Diamond Legacy. Monica McCabe

ear. “I really hope Zimbali Lodge comes through with the driver they promised.”

      “Amen to that,” Jason replied.

      A loud buzzer rang, signaling the arrival of a baggage train. The crowd surged forward, leaving the outer fringes open. A wave of relief washed over Miranda.

      “Here, hold this.” Jason handed over his new camera bag, and she lifted a brow in question. “If you promise to guard it with your life, I’ll get our luggage.”

      With no inclination to argue, she accepted his offer, content to stay put. He disappeared into the dense crowd, and she leaned her head back, well past tired and craving several hours of sleep.

      Until a loud, bone-jarring crash jolted her clean to her toes.

      Fifty feet away, the glass doors to the parking lot slammed open, and a very thin, very frantic man burst through at a dead run, another guy right behind him.

      They raced in her direction. Within seconds, they were close enough she could see panic in the lead man’s face. Close enough she could feel the rush of air when the pursuer lunged into a floor-slamming tackle.

      They rolled, struggled, and the panicked one cursed loudly. He fought like hell’s worst demon had him cornered. A wild kick brought down a gumball machine and its glass globe shattered against the floor, shooting rainbow marbles of gum in every direction.

      “You’re going down, slimeball!” Harsh determination rang in the tackler’s voice.

      She believed him. Especially since he rolled right over top of jagged bits of glass and seemed oblivious to the pain. An agile move landed him on top, pinning the skinny one down.

      It didn’t last long. Wiry, limber, and far from subdued, the guy snapped up a bony knee and jammed it into the tackler’s back, knocking him sideways. With a deft twist, he broke free, launched himself up, and turned to run.

      The gathering crowd surged backward, but just as fast the chaser snagged an ankle, bringing him down again.

      “Stinking cop!” The man screamed his fury. “I’ll kill you first!” He kicked at his attacker, missing his head by inches.

      “Not…today…dirtbag!” Struggling to contain his thrashing quarry, the tackler locked onto the man’s knees and swept up a handful of gumballs and glass, flinging them at his face. When the other man jerked up his arms to block the missiles, the cop pounced.

      Adrenaline thudded in Miranda’s veins. Her first real bust! Africa had a reputation for lawlessness, but she’d only been here half an hour.

      The dirtbag screeched, arched his back, and dug in his heels to prevent being flipped onto his stomach. He threw a desperate punch and landed a hard clip to the cop’s jaw, knocking the larger man backward.

      In a split second, the bad guy snatched something from under his pant leg, scrambled to his feet, and leveled a revolver at the cop.

      A collective gasp echoed in the cavernous room. Someone screamed. A stampede began as bystanders raced for cover.

      Time slowed as Miranda watched him pull back the hammer and take aim. With no thought for consequences, she tightened her fist around the strap of Jason’s camera bag, rushed up behind the gun-toting offender, and leveled a power swing against his head.

      The dirtbag dropped like a stone.

      Dead silence reigned for a matter of seconds. Then everyone began shouting at once.

      She stood frozen, fascinated as the cop kicked the gun out of reach, rolled the guy over, and slapped on handcuffs. He then yanked a bandana from his pocket, grabbed the firearm, and unloaded ammo in a few efficient moves. He had it all wrapped up nice and neat as airport security rushed onto the scene.

      “All yours, gentlemen,” the cop said as he handed a guard the disabled weapon.

      Miranda couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t polite, she knew, but looking away wasn’t an option. He brushed off his hands in satisfaction and turned to face her. There was blood on his cheek and a long scratch on his arm, but he smiled, calm as you please.

      “Nice piece of work, lady,” he said to her. “What’s in the bag? Lead?”

      She registered a slight British accent. And he had the most incredible tawny-colored eyes she’d ever seen. They were warm, earthy, and ablaze with curiosity. The man could have walked from the pages of any outdoor enthusiast catalogue, complete with athletic build, five o’clock shadow, and tousled sandy hair. In short, exactly the type she’d sworn off months ago.

      She wanted to run the other way. Instead she lifted Jason’s bag. “Nikon camera, when you want to capture the moment.”

      His laugh brushed her senses like mellowed whiskey. It was disorienting, delicious, and she stared like an adolescent girl with her first crush. What was the matter with her?

      “A woman of action.” Something in his eyes sparkled. “I like that.”

      Images of champagne, fiery tango music, and mind-melting kisses popped into her head. So exhilarating that it set off every alarm bell she possessed. “Stow the flattery,” she said, trying to kick up her defenses. “I reacted because the bad guy wasn’t playing fair.”

      Masculine interest flared in the quirk of his brow, and her stomach did a warning somersault. He was pure trouble, wrapped in rugged good looks, broad shoulders, and—

      “Playing fair an important concern of yours?”

      She yanked herself back on track. “Shouldn’t it be for everyone? Especially a cop?”

      A strange expression shadowed the warmth of his gaze. “Sometimes life isn’t fair. And I’m not a cop.”

      Her gaze shot to the handcuffed guy lying on the floor. “But—”

      “Jesus, Miranda!” Jason swore as he raced over, his expression a mix of anger and horror. “Are you all right?” He grabbed her hand and gently pried his camera bag out of her death grip.

      “I’m absolutely fine.”

      “The guy had a gun, Miranda. A gun! What in Sam Hill were you thinking?”

      She blinked in surprise at his outburst and glanced back to the mystery man. His heated interest had faded into cool professionalism, and she was heartily glad. The overwhelming disappointment she chose to ignore.

      “It was only a little gun.” She braced her hands on her hips. “And he never saw me coming.”

      Jason shook his head. “Man, I’ve held my breath this entire trip, fighting a doomed feeling that somethin’s gonna blow this too-good-to-be-true assignment. We’re finally here and what do I see? You, attacking a crazy gunman with my eight-hundred-dollar camera! What kind of insane risk was that to take?”

      “For me?” She grinned. “Or for the camera?”

      He shot her a narrow-eyed glare.

      “Look, I’m fine. Your camera’s fine.” She flicked her head toward Mr. I’m-Not-A-Cop. “And so is he, thanks to all the equipment you cram in that case.”

      “He, who?”

      She turned, only to discover they were alone. Mystery man now stood talking to a couple of uniformed police near the door.

      She pointed. “Him.”

      Jason threw a careless glance in the general direction of the doorway. “Whoever he is, I’m sure he’s properly grateful, and I’m incredibly impressed with your bravery. But pleeease, save the heroics ’til the end of the trip. We haven’t seen the first thing yet. Agreed?”

      Miranda barely heard him. Her gaze locked onto the lion-eyed temptation by the door. She pictured him against a backdrop of wilderness. Belonging, challenging, mastering the elements. Her captivated stare caught his attention for he looked straight at her, and the smile he sent her way tripped her