Free An African Affair by Nina Darnton Page B

took her hand and they walked back to the hut. They spread a blanket, filled their glasses with champagne and sat down.
    “To a great day,” Lindsay said.
    He clicked his glass against hers. There was that look again, as if he could see right through her. Lindsay believed on some deep level that she fooled people, that her act was so convincing no one ever discovered the real person behind it. When an attractive man made her feel exposed, she felt aroused. Jim Garner, in the early days of their relationship, had had this effect on her.
    “To accidental encounters,” she said, raising her glass.
    “I thought Freud said there were no accidents.”
    “Indeed he did.” He reached forward, put her glass on the ground, and kissed her gently. Then he kissed her again, harder. She responded, pulling him down onto her. They caressed and explored each other with a kind of fever, now one on top, now the other, pushed on by the glare of the sun, the rough texture of the hot sand. The depth of her desire surprised her; she felt herself gasp for breath. But, somehow, she pulled back.
    “No,” she said. “It’s too soon. Please.”
    He responded almost lazily, raising his thumb and running it across her lips. Then he stood up. He walked back to the water’s edge and plunged into a wave.
    She lay in the sand, trying to understand why she stopped him when she wanted him so much.
    James emerged from the ocean and she handed him a towel.
    “What was in that champagne?” she asked lightly.
    “The truth.” He sat down beside her. “We were just much closer to it than any newspaper story.”
    She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun baking her skin. He fetched the picnic, spread it on a blanket under a thatched umbrella and ordered her to eat—“Before you fry in the sun.” There were deviled eggs, pâté, caviar (complete with chopped egg whites and lemon), and cold salmon. Who would have imagined? And in Lagos!
    “So, Lindsay, tell me a story.”
    “A story? About what?”
    “Whatever you want. About you. For example, why are you lying on a beach in Nigeria instead of having a picnic with a husband and two kids in . . . where are you from? New York?”
    She took a bite of deviled egg followed by a sip of champagne. “Oh, I don’t know. That was never my goal. Most of the men in my life didn’t like competing with breaking news. I think I was just too independent—I wanted a relationship but on my own terms, and that’s a luxury usually reserved for men.”
    James didn’t answer for a moment, as if he were waiting for her to say more. “Is that it, really? It sounds like the kind of prepared response people give when they don’t want to talk about the real reasons they do things.”
    Stung, Lindsay met his eyes. “And that sounds like the kind of psychobabble people use when they want to sound smarter than they are.”
    He grinned disarmingly. “Whoa. I’m sorry. Have I hit a nerve?”
    “No. Maybe you’ve simply met your match.”
    “I don’t doubt it.”
    He reached forward and put his hand over hers. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I like you and I guess I was hoping for something more intimate than the story you probably tell anyone who asks.”
    She shrugged. “Most people don’t ask. Besides, we don’t know each other well enough yet.”
    “I hope we will.”
    She was quiet for a while, sipping her drink.
    “Maybe you’re right,” she said finally. “Maybe that isn’t the reason. Maybe I just say that to make me feel like it’s not my fault.”
    “I don’t think it’s about fault. I just meant it’s better to start by being honest with each other.”
    “You don’t have some kind of copyright on honesty, you know.”
    “I know. But I try. I’ve learned it’s the only way.”
    After a while, she turned to him and said, “I don’t know why I never married. Of course, it is partly the work and my reluctance to give up my independence. That’s