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First published August 1, 2012
First rule of the wild : Never take your eye off a predator.
"If it's survival you want, then you need to fight and kick and scream at every one of us, and that includes me." He pushed away from her and grabbed the chair with one powerful hand. "In fact, right now, I would say most especially me."
"It's...You're frightened and alone and relying on me. You're desperate."
The blood in her veins congealed. "I am not desperate."
His smile was strained. "You're counting on me to get you out of here."
Tucked comfortably into the straw a safe distance from the fourteen deeply sedated African Wild Dogs, she'd grown half-hypnotized by the rhythmic rocking as WildLyfe's transporter bumped along the highway, roused only by a brief cargo check as they'd crossed the border from Zimbabwe into neighboring Zambia.
Pins and needles sliced through her feet as she lurched―half-blinded by the rich African light after her long, dark confinement―past the truck with her beloved dogs and up the rocky track.
He repositioned her more securely against him, tossing her like a child in his arms, and walked back toward the vehicle―a traditional African bakkie, three quarters rust―that was surrounded by her captors.
She craned her neck and got a flash of a bald head behind the wheel of the transporter―the fifth man―before Alpha pushed past the others, straight toward a dilapidated farmhouse.
Her head ached from clenching her teeth and her tongue peeled off her gummy palate.
She'd been working hard to keep the fear at bay, channeling the natural chemicals pumping through her to keep her responses acute. She hadn't wanted all that norepinephrine wasted on hysteria.
It was the he-man of a squirm.
His eyes spat like fat in a pan.
Her senses swam with his proximity and she struggled in vain against the current of his surging energy. A powerful masculine energy that threatened to break through her need to hold herself aloof.
