Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion. Julie Wakeman-Linn

whispering, “My heels were clicking.”

      They ran down the corridor to the kitchen. Opening the door, Brett contemplated bare feet on Cook’s floor. Not good. God knows if Cook swept up today. He bent to grab her around her knees. She tipped a bit off balance and he nudged his shoulder into her belly and slung her over his shoulder. She laughed and braced her hands against his shoulders, her sandals bumping his back.

      “I can’t have you walking barefoot on a kitchen floor. Wouldn’t be right.” Brett deposited her on the long prep countertop. He’d liked the feel of her hands on his back, liked the feel of the back of her legs. “Are you up to a little warthog and mango chutney sandwich?”

      “I love trying new food.” She chuckled, kicking her bare feet.

      “David probably shot the hog himself.” Brett pulled out the rolls, the chutney, and the warthog roast and laid them out on the cutting board counter across from her. “It’s better cold.”

      “We’ll need something to drink,” Elise said. Brett wondered, did her voice sound more sexy or was it echoing on the pots in the kitchen?

      “I’m sure I can find something in here.” Brett buried his head in the drinks cooler. The wine was locked up; beer wasn’t right. “Soda?”

      “I think I have something in my room,” she said. “Champagne.”

      The door opened and David filled the doorway. “Brett, what in hell are you--Good evening, Miss Jorgensen.”

      “Mr. Colton, good evening to you,” Elise said, sitting shoulders back, like she belonged there, perched on that counter. “We had a flat tire on our drive this afternoon. Brett had to change it. We only got back a minute ago.”

      Colton stared. “A flat?”

      “Yes, David.” Brett jumped on her story. She’d saved his ass twice in one night. If he stayed tight with her version of events, David won’t be able to yell. “I’ll take care of getting a new spare, right after I make Miss Jorgensen a sandwich.” Better not to try to explain to David why she had her shoes off. David would have to accuse Elise of lying to yell at him. A dangerous stillness hung with the odor of mango.

      “We saw a leopard, Mr. Colton.” Elise’s voice sounded elegant, amid the stock pots hanging around her head. “I’ve had such a wonderful time. I can’t wait to tell the Lusaka Ladies Diplomatic Club all about it.”

      “I’m glad, Miss Jorgensen. Please do tell all your friends about us,” Colton said. Brett kept slicing, head down, saying nothing. “Brett, your mother called, Isaac spoke to her, but you can’t have Monday off. Good night, Miss Jorgensen.”

      “Good night,” Elise answered.

      After the door closed, Brett slyly kissed her neck, thinking about his next move. Where should they go? He’d ask Isaac tomorrow what the hell David meant about Monday.

      They couldn’t hang out on the lawn or in the lobby or her bungalow with David on the prowl. They couldn’t go to his room, next door to Jeremy. “How would you like a picnic on the roof? It has a great view of the waterhole.”

      “Up where you and Isaac sit?” she asked. “That would be perfect. I’ll go get my champagne and meet you--where shall I meet you?”

      “Meet me under the elephant head in the dining room,” Brett said. It fit with their craziness. Nobody else had ever spotted them on the roof.

      Picnic basket in one hand, Brett lost his hold of the hatch and it banged against the roof. He set down the hamper and reached for her hand to guide her up the dark spiral stairs. As she reached the top step, her hip bumped his; he’d never stood next to Isaac on this step.

      Brett climbed up, spread the tablecloth and sat. Around them the leaves fluttered, the trees sheltering them from the breeze, the stars winking overhead. As he stretched out his hand to her, he wondered why he’d never come up here at night before. “It’s not so steep.”

      She handed him the champagne and crawled across the tablecloth. He dug out the sandwiches, a tea towel, and the salt cellar. She drew her knees to her chest, nibbling on a sandwich.

      Brett concentrated on opening the champagne so he didn’t look like an inexperienced idiot and also to avoid staring at her chest. She nudged his elbow with the two glasses, little juice tumblers, all he could find. Hell, he didn’t know where Cook stored the champagne glasses. Her hair around her cheeks and neck created shadows that highlighted the length of her nose. Her eyes were bright spots in a dark plane. He used his thumb and pointer like a viewfinder--this image would be a great shot, with the right filter.

      “I’m thirsty. I think I oversalted the warthog,” she said, flipping her hair back and changing all the shadows.

      Brett poured and they sipped, the champagne prickling his nose.

      “Where to put the bottle?” He and Isaac usually rested their beer bottles in their crotches. What to do with the damn thing?

      “Give it to me.” Elise took the tea towel and made a nest for the bottle and a loop for her glass. She lay against the shingles. “The stars seem so close. Brett, do you like to travel?”

      “Never done it much.” He wasn’t about to admit he’d never been out of the country. To be with her, he might travel.

      She curled next to his chest. Still holding his glass, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders.

      “This is nice, but not exactly stable,” she said.

      “I’ve never slipped yet,” he said, trying to sound confident, but he wasn’t used to champagne and he’d never had to hold onto Isaac. “I won’t let you fall.”

      “A fine gentlemanly sentiment.” She raised up on her elbows. “We need more champagne if you’re going all romantic on me.” She sipped and, setting her glass down, bumped the nest. The bottle started sliding.

      Brett lunged, grabbing it. He didn’t need a fat glass bottle crashing on the veranda at midnight. He realized he was kneeling across her, on all fours like a dog. Rather awkward.

      She giggled under him, resting on her elbows. Glancing over his shoulder, he had a terrific view--her nipples foremost, pressing against her shirt. He couldn’t believe his luck, the most gorgeous woman in the most insane setting.

      “You have a fantastic view of the waterhole,” she said, peering over his back.

      All her signals were encouraging, neck stretched long, shoulders relaxed, lips a bit open. He sat sideways, so he could look at her and the waterhole. If only something wonderful, like his leopard, would wander by, but only the moon drank at the waterhole tonight, its reflection a thin rippling wafer in the water.

      The moonlight turned her yellow hair white, like the first night on the lawn. Why were they on the goddamn roof--what had he been thinking?

      “More champagne, please,” she said, poking him.

      He’d completely forgotten he held the bottle. He poured, then tucked it in the hamper, but when he turned back, she’d sat up.

      Brett crawled to sit behind her, his legs around her hips. “Lean against me.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, and her spine melted against his chest. As she sipped champagne, he lifted her hair and stroked her neck. Next, down to the collarbone toward those perfect-“Is that Isaac down there?” She sat up.

      Brett groaned. Isaac stood by the deck chairs. What brought him out on the lawn anyway? “Isaac often takes late night walks. We, um, all do.”

      “Should we wave?”

      “And have to share our champagne with him? Nah.” Brett prayed Isaac wouldn’t look up, but he did. Isaac lifted his hat, scratched behind an ear, and barely nodded. Brett saluted. Isaac resettled his hat and disappeared into the lodge.

      Elise stood and raised her arms, looking like a strange blue tree with a white crown. “I think