A muscle twitched in his cheek, betraying a surge of tightly reined anger. “The choice to run away without telling me? Without telling anybody?”
“Yes.” She met his eyes with her own level gaze. “Nick left a god-awful mess behind. If I hadn’t run, I’d still be back in San Francisco trying to clean it up.”
“I know. I had to clean up most of it myself.”
“There wasn’t much I could do to help. The house was mortgaged to the rafters—something I didn’t know until the bank called me after Nick’s death. I told them to go ahead and take it. And the cars were in Nick’s name, not mine. I’m assuming your company took those, along with the art and the furniture. I boxed up my clothes and shoes for Goodwill and pawned my jewelry for travel money—cash only. I knew my credit cards could be traced.”
“By me?”
“Yes. But also by the reporters who kept hounding me and the police who seemed to think I’d have a different answer the fiftieth time they asked a question than I did the first.”
“If you’d stayed, I could have made things easier for both of us, Megan.”
“How could I take that chance? I knew the questions from the police, from the press and from you wouldn’t stop. But, so help me, Cal, I didn’t have any answers. It was easier to just vanish. I was half hoping you’d believe I’d died. In a way, I had.”
The waiter had reappeared with their dinners. Megan half expected Cal to start grilling her about the missing funds, but he only glanced toward her plate in an unspoken order to eat her meal.
The steak was surprisingly tender, but Megan’s anxiety had robbed her of appetite. She took small bites, glancing across the table like a mouse nibbling the cheese in a baited trap. Her eyes studied Cal’s craggy face, trying to catch some nuance of expression. Was he about to trip the spring?
He’d aged subtly in the past two years. The shadows had darkened around his deep-set eyes, and his sandy hair was lightly brushed with gray. Nick’s betrayal and suicide had wounded him, too, she realized. Like her, Cal was dealing with the pain in his own way.
“I was just wondering,” he said. “When you joined that first project in Zimbabwe, was the director aware of who you were?”
“No. He was a local, and Zimbabwe’s a long way from San Francisco. My passport was still in my maiden name, so that was the name I used. I showed up, described my nursing training and offered my help at the AIDS clinic. They needed a nurse too badly to ask many questions.”
“And the transfers?”
“Once I got on the permanent volunteer roster, I could go pretty much where I wanted. Early on I was nervous about staying in one place too long. I moved around a lot. After a while it didn’t seem to matter.”
“And in Darfur? What happened there?”
The question shook her. Something too vague to be called a memory twisted inside, silent and cold like the coils of a snake. Megan willed herself not to feel it.
“You were there for eleven months,” he persisted. “They sent you here for recovery. Something must have gotten to you.”
She shrugged, her unease growing as she stared down at the weave of the bright brown-and-yellow tablecloth. “It’s nothing. I just need rest, that’s all. I’ll be ready to go back in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s not what Dr. Musa told me. He says you have panic attacks. And you won’t talk about what happened.”
Megan’s anxiety exploded in outrage. “He had no right to tell you that. And you had no right to ask him.”
“My foundation’s paying his salary. That gives me the right.” Cal’s leaden gray eyes drilled her like bullets. “Dr. Musa thinks you have post-traumatic stress. Whatever happened out there, Megan, you’re not going back until you deal with it. So you might as well tell me now.”
He was pushing too hard, backing her against an invisible wall. The dark coils twisted and tightened inside her. Sensing what was about to happen, she willed herself to lay down her fork. It clattered onto her plate. “I don’t remember, all right?” Her voice emerged thin and raw. “It doesn’t matter. I just need some time to myself and I’ll be fine. And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to...the clinic.”
Her voice broke on the last words. As her self-control began to crumble, she rose, flung her linen napkin onto the table, caught up her purse and walked swiftly out of the restaurant. There had to be a ladies’ room close by, where she could shut herself in a stall and huddle until her heart stopped thundering. Experience had taught her to recognize the symptoms of a panic attack. But short of doping herself with tranquilizers, she had little control over the rush of irrational terror that flooded her body.
She reached the lobby and glanced around for the restroom sign. The desk clerk was busy. No matter, she could find it by herself. But where was it? She could hear her heart, pounding in her ears.
Where was it?
* * *
Caught off guard, Cal stared after her for an instant. Then he shoved out his chair, stood and strode after her. She hadn’t made it far. He found her in the lobby, her wide-eyed gaze darting this way and that like a cornered animal’s.
Without a word, he caught her shoulders, forcing her to turn inward against his chest. She resisted, but feebly, her body shaking. “Leave me alone,” she muttered. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Come on.” He guided her forcefully through the lobby and out the back door to the patio. Sheltered by the overhanging roof, they stood veiled by a curtain of rain. Her body was rigid in his arms. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, feel the slight pressure of her breasts. She’d stopped fighting him, but the trembling continued. Her breath came in muted gasps. Her fists balled the fabric of his shirt.
He might not be the most sensitive guy in the world, but even he could tell that the woman was terrified.
What had she been through? Cal had visited the Sudan refugee camps—a hell of human misery if ever there was one. Tens of thousands of people crammed into tents and makeshift shelters, not enough food, not enough water, open sewers and latrines teeming with disease. Organizations like the United Nations and private, nongovernment charities, known as NGOs, did what they could. But the need was overwhelming. And Megan had spent eleven months there.
He wouldn’t have been surprised to find her dispirited and worn down—which she clearly was. But there was something more here. Harsh conditions wouldn’t have made her this fearful. Something had happened specifically to her. Something so terrifying that the briefest reminder of it was enough to make her quake.
He was here about the money, he reminded himself. She was guilty as hell, and he couldn’t let himself be moved by sympathy. But right now Megan’s need for comfort appeared all too real. And besides, hadn’t he wanted to get close to her—close enough to learn her secrets? Here was his chance to take that first step.
“It’s all right, girl,” he muttered against her silky hair. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”
His hand massaged her back beneath the light jacket. She was bone thin, the back of her bra stretched tight across shoulder blades that jutted like wings. He’d come here to get the truth out of her and see that she was punished for any part she might have played in Nick’s suicide. But arriving at that truth would take time and patience. Megan was fragile in body and wounded in spirit. Pushing her too hard could shatter what few reserves she had