She was silent for a long while, cradling the mug of tea with her good hand as she sipped. “That cat was so beautiful. Probably as afraid as I was—just protecting her cub and herself. I made myself her enemy by sitting in that tree.”
Every minute more he spent with Dalilah, the deeper Brandt was being drawn in, and she was doing it again now, burrowing under his skin, into his chest, probing a way to his heart. He really needed this to be over.
He jabbed irritably at the fire. “It’s an acknowledged survival trait, Dalilah, being able to see beauty even when your own life is under threat—it stops you from giving up, despairing.”
“I didn’t like the killing as a kid,” she countered crisply. “I don’t like the idea of killing animals for consumption now. And I don’t like handing it off to big agribusiness that denudes the environment, either. So if I can help it, I don’t foster it.”
“Is that how you got involved with ClearWater, solar power, sustainable farming?”
She puffed out a lungful of air. “I suppose. I’m from the Sahara—I understand how precious a commodity water is to most of Africa.” Her eyes went distant. “I guess my father taught us well on some level. There were some real values that came out of the desert forays he forced us on.”
Respect for Dalilah deepened, but at the same time Brandt couldn’t understand why, if this ethic was so ingrained in her, she wanted to give it all up for a restrained life trapped behind palace walls with Sheik Hassan of Sa’ud. And this dichotomy in her personality niggled at him because he’d glimpsed sadness, resignation, in her eyes when he’d confronted her on her choices. And in spite of her engagement to another man, she was clearly attracted to him—there was something developing between them, even against both their wills. That told Brandt she wasn’t fully committed on some level. Because when you truly loved someone, in that first heady blush when you decide to marry and spend a life together, you have eyes for only that person. At least, that’s the way it had been for him.
But it wasn’t his concern, he thought, turning to poke at the flames.
“I’m impressed you maintained your shooting skill,” he said. “For someone who hasn’t used a gun since you were what, five, six?”
“I shoot for relaxation.”
His brow crooked up. “Relaxation?”
“At a range, clay-pigeon shoots. That part of shooting—the sporting aspect—I did enjoy as a kid. I liked the focus, controlling my breathing, getting into the zone.” She gave a soft laugh. “I was better than my brothers at it. They were after the kill and got too pumped up. I had far more control.” She paused. “I always wanted to do better than my brothers.”
He grinned in spite of himself, then laughed. “Your brothers are not an easy act to follow, let alone trump.”
She smiled, a little rueful, and stared into the flames for a while, mug in hand. “My whole life has been a struggle to get out from under their shadow, to prove myself, to carve my own niche in the world...” Her voice faded. Brandt could see that look of sadness entering her features again, of resignation. It puzzled him.
He shook himself, grabbed a stick of biltong, ripped off a shred with his teeth, chewed in silence. Flames crackled and popped.
She broke the silence. “In winter I do biathlons and practice my shooting that way. I travel to a ski resort in Norway, usually. Sometimes Canada.”
“Does Haroun travel with you?”
Her eyes shot to him, the sudden tension in her body unmistakable. Brandt’s curiosity deepened in spite of himself.
“Well, does he go with you? Does he ski?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t ski? Or doesn’t travel with you?”
She fiddled with her bootlace, her complexion looking drained. “You know, I’m really exhausted. I...I need to sleep, if you don’t mind. I can keep watch for you later if you like.”
“Go ahead. Get in the bag. It’s high-tech stuff—will keep you warm.”
She hesitated. “Would you mind helping me with my laces?”
Brandt put his mental walls back up and quickly untied her boots. She snuggled down into the sleeping bag and closed her eyes, resting her head on the rolled-up sarong.
Brandt fed the fire, listening to the hoot of owls. And when her breathing changed, he watched her sleep—freshly washed hair fanning around her exotic face, glimmering ebony in the coppery firelight, her skin smooth, lips slightly parted.
Quietly, Brandt lifted the camera, stealing something small for himself as he clicked.
Her eyes flared open.
“What are you doing?” she said, edging up.