Elizabeth Lane - A Sinful Seduction

“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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