If Only

If Only

Chapter 1

Mombasa, Kenya

Cora

"Not again.” I let out an exasperated groan and dumped my shoulder bag on the table in front of the customs officer. "Samson, you know me. I've basically lived here for the past three years."

"New procedures, Miss Cora. So sorry, but we have been instructed to examine the reporters’ and photographers' bags coming through the airport and it's been awhile since I've seen you last. Not that it has made a difference."

"Have a look. I've got nothing to hide and you know it."

Samson had been working in airport security since I first began traveling to Mombasa for work. I brought him treats from all over the world and small presents for his kids.

"How are your wife and children?" I asked while he perused the contents of my bag. Poor him, I thought. I'd not cleaned the bag since Sydney. The paper had finally transferred me to Kenya after having me report from Sydney over Christmas and into January. The wildfires were out of control and millions of animals and people were on the run. I'd needed a break, so a colleague had taken over. Happily, I'd agreed to return to Kenya, which was my go-to place in Africa when I was reporting from that continent.

"You're good to go. It's great to see you again."

"Likewise. I've been traveling for 30 hours and am in desperate need of a bed." I checked my wristwatch. It was only ten to nine, but it might as well have been the middle of the night.

"The driver is waiting for you." Samson nodded to the resort's driver, who was on the other side of the customs area. The warm-but-fresh wind greeted me and was a friendly welcome as opposed to Sydney's suffocating heat.

"Asante sana," I replied in Swahili.

"Asante sana. Karibu."

"Habari, Willy. Thank you for taking me home.” I winked at him as he took my suitcase and placed it in the trunk. The suitcase held all my dearest possessions. "My Life In a Suitcase" could be the headline if I were to write a biography instead of reporting news from the corners of the world. Thirty-seven years old and rootless. I leaned my head against the window and let the nightlife in the streets of Mombasa pass by. People were always walking in Africa, from dusk till dawn and everywhere. This was my Africa. It felt like coming home. More than anywhere else, this was my place. I started whistling, "The Lion Sleeps Tonight”.

"Let's hope he does, Bibi."

"Am I not soon old enough to be Bi and not Bibi?” Bibi was Miss and Bi was Mrs. in Swahili.

"But you're not married, are you Bibi?" Willy found my eyes in the rear mirror. Laughter played in the corners of his eyes. I loved the Kenyan humor and I couldn't help but laugh back at him.

"No, can't say that I've fallen under that spell yet." If I ever will, I thought.

The drive to the ocean resort was relatively short - only 20 kilometers - but it took 40 minutes in regular traffic.

"We are here. Let me help you with your bag." Willy had parked the car by the front entrance, and I was grateful for the short walk from the car to the reception. I was exhausted, to put it mildly.

"Karibu, Miss Cora." Another employee welcomed me with a small glass of chilled passion fruit juice and a wet towel.

"Amazing, thank you."

The dinner rush was over. People were now relaxing around the lobby and bar area, where a large group caught my attention. They were enjoying the Saturday evening immensely, drinking and dancing. I couldn't locate anyone I knew, but it could be an international group of other reporters, photographers and the like. The resort was a popular hang-out place.

"We have your room ready for you, Miss Green."

I took my key card and snuck a last peek at the loud group. My eyes collided with a pair of bright green eyes. The man had just stood up. As my gaze swept over him, his eyes traveled my body from head to toe. He was handsome in a rugged way. His T-shirt rose as he tried to climb over two chairs and a sliver of toned muscles teased my eyes, which were still firmly planted on him. A freaking happy trail went from his belly button and farther down to where... Oh. My. f*****g. God.

"Don't look at his crotch!" I whispered angrily to myself. Embarrassed, I finally managed to remove my eyes from the tall dark stranger who had caught me with my hand way down in the cookie jar. He winked and turned around, making his way to the toilets. My mind was playing tricks with me. I was probably hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but it had been months since I'd gotten laid. I needed a good romp...and preferably soon.