A Sinful Seduction. Elizabeth Lane
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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,