Jackal's Dance by Beverley Harper

ranger. Or both, which was often the case.
    All the other lodges in the vast game reserveoperated on a self-drive basis. About five years ago the government had identified a need for professionally run game drives and Logans Island Lodge had been built to cater for just that. Tourists could still drive themselves if they wished, providing they had a suitable vehicle. But more often than not, visitors, especially those from beyond Africa, preferred to see the game with a ranger. It was proving both popular and profitable.
    Logans Island, like the four other accommodation areas in Etosha, also provided a secure and well-equipped camp site. Those who used this facility were free to avail themselves of some of the amenities offered by the lodge but, for some reason, the anti-fraternisation rule for rangers didn’t extend to campers. Whoever drew up the regulations clearly felt that while it was okay to lech after tourists in tents, those paying top dollar to stay at the lodge would not take kindly to services of a sexual nature. In Dan’s experience, it was usually the other way around. Campers were usually fresh-faced youngsters in healthy relationships of their own. Sexual success, as a general rule of thumb, came from the bored, wealthy or cynical. In any event, what was a man supposed to do when a client came on to him with alcohol-induced feline ferocity? Ask if she’d mind moving into a tent?
    The woman groaned and stirred. Dan knew she’d wake with a hangover. This lady had put away enough scotch last night to pole-axe an elephant. His early morning phenomenon being what it was, he moved closer and placed a hand betweenher naked thighs. If the full extent of her hangover cut through sleep, sex would probably be the last thing on her mind. She’d made it plain enough last night, though: ‘When I see something I want, I go for it.’ Two could play that game. She wanted it then, he needed it now.
    She was moving under his hand, legs spread, fingers reaching for him. Dan raised himself, positioned his engorged penis and slowly entered her. She gave a small gasp of pleasure, then lifted to him with growing enthusiasm. She was a moaner, this one, and in full-throated roar within seconds. He covered her mouth with his own, reducing the decibels to huffy squeaks and groans. They came together . . . well, at least Dan assumed she’d climaxed. Hard to tell with women.
    As soon as he decently could, Dan rolled away and sat up, reaching for a cigarette. He felt her nails scratch down his back. ‘You’re good, honey. God! My head.’
    Facing away from her, Dan rolled his eyes. He’d forgotten she was American. In fact, he’d even forgotten her first name. Mrs Delaney. Arrived yesterday, leaving today. A whistlestop trip by a bored, rich American. Been there, seen that. She’d done the rounds. Two private game reserves in South Africa, one in Malawi, another in Botswana and now Etosha. No doubt she’d left a trail of dishevelled and weak-at-the-knees rangers in her wake. Dan had learned to pick them. There was a predatory gleam in their eyes somehow similar tothat of the carnivores he showed them. The big five – elephant, lion, leopard, rhinoceros and buffalo – acted like an aphrodisiac.
    Actually, Dan appreciated women like Mrs Delaney. No complications. No strings. No promises to break. Women who approached fornication with the same uncluttered single-mindedness as most men. They were a rare find. He’d recognised the hallmark in Mrs Delaney almost immediately.
    Dan made sure she’d seen enough to impress. A breeding herd of elephant just west of the pan itself, two magnificent black-maned lion over near Okaukuejo, a pride of females sleeping this side of the Halali waterhole, giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, springbok, gemsbok, a black rhinoceros. Finally, closer to camp, a cheetah mother with two cubs – a rare sighting. His client had gone ape-shit