one, and it’s to our west, not east—we went through part of it going to and from Zambezi. Really, though, what are the odds of a fire coming just this way and this far? Let me get some shots of the smoke, and you can record what I said about it.”

“Does that bother you?”

“What, you coming off like the know-it-all expert?” Well,
that
didn’t sound peevish at all. I tried again. “No. I know it’s your show. I know why you’re doing it. I know reality TV is all just a big game of pretend. But, yeah, it’s still a little irritating. Nothing I can’t deal with in the grand scheme, though. So go ahead—it’s all good. Really.”

Chris’ amused grin wasn’t making things better. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Methinks the gentleman puts on a few too many airs.” I finished my omelet in pointed silence, let Chris change into his rugged bushman’s clothes for the camera, then filmed the smoke hanging across the near horizon and his lecture on it.

The man had a remarkable memory and an enviable way with words. He nailed it in one take.

After, we loaded the Range Rover and drove down to our pride.

Our
pride?

When had it become
ours
?

Caesar was stretched out by the thorn bush where we’d left him yesterday. A thin ribbon of shade covered him.

If I didn’t know the remains nearby used to be a leopard, I couldn’t have guessed. It didn’t matter what they were now to other hungry creatures of the bush. Not many beasts would be foolish enough to challenge a pride of lions, except for the half-dozen vultures picking at its bones, the swarm of flies and the troop of black ants carpeting it.

I wasn’t as concerned about the flies and gnats clouding over Caesar as I was about those relentless ants nearby.

My concern deepened as several minutes passed with him barely twitching an ear, his breathing almost too shallow for either the binoculars or the zoom lens to catch.

“Poor baby. I wish he could move away from the ants at least.”

“Can he?” Chris asked.

Almost as in answer, Cleo padded over from her spot of shade under a rock ledge to nudge his cheek. The fly cloud took wing when he lifted his head and was rewarded with a gentle swipe of his sister’s tongue across his muzzle. She nudged him again, and I swore it looked like he was debating whether to get up or not. In the end, he simply sighed and laid his head back down.

Cleo washed his wounds for a bit before heading off in the direction of the
dambo
, presumably for a drink. Portia, looking concerned, rose from the ledge where she’d been sunning and followed her daughter.

“Water!” Apparently the thought had just occurred to Chris. “Caesar will need water.” There was a hint of panic in his eyes when he touched my arm. “How will he get any?”

“So long as the lionesses bring him fresh kills, he’ll probably get enough from the blood to keep him going for a few days. After that, he’ll either be well enough to get down to the
dambo
on his own…or not.”

“We could bring him some. At least leave a cooler of water this close for him.”

“And how do we keep the other lions from drinking it all?”

“Well, we have to do something!”

He was sincerely distressed. Why was I so surprised that such an egocentric, arrogant guy could be so moved by the plight of a half-grown lion? And why was I so distressed over pointing out what I had to?

“We’ve already interfered too much as it is.” I kept my voice gentle, trying to allow no trace of accusation to slip in. I wasn’t as accomplished an actor as Chris, but I thought I did pretty well.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have stepped in yesterday?” From the hurt in his glare I realized I wasn’t as accomplished as I’d deluded myself into believing.

“It’s…complicated.” Or was it that I was just making it that way? This pride was my study project. No one was making the rules here but me. And I was relying on the wisdom of past naturalists who may have gotten a lot of things right, but who, as we were finding more and more these days, had gotten a lot of things wrong too.

“What’s complicated? Aren’t those lions the closest thing you have to family right now? What kind of heartless monster does nothing while a family member’s being ripped to pieces in front of their eyes? Or does that camera lens absolve you from any responsibility? Get behind the camera and you don’t have to think or act or make what might be a wrong decision, is that it? Because being an observer in life is easier than participating in life, isn’t it?”

Did Chris know how hard his words were hammering at my insecurity? If so, he still didn’t let up.

“If that cub was meant to die yesterday because Nature so declared it, then isn’t everything that happens to it from here on out
unnatural
? How do your textbooks resolve the logic in that?”

They didn’t, of course. And that was the paradox of my profession. Once the lions knew I was there, their behavior would, inevitably, change. I might trick myself into believing the lions would forget I was there and would always react exactly as if I weren’t. Maybe most of the time they would. But would I ever really know those moments when my presence alone influenced their behavior?

And did it really matter in the end?

“Sheba and Nana hunted down that leopard and brought it back. They wouldn’t have done that if the cub hadn’t still been alive. To date, that behavior is the most remarkable thing I’ve ever filmed. I would never have known these lions were even capable of that level of sophisticated psychology if that cub had been killed. The lionesses may still have hunted it down, but there would have been no reason to bring the leopard back with them—and I would never have known what they did, or why. And that’s all because you interfered.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then peered at me in confusion. “Sooo…interference is…good?”

“No! Except yes, when it leads to new understanding.”

“Which, unless you’re psychic, you won’t know until after the fact.”

“Right. Which means we could be learning all kinds of behavioral insights if we interfered more. Gave them new and different stimuli to react to.”

Chris looked like he was about to give up. “So why aren’t we allowed to give Caesar a drink?”

Hell if I knew. I was talking myself into circles. What was I trying to accomplish with this pride anyway? What was I trying to learn from them that 50 years of study by my predecessors hadn’t already discovered and documented? What were my sponsors really getting for their contributions beyond footage of lions being lions?

At least Chris’ studio had a reason for sending him out here. And when I thought about it, a whole lot more people were going to see these two weeks’ worth of my lions than would see footage of the months I’d spent with them. And because of Chris, that audience would see a remarkable moment that would otherwise fly under the radar. A moment of understanding that crossed species, that connected the lions’ feelings to ours.

A moment, I realized, that would make my lions
real
.

Caesar was no longer a background prop or even an expendable Red Shirt. He was a character millions would soon be caring about. What was the lesson that could be taught here—that
needed
to be taught? To me, him, and an impressionable battalion of Chris’ fans?

Nature had no heart, but did that mean I had to lose mine in her service?

“Let’s get that cooler,” I said at last.

Damn him. There wasn’t the slightest trace of smugness when Chris grinned back at me.

But no way was I going to admit he could possibly have a bigger and more gracious heart than me.