Читать книгу A Sinful Seduction - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 9

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!”