Sunday Afternoon, With Skeet

“Pull.”

Leila activated the trap. Tasman Ghan took aim at the small clay plate and fired. The bit of crockery shattered. Six others followed in rapid succession. At that point, Tasman called a halt. “Enough. It’s gotten tiresome already.” He regarded the shotgun in his hands with a mixture of respect and resignation. “I still don’t understand the point of this sport. All the violence, yet nothing dies. Where’s the blood? The effort of tracking the prey? The thrill of bringing it down with your own fangs and claws? This takes all the pleasure out of killing things.”

Leila abandoned the trap to step to his side. She moved like a snake, smooth and sinuous, powerful and deadly. Even out here, in this remote corner of the Ghans’ estate, she wore her tailored business suit. Her platinum-blonde hair was swept up in a flawless chignon. Her flat heels were her only concession to the realities of the great outdoors. “Why bother to learn it, then?”

“Because the humans do this, among other incomprehensible things. If we’re to expand the Ghan empire, we must learn to move in their circles. That includes embracing the gun culture. The apes do love their guns.”

“Perhaps we could shoot something that’s more of a challenge?” She nodded toward their horses, grazing a short distance away. The animals had been trained to remain calm around gunfire, and especially around big cats. “At least we can eat them afterwards.”

Tasman made a face. “Considering what we paid for them, we’re better off shooting skeet. Besides, Sanjay would be heartbroken.”

“Birds, then. Those awful crows.”

“The humans have laws against that. They’ll fight to the death to keep their guns, then don’t want anybody to kill anything with them.” He shook his head. “Americans.”

She reached for the shotgun. “Might I take a turn, sir?”

“You can shoot?”

“It’s been a while, but yes. I like to stay sharp.”

Tasman shrugged and passed her the weapon. He took over command of the skeet launcher. Leila reloaded and called, “Pull.” Five shattered plates later she lowered the shotgun. “That will be sufficient. Thank you, sir.”

He eyed the remains of the plates and smiled. “Flawless, as always,” he praised her.

“I’m better with small arms, though I should practice more. Is Lord Ghan considering adding a shooting range to the compound?”

“Vishnu, I hope not. My father still prefers the natural ways. I’ll see about finding a range so you can hone your skills.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It isn’t kindness. I want you sharp.” His life depended on it. Perhaps not so much here in America, but he was not a man to take chances. He was Zhere Ghan's first born, the heir. Hence the need for a bodyguard. Because he was also both thrifty and practical, he’d hired Leila. And never regretted it. As his personal assistant, she knew his needs and wants before he did. As a snow leopard trained in attack and defense, she could handle any threat to his safety. As a beautiful, polished, professional woman, she presented the perfect distraction. His enemies saw only the face and the breasts and the legs, and not the silent, deadly killer standing so demurely at his back.

Perhaps he ought to marry her. With Father’s approval, of course.

She briefly lowered her eyes, then raised her gaze to his. “In all aspects, sir?”

“What do you mean?”

“I notice all this target practice has stirred your hunting blood.” She placed the shotgun on the ground and went to him. She pressed her hand boldly on his crotch, where most of that hunting blood she’d remarked on had gathered. “Perhaps we might use the situation to hone our other skills?”

Tasman smiled savagely. The perfect assistant. Always one step ahead of him, and always to his advantage.

He gazed down into her lovely green eyes and guided her fingers to his fly. “Pull,” he ordered.