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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY WILLIAM MALTESE
Amen’s Boy: A Fictionalized Autobiography (with Jacob Campbell)
Anal Cousins: Case Studies in Variant Sexual Practices
Back of the Boat Gourmet Cooking (with Bonnie Clark)
Blood-Red Resolution: An Adventure Novel
Catalytic Quotes (Some Heard Through a Time Warp)
Dinner with Cecile and William (with Cecile Charles)
Draqualian Silk: A Collector’s & Bibliographical Guide to the Books of William Maltese, 1969-2010
Emerald-Silk Intrigue: A Romance
Even Gourmands Have to Diet (with Bonnie Clark)
The Fag Is Not for Burning: A Mystery Novel
From This Beloved Hour: A Romance
Fyrea’s Cauldron: A Romance Novel
Gerun, the Heretic: A Science Fiction Novel
Get-Real Vegan Desserts (with Christina-Marie Wright)
The Gluten-Free Way: My Way (with Adrienne Z. Milligan)
The Gomorrha Conjurations: An Adventure Novel
The “Happy” Hustler
Heart on Fire: A Romance
In Search of the Perfect Pinot G! (with A. B. Gayle)
Incident at Aberlene: An Espionage Novel (Spies & Lies #1)
Incident at Brimzinsky: An Espionage Novel (Spies & Lies #2)
Jungle Quest Intrigue: A Romance
Love’s Emerald Flame: A Romance
Love’s Golden Spell: A Romance
Matador, Mi Amor: A Novel of Romance
Moon-Stone Intrigue: A Romance
Moonstone Murders: The Movie Script
Schism on Antheer-D: Science Fiction (Gods & Frauds #1)
Schism on Bnth: Science Fiction (Gods & Frauds #2)
Slaves
A Slip to Die for: A Stud Draqual Mystery
Summer Sweat: An Erotic Anthology
SS & M: Being Excerpts from the Nazi Death-Head Files
Total Meltdown: An Adventure Novel (with Raymond Gaynor)
When Summer Comes
William Maltese’s Wine Taster Diary: Spokane & Pullman, WA
Young Cruisers
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1983, 2013 by William Maltese
Originally published under the name, Willa Lambert.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For all of those individuals, present, past, and future, who have devoted their lives, time, money, and effort to the preservation of endangered species everywhere.
CHAPTER ONE
JANET HAD BEEN PREPARED to hate this handsome man whose touch sent uncontrollable sensations racing along her spine, whose low and melodious voice brought back memories of her childhood before it went sour.
“Welcome to Lionspride,” Christopher Van Hoon said, and smiled. He didn’t recognize her. She didn’t expect he would. They weren’t children now, and her name was Westover, not KeIley.
His teeth were brilliantly white in contrast to a tan burnished deep bronze by the South African sun. His golden eyes were black flecked. He didn’t look like his father, Vincent. He never had. He took after his mother’s side of the family. Janet didn’t remember Gretchen Van Hoon, but she remembered Vincent. There was no forgetting or forgiving him.
“May I offer you and your crew something cool to drink before we get started?” Christopher asked, holding her hand, still smiling. Janet recalled a biblical quote about how the sins of the fathers were visited upon their children. “I’ve taken the liberty of having wine punch brought out on the terrace,” he added, releasing her fingers. “Emphasize the punch. De-emphasize the wine—realizing, of course, that this is a working visit, isn’t it? I mean, neither of us would want to end up tipsy in front of the cameras, would we?”
She should refuse. She had a job to do, and she wanted it over. She wasn’t taking this as easily as she had planned. Seeing this place and Christopher brought back too many memories—painful and otherwise. However, there was the crew to consider. The air-conditioning in the van wasn’t working, and Tim and Roger could use a cool drink before setting up the equipment. So could Jill, the makeup artist.
“A drink of punch would be lovely,” Janet said. She felt guilty. There was no reason to feel that way. Even though Vincent Van Hoon was dead, he had left an unpaid debt.
“This way, please,” Christopher said. He motioned them along a walkway that circled toward the back of the main house.
Janet tried not to concentrate on Christopher. She wasn’t successful, even with the wealth of distraction offered by the mansion, its gardens and the view from the terrace. All around were sights and smells that helped her to renew her acquaintance with exotic Africa: flaming aloes, unbelievably large proteas, flowering mimosa. In the distance, the well-remembered swimming pool and bathhouse were separated from the South African veldt by a line of dense acacia and blue-gum trees.
Lions had growled among those trees. Elephants had filled the air with their trumpeting. Quaggas had made shrill and barking neighs. A girl had felt the thrill of first love.
There were no longer lions and elephants this close to the Van Hoon estate. They were locked in parks farther inland. As for the quaggas and the girl—
“Miss Westover?” Christopher queried, interrupting her reverie, offering her a crystal glass filled with ice and an attractive amber liquid. She took the glass with thanks, careful not to touch his fingers with her own. She tasted the punch. It was tart but thirst quenching. She turned to the scenery, resentful that his presence wouldn’t let her concentrate. She was resentful, too, that he didn’t recognize her, although his recognizing her could ruin everything. She would know him anywhere.
“Is this your first trip to Africa, Miss Westover?” Christopher asked.
She would spoil everything if she made him suspicious, but she couldn’t lie. “No,” she said. “I was here as a little girl with my father.” She didn’t mention her father’s
