Excerpt from "A Sinful Seduction"

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....

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