"Remember the favor you owe me," Sidney Falk said to the man sitting across the desk.

It was early in the morning and Matthew Quinlan, Quinn to anyone who had known him for more than ten minutes, looked as if he had just crawled out of bed, or hadn't taken the time to go to bed, at least not to sleep. His dark hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and his jacket completely forgotten. Piercing blue eyes stared over the rim of the coffee mug he was holding in his right hand.

"No," Quinn replied, although he remembered very well. The fact that his friend was reminding him meant the good-mannered solicitor was about to collect the debt. It also meant Quinn wasn't going to like it.

Sidney leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands over his plump middle, and smiled. "I have a client who's in need of an escort. Since you'll be leaving for Kimberley in a few days, I thought--"

"No." Quinn shook his head. "I don't escort people through bush country. Try the Dutchman -- he enjoys traipsing around with a herd of nobles at his heels."

The Dutchman, Hans Van Mier, considered himself a hunter and guide. He made a living taking wealthy aristocrats on safaris, making sure they got their money's worth even if he had to shoot the game himself.

"One Englishwoman doesn't make a herd," Sidney replied casually.

"In that case, it's hell no!" Quinn pushed back his chair and stood up. "I deliver diamonds. Not women."

"That's why you're the perfect escort. You don't have to worry about anyone attacking you, because everyone knows diamonds move from Kimberley to Cape Town, not the other way around. Miss St. John won't be in any danger." Sidney leaned forward, placing his hands on the black blotter covering the top of his desk. "No ones knows the country better than you do. I can't trust someone like Van Mier to see to her welfare. The man isn't reliable. While on the other hand, everyone knows that you're impeccably honest and extremely trustworthy."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere."

Quinn walked to the window overlooking Queen Victoria Boulevard with its impressive homes and elite shops. He'd come to Cape Town when he was fifteen after hearing about the twenty-one-carat diamond that had been found in a dry creek bed. Hell, the whole world had heard the news. The mines were just opening, and everyone thought they could scoop up a fortune with their bare hands, including Quinn. He'd been a rawboned kid from the East End looking for fame and fortune. Within weeks, he'd found it, working on a jackal crew. Jackal was the local term for the men who guarded the diamonds once they'd been taken out of the mines.

His first trek through the barren bush country that separated Cape Town from the Kimberley mines had been an eye-opening experience. Halfway between the rough mining town and the port city where the diamonds would be transferred into the hands of a broker before being shipped north to Europe, they'd walked into an ambush. Quinn had survived, but only because life in the East End had taught him to run as well as fight. When he'd finally stopped running, he was still carrying a bag of diamonds. Suddenly as rich as Midas, and knowing the mine owners would be after him with bloodhounds if he tried to cash in the loot, he'd decided to deliver the gems to the broker instead. That miraculous moment of maturity had established his still-sterling reputation. He was a man who could be trusted. A man who kept his word.

Now Quinn worked as a jackal for De Beers Consolidated Mines. If Cecil John Rhodes, the self-appointed monarch of the industry, could trust a hellion from the East End, anyone could.

But even an honest man had his faults, and Quinn had more than his share. He might live in a lavish home and mix with the crème de la crème of Cape Town society, but underneath the expensive veneer of tailored suits and exclusive club memberships, he was still a hard-knuckled street kid. He lived on the edge, loving the danger as much as he'd come to love the wildness of Africa itself. He enjoyed whiskey, any time of the day or night, and there was nothing more rousing than a good game of cards when the stakes were high. Women were a lusty pleasure he enjoyed whenever the opportunity presented itself. Whatever respectability he had came from his association with De Beers's diamonds. Beyond the civilized walls of Cape Town, he was known for being a man who did his job too well for most thieves to consider pilfering a pouch of diamonds. If they were foolish enough to underestimate him, they usually paid with their lives.

Quinn had prospered in South Africa, not because fate had favored him, but because the slums of London had taught him how to fight and win.

"What business does this client of yours have in Kimberley?" Quinn asked, knowing how relentless Sidney could be when he wanted something.

"She's inherited some property."

"A mine?"

"A boardinghouse."

"There aren't any boardinghouses in Kimberley fit to inherit."

"Since I haven't seen the prospering town for several years, I'll take your word for it," Sidney responded. "However, Miss St. John has come into property and she intends to claim it."

Quinn went from looking skeptical to looking downright hostile. "You want me to escort an English lady through the middle of bush country to claim a boardinghouse that's probably a whorehouse."

Sidney shrugged his shoulders. "Her uncle, a former client, willed her the land and buildings. She's determined to take possession of her inheritance and assume her rightful place as the new proprietor." A short sigh escaped him. "I did my best to explain that it would probably be more profitable for her to sell the business, but my advice wasn't heeded. Instead of responding to my letter, she sailed from Portsmouth to Cape Town, arriving yesterday. She's a very insistent lady. I fear she's going to Kimberley with or without an escort."

After diamonds were discovered, Kimberley had literally sprung up overnight. The rough and tumble shantytown was constructed from corrugated iron and whatever building products the influx of miners could find in the barren countryside that surrounded the settlement. Better now that Cecil John Rhodes and Barney Barnato had organized the mines, the town was still a raw settlement compared to the cities that flourished along the Atlantic coastline.

Fortune seekers had rushed to the diggings. Even now, crooks and scoundrels mixed with thousands of honest men, each hoping for a big find, a diamond the size of a fist that would keep them in luxury for their rest of the lives. The men worked hard, gambled hard, and drank hard. Whores, and the brothels that housed them, were commonplace. The upper crust of Kimberley society, the elite few who controlled the mines, lived in grand houses on the outskirts of town with walled gardens to keep their privileged world intact.

Quinn hated walls. It didn't matter if they were built of wood, brick, or whitewashed sandstone like the ones that surrounded the luxurious homes of Cecil Rhodes and Barney Barnato, he still hated them.

He'd grown up with walls, towering alleyways where he'd hidden after stealing a loaf of bread off a vendor's wagon, narrow muck-filled passages that never saw the light of day because even the brilliance of a summer sun couldn't penetrate the smoky, stench-ridden lanes of the East End.

He supposed that's why he loved Africa, or at least the bush country. He could breathe free in the untamed country that was so wide, so spacious, a man could look from horizon to horizon and never see anything but shrub grass and endless blue sky.

"Since, Olivia St. John is now my client, I can't in all good conscience allow her to travel alone," Sidney explained. "The railroad will only take her as far as Calvinia, after that--"

"There's nothing but wilderness until she reaches Prieska and the railroad picks up again," Quinn said for him. "Between the two she's liable to end up dead."

"Exactly," Sidney said, letting his friend's conscience take over.

There was a long silence while Quinn stared out the window, knowing damn well that Sidney wasn't going to let him off the hook.

"Tell me about the insistent Miss St. John," he finally said.

Sidney's smile went from ear to ear. "She resigned from her position as a governess to come to Cape Town. The uncle, a gentleman by the name of Benjamin St. John, insisted she was the only member of his family worth leaving anything to. Seems the lady corresponded with him at least twice a year, mailing the letters so they arrived on or near his birthday and Boxing Day. I wrote the will myself, at his insistence. He bequeathed her all his worldly goods."

Quinn wondered just how worldly those goods were. He doubted if there was anything in Kimberley a spinster governess would consider valuable once she'd seen it. He could easily imagine a pale hand moving to the prim and proper bodice of her high-necked dress just before she fainted dead away. Kimberley had that affect on women, especially women who didn't have the slightest idea what a mining town was really like once the glitter of diamonds evaporated and reality took its place.

He turned around, glaring at the solicitor. "I bet she balks the minute we get to Calvinia. After a look at what's in front of her, she'll gather up her skirts and put her bustle back on the train faster than I can uncork a bottle of whiskey."

Knowing Quinn's fondness for Irish spirits, Sidney was tempted to accept the wager. But having met the resolute Miss St. John, he hesitated. The odds were fifty-fifty. Either way, his client would reach her destination with more surety than any other man in South Africa could offer her. Quinn wasn't just the best jackal in the business, he was the best bushman to be found, excluding the San natives who had inhabited the Cape Peninsula for countless generations.

Whether or not Miss St. John reversed her path when she reached Calvinia or went on to Kimberley, Sidney had done his best to guarantee the lady's safety.

"Where is she?" Quinn asked, clearly irritated that he hadn't found a way out of the corner his friend had so skillfully painted.

"At the Krotter Hotel."

Quinn looked down at scuffed boots. He'd spent the night gambling in one of the city's best establishments. Before he met a lady, any lady, he needed a hot meal, a bath, and a good stiff drink, not necessarily in that order. "Send a note," he said. "I'll meet her in the lobby at eight this evening. If I can't talk her out of going to Kimberley, and I can be very persuasive when it comes to women, we'll leave the day after tomorrow."

"Excellent," Sidney said, standing up and offering his hand.

Quinn shook it, then stomped toward the door. He hesitated as his lean fingers wrapped around the brass knob. He glanced over his shoulder, giving the solicitor a lethal stare. "Once I get her to Kimberley, she stops being my problem. Agreed?"

"Of course," his friend concurred.

With that, Quinn opened the door and stepped outside into the tranquil sunshine of a South African morning. Being at the bottom of the world meant the seasons were topsy-turvy. England was preparing for winter, but here in Cape Town, summer was just beginning to blossom.

On his way to the house on Waterkant Street, a stylish residence he'd purchased three years earlier, Quinn questioned his sanity at letting Sidney Falk trick him into taking a white woman into the bush. Africa wasn't for the faint of heart. There were things in the Great Karoo, the name given to the uninhabited stretch of land that had to be crossed before reaching Kimberley, that could make a grown man wish he'd stayed tucked up nice and tight at home.

Standing on the balcony of the Krotter Hotel, a fashionable establishment near St. George's Mall, Olivia St. John looked toward the aquamarine waters of Table Bay. The city of Cape Town clutched the coastline, curving around the bay to the north and south. Behind it the exhilarating sandstone sentinel, Table Mountain, loomed tall and barren and majestically foreboding.

She'd read about the city and the sprawling province of South Africa, but nothing had prepared her for what lay before her eyes. The calm waters of the bay mixed with the colder currents of the Atlantic while seagulls soared overhead, chattering before they swooped down to pluck a fish from the majestic waters. Awed by the natural beauty of the rugged landscape, Olivia let her gaze move slowly along the shoreline where rivulets of tiny waves washed onto white sandy beaches. The harbor was filled with ships, ocean steamers from England and France and Germany. Flags from all over the world fluttered in the brisk breeze, while the smoke from the ships' tall stacks drifted south toward the lighthouse at Sea Point.

The perfume of exotic flowers mixed with the earthy odor of jungle foliage and the scent of salt air. The streets were a musical buzz of foreign tongues, the people a blaze of color. Some were dressed in European fashions, either purchased in the local shops or imported from London and Paris, while others wore lighter linen suits, better suited to the climate. The dark-skinned natives wore almost nothing at all, especially the men. They walked along the streets in loose-fitting trousers gathered about the waist with a drawstring, their ebony chests gleaming with sweat as they loaded and unloaded luggage in front of the hotel. The native women wore material draped around their bodies, covering one shoulder before it wrapped around them like a large towel, ending midway between their knees and ankles. Very few of them wore shoes.

Olivia studied the strange mixture of people and European architecture, the towering steeples of the Dutch Reformed Church, the gothic silhouettes of English cathedrals, and the clapboard buildings that fronted the harbor. Closer to the hotel, she could see the tiled rooftops of the prestigious government buildings along Parliament Street.

She could scarce believe that the adventure of the ocean voyage had ended only to have another, more daring exploit, begin. When she'd received word that her uncle had died, leaving her his South African property, she'd been stunned. Her family had thought her impulsive in her decision to abandon her post as a governess, pleading that she reconsider before purchasing the ticket that would take her so far away from the comforts of Portsmouth. Her older sister, Meredith, had recently married and had advised her sibling against making a hasty decision that would in all probability be laced with regret. But Olivia hadn't heeded the advise of her well-meaning family and friends. Instead, she'd purchased the steamer ticket, packed her belongings, and said her farewells. Teary-eyed, but determined, she'd left Portsmouth behind.

She had survived her twenty-sixth birthday dinner, a boring event attended by half a dozen people, to realize that she dreaded the next one. As much as she loved her family, and teaching, she hated falling asleep at night with nothing more than the tales of a notorious novel to fuel her dreams. She wasn't classically beautiful, and she certainly wasn't rich enough to encourage a marriage proposal on her financial merits, but she did have a quick mind and a deep yearning to experience life.

It was that yearning, that indefinable craving for something Portsmouth couldn't offer, that had prompted her to come to South Africa to claim her inheritance. Reaching into the pocket of her gray skirt, she withdrew a token of her uncle Benjamin's affection. The small wooden lion had become the symbol of her dreams. Holding the tiny teakwood animal in the palm of her hand, she looked with hopeful eyes toward the horizon.

She might not find the man of her dreams in South Africa, but she would surely find the adventure she craved. Either way, she was going to make the best of her newfound liberty.

The chime of a tower clock somewhere in the city brought Olivia's reverie to an end. She was to meet Mr. Quinlan in the lobby of the hotel before the clock chimed the next hour. Mr. Falk had penned a note of reference, informing her that his friend had agreed to escort her to Kimberley. The solicitor had assured her that Mr. Quinlan was a man of faultless integrity, one she could trust without reservation or hesitation.

Eager to begin the final steps of her journey, Olivia returned to her room. Exactly one hour later, punctuality being one of her greatest virtues, she was waiting in the lobby. It was empty, except for the desk clerk, a middle-aged gentleman with a cadaverous face and spectacles perched on the brim of his hawkish, blue-veined nose.

She asked the man if anyone had inquired about her. Receiving a negative reply, she looked around the lobby a second time. Noting the entrance to both the dining room and a small reading parlor, she hesitated.

"If you would care to wait in the garden," the clerk suggested, "I will send your guest there upon his arrival. The weather is very pleasant this evening."

"Thank you," she replied. "I shall wait in the garden."

Olivia walked across the tiled floor, hoping Mr. Quinlan didn't keep her waiting too long. She hadn't eaten since that morning, too excited about the upcoming trip to Kimberley and the possibilities of owning and managing her own business to think about food.

The garden was a pleasant surprise. Surrounded on three sides by the hotel itself, the western boundary was fenced by thick foliage, expertly manicured into a tall green wall that offered the hotel guests privacy. The garden was embellished by wrought iron benches, painted a pristine white, and positioned at spacious intervals along a cobblestone path that led to a large fountain where a sculptured elephant stood high on its hind legs with its trunk curled against its forehead. Dark glossy ferns grew in clusters alongside the walkway, joined by small patches of brightly colored flowers and low-lying shrubs with prickly tips.

The fragrance of grass, recently dampened by the dew, made the air smell sweet as Olivia strolled along the cobblestone path, stopping every few feet to inspect graceful tiger lilies and clumps of blue flax. Ashen clouds, drained of their color by the setting sun, floated slowly across the star-studded sky and large glowing moon. In the distance, the sound of the sea made the night seem almost magical.

Selecting the bench nearest the fountain, Olivia sat down to contemplate the first day of her new life. The voyage from Portsmouth had been pleasant. She'd been guilt ridden at first, knowing her family couldn't comprehend her motives for dashing off and leaving what they considered a well-ordered life, but eventually her adventurous spirit had taken her to the steamer's railing for hours at a time. She'd stared at the sea, enjoying the ever-changing shades of the water as the ship had pushed south.

Now that she was in Africa, there was more to consider than the vague possibilities of dreams come true. The whimsical thoughts that had entertained her during the voyage had suddenly become reality. Looking at the fountain and thinking of the small wooden lion in her pocket, Olivia knew she was just as likely to encounter one of those animals as she was an alley cat. The thought held as much excitement as it did trepidation. Although she wanted what other women wanted, a husband and a family, she was willing to teeter on the brink of spinsterhood a while longer.

Quinn stood at the entrance to the garden. He stared at the woman and frowned. Damn Falk and his cunning manners. The solicitor hadn't given him the slightest clue that the lady was young and pleasing to the eye. Very pleasing if a man considered the wispy honey-brown curls framing her face, the delicate angle of her chin, and the subtle curves of her body. Dressed in a blue skirt, a high-collared white blouse, and a waist-length embroidered jacket, she was a perfect example of British femininity.

Unfortunately, he'd been expecting a spinster with a sagging bosom and gray hair, not an English nymph washed in moonlight.

Quinn didn't like surprises, and Miss St. John was certainly a surprise.

Surprises could get a man killed in the bush country. They could get a diamond shipment stolen in less time that it took to reload the bolt-action Mauser rifle he carried whenever he left the city. Surprises were for children, not for men who earned their living making sure the unexpected was always expected.

Drawn by the noise of boot heels on cobblestone, Olivia looked toward the hotel door. The man materialized out of the shadows like a dark god emerging from the underworld. Tall and lean and powerfully built, he wasn't at all like the gentleman she'd expected to meet. A man of distinction should be much older, and he certainly shouldn't make a woman's heart quicken with nothing more than a cursory glance.

"Miss St. John?"

Inwardly appalled by her reaction to the stranger, Olivia came to her feet. The man towered above her, his raven hair absorbing the moonlight, his blue eyes blazing as they raked over her, moving slowly from the hem of her skirt to the top of her head, then lowering until he was staring at her mouth. His countenance was stern, and she didn't have a clue as to what he was thinking, or why he was thinking it.

Quickly regaining the courage that had brought her to South Africa to begin with, she offered the man a cordial smile. "Mr. Quinlan?" she asked, hoping against hope that the man wasn't the one Sidney Falk had written her about.

"Quinn," he corrected her. "We aren't as formal here as they are in England."

He continued studying her, taking in the narrow expanse of her waist and the finishing school posture that made her seem taller than her five foot two inches. Her expression wasn't hard to decipher. It was a combination of anticipation and apprehension, a natural reaction to being alone and thousands of miles from home. Quinn knew he shouldn't be staring. It wasn't polite, but that didn't particularly bother him at the moment. He was still assimilating the fact that he'd been duped into taking a young, desirable woman where no young, desirable woman should be going.

Strange, unnamed feelings sprang to life as Olivia looked up at Matthew Quinlan. He was wearing formal evening attire. A diamond stickpin winked wickedly in the moonlight, but it was his walking stick that caught her interest. Made of ebony wood, the head was carved into the threatening face of a jackal. Two diamond eyes gleamed in the silvery light as he set the cane aside and withdrew a slim cheroot from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket.

Gentlemen rarely smoked without asking a lady's permission first, but Olivia knew Matthew Quinlan wasn't your typical gentleman. Any man who made a living guarding priceless jewels would have to be as ruthless and cunning as the thieves who would gladly rob him blind. He would also have to be, as Sidney Falk's note had decreed, an honest man.

The conclusion offered Olivia some comfort as she watched him strike a match. The tip of the slender cigar glowed red, then gold, in the increasing darkness.

"Please, sit down," Quinn said. "I've requested a table, but it will be a few minutes before it's ready. In the meantime, we can talk about Kimberley."

As Olivia resumed her seat on the bench, the tingling sensation she'd felt when Quinn had stepped out of the shadows was replaced by a more vivid awareness of the man. He was in his early thirties. His remarkably handsome face was tanned by the African sun, emphasizing the brilliance of his eyes. Dressed like a gentleman, there was still an untamed quality about him, one that made Olivia think of the wild animals that lived beyond the perimeters of Cape Town.

"Mr. Falk told me that you travel between Cape Town and Kimberley on a regular basis," she said, intending to keep the conversation focused on the business at hand. "He assured me that I would be in capable hands."

The thoughts of actually getting his hands on Miss St. John was enough to make Quinn's mouth water, but he'd trained himself too well to ever let his expression reveal his true thoughts.

"It's what I do," he replied simply, knowing that Falk had explained the details of his occupation.

"When do you anticipate returning to Kimberley?" Olivia asked, acutely aware that Mr. Quinlan was studying her far too closely. She waited for the answer as he blew out a ring of pale smoke that drifted slowly over his shoulder then out of sight.

"The day after tomorrow," he replied. "Can you be ready to travel that quickly?"

"I've only unpacked one trunk."

Before Quinn could tell her that the trunks would have to be loaded aboard a railroad car, then unloaded at Clavinia and reloaded onto cumbersome ox carts, a hotel employee appeared to tell them that their table was ready.

"Shall we?" Quinn said, stepping aside and giving her full access to the cobblestone path that led to the hotel's main lobby.

Olivia walked in front of him, consumed by curiosity. She'd never met a man like Matthew Quinlan before. He was confident, bordering on arrogant, if her instincts were right, but at the same time she sensed there was more to him than he wanted people to know. As she entered the hotel with its bright gaslights and polished brass trimmings, she realized she was being foolish. The moonlight had clouded her mind, tricking her into thinking that he might find her attractive. His intense gaze had probably been nothing more than the bad manners he'd displayed in lighting a cigar without first requesting if it might offend her.

Quinn questioned his sanity for the second time in one day. Taking any woman into the bush was folly. Taking a young pretty woman was pure foolishness. Yet, he had little choice. He'd given Sidney his word, which meant he'd keep it. His only recourse was to persuade the lady to change her mind.

Plotting how he'd do it, Quinn followed as the restaurant's maître d' showed them to a small table in the rear of the dining room. Once they were seated, he ordered a bottle of the hotel's best champagne.

"Sidney told me that you recently inherited some property in Kimberley."

"Yes." Olivia's eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "My uncle came to Africa a good many years ago. He was my father's younger brother, and from what I've been told, a bit of an adventurer at heart. He kept in touch with the family, but after my father's health began to fail, his letters went unanswered, until I wrote him myself. We began to correspond on a regular basis. I would send him copies of the Portsmouth newspapers. He'd write to me about Africa. I couldn't wait to see it with my own eyes."

And what beautiful eyes they were, Quinn thought. The dining room was ablaze with light, so he could see their true color, a deep rich brown. Miss St. John was a gentle-born lady, obviously well educated, and obviously as innocent as the day she'd been born. Everything about her suggested that she was a real lady, a lady who thought only pure thoughts, who always behaved properly and dressed properly. Imagining her in the African wilderness that had become his second home was as difficult as imagining himself standing behind a church pulpit.

"Have you been in South Africa long, Mr. Quinlan?" The effort it took to make casual conversation surprised Olivia. Normally she didn't have trouble talking to people, but Matthew Quinlan wasn't just anyone. He was the most handsome man in the room.

"Quinn," he corrected her, not answering her question until the waiter finished filling their wine glasses. "I've been in Africa for over fifteen years."

"And your family?" Olivia prompted, still curious.

He shook his head instead of replying.

"What of your family, Miss St. John? Were they as fervent in their good wishes as you are in your enthusiasm to reach Kimberley?"

"Not exactly."

"Would you care to explain what 'not exactly' means?"

Olivia sighed under her breath. "It means they think me impulsively foolish and sure to fail in my endeavors," she said candidly.

"And what are your endeavors?"

"To assume responsibility for my inheritance, of course. The prospect of running my own business is quite exhilarating."

Quinn stopped himself before he mentioned that exhilarating might be an understatement. There were ten times as many brothels in Kimberley as there was boardinghouses. He reminded himself that all he had agreed to do was to get the lady from Cape Town to Kimberley, anything beyond that wasn't his business.

There was a stiff silence while Olivia searched her mind for something else to say. What did a lady ask of a man she'd just met, the man who would soon be escorting her to a town she knew nothing about? Thinking she might appease some of her curiosity, she inquired how long the trip would take.

"Three, maybe four weeks," Quinn replied, lengthening the time because there was no way a lady was going to be able to maintain the pace he normally set.

"That long," she sighed, clearly disappointed. "But, I thought the railroad--"

"The railroad runs north to Calvinia," he told her. "Then it takes a turn east, toward Bitterfontein and Alexander Bay. That's the opposite direction of where we'll be going. Kimberley sits north of the Orange River. They finished the bridge a few months ago, so the trains run from the mines to Prieska. Connecting Clavinia to Prieska is going to take at least two more years.

"We'll be traveling by foot most of the way," he added, thinking he'd found the path to her discouragement.

"You mean we'll be walking to Kimberley!"

"There'll be an ox cart to haul your belongings," he explained. "You can ride in the cart when you get tired."

"Are there no roads?" she asked. "Horses? I can ride. My father taught me."

"Horses don't do well in the bush," Quinn explained. "They get skittish around wild animals. It's a long ride from here to Kimberley, and horses make a tempting meal for a hungry lion."

Unsure if the man was teasing her, Olivia wasn't certain how to react. Her uncle had written her about the bush country, describing its magnificent sunsets and awe-inspiring isolation, but she'd never imagined having to cross it on foot. She supposed she should have asked Mr. Falk to explain things more clearly, but she'd been so excited by the very idea of the trip she hadn't asked.

Quinn sipped his champagne, waiting for her to come to terms with the cold, hard facts of South African life.

"I'll need some comfortable walking shoes," Olivia announced unexpectedly. "Can you recommend a shop where I can purchase them, along with anything else my wardrobe may be lacking?"

Copyright © 2002 by Patricia Waddell