JOSS WOOD wrote her first book at the age of eight and has never really stopped. Her passion for putting letters on a blank screen is only matched by her love of books and travelling—especially to the wild places of Southern Africa—and possibly by her hatred of ironing and making school lunches.
Fuelled by coffee, when she’s not writing or being a hands-on mum, Joss—with her background in business and marketing—works for a non-profit organisation to promote local economic development and the collective business interests of the area where she resides.
Happily and chaotically, surrounded by books, family and friends, Joss lives in Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa, with her husband, children and their many pets.
Wild About the Man
Joss Wood
A couple of years ago, while sitting in a hanging basket on the edge of Lake Malawi, after a long, lazy, sunshiny conversation—the only type you can really have on holiday in Malawi!—I realised that writing filled my soul and it was time that I gave it the attention it deserved. So for that conversation, and many, many others around life and love, faith and hope, this book is dedicated to our very special friends Taffy and Jen at the Norman Carr Cottage, Namakoma Bay, Malawi.
Table of Contents
Luella Dawson’s blog:
So, friends, my interview with Cai Campbell and Clem Copeland on my show, Night Drive with Luella last night was so much more than I—we all—expected. There was the announcement of their split—no surprise there—but what followed had us all agape. For the past ten years Cai has ducked the question of marrying Clem, so none of us expected to meet Cai’s new fiancée (blonde, buxom). We were just recovering from that when he told us that he’d been shooting blanks all these years—poor Clem. Who can forget that episode of The Crazy Cs where Clem told us how her infertility was eating away at her soul?
IT WAS early evening before Nick Sherwood made it to his desk, dusty, grumpy and sweaty. His mouth held all the moisture of the Kalahari Desert and he felt he was melting from the inside out. After grabbing a bottle of water from the small fridge behind his desk, he stood underneath the air conditioner, cracked the top of the water bottle and swallowed the contents in three big gulps. Tossing the bottle into the dustbin at his feet, he immediately opened another, resting the icy plastic against his forehead when the worst of his thirst was quenched. He’d spent most of the day in the seventeenth level of hell and the raging heat outside had only been a minor contributing factor to his nightmare day.
Normally he enjoyed taking the walking photo-safaris and it was a good way to connect with his guests; they loved the personal touch of having the owner of the six-star lodge conduct the tours. Except that he’d spent the last six hours walking so slowly that ants had dashed past them, constantly wondering when he’d have to give one of his overweight, red-faced charges CPR.
Of course they’d seen no animals, mostly because they couldn’t keep their mouths shut for more than five minutes. Wildlife tended to run when confronted with loud curses, shouts and laughter.
Nick understood the animals’ flight reaction; he’d considered doing the same many, many times and at various points throughout the day.
He dropped into his chair and yanked open the messy top drawer of his desk, hoping to find a container of aspirin. Eventually he found the pills and dry-swallowed three, chasing them down with the water left in the bottle in his hand.
He needed a cold beer, a swim and hot sex.
What he’d get was maintenance reports, the payroll and e-mails.
Nick pulled his computer out of standby and reached for the file on the corner of his desk. He’d barely cracked open the cover when a Skype call came in. He looked at the computer and frowned when he saw the name of his silent partner and chief investor. Hugh Copeland rarely called him and had never, in the ten years he’d known him, Skyped him.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
Copeland was at least sixty-five, formal, monstrously wealthy and Nick was still in debt to him for a couple of million. Setting up a six-star lodge wasn’t cheap and maintaining a game reserve and an animal rehabilitation sanctuary sucked up money like an industrial Hoover.
Calling his chief investor ‘sir’ seemed appropriate.
‘Nicholas. I trust you are well.’ Copeland was standing, dressed in a three piece suit. When he placed his arms on the back of his chair and glared into the camera Nick caught a hint of a flashing temper in his light grape-green eyes.
Trouble. Nick cursed. And it was heading straight for him.
‘Very, sir. What can I do for you?’ he asked as his heart raced. He’d submitted his financial report to his office, paid the instalment—and more—on his loan … What else could he have done to earn this man’s displeasure? Copeland had a twenty-five per cent stake