A Sinful Seduction

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.