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A Sinful Seduction
Elizabeth Lane
A man with a plan…for revengeEast Africa is the last place philanthropist Cal Jeffords expected to find glamorous Megan Rafferty, his best friend's widow. Now that he's tracked her down–she's been working as a volunteer nurse for his own foundation–he'll stop at nothing to get answers…including getting her into bed. When he finds out what happened to the millions she embezzled from the charity, he'll make her pay.Megan does have something she's hiding, but it's not what Cal thinks. Ultimately, the truth will make it impossible for him to see their African adventure as a simple seduction–and to let her go.



If this new Megan tried to play on his sympathy, it wasn’t going to work.
So help him, whatever it took, he was going to nail her to the wall.
She’d been looking straight ahead, but now she turned toward him with a frown. “Is something wrong, Cal? Another crisis back home?”
He managed a wry laugh. “Not that I know of. I could say I was just passing through and decided to stop by …” He saw the flash of skepticism in her caramel-colored eyes. “But you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“No.” A smile tugged a corner of her luscious mouth. The sort of mouth made for kissing. When was the last time she’d been kissed? he caught himself wondering.
But never mind that. He was here for just one reason.
Although, if getting to the truth involved kissing her, he wouldn’t complain.

A Sinful Seduction
Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELIZABETH LANE has lived and traveled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website, www.elizabethlaneauthor.com (http://www.elizabethlaneauthor.com).
For Pat, my wonderful sister
who loves Africa
Contents
Chapter One (#u8827b19a-051b-5f8d-b570-2cdfda665ed9)
Chapter Two (#u6472bf0c-7e64-58b4-9386-ce502eb4c753)
Chapter Three (#u16956f8c-2343-56cc-89e0-90ae08542070)
Chapter Four (#u875d7976-a705-5ca0-a309-5d9ec6f3ddd2)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
One
San Francisco, California, February 11
The headline on Page 2 slammed Cal Jeffords in the face.

Two Years Later
Exec’s Widow, Foundation Cash
Are Both Still Missing

Swearing like a longshoreman, Cal crumpled the morning paper in his fist. The last thing he needed was a reminder that today was the second anniversary of his best friend and business partner’s suicide. And he didn’t need that grainy file photo to help him remember Nick and his wife, Megan, with her movie-star beauty, her designer clothes, her multimillion-dollar showplace of a home and her appalling lack of human decency that let her steal from a charity and then leave her husband to carry the blame.
With a grunt of frustration, he crammed the newspaper into the waste basket.
He had no doubt that the whole ugly mess was Megan’s fault. But the questions that still haunted him two years later were how and why? Had Megan coerced Nick into complying? Had the demands of their lavish lifestyle driven Nick Rafferty to embezzle millions from J-COR’s charity foundation? Or had Megan embezzled the money herself and forced her husband to take the blame? She’d had plenty of opportunities to siphon off the cash her fund-raisers brought in. He’d even found evidence that she had.
But Cal would never know for sure. The day after the scandal went public, he’d found Nick slumped over his desk, his hand still clutching the pistol that had ended his life. After the private funeral, Megan had vanished. The stolen money, meant to ease the suffering of third-world refugees, was never recovered.
It didn’t take a genius to make the connection.
Too restless to sit, Cal unfolded his athletic frame and prowled to the window that spanned the outer wall. His office, on the twenty-eighth floor of the J-COR building, commanded a sweeping view of the Bay and the bridge that spanned the choppy, gray water. Beyond the Golden Gate, the stormy Pacific stretched as far as the eye could see.
Megan was out there somewhere. Cal could feel it, like a sickness in his bones. He could picture her in some faraway land, living like a maharani on the millions stolen from his foundation.
It wasn’t so much the missing cash itself that troubled him—although the loss had cut into the foundation’s resources. It was the sheer crassness of taking money earmarked for food, clean water and medical treatment in places rife with human misery. That Megan hadn’t seen fit to make amends at any point after her husband’s death made the crime even more despicable.
She could have returned the money, no questions asked. Even if she was innocent, as she’d claimed to be, she could have stayed around to help him locate it. Instead, she’d simply run, further cementing Cal’s certainty of her guilt. She wouldn’t have run if she didn’t have something to hide. And the woman was damned good at hiding her trail. Not one of the investigators he’d hired had been able to track her down.
But Cal wasn’t a man to give up. Someday he would find her. And when he did, one way or another, Megan Rafferty would pay.
“Mr. Jeffords.”
Cal turned at the sound of his name. His receptionist stood in the office doorway. “Harlan Crandall’s outside, asking to see you. Do you have time for him now, or should I schedule an appointment?”
“Send him in.” Crandall was the latest in the string of private investigators Cal had hired to search for Megan. A short, balding man with an unassuming manner, he’d shown no more promise than the others. But now he’d come by unannounced, asking for an audience. Maybe he had something to report.
Cal seated himself as Crandall entered, wearing a rumpled brown suit and clutching a battered canvas briefcase.
“Sit down, Mr. Crandall.” Cal motioned to the chair on the far side of the desk. “Do you have any news for me?”
“That depends.” Crandall plopped the briefcase onto the desk, opened the flap and drew out a manila folder. “You hired me to look for Mrs. Rafferty. Do you happen to know her maiden name?”
“Of course, and so should you. It’s Cardston. Megan Cardston.”
Crandall nodded, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. “In that case, I may have something to tell you. My sources have tracked down a Megan Cardston who appears to fit the physical description of the woman you’re looking for. She’s working as a volunteer nurse for your foundation.”
Cal’s reflexes jerked. “That’s impossible,” he growled. “It’s got to be a coincidence—just another woman with the same name and body type.”
“Maybe so. You can decide for yourself after you’ve looked over this documentation.” Crandall thrust the folder across the desk.
Cal opened the folder. It contained several photocopied pages that looked like travel requests and personnel rosters. But what caught his eye was a single, blurry black-and-white photograph.
Staring at the image, he tried to picture Megan as he’d last seen her—long platinum hair sculpted into a twist, diamond earrings, flawless makeup. Even at her husband’s funeral, she’d managed to look like a Hollywood screen goddess, except for her pain-shot eyes.
The woman in the photo appeared thinner and slightly older. She was wearing sunglasses and a khaki shirt. Her light brown hair was short and windblown, her face bare of makeup. There was nothing behind her but sky.
Cal studied the firm jawline, the aristocratic nose and ripe, sensual lips. He willed himself to ignore the quiver of certainty that passed through his body. Megan’s face was seared into his memory. Even with her eyes hidden, the woman in the picture had the same look. And Megan, he recalled, had worked as a surgical nurse before marrying Nick. But was this image really the woman who’d eluded him for two long years? There was only one way to be sure.
“Where was this picture taken?” he demanded. “Where’s this woman now?”
Crandall slid the briefcase off the desk and closed it with a snap and a single word.
“Africa.”
Arusha, Tanzania, February 26
Megan gripped the birth-slicked infant and delivered a stinging fingertip blow to its tiny buttocks.
Nothing happened.
She slapped the baby harder, her lips moving in a wordless plea. There was a beat of silence, then, suddenly, a gasping wail, as beautiful as any sound she’d ever heard. Megan’s knees slackened in relief. The delivery had been hellish, a breech birth coming after a long night of labor. That mother and baby were both alive could only be counted as a miracle.
Passing the baby to the young aide, she mopped her brow with the sleeve of her smock, then reached over to do the same for the baby’s mother. The air was warm and sticky. Light from a single bulb flickered on whitewashed walls. Drawn by the glow, insects beat against the screened windows.
As Megan leaned over her, the woman’s eyelids fluttered open. “Asante sana,” she whispered in Swahili, the lingua franca of East Africa. Thank you.
“Karibu sana.” Megan’s deft hands wound a cotton string, knotted it tight and severed the cord. With luck, this baby would grow up healthy, spared the swollen belly and scarecrow limbs of the children she’d labored so desperately to save in Darfur, the most brutally ravaged region of Sudan, where a cruel dictator had used his mercenaries to decimate the African tribal population.
Megan had spent the past eleven months working with the J-COR Foundation’s medical branch in the Sudanese refugee camps. Two weeks ago, on the brink of physical and emotional collapse, she’d been ordered to a less taxing post for recovery. Compared with the camps, this clinic, on the ramshackle fringe of a pleasant Tanzanian town, was a luxury resort.
But she would go back as soon as she was strong enough. She’d spent too many years feeling purposeless and adrift. Now that she’d found focus in her life, she was determined to finally make the most of her skills and training. She should be where she was needed most. And she was sorely needed in Darfur.
By the time the afterbirth came, the aide had sponged the baby boy clean and swaddled him in cotton flannel. The mother’s eager hands reached out to draw him against her breast. Megan took a moment to raise the sheet and check the gauze packing. So far, everything looked all right. She stripped off her smock and her latex gloves. “I’m going to get some rest,” she told the aide. “Watch her. Too much blood, you come and wake me.”
The young African nurse-in-training nodded. She could be counted on to do her job.
Not until she was soaping her hands at the outside faucet did Megan realize how weary she was. It was as if the last of her strength had trickled down her legs and drained into the hard-packed earth. Straightening, she massaged her lower back with her fingers.
Beyond the clinic’s corrugated roof, the moon glimmered like a lost shilling through the purple crown of a flowering jacaranda. Its low angle told her the time was well past midnight, with precious few hours left for sleep. All too soon, first light would trigger a cacophony of bird calls, signaling the start of a new day. At least she’d ended the day well—with a successful delivery and a healthy new life. The sense of accomplishment was strong.
Tired as she was, Megan knew she had no right to complain. This was the life she’d chosen. By now her old life—the clothes and jewelry, the cars, the house, the charity events she’d hosted to raise money for Nick and Cal’s foundation—seemed little more than a dream. A dream that had ended with a headline and a gunshot.
She’d tried not to dwell on that nightmare week. But one image was chiseled into her memory—Cal’s stricken face, the look of cold contempt in his glacial gray eyes, and the final words he’d spoken to her.
“You’re going to answer for this, Megan. I’ll hold you accountable and make you pay if it’s the last thing I do.”
Megan hadn’t embezzled a cent, hadn’t even known about the missing money till the scandal had surfaced. But Cal would never believe that. He’d trusted Nick to the very last.
Seeing Cal’s look and hearing his words, Megan had realized she had no recourse except to run far and fast, to someplace where Cal would never find her.
That, or be trapped with no way to save her own soul.
But all that was in the past, she reminded herself as she flexed her aching shoulders and mounted the porch of the brick bungalow that served as quarters for the volunteers. She was a different person now, with a life that gave her the deepest satisfaction she had ever known.
If only she could put an end to the nightmares....
* * *
As the sleek Gulfstream jet skimmed the Horn of Africa, Cal reopened the folder Harlan Crandall had given him. Clever fellow, that Crandall. He alone had thought to look in the last place Megan would logically choose to hide—the volunteer ranks of the very foundation she had robbed.
The photocopied paperwork gave him a summary of her postings—Zimbabwe, Somalia and, for most of the past year, Sudan. Megan had taken the roughest assignments in the program—evidently by her own choice. What was she thinking? And if the woman in the photo was really Nick’s glamorous widow, what in hell’s name had she done with the money? She’d stolen enough to live in luxury for decades. Luxury even more ostentatious than the lifestyle her husband had given her.
Cal couldn’t repress a sigh as he thought of the expensive trappings Nick had lavished on his wife. He’d always wanted her to have nothing but the best. His taste might have been over-the-top, but Cal had always been certain that Nick’s intentions were good, just as they had been back when the two had become friends in high school.
They’d graduated from the same college, Cal with an engineering degree and Nick with a marketing major. When Cal had come up with a design for a lightweight modular shelter that could be erected swiftly in the wake of a natural disaster or used at construction and recreation sites, it had made sense for the two friends to go into business together. J-COR had made them both wealthy. But they’d agreed that money wasn’t enough. After providing shelters for stricken people around the world, it had been Cal’s idea to set up a foundation. He’d handled the logistics end. Nick had managed the finances and fund-raising.
Within a few years the foundation had expanded to include food and medical services. By then Nick was married to Megan, a nurse he’d met at a fund-raiser. Cal had been best man at their wedding. But even then he hadn’t quite trusted her. She was too beautiful. Too gracious. Too private. Beneath that polished surface he’d glimpsed something elusive; something hidden.
Her cool distance was a striking contrast to Nick’s natural openness and warmth—particularly given the way Nick clearly doted on her. He had showered his bride with gifts—a multimillion-dollar house, a Ferrari, a diamond-and-emerald necklace and more. Megan had responded by using her new position in society to supposedly “help” the foundation. The charity events they’d hosted for wealthy donors at their home had raised generous amounts for the foundation. But of course, those events had done much more to line Megan’s pockets. Three years later, after a routine tax audit, the whole house of cards had come tumbling down. The rest of the story was tabloid fodder.
Cal studied the photograph, which looked as if it had been snapped at a distance and enlarged for his benefit. Megan—if that’s who it really was—may not have even known it was being taken. She was gazing to her left, the light glinting on her sunglasses—expensive sunglasses. Cal noticed the side logo for the first time. He remembered her wearing that brand, maybe that very pair. His mouth tightened as the certainty slid into place. Megan hadn’t quite abandoned her high-end tastes.
It was a piece of luck that she’d been sent to Arusha. Finding her in Sudan could have involved a grueling search. But Arusha, a bustling tourist and safari center, had its own international airport. The company jet was headed there now, and he knew how to find the clinic. He’d been there before. If he so chose, he could round her up with the help of some hired muscle and have her on the plane within a couple of hours.
And then what? Tempting as the idea was, Cal knew it wasn’t practical to kidnap her in a foreign country without a legal warrant. Besides, would it do any good if he could? Megan was smart. She’d know that despite her signature on the checks that had never made it to the foundation’s coffers, he had no solid proof she’d kept the money. If she stuck to her original story, that she’d had no knowledge of the theft and knew nothing about the missing funds, he’d be nowhere.
He didn’t have grounds or authority to arrest her; and it wasn’t in him to threaten her with physical harm. His only hope of getting at the truth, Cal realized, was to win her trust. He wasn’t optimistic enough to think he could make her confess. She was too smart to openly admit to her crimes. But if he got close to her, she might let something slip—drop a tiny clue, innocent on its own, that could lead Crandall to the location of the hidden accounts.
That could take time. But he hadn’t come this far to go home without answers. If that meant wining and dining the lady and telling her a few pretty lies, so be it.
The slight dip in the angle of the cabin told him the plane was starting its descent. If the weather was clear, he might get a look at the massive cone of Kilimanjaro. But that was not to be. Clouds were gathering off the right wing, hiding the view of the fabled mountain. Lightning chained across the distant sky. The seasonal rains had begun. If this kept up, which it likely would, they’d be landing in an African downpour.
Fastening his seat belt, Cal settled back to watch the storm approach. The plane shuddered as lightning snaked over its metal skin. Rain spattered the windows, the sound of it recalling another time, a rainy night three years ago in San Francisco.
It had been the night of the company Christmas party, held downtown at the Hilton. At about eleven o’clock Cal had bumped into Megan coming out of the hallway that led to the restrooms. Her face was white, her mouth damp, as if she’d just splashed it with water. Cal had stopped to ask if she was all right.
She’d laughed. “I’m fine, Cal. Just a little bit...pregnant.”
“Can I get you anything?” he’d asked, surprised that Nick hadn’t told him.
“No, thanks. Since Nick has to stay, I’m going to have him call me a cab. No more late-night parties for this girl.”
She’d hurried away, leaving Cal to reflect that in all the time he’d known her, this was the first time he’d seen Megan look truly happy.
Was she happy now? He tried to picture her working in a refugee camp—the heat, the flies, the poverty, the sickness.... What was she doing here? What had she done with the money? The questions tormented him—and only one person could give him the answers.
* * *
Megan sank onto a bench outside the clinic, sheltered from the rain by the overhanging roof. The day had been hectic, as usual. The new mother and her baby were gone, carted off by her womenfolk early that morning. Her departure had been followed by a flood of patients with ailments ranging from impetigo to malaria. Megan had even assisted while the resident Tanzanian doctor stitched up and vaccinated a boy who’d been foolish enough to tease a young baboon.
Now it was twilight and the clinic was closed. The doctor and the aide had gone home to their families in town. Megan was alone in the walled compound that included the clinic building, a generator and washhouse, a lavatory and a two-room bungalow with a kitchen for volunteers like her. The utilitarian brick structures were softened by the flowering shrubs and trees that flourished in Arusha’s rich volcanic soil. The tulip tree that shaded the clinic had ended its blooming cycle. Rain washed the fallen petals in a crimson cascade off the eave, like tears of blood.
Closing her eyes, Megan inhaled the sweet dampness. She’d yearned for rain in the parched Sudan, where the dusty air was rank with the odors of human misery. Going back wouldn’t be easy. But the need was too great for her not to return. The need of the refugees for care and treatment—and her own need to make a difference.
She was about to get up and brave the downpour when she heard the clang of the gate bell—an improvised iron cowbell on a chain. Rising, she hesitated. If someone had an emergency she could hardly turn them away. But she was here alone. Outside that gate there could be thugs intent on breaking into the clinic for drugs, cash or mischief.
The bell jangled again. Megan sprinted through the rain to the bungalow, found the .38 Smith & Wesson she kept under her pillow and thrust it into the pocket of her loose khakis. Grabbing a plastic poncho from its hook by the door, she tossed it over her head as she hurried toward the sheet-iron gate. The key was in the rusty padlock that anchored the chain between the gate’s welded handles.
“Jina lako nani?” she demanded in her phrase-book Swahili. She’d asked for the person’s name, which was the best she could manage.
There was a beat of silence. Then a gravely, masculine voice rang through the rainy darkness. “Megan? Is that you?”
Megan’s knees crumpled like wet sand. She sagged against the gate, her cold hands fumbling with the key. Cal’s was the last voice she wanted to hear. But hiding from him would only make her look like a fool.
“Megan?” His voice had taken on a more strident tone, demanding an answer. But her throat was too tight to speak. She should have known that Cal wouldn’t give up looking until he found her—even if he had to travel halfway around the world.
The lock fell open, allowing the heavy chain to slide free. Megan stepped back as the gate swung inward and Cal strode into the courtyard. Dressed in a tan Burberry raincoat, he seemed even taller than she remembered, his gray eyes even colder behind the rain that dripped off the brim of his hat.
She knew what he wanted. After two years, Cal was still looking for answers. Now that he’d found her, he would hammer her mercilessly with questions about Nick’s death and the whereabouts of the stolen money.
But she had no answers to give him.
How could she persuade Cal Jeffords to see the truth and leave her in peace?
Two
Cal’s eyes took in the cheap plastic poncho and the tired face beneath the hood. Something in his chest jerked tight. It was Megan, all right. But not the Megan he remembered.
“Hello, Cal.” Her voice was rich and husky. “I see you haven’t changed much.”
“But you have.” He turned and fastened the gate behind him. “Aren’t you at least going to invite me out of the rain?”
She glanced toward the bungalow. “I can make you some coffee. But there’s not much else. I haven’t had time to shop...” Her voice trailed off as she led him through the downpour to the sheltered porch. Rain clattered on the corrugated tin roof above their heads.
“Actually I have a taxi waiting outside,” he said. “I was hoping I could take you to dinner at the hotel.”
Her eyes widened. She seemed nervous, he thought. But then, she had plenty to hide. “That’s kind of you, but there’s no one else here. I need to stay—”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. She quivered like a fawn at his touch but didn’t try to pull away. “It’s all right,” he said. “I spoke with Dr. Musa on the phone. It’s fine with him if you leave for a couple of hours. In fact, he said you could use a nice meal. His houseboy’s on the way over now, to watch the place while we’re gone.”
“Well, since it’s all arranged...” Her voice trailed off.
“Dr. Musa also mentioned that you’re doing a great job here.” That part was true, but Cal made a point of saying it to flatter her.
She shrugged, a slight motion. The old Megan would have lapped up the praise like a satisfied cat. This thin-drawn stranger seemed uncomfortable with it. “I’ve just finished cleaning up in the clinic. I’ll need to wash and change.” She managed a strained laugh. “These days it doesn’t take long.”
“Fine. I’ll open the gate for the cab.”
As Cal slogged back across the compound, he spared a moment to be grateful that he’d thought to bring a pair of waterproof hiking boots before his thoughts returned to his encounter with the woman he’d come to find. Meeting Megan tonight was like meeting her for the first time. He was puzzled and intrigued, but still determined to get to the bottom of the money question. If this new Megan tried to play on his sympathy—and she likely would—it wasn’t going to work. So help him, whatever it took, he was going to nail her to the wall.
Minutes after the cab pulled up to the bungalow, Benjamin, Dr. Musa’s strapping young servant, arrived. Megan emerged from her room wearing a white blouse, fresh khaki slacks and a black twill jacket. A corner of the folded plastic poncho stuck out of her beat-up brown leather purse—Gucci, he noticed the brand. Some things at least hadn’t changed.
Giving Benjamin her pistol, she thanked him with a smile and a few words. Cal lifted a side of his raincoat like a wing to shelter her as they descended the porch steps and climbed into the cab. Her face was damp, her hair finger-combed. She hadn’t taken more than ten minutes to freshen up and change, but it had worked. She looked damned classy.
“When did you get in?” she asked him, making small talk.
“Plane landed a couple of hours ago. I registered at the Arusha Hotel, cleaned up and headed for the clinic.”
She’d been looking straight ahead, but now she turned toward him with a frown. “Is something wrong, Cal? A crisis back home?”
He managed a wry laugh. “Not that I know of. I could say I was just passing through and decided to stop by...” He saw the flash of skepticism in her caramel-colored eyes. “But you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“No.” A smile tugged a corner of her luscious mouth. The sort of mouth made for kissing. Though he had never warmed to her personally, he’d never denied that she was an attractive and desirable woman. When was the last time she’d been kissed? he caught himself wondering. But never mind that. He was here for just one reason. Although, if getting to the truth involved kissing her, he wouldn’t complain.
“I know you better than that, Cal. I left you with a lot of questions. But if you’re here to charm the answers out of me, you could’ve saved yourself a trip. Nothing’s changed. I don’t know anything about where you could find the money. I’m assuming Nick spent it—which, I suppose, makes me guilty by association. But if you’re looking for a big stash under my mattress or in some Dubai bank account, all I can do is wish you luck.”
It was like her to be direct, Cal thought. That trait, at least, hadn’t changed. “Why don’t we table that subject for now. I’m more interested in why you left and what you’ve been doing for the past two years.”
“Of course you are.” Something glimmered in her eyes before she glanced away. The cab’s windshield wipers swished and thumped in the stillness. Rain streamed down the windows. “For the price of a good steak, I suppose I can come up with a few good stories—entertaining, if nothing else.”
“You never disappoint.” Cal kept his voice as neutral as his comment. He had yet to pin down this new Megan. The inner steel she’d always possessed gleamed below a surface so fragile that he sensed she might shatter at a touch.
He knew she’d been sent here for rest and recovery. Nothing in the documents he’d seen explained why, but Dr. Musa, the tall, British-trained Chagga who ran the clinic, had expressed his concern about her health and state of mind to Cal over the phone. Cal needed to learn more. But right now, he was still taking in her presence.
He recalled the perfume she used to wear. The fancy French name of it eluded him, but he’d always found it mildly arousing. There was no trace of that scent now. If she smelled like anything at all, it was the medicinal soap used in the clinic. But strangely, her nearness in the cab was having the same effect on him as that perfume used to have back then.
Things were different now. Back in San Francisco she’d been his best friend’s wife. Megan had been widowed for two years, and if there was anyone else in her life, there was no mention of it in Crandall’s report. As long as the end justified the means, bedding her would be a long-denied pleasure. A little pillow talk could go a long way in loosening secrets.
If nothing else, it would be damned delicious fun.
* * *
Megan had spent little time outside the clinic since her arrival, so the remodeled nineteenth-century Arusha Hotel was new to her. Catering to wealthy tourists, it featured a lobby decorated in rich creams and browns with wing-back chairs and dark leather sofas, a bar and a restaurant with an international menu. Through the glass doors at the rear of the lobby, she glimpsed a large outdoor swimming pool, deserted tonight except for the rain that whipped the water to a froth.
Cal’s big hand rested beneath her elbow as he ushered her toward the restaurant. Megan was of average height, but she felt small next to him. He was almost six-three, broad-shouldered and athletic, with a hard-charging manner that defied anyone to stand in his way. John Wayne in an Armani suit—that was how she would have described him back in the day. Even tonight, in travel-creased khakis, he looked imposing. John Wayne in the old movie Hatari came to mind—maybe because it was also the name of the hotel bar. She’d always found Nick’s best friend overbearing. But there’d been times when she’d wished her husband was more like him.
She wasn’t surprised that he’d found her. Once he set his mind, Cal Jeffords could be as fiercely determined as a pit bull. And he’d come too far to leave without getting something to make his trip worthwhile. She’d told him the truth about the money. But he hadn’t even pretended to believe her. Her signature on the donation checks she’d endorsed and given to Nick to deposit had convinced him she was guilty. Megan’s instincts told her he had a plan to wear her down and make her pay. It would do her no good to fight. Cal was as much a force of nature as the storm raging outside. All she could do was wait for it to pass.
Sitting at their quiet table, she allowed him to order for her—filet mignon with mushrooms, fresh organic vegetables and a vintage Merlot. She could feel his gaze on her as the white-gloved waiter filled their wine goblets and set a basket of fresh hot bread between the lighted candlesticks.
“Eat up,” Cal said, raising his glass. “You need to put some meat on those lovely bones.”
Megan broke off a corner of the bread and nibbled at the crust. “I know I’ve lost weight. But it’s painful to fill your plate when people around you are starving.”
His slate gray eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is all about—this life change of yours? Guilt?”
She shrugged. “When I was married to Nick, I thought I had it all—the big house, the cars, the parties...” She took a sip of the wine. The sweet tingle burned down her throat. “When it all fell apart, and I learned that my lifestyle was literally taking food out of people’s mouths, it sickened me. So, yes, you can call it guilt. Call it whatever you want. Does it matter? I don’t regret the choice I made.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek, betraying a surge of tightly reined anger. “The choice to run away without telling me? Without telling anybody?”
“Yes.” She met his eyes with her own level gaze. “Nick left a god-awful mess behind. If I hadn’t run, I’d still be back in San Francisco trying to clean it up.”
“I know. I had to clean up most of it myself.”
“There wasn’t much I could do to help. The house was mortgaged to the rafters—something I didn’t know until the bank called me after Nick’s death. I told them to go ahead and take it. And the cars were in Nick’s name, not mine. I’m assuming your company took those, along with the art and the furniture. I boxed up my clothes and shoes for Goodwill and pawned my jewelry for travel money—cash only. I knew my credit cards could be traced.”
“By me?”
“Yes. But also by the reporters who kept hounding me and the police who seemed to think I’d have a different answer the fiftieth time they asked a question than I did the first.”
“If you’d stayed, I could have made things easier for both of us, Megan.”
“How could I take that chance? I knew the questions from the police, from the press and from you wouldn’t stop. But, so help me, Cal, I didn’t have any answers. It was easier to just vanish. I was half hoping you’d believe I’d died. In a way, I had.”
The waiter had reappeared with their dinners. Megan half expected Cal to start grilling her about the missing funds, but he only glanced toward her plate in an unspoken order to eat her meal.
The steak was surprisingly tender, but Megan’s anxiety had robbed her of appetite. She took small bites, glancing across the table like a mouse nibbling the cheese in a baited trap. Her eyes studied Cal’s craggy face, trying to catch some nuance of expression. Was he about to trip the spring?
He’d aged subtly in the past two years. The shadows had darkened around his deep-set eyes, and his sandy hair was lightly brushed with gray. Nick’s betrayal and suicide had wounded him, too, she realized. Like her, Cal was dealing with the pain in his own way.
“I was just wondering,” he said. “When you joined that first project in Zimbabwe, was the director aware of who you were?”
“No. He was a local, and Zimbabwe’s a long way from San Francisco. My passport was still in my maiden name, so that was the name I used. I showed up, described my nursing training and offered my help at the AIDS clinic. They needed a nurse too badly to ask many questions.”
“And the transfers?”
“Once I got on the permanent volunteer roster, I could go pretty much where I wanted. Early on I was nervous about staying in one place too long. I moved around a lot. After a while it didn’t seem to matter.”
“And in Darfur? What happened there?”
The question shook her. Something too vague to be called a memory twisted inside, silent and cold like the coils of a snake. Megan willed herself not to feel it.
“You were there for eleven months,” he persisted. “They sent you here for recovery. Something must have gotten to you.”
She shrugged, her unease growing as she stared down at the weave of the bright brown-and-yellow tablecloth. “It’s nothing. I just need rest, that’s all. I’ll be ready to go back in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s not what Dr. Musa told me. He says you have panic attacks. And you won’t talk about what happened.”
Megan’s anxiety exploded in outrage. “He had no right to tell you that. And you had no right to ask him.”
“My foundation’s paying his salary. That gives me the right.” Cal’s leaden gray eyes drilled her like bullets. “Dr. Musa thinks you have post-traumatic stress. Whatever happened out there, Megan, you’re not going back until you deal with it. So you might as well tell me now.”
He was pushing too hard, backing her against an invisible wall. The dark coils twisted and tightened inside her. Sensing what was about to happen, she willed herself to lay down her fork. It clattered onto her plate. “I don’t remember, all right?” Her voice emerged thin and raw. “It doesn’t matter. I just need some time to myself and I’ll be fine. And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to...the clinic.”
Her voice broke on the last words. As her self-control began to crumble, she rose, flung her linen napkin onto the table, caught up her purse and walked swiftly out of the restaurant. There had to be a ladies’ room close by, where she could shut herself in a stall and huddle until her heart stopped thundering. Experience had taught her to recognize the symptoms of a panic attack. But short of doping herself with tranquilizers, she had little control over the rush of irrational terror that flooded her body.
She reached the lobby and glanced around for the restroom sign. The desk clerk was busy. No matter, she could find it by herself. But where was it? She could hear her heart, pounding in her ears.
Where was it?
* * *
Caught off guard, Cal stared after her for an instant. Then he shoved out his chair, stood and strode after her. She hadn’t made it far. He found her in the lobby, her wide-eyed gaze darting this way and that like a cornered animal’s.
Without a word, he caught her shoulders, forcing her to turn inward against his chest. She resisted, but feebly, her body shaking. “Leave me alone,” she muttered. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Come on.” He guided her forcefully through the lobby and out the back door to the patio. Sheltered by the overhanging roof, they stood veiled by a curtain of rain. Her body was rigid in his arms. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, feel the slight pressure of her breasts. She’d stopped fighting him, but the trembling continued. Her breath came in muted gasps. Her fists balled the fabric of his shirt.
He might not be the most sensitive guy in the world, but even he could tell that the woman was terrified.
What had she been through? Cal had visited the Sudan refugee camps—a hell of human misery if ever there was one. Tens of thousands of people crammed into tents and makeshift shelters, not enough food, not enough water, open sewers and latrines teeming with disease. Organizations like the United Nations and private, nongovernment charities, known as NGOs, did what they could. But the need was overwhelming. And Megan had spent eleven months there.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to find her dispirited and worn down—which she clearly was. But there was something more here. Harsh conditions wouldn’t have made her this fearful. Something had happened specifically to her. Something so terrifying that the briefest reminder of it was enough to make her quake.
He was here about the money, he reminded himself. She was guilty as hell, and he couldn’t let himself be moved by sympathy. But right now Megan’s need for comfort appeared all too real. And besides, hadn’t he wanted to get close to her—close enough to learn her secrets? Here was his chance to take that first step.
“It’s all right, girl,” he muttered against her silky hair. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”
His hand massaged her back beneath the light jacket. She was bone thin, the back of her bra stretched tight across shoulder blades that jutted like wings. He’d come here to get the truth out of her and see that she was punished for any part she might have played in Nick’s suicide. But arriving at that truth would take time and patience. Megan was fragile in body and wounded in spirit. Pushing her too hard could shatter what few reserves she had left.
Not that Cal was a saint. Far from it, as his hardening arousal bore witness. It might have been an indelicate response to the situation, but it was the only way he knew to reply. His relationships were usually short-lived affairs, with plenty of heat that burned out quickly. With all the time he devoted to J-COR and the foundation, he had little to spare for romantic entanglements. Brief, passionate flings were usually his preference—the sort of relationship shallow enough for every conflict to be solved by taking matters to bed. He had little experience comforting genuine distress, and his body shifted into default mode, wanting to solve the problem by replacing her troubled thoughts—and his own niggling guilt for causing her such distress—with ecstasy for them both.
The desire was there, smoldering where her hips rested against his, igniting the urge to sweep her upstairs to his luxury suite and ravish her till she moaned with pleasure. Maybe that was what the woman needed—a few weeks of rest, good food and good loving to restore her health and build her trust.
But that wasn’t going to happen tonight. It was comfort and support she needed now, not some big, horny jerk making moves on her.
Giving himself a mental slap, Cal shifted backward, easing the contact between them. She was calm now. Maybe too calm. “Want to talk about it?” he asked.
She exhaled, pushing away from him. “I’ll be fine. Sorry you had to see me like that. I feel like a fool.”
“No one’s blaming you. I’ve seen those camps. You’ve been through eleven months of hell.”
“But not like the people who have nowhere else to go. Seeing their children die, their women—”
“You can’t dwell on that, Megan.”
“I can’t forget it. That’s why I plan to go back as soon as I’m strong enough.”
“That’s insane. I could stop you, you know.”
“You could try. But if you do, I’ll find another way.”
The defiance in her gaze stunned him. Back in San Francisco, where he’d known her as a charming hostess and a lovely ornament, he would never have believed she could possess such an iron will. But her will looked to be all she had left. She was like a guttering candle, on the verge of burning out.
“You should go back and finish your dinner,” she said. “I’ve got my rain poncho. I can catch a matatu back to the clinic.”
“One of those rickety little buses? You’d end up walking for blocks, alone in the rain. I’ll take you.” Cal wouldn’t have minded inviting her upstairs for a hot bath and a chaste, restful night in his suite’s second bed—as a simple act of kindness. But she was certain to turn him down. And even if she accepted, he didn’t trust himself to behave. For all her devious ways, Megan was an alluring woman, made more so by her surprising strength and the unspoken challenge in her manner. The urge to bury himself between those slim, lovely legs might prove too much to resist.
But an idea had taken root in his thoughts—one so audacious that it surprised even him. First thing tomorrow he would make some calls. What he had in mind might be just the thing to restore her health and win her trust.
* * *
Minutes later Megan was huddled beside Cal in the cab’s backseat. The rain had stopped, but the night was chilly and the black blazer she’d worn to look presentable was too thin for warmth.
“You’re shivering.” Cal peeled off his Burberry coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, enfolding her in the heat and manly scent of his body. A thread of panic uncurled inside her. She willed it away.
“We’ve talked about me all evening,” she said, making conversation. “What’s new with you?”
“Nothing much, except that I’m here. The company’s doing fine. So is the foundation. I’ve hired a team of professionals to do the fund-raising. But they don’t have your elegant touch. I miss you and...Nick.”
Megan hadn’t missed the beat of hesitation before he spoke her late husband’s name. “That time seems like a hundred years ago,” she said, then tactfully changed the subject. “Any special lady in your life? As I recall, you always had plenty to choose from.”
“Having a special lady requires an investment in time. More time than I can spare.”
“Remind yourself of that when you’re a grumpy, lonely old man,” she teased. “You’re what? Forty?”
“Thirty-eight. Don’t make me out to be more decrepit than I already am.”
“Fine. But one of these days you’re going to look back and wish you’d had a family.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” he countered.
“Well, at least I tried.” She remembered telling him about the baby. Had Nick let him know she’d miscarried? Or had her statement made him think of her wedding day, when his best man’s toast had congratulated the two of them on the new family they were making together?
His answering silence told Megan she’d pushed the conversation onto painful ground. Cal had been as devastated as she was by Nick’s death. Devastated and angry—or at least, there had been anger on her part, when she’d learned about the embezzlement. Cal had seemed determined to find some way to clear Nick of any blame...which had meant shoving that blame on her, instead. Now, more than two years and half a world away, she was sitting beside him with his coat wrapped around her. It was as if they’d come full circle. She’d done everything in her power to put the past behind her and find peace. But it was no use. Being with Cal had brought it all back.
Three
Cal had offered Benjamin a cab ride back to Dr. Musa’s. The distance wasn’t far but by the time they arrived, jet lag from the long flight had caught up with him. He was nodding off every few minutes.
“Won’t you come in, sir?” the husky youth asked as he climbed out of the cab. “I can make you tea.”
“Another time, thank you. And give my best to the doctor. Tell him I’ll ring him up tomorrow.”
As the cab headed on to the hotel, splashing through the backstreet ruts, Cal reflected on his evening with Megan. Nothing had been as he’d expected. She was so fragile, and yet so powerfully seductive that he’d been caught off guard. It would have been all too easy to forget that the woman had either stolen or driven his best friend to steal millions from the foundation before killing himself, and that the money was still missing. In the days ahead he’d do well to remember that.
A few evenings out weren’t going to break down her resistance. He was going to need more time with her—a lot more time, in a setting calculated to put her at ease. A safari would be perfect—days exploring Africa’s beautiful wildlands, and the kind of pampered nights that a first-class safari company could provide.
Tomorrow he would put his scheme into action. First, as a courtesy, he would ask Dr. Musa’s permission to take Megan out of the clinic for a couple of weeks. If need be, he could fly in another volunteer to take her place. Arranging a photo safari on short notice shouldn’t be a problem. Business tended to slow during the rainy season. Most companies would be eager to accommodate a well-paying client.
Not until everything was in place would he let Megan in on his plan. She might argue. She might even dig in her heels and refuse to go along. But in the end she would go with him. If he had to knock her out and kidnap her, so help him, she would go.
Evenings were long and peaceful on safari, with little to do except eat, drink, rest and talk. As for the nights...But he would let nature take its course. If things went as planned, Megan would soon be stripped of any secrets she was hiding.
But first he wanted to cover all his bases. Tomorrow he would compose an email to Harlan Crandall. If the man was sharp enough to locate Megan, he might also be able to ferret out more details about the last months of Nick’s life. He might even be able to locate the missing money.
For now—Cal punctuated the thought with a tired yawn—all he wanted was to go back to the hotel, crawl between the sheets and sleep off his jet lag.
* * *
On a cot veiled by mosquito netting, Megan writhed in fitful sleep. Her hellish dreams varied from night to night. But this one from her time in Darfur dominated them all, replaying as if it had been burned into her brain.
Saida had been just fifteen, a beautiful child with liquid brown eyes and the doelike grace of her people, the Fur. Because she spoke fair English, and because her family was dead, Megan had given her a translating job at the camp infirmary, with an out-of-the-way corner for sleeping. Bright with promise, Saida had one failing. She had fallen in love with a boy named Gamal, and love had made her careless. Checking on the patients late one night, Megan had found Saida’s pallet empty. Earlier, the starry-eyed girl had mentioned her trysting place with Gamal, a dry well outside the camp. That had to be where she’d gone.
Leaving the camp at night was forbidden. Beyond the boundaries, bands of rogue Janjaweed mercenaries prowled the desert like wild dogs in search of prey. No one was safe out there. Megan had known that she needed to find the two foolish youngsters and bring them back before the unthinkable happened. Arming herself with a loaded pistol, she’d plunged into the darkness.
Now the dream swirled around her like an evil mist. She was sprinting through pools of shadow, the waning moon a razor edge of light above the naked hills. Behind her lay the camp; ahead she could make out the gnarled trunk of a dead acacia, its limbs clutching the sky like the fingers of an arthritic hand. Beyond the tree lay the well, a dry hole marked by a cairn of stones.
Near the cairn she could see the two young lovers. They were locked in a tender embrace, blind and deaf to everything but each other. A turbaned shadow moved behind them. Then another and another. Raising the pistol, Megan cocked it and aimed. Time slowed as her finger tightened on the trigger.
Before she could fire, a huge, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. Pain shot up her arm as the pistol was wrenched away. She tried to fight, twisting and scratching, but her captor was a wall of muscle. Powerless to move or cry out, she could only watch in horror as a knife sang out of the darkness and buried itself to the hilt in Gamal’s back. He dropped without a sound.
Saida’s screams shattered the darkness as the Janjaweed moved in. One of them flung her to the ground. Two others pinned her legs as the circle of men closed around her. Megan heard the sound of ripping cloth. Again Saida screamed. Again and again...
Megan’s eyes jerked open. She was shaking violently, her skin drenched in sweat beneath her light cotton pajamas. Her heart slammed in the silence of the room.
Easing her feet to the floor, she brushed aside the mosquito netting, leaned over her knees and buried her face in her hands. The dream always ended the same way. She had no memory of how she’d managed to escape. She only knew that Gamal had been found dead outside the camp the next morning, and Saida had vanished without a trace.
She’d soldiered on, hoping time would help her forget. But even here in Arusha the nightmares were getting worse, not better. Maybe Dr. Musa was right. Maybe she did have post-traumatic stress. But so what if she did? As far as she knew, there was no simple cure for the malady. Otherwise, why would so many combat veterans be suffering from it back in the States?
All she could do was go on as if nothing had happened. If she could control her fears, she could still do some good. One day she might even be able to live a normal life.
But normal in every respect? She shook her head. That would be asking too much.
* * *
Wednesday was vaccination day at the clinic. While the aide managed the paperwork, and Dr. Musa took care of the more urgent cases, Megan spent the hours giving immunizations. Most of her patients, babies and children, had departed squalling. She loved the little ones and was grateful for the chance to help them stay well; but by late afternoon she’d developed a pounding headache.
Taking a break as the stream of people thinned, she gulped down a couple of aspirins. She couldn’t help wondering where Cal was. He’d promised to come by the clinic, but she hadn’t seen him for two days. Had some emergency come up, or was he just avoiding her?
But why should she care? Cal wanted to stir up memories she would be happy to keep buried. Seeing him again would only sharpen the loss that had dulled over time.
Dared she believe he’d given up on her and left? But that wasn’t like Cal. He’d come here seeking satisfaction, and he wouldn’t walk away without it. Was it just the money? Or was he looking for some closure in the matter of Nick’s death? Either way, he was wasting his time. She had no insight to offer him.
But her conflict over the prospect of spending time with him went deeper than that.
The other night when the calming strength of his arms had temporarily eased her panic, she’d been grateful for his comfort—and troubled by how it made her feel. Cal was a compelling man, and he’d touched her in a way that had sent an unmistakable message. There was a time when she would have found him hard to resist. But when he’d held her so close that his arousal had hardened against her belly, it had been all she could do to keep from pushing him away and running off into the rain. Only when he’d stepped back had she felt safe once more.
Over the past months, it was as if something had died in her. The things she’d witnessed had numbed her to the point where she doubted her ability to respond as a woman.
The issue had come to light a few months ago when a volunteer MSF doctor in one of the camps had invited her for a private supper. He’d been attractive enough, and Megan had harbored no illusions about what to expect. Such things were common enough between volunteers, and though she’d never indulged before, she’d actually looked forward to a few hours of forgetting the wretched conditions outside. But when he’d kissed her, she’d felt little more than a vague unease. She’d tried to behave as if everything was all right; but as his caresses grew more intimate, her discomfort had spiraled into panic. In the end she’d twisted away, plunged out of the tent and fled with his words echoing in her ears— What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you frigid?
By the next night the doctor had found a more agreeable partner. Megan hadn’t attempted intimacy again. She’d hoped it had been a fluke, but her reaction to Cal had confirmed her suspicions.
Her problem hadn’t gone away, and most likely wouldn’t. If Cal had seduction in mind, the man was in for a letdown. For that, and for every other reason she could think of, it would be best if she never saw him again.
But that was not to be. The next morning, as Megan was eating a breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee, he roared through the gate in an open jeep that bore the logo of one of the big safari companies. A flock of brown parrots exploded from the tulip tree as he pulled up to the bungalow.
Dr. Musa stepped out of the clinic, grinning as if in on some secret joke.
Cal vaulted out of the jeep. “Pack your things, Megan,” he ordered. “You’re coming with me—now.”
“Have you lost your mind, Cal Jeffords?” She faced him on the porch steps, her arms folded across her chest. “What gives you the right to come in here and order me around as if I were six years old?”
His eyes narrowed, glinting like granite over a sharklike smirk. “I’m the head of the J-COR Foundation and you’re a volunteer. Right now I’m volunteering you to come with me on safari for ten days. I’ve already cleared it with Dr. Musa.” He glanced toward the doctor, who nodded. “Your replacement’s flying in this afternoon, so the clinic won’t be shorthanded. Everything’s been arranged.”
“And I have no say in any of this?”
“Dr. Musa agrees with me that your work here isn’t giving you enough rest. You need a real break. That’s what I’m offering you.”
“Offering? Does that mean I can refuse?”
“Not if you’re smart.” He stood his ground at the foot of the steps, his slate eyes level with hers.
“What if I say no? Will you haul me off by force?”
“If I have to.” He didn’t even blink, and she knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t bluffing. Once the man made up his mind, there’d be no moving him.
Not that the idea of a safari seemed so bad. It might even speed her recovery. But how was she going to survive ten days with Cal? Scrambling for a shred of control, she squared her jaw.
“Fine, I’ll go with you on one condition. If I’m fit and rested by the end of the safari, I want to be sent back to Darfur.”
One dark eyebrow twitched. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Is it a good idea for any of those poor people who have nowhere else to go? It’s where I’m most urgently needed. And without that goal, I can’t justify wasting ten days on a...vacation.”
He scowled, then slowly nodded. “All right. But while we’re on safari, you’re on orders to relax and have a good time. That’s the best medicine you can give yourself if you want to recover. And as you said yourself, you’ll need to be fit and rested to return there.”
She took a moment to study him, the jutting chin, the steely gaze. Cal Jeffords wasn’t spending precious time and money on a safari just to help her get better. The next ten days would be a contest of wills. She would need to be on her guard the whole time.
“So, do we have a deal?” he demanded.
Megan turned toward the door of the bungalow. Pausing, she glanced back at him—long enough for him to see that she wasn’t smiling. “It won’t take me long to pack,” she said. “The coffee’s hot. Have some while you’re waiting.”
* * *
The single-engine Piper Cherokee circled the rim of the Ngorongoro crater, a place designated by National Geographic as one of the world’s Living Edens. Cal had been here two or three times over the years and knew what to expect. He was more interested in watching Megan, who was seeing it for the first time.
As the pilot banked the plane, she pressed against the window, looking down at the grassy floor of the twelve-mile-wide caldera. “This is amazing,” she murmured.
“It’s all that’s left of an ancient volcano that blew its top.” Cal shifted comfortably into the role of guide. “Geologists who’ve done the math claim it was as big as Kilimanjaro. Can you believe that?”
Megan shook her head. She’d been quiet during the short flight, and Cal hadn’t pressed her to talk. There’d be plenty of time for conversation later. He studied her finely chiseled profile against the glass. Even in sunglasses, with no makeup and wind-tousled hair, she was a beauty. No wonder Nick had been eager to give her anything she wanted.
“We could’ve driven here in less than a day,” he said. “But I wanted your first view of the crater to be this one, from the air.”
“It’s breathtaking.” She kept her gaze fixed on the landscape below. “Why is it so green down there? The rains have barely started.”
“The crater has springs that keep it watered year-round. The animals living there don’t have to migrate during the dry season.”
“Will we see animals today?” Her voice held a childlike anticipation. Once Megan had resigned herself to going, she’d flung herself into the spirit of the safari. Despite his hidden agenda, and his long-nurtured distrust of her, Cal found himself enjoying, even sharing, her enthusiasm.
“That depends,” he replied. “Harris Archibald, our guide, will be meeting the plane with our vehicle. Where we go will be mostly up to him. You’ll enjoy Harris—at least, I hope you will. He’s a relic of the old days, a real character. Be prepared—he’s missing an arm and he’ll tell you a dozen different stories about how he lost it. I’ve no idea which version is true.”
He’d been lucky to hire Harris for this outing, Cal reflected. The old man usually guided trophy hunters, and his talent for it had him in high demand. But when Cal had called on him in Arusha, Harris had just had a client cancel. He’d been glad for the work, even though shepherding a photo safari had meant changing the arrangements he’d already made.
The old rogue swilled liquor, swore like a pirate and had been through four wives; but when it came to scouting game, he had the instincts of a bloodhound. There was no doubt he’d give Cal his money’s worth.
“Will we be sleeping in tents tonight?” Megan asked as the plane veered away from the crater toward the open plain.
“You sound like a little girl on her first camping trip.” Cal squelched the impulse to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. She seemed in high spirits this afternoon, but he sensed the frailty beneath her cheerful facade. Or was that an act? He’d have to remember to be on his guard against her. This was a woman used to wrapping men around her little finger.
“Wait and see,” he said. “I want you to be surprised.”
And she would be, he vowed. By the end of the next ten days, Megan would be well rested, well fed, well ravished and trusting enough to tell him anything.
* * *
The plane touched down on an airstrip that was little more than a game trail through the long grass. Cal swung to the ground, then reached up for Megan. Using his hand for balance, she climbed onto the low-mounted wing and jumped lightly to earth.
A cool wind, smelling of rain, teased her hair and ruffled the long grass. Far to the west, sooty clouds boiled over the horizon. Lightning flickered in the distant sky. Megan counted the seconds before the faint growl of thunder reached her ears. The rain was still several miles away, but it appeared to be moving fast. Their personal gear had been unloaded and the plane was turning around to take off ahead of the storm. If no one showed up to meet them, she and Cal would be left in the middle of nowhere with no shelter to protect them from the weather or the wildlife.
But there was no way she’d let Cal know how nervous she was. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed him a smile. “So our big adventure begins.”
He wasn’t fooled by her bravado. “Don’t worry, Harris will be here,” he said. “The old boy hasn’t lost a client yet.”
As if his words were prophetic, Megan saw a mottled tan shape approaching in the distance. Lumbering closer, it materialized into a mud-spattered heavy-duty Land Rover with open sides and a canvas top. There were two men in the front seat—a tall African driver and a stockier figure in khakis and a pith helmet.
Waving to the pair in the Land Rover, the pilot gunned his engine. The little plane droned down the makeshift runway, cleared the ground and soared into the darkening sky.
Cal hefted the duffel bags and strode toward the vehicle, where he tossed the gear in the back, keeping hold only of the case he had told Megan held the binoculars and cameras. Once the bags were arranged, he opened the door for Megan to climb into the rear seat. The driver gazed politely ahead, but their aging guide turned around to give Megan a look that could have gotten him slapped if he’d been a generation younger.
The man reminded Megan of an aging Ernest Hemingway, with battered features that would have been handsome in his youth. His bristling eyebrows and scruffy gray beard showed lingering traces of russet. His blue eyes held a secretive twinkle that put Megan at ease.
“I’ll be damned, Cal.” He spoke with a trace of lower-class British accent. “You told me you were bringing a lady friend, but you didn’t tell me how classy she was. Now I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”
Cal settled himself on the backseat. “Megan, my friend Harris Archibald needs no introduction,” he said. “Harris, this is Ms. Megan Cardston.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Archibald.” Megan extended her hand, then noticed, to her embarrassment, the pinned-up right sleeve of his khaki shirt.
He chuckled and accepted her handshake from the left. “You can call me Harris. I don’t hold much with formality.”
“But I’m holding you to your remark about being on your best behavior, Harris,” Cal said.
“Oh, you needn’t worry on that account. I’ve long since learned my lesson about fooling around with the client’s womenfolk. See this?” He nodded toward the stump of his arm, which appeared to have been severed just above the elbow. “Jealous husband with a big gun and a bad aim.”
Cal rolled his eyes heavenward. Remembering what he’d told her about Harris’s stories, Megan suppressed a smile. “And our driver?” she asked. “Are you going to introduce him?”
Harris looked slightly startled, as if most clients tended to ignore the African staff. “Gideon,” he said. “Gideon Mkaba. We’ll be in good hands with him.”
“Hujambo, Gideon.” Megan extended her hand over the back of the seat.
“Sijambo.” The driver smiled and shook her hand.
“So where are we going, Harris?” Cal broke the beat of awkward silence.
The guide grinned. “Thought you’d never ask! Elephant! Whole bloody herd of ’em down by the riverbed. We were scouting ’em when we saw your plane.”
As the engine coughed to a rumbling start, lightning cracked across the sky with a deafening boom. The roiling clouds let loose a gush of water that deluged down on the vehicle’s canvas top. Wind blew the rain sideways, dousing the passengers.
“Move it, Gideon!” Harris shouted above the storm. “They won’t be there forever!”
“But it’s raining!” Megan protested, shivering in her wet clothes.
Twisting in the front seat, Harris shot her a devilish grin. “Excuse me, miss, but the elephants don’t bloody care!”
Four
By the time they came within sight of the riverbed, Cal had managed to clamber into the back of the jouncing Land Rover and find Megan’s duffel among the gear. Pulling out her rain poncho, he reached over the seat, tugged it past her head and worked it down around her shivering body. It was too late to keep her dry, but at least the plastic sheeting would act as a windbreaker and help keep her warm.
As he moved back to the seat, she looked up at him. Her lips moved in silent thanks. A freshet of tenderness welled inside him. Even a strong woman like Megan needed someone to care about her. Something told him she hadn’t had anyone like that in a long time.
But he hadn’t come on this trip to feel sorry for her. He couldn’t let sympathy—or any other emotion—divert him from his purpose.
“There.” On a slight rise above the riverbank, Harris motioned for the driver to stop. The growl of the engine dropped to a low idle. Glancing back at Cal and Megan, the guide touched a finger to his lips and pointed.
At first Cal saw nothing. Then, not fifty yards ahead, a huge, gray silhouette emerged through the sheeting rain. Then another and another.
Cal could feel Megan’s hand gripping his arm as the herd ambled toward them on silent feet. Did the tension in her come from awe or worry? He wasn’t quite sure what to feel, himself. He knew that most animals in the game parks were accustomed to vehicles. But these elephants were close, and the open Land Rover offered little in the way of protection. He could only hope that Harris knew what he was doing.
Somewhere below them, hidden by the high bank, was the rain-swollen river. Over the rush of water, Cal could hear the elephants. They were vocalizing in low-pitched rumbles, their tone relaxed, almost conversational. Gideon slipped the gearshift into Reverse, ready to back away at the first sign of trouble. Surely, by now, the herd was aware of them. But the elephants continued on, undisturbed.
The leader, most likely an older cow, was within a stone’s throw of the vehicle’s front grille when she turned aside and disappeared through an opening in the riverbank. The others followed her—adult females, half-grown teenagers and tiny newborn calves trailing like gray ghosts through the rain, down the slope toward the river. Megan’s grip tightened. Cal could sense the emotion in her, the fear and the wonder. He resisted the impulse to take her hand. They had just shared an unforgettable moment. He didn’t want to risk spoiling it.
The last elephant had made it down the bank to the water. The contented sounds of drinking and splashing drifted up from below. Harris nodded to the driver, who backed up the Land Rover, turned it around and headed back the way they’d come.
“You had me worried, there,” Cal admitted. “Any one of those elephants could have charged us.”
Harris chuckled. “No need to fret. I know that herd, and I knew they’d be thirsty. They always take the same path down to the river. As long as we didn’t bother them, I was pretty sure they wouldn’t pay us much heed.”
Megan hadn’t spoken. “Are you all right?” Cal asked her.
Her voice emerged as a nervous laugh. “Unbelievable,” she breathed. “And we forgot to take pictures.”
Cal could feel her trembling beneath the poncho, whether from cold or excitement, he couldn’t be sure. But her green-flecked caramel eyes were glowing beneath the hood. It had been a good moment with Megan, the elephants and the rain, he mused; maybe the best moment he’d known in a long time. But he couldn’t forget what he’d come to do.
* * *
Megan had expected that being on safari would involve roughing it in a tent. In her cold, wet condition, the luxury lodge on the outer slope of the Ngorongoro Crater came as a welcome surprise. Less welcome was the discovery that Harris had clearly misread her relationship with Cal. He had reserved just one bungalow for the two of them. With one bed.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.” Cal stood beside her in the open doorway surveying the elegantly rustic quarters, decorated in native rugs, baskets and tapestries. “While you shower and change for dinner, I’ll go talk to the manager. They’re bound to have an extra room somewhere.”
With the door locked behind him, Megan stripped down and luxuriated in the hot, tiled shower stocked with lavender-scented soap and shampoo. It wouldn’t be a good idea to get used to this, she lectured herself. In the camps, a bucket of cold water was often as good as she could get. Much of the time she’d had to make do with sponge baths, reminding herself that even that was better than most refugees had.
If she could move beyond the panic attacks and the nightmares, Cal had promised to send her back to Darfur. Ten days wasn’t much time. But if she could relax and focus on getting well, it might make a difference.
She wanted to go back, needed to. Working among the poor and dispossessed had given her the only real sense of worth she had ever known—something she had craved after her world had collapsed under her feet.
In her naïveté, she hadn’t learned about Nick’s embezzlement of the charity funds until days before he’d shot himself. Between his death and his funeral, she’d done a world of soul-searching. For years, she’d taken it for granted that her husband was rich, and she’d spent accordingly. But how much of the stolen money had gone to support her extravagant lifestyle? Megan had no way of knowing. She had known, though, that while she couldn’t return the money, she could at least make some restitution through her own service.
Cal’s cold anger at the funeral and his threat to make her pay had startled her. Until then she hadn’t realized that he blamed her for the theft and for his friend’s suicide. Knowing that he would find some way to go after her legally and that she had no power to fight him had pushed her decision—she’d had no choice except to run far and fast, where Cal would never think to look for her.
Using her political connections and her knowledge of the J-COR Foundation, she’d managed to expedite the paperwork and lose herself in the ranks of volunteers. What surprised her was the fulfillment she’d found in working with the refugees. They had needed her—and in that need she’d found the hope of redemption.
She was proud of the work she’d done in Arusha, but she could do so much more in Darfur. She had to go back; and she couldn’t let Cal stop her.
Megan had put on fresh clothes and was fluffing her short damp hair when she heard a knock on the door. She opened it to find Cal standing on the threshold with his duffel bag.
“No luck,” he said. “They’ve got a big tour group coming in tonight, and everything will be full-up. I even asked about borrowing a cot. Nothing.”
“Can you room with Harris?”
“Harris has a single bed in the main lodge. He’ll probably come in drunk, and even when he’s sober he snores like a steam calliope. I let him know about his mistake—the old rascal just grinned and told me to make the best of it.”
He glanced around the bungalow, which, except for the bath, was all one L-shaped room. Near the window, a sofa and two armchairs were grouped around a coffee table. “Sorry. I’ll be fine sleeping on the couch. I even have some sheets and an extra mosquito net they gave me at the desk.”
Grin and bear it. Megan sighed as her gaze measured his looming height against the modest length of the sofa. “I may be a better fit for the couch myself. But I suppose we can work that out. Come on in. You’ll want to clean up before dinner.”
While Cal showered, Megan opened the camera bag and went over the instruction manual for the small digital camera Cal had bought her in Arusha. In the background, she could hear the splash and gurgle of running water as he sluiced his body—probably a very impressive body, she conceded. But she’d been married to Nick for five years; and working in the camps, she’d seen more than her share of nudity. If Cal were to walk out of the bathroom stark naked, she would do little more than shrug and look the other way.
The small intimacies of sharing a room didn’t bother her. It was Cal’s constant, looming presence that would take some getting used to.
The shower had stopped running. The door opened a few inches to let out the steam, but it appeared he was getting dressed in the bathroom. A few minutes later he stepped out, freshly shaven and combed, and dressed in clean jeans and a charcoal-gray sweater that matched his eyes. The clothes should have seemed casual, but something about his presence lent a rugged elegance to whatever he wore. She’d always noticed that.
Megan had done some needed shopping in Arusha before their departure, but she’d bought mostly plain khakis and T-shirts, a fleece jacket and a pair of sturdy boots, which she could take back to Darfur. Her one indulgence had been a colorful but practical jade-green scarf, which she’d knotted at her throat tonight. It was as dressed-up as she was going to get.

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