Moonflower Read online

  Conservationist, Sophie Kyle, takes up a position on a private game farm outside Cape Town in the hopes of paying off her student loans and adding a glowing reference to her resume, while getting the chance to indulge her passion for wildlife conservation.

  Reuben Manning is a British business tycoon who has bought a game farm in Africa which he intends to use as a venue to entertain friends and business associates.

  With all the suddenness and intensity of a bushfire, a powerful attraction ignites between the conservationist and the tycoon. But their lives are set to play out on opposite sides of the world. Sophie has only ever wanted to spend her days in the African bush, while Reuben’s life is corporate London.

  As the wild and sensuous bond between the two grows, they must overcome many obstacles to find common ground or they are doomed, despite their passion for each other, to spend the rest of their lives a continent apart.

  MOONFLOWER

  Untamed Safari Series, #2

  Leigh Archer

  Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright: 2015 Leigh Archer

  Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (ejrdigitalart.com)

  Editor: Lucy Felthouse

  Proofreader: R.L. McCoy

  A Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  MOONFLOWER

  Leigh Archer

  Chapter One

  Sophie woke with no grogginess at all, even though it had only just gone 5:30. This morning was all about beginnings for her.

  She brushed her copper hair from face, and stretched beneath the sheet. The light behind the curtain went from dim to bright as if someone had turned up a rheostat—a typical start to a mid-summer African dawn.

  Sophie began her summer job today. And it wasn’t just any job. It was a plum position as conservationist on a private game reserve two hours outside the city of Cape Town. A real gem. And an enormous challenge; exactly what got Sophie’s blood fizzing.

  Her father always told anyone who would listen, his theory about why adrenaline had such a positive effect on the youngest of his four children. Sophie’s mother had gone white-water rafting, not knowing she was pregnant with Sophie at the time, and to this day he was convinced the experience had affected his daughter’s ability to cope positively with stress.

  Sophie always added: ‘That, and growing up with three older brothers.’

  Conservation was Sophie’s passion and she now had a wonderful opportunity to indulge herself. In conservation terms the game farm she’d be working on was a small one, but it was the first time she’d be in charge of a wildlife programme, instead of just a junior team member. The job would allow her to get a head start on paying back her student loans and, if all went well, she’d be able to add a solid reference to her résumé.

  After an invigorating shower, she took extra care getting dressed. Being five feet eleven, Sophie was able to make just about anything appear elegant, which is why she usually tended not to give a thought to her appearance. But this morning she wanted to look professional, confident, in control. At twenty-four, it was not only gender that was against her; she needed to look as no-nonsense and mature as she possibly could.

  Even though the employment was for three months only, leaving with a glowing reference was essential. Jobs working with wildlife were about as easy to come by as a South African tan, but good positions attached to research projects were scarce. There was often a lack of meaningful funding and competition was stiff. It was still a male-dominated industry.

  Despite the heat, Sophie pulled on a freshly ironed pair of khaki trousers, a short-sleeved khaki shirt, socks and sturdy hiking boots. Hovering in front of her tiny mirror, she slathered her face with block-out, applied a coat of mascara to enhance her green eyes and added a touch of gloss to her lips. Then she wound her strawberry blond hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Once she’d packed her holdall, she headed for the flat’s tiny kitchen.

  From the looks of things, her flatmate, Sandy, had had a near-fatal case of the munchies. Sophie and Sandy had been friends since high school. They’d left home together and gone into residence at university, then rented the flat two years ago. Sandy might have the habits of a warthog, but she was the best friend anyone could ask for. Who cared if Sophie was left spooning peanut butter into her mouth on the first morning of a new job? There was nothing a few gulps of hot coffee couldn’t fix.

  Just before 7:30, she stopped to sign in at a stone guard hut and drove through an impressive pair of wrought-iron gates that heralded the start of the Labour’s End estate.

  The game farm had been bought by a wealthy Englishman. Sophie hadn’t realised just how wealthy until she’d gone on the internet. Reuben Manning was the president of the Consolidated Investment Group based in London. Something of a financial whizz, having made his first million at the age of twenty-three. Now at thirty-four he’d probably lost count of his fortune a long time ago.

  Sophie hadn’t been able to figure out just how interested he was in the farm. She wasn’t sure if she would even get to meet him. He had apparently never set foot on the land and would use it only periodically to entertain business associates; probably nothing more than a toy for the tycoon then.

  Sophie’s three month appointment had been made by his farm managers, a husband and wife team who had employed her purely on the strength of her résumé and references. A few e-mails had whizzed back and forth and in no time she’d been hired.

  Sophie was quite happy with the status quo. She really didn’t want to meet Manning. She had seen what happened to girls who got involved at university with the sons of wealthy families and she had no taste for the type. The less she had to do with him, the happier she’d no doubt be. Give her wildlife and the bush and she was in seventh heaven, willing to meet any challenge head-on.

  The main house was a white, double-storeyed Cape-French dwelling with Parisian-grey trimmings, surrounded by blue-grey mountains, lush green lawns and some pretty impressive formal gardens. Just off to the right, an ornamental lake blinked in the morning sun. Sophie parked her car at the end of the drive and climbed out.

  She hadn’t taken more than five steps along the path when a very old man stepped suddenly in front of her, appearing as if from nowhere. His hair was woolly and snow-white, and the plains of weathered skin on his face were the colour and texture of tree bark. He was painfully thin and stooped; the top of his head only just reaching Sophie’s chest.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, squinting up at her.

  ‘I’m Sophie Kyle, the new conservationist.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He seemed to think about this for a moment, then, with a type of resigned annoyance, said, ‘Well, okay. Take this then.’

  With a magician’s flourish, he produced a white rose from behind his back.

  ‘Oh, how sweet of you!’ she said, taking the rose from him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Off you go now.’ The old man made a shooing motion with his hand.

  Sophie couldn’t help grinning as he went tottering off across the lawn.

  She carried on up the path, climbed the stairs to a wide verandah, knocked on the door that stood ajar and
, when there was no answer, stepped into an elegant entrance hall.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  ‘Hi. Be with you now,’ a woman’s voice answered from what looked like a dining room on the left.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the woman said moments later as she came towards Sophie, hand outstretched. ‘We’ve had a hectic morning. You must be Sophie Kyle. I’m Sara Bosman.’

  Sara Bosman and her husband Rolf were the farm managers. Sara was an imposing woman in her early fifties, tall and thin with long, frizzy brown hair worn in a loose bun and skin weathered from spending much of her time out of doors. ‘I see you’ve been picking the roses.’

  ‘Oh, no! An old man gave it to me. I was coming up the path and he stepped out in front of me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sara said, looking amused. ‘That must be Mr Solomon, our gardener. He’s strange, but a sweet old man.’

  ‘He seems too old to be a gardener.’

  ‘Yes and no. He came with the farm, you see. None of us know how old he is, but he’s lived here his entire life, I was told. He has a little cottage out back. Apparently his wife died some time ago. Mr Manning’s happy to have him stay on. You’d be surprised how good the old man is with the garden. We get some of the younger men to help him with the heavy work, but everything he touches seems to bloom so beautifully. You should be honoured. He doesn’t really bother with anyone. Not likely to give you the time of day, much less a rose.’

  Sara looked around her, a little distractedly.

  ‘You had breakfast yet, Sophie?’

  ‘Ah, yes… Something light.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you come through to the dining room and fill up.’

  Peanut butter and bananas be damned, Sophie thought, as she followed Sara into the dining room. Grabbing a plate, she shovelled scrambled eggs, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, and two pieces of toast onto it.

  ‘Reason why we’re running around like headless fowls is Mr Manning’s due in tomorrow.’

  ‘Bit of a stickler, is he?’ Sophie ventured between mouthfuls.

  ‘Not really,’ Sara said, buttering toast. ‘It’s just that he’s never been here before. He flew my husband and myself to London to interview us eight months ago. Had very specific plans of what he wanted to do with the place, and all our communication since has been via telephone and e-mail.’

  ‘So you want to be sure everything’s as he wants it to be.’

  ‘Exactly. As soon as we’re finished here I’ll take you on a tour of the house. We’ll get you settled into your quarters, then introduce you to the rest of the staff. And the wildlife, of course. Ah, here’s my husband, Rolf.’

  Rolf was of similar height to his wife, and just as weathered. ‘You must be Sophie Kyle,’ he said, coming towards her. ‘Good to meet the person behind the résumé.’

  Sophie stood to shake his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bosman. I’m really looking forward to the next three months. This is an amazing opportunity for me.’

  ‘Enthusiastic I see. Good. That’s what all your references said, and your academic record speaks for itself.’

  ‘Even better, it doesn’t put its foot in its mouth,’ Sophie ventured.

  After they’d finished coffee, Sara took Sophie on a tour of the house. She met the indoor staff, Patience and Beauty, who cleaned the house and staff cottages under the watchful eye of June September, the stern-looking cook and housekeeper.

  Outside, she was introduced to the two men who would be her partners in crime: Isaac and Sipho, the Xhosa rangers who would help Sophie with her daily duties. Part of her job description was their supervision and training. Sophie was relieved to discover that both men were brimming with good humour and enthusiasm. She wasn’t feeling altogether comfortable yet in her new leadership role.

  That afternoon, Frank Steyn, the farm’s vet, paid them a visit. He eyed Sophie from the tips of her hiking boots to the now-untidy bun, fresh face and sparkling eyes. He looked dubious. ‘This might be a small farm, Sophie, but it still presents a challenge. I hope you’re up to it.’

  Sophie tried not to take offence. It was an enormous challenge, but she knew she could do it. ‘I don’t think Sara and Rolf would have employed me if they hadn’t been sure I was the right person for the job. But I realise it’s going to be a steep learning curve and I’d welcome any help or advice you’d be willing to give me.’

  Frank nodded his approval. ‘A good start,’ he said, hopping into the four-wheel-drive. ‘Let’s introduce you to your charges.’

  They headed for the bush.

  Sophie was done for by the time she’d had supper at the house and gone back to her cottage. Her cottage. She loved the idea. Although she’d miss Sandy, there’d be no mess, she wouldn’t have to chase down the soap before a shower, and she’d get to have a decent breakfast every morning. Heaven, in other words.

  The thatched cottage was tiny: sitting room/kitchenette, bedroom and bathroom. But they’d gone to some trouble to furnish it in keeping with the game farm theme.

  Sophie went to bed early that night. She wanted to be fresh in the morning and ready to make a knock-out impression.

  Chapter Two

  Sophie liked to wake as the sun rose, which is why 5:30 a.m. saw her humming in the shower. She loved the crispness in the air before the heat set in. Even better, the quietness of the morning gave her the feeling that she had the world all to herself, and she revelled in the anticipation right at the beginning of the day; as if absolutely anything could happen.

  By six she was behind the wheel of a Land Rover, heading east along a dirt road towards the sun rising over the mountains.

  It was soon after spotting a small herd of duiker buck in the distance that Sophie felt a lack of buoyancy on the left side of the vehicle. She stopped and got out to inspect.

  ‘Damn! Twenty minutes out and a puncture,’ she told the morning air.

  She went to the back of the vehicle and took out the jack and tyre iron, laying them on the ground beside the damaged tyre. Hauling the spare down, she placed it beside the tools, and climbed back inside to fish out a pair of gloves from the glove compartment.

  As Sophie rounded the vehicle, she saw a baboon on the ground beside the spare tyre. Hands gripping the treads, the animal had its head close to the tyre’s centre, its backside sticking up in the air.

  Cape baboons were not to be trifled with. There was absolutely nothing Disney-like about these creatures. From the size and the greyish brown of his coat, Sophie could tell he was a young male, which meant he was likely to be full of mischief and bravado, not to mention the owner of some pretty vicious teeth. Luckily he hadn’t figured out he had company yet.

  Sophie quickly retrieved her .375 rifle.

  This time, when she arrived at the rear of the vehicle, her furry visitor looked up, did a double-take when he saw her, took a step back and let out a loud scream.

  Sophie almost did the same. She raised the rifle, though she had no intention of using it unless she was attacked. It was simply a precaution. She stayed utterly still.

  Seconds ticked by, then the animal leapt forward, grabbed the tyre iron, turned tail and headed across the grass towards a copse of trees. Sophie hoped he’d drop the tyre iron en-route, but it seemed he had no intention of giving up his booty. He reached a large guava tree, scooted up the trunk, along a branch, and squatted above her with the tyre iron placed across his knees.

  Sophie scanned the area for the rest of the troop. Nothing. That was good.

  Standing at the base of the tree she called up, ‘Come on, Mike the Mechanic, give me a break. It’s my first day on the job.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Please don’t make me have to call the guys out to rescue me.’

  The baboon pulled his lips back, showing off a large pair of sparkling teeth.

  ‘It’s not funny, you little savage!’

  Clutching at the tyre iron, the baboon screamed defiance at her. A moment later, he scooted along the branch an
d was lost in the foliage. He reappeared suddenly and before Sophie could blink, something exploded against her chest—a large, over-ripe guava. Juice, pips and flesh soaked into her shirt and dripped down her front.

  With a shout of triumph, the baboon disappeared along the branch, still clutching the tyre iron. Sophie decided to give up. She’d go back to the truck and radio for help, after she’d changed her shirt. She had a spare in her vehicle.

  She took the shirt off to avoid the sticky mess seeping through to her bra and stomped off across the grass. She was several metres from the vehicle when she noticed a man standing beside it. He was in tailored chinos that sported perfectly pressed seams. His shirt was pale blue and the shoes were probably Italian leather.

  Sophie tried with as much finesse as possible to unfurl the shirt scrunched into a ball in her hands as the veld began to run out between herself and the vehicle. She pressed the material to her chest, ignoring the squelch of guava flesh against her skin.

  A more pragmatic part of Sophie’s brain said: not your fault, can’t be helped. She strode towards the man, doing her best to carry off her approach with as much dignity as her white, lacy bra would allow.

  When she got within a couple of feet of him, her heart began to jump up and down like that crazy baboon. The man waiting at the vehicle was Reuben Manning. Sophie groaned.

  She recognised him from the photos she’d seen on the internet. If he’d been handsome in photographs, in person he was devastating. For one thing, those pictures hadn’t given the full effect of his broad shoulders and height of at least six foot three. And it wasn’t his height alone that was impressive: it was also the high forehead, sculpted cheekbones, square jaw, thick dark hair; the early morning sun glinting off an undulating wave. No wonder he’d done so well in business. She didn’t think there was a man or woman alive who could possibly say no to him.