RICHARD HAD BEEN PREPARED to hate this handsome man whose touch sent uncontrollable sensations racing along his spine, whose low and melodious voice brought back memories of his childhood before it went sour.
"Welcome to Lionspride," Christopher said, and smiled. He didn't recognize Richard. Richard didn't expect he would. They weren't children now, and Richard's professional by-line was Richard Westover, not Richard KeIley.
Christopher's teeth were brilliantly white in contrast to a tan burnished deeply 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. Richard didn't remember Gretchen Van Hoon, but he remembered Christopher's father very well. 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 Richard's hand, still smiling. Richard 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," Christopher added, releasing Richard's fingers. "Emphasize the punch. De-emphasize the wine--all of us realizing, of course, that this is a working visit, isn't it? I mean, neither of us would want to end up tipsy before the cameras, would we?"
Richard should refuse. He had a job to do, and he wanted it over with. He wasn't taking this as easily as he had planned. Seeing this place and Christopher brought back too many memories--painful and otherwise. However, there was his crew to consider. The air-conditioning in the van wasn't working; 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," Richard said. He felt guilty. There was no reason to feel that way; Vincent Van Hoon, dead, 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.
Richard tried not to concentrate on Christopher. He 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 renew Richard's 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 boy had felt the thrilling 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 boy--
"Mr. Westover?" Christopher queried, interrupting Richard's reverie, offering a crystal glass filled with ice and an attractive amber liquid. Richard took the glass with thanks, careful not to touch Christopher's fingers. He tasted the punch. It was tart but thirst-quenching. He turned to the scenery, resentful that Christopher's presence wouldn't let him concentrate. Richard was resentful, too, that Christopher didn't recognize him, although such recognition could ruin everything. Richard would know Christopher anywhere.
"Is this your first trip to Africa, Mr. Westover?" Christopher asked.
Richard would spoil everything if he made Christopher suspicious, but he couldn't lie. "No," he said. "I was here as a little boy. With my father." He didn't mention his father's name, and Christopher didn't press for it.
"Do you find the country much changed?" Christopher asked; Richard was nervous--the seasoned host of Animal Kingdoms in the Wild was used to asking the questions, not answering them.
"All things change, don't they?" Richard replied. "Often, as in the case of Africa, they change for the worse." There were those, Christopher included, who would consider Richard's notions at odds with any definition of progress, but Richard couldn't help that.
"How so?" Christopher asked curiously. His eyes weren't looking at Richard but into Christopher's glass.
"We should start taping," Richard said, determined not to be sidetracked into giving himself away. "We're imposing on your hospitality as it is."
"Believe me, it's my pleasure," Christopher said with a charm and grace his father never possessed. Richard would have taken great pleasure in fooling Vincent Van Hoon, but Christopher belonged to the good times.
"We'll be out of your hair as quickly as possible," Richard promised.
Christopher's blond hair was like sunlight. Touching it would be like submerging caressing fingers in molten gold.
"I've had far less charming things in my hair, I assure you," Christopher replied gallantly. He smelled of lime-scented after-shave. His dimples were deeper than Richard remembered.
On some mysterious cue, a black man appeared to collect the empty glasses, carrying them away on a silver tray.
"What you've come for is this way," Christopher said, guiding Richard toward the open French doors. The others followed in their wake.
The trophy room was immense. It was larger than Richard's childhood memories of it, and it was filled, wall-to-wall, with animal heads and animal skins. The latter were mainly scattered on the hardwood floor and used as throws for the overstuffed furniture. The room smelled sensuously decadent--of time-worn leather. Over the mantel of a large walk-in fireplace was a sunburst of guns. Those weapons had killed most of the animals on display.
)
Richard Westover wonders if his fantasy lover, Christopher Van Hoon, standing beneath a South African blue-gum tree, the sun in his gleaming hair and golden eyes, has finally returned to Richard's life. Having first experienced Christopher's laugh, touch, and kiss in innocence, Richard is now twenty-nine, not thirteen, and far from innocent. Christopher has changed too--possibly having become as unscrupulous a profiteer as the Van Hoon patriarch. Back in South Africa, as a journalist, Richard secretly longs to have it proved wrong that Christopher's mining empire detrimentally threatens the already dwindling native wildlife; more so, though, he longs to rediscover his lost and one true love.
