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away.
    “That’s all right, just talk.” Zak figured the least she could do was distract Sara enough to get her through the turbulence. But the tight cream-colored shell that stretched across Sara’s chest disturbed her intended focus. Nice breasts were a particular fetish of hers, but these were spectacular. Sara’s breasts beneath the sheer fabric were brimming cups with peek-a-boo mounds at the top, an added bonus for sucking. Zak’s blood warmed at the thought and she automatically licked her lips.
    “Are you ogling my tits?” The earthy brown of Sara’s irises flickered with tiny slivers of green and liquid heat.
    “No,” Zak lied.
    “Sure you were. Ever’body does. Seems to be my only redeemin’ quality.” She snuggled into Zak’s side, wedging her breast between them. “You like me. Don’t want to, but you can’t help it. It’s in your eyes.”
    Even inebriated, Sara pinned her with a gaze so intense that Zak had to look away. Maybe there was some truth to Sara’s statement. She was certainly charming, attractive, and intelligent. But such thoughts did nothing but muddy the otherwise crystal-clear waters of Zak’s professional life. No acknowledgment was best.
    “Now where wuz I? Oh, I wuz talkin’. I’m an only child. Couldn’t tell, could ya? I’m so well behaved. My parents, God rest their souls, were great. I-talian. But very un-Italian in one way. They ab-horred violence. Not very Mafiosi, huh? They were like hippie flower children twenty years after the fact.
    “We always had lots of family ’round, on every holiday, every special occasion. Hell. At every meal. It was almost sacri-legious to eat alone. And we shared everything. One of the cousins got a zit, all the family and half the neighborhood knew about it. When I came out, we had a big community meetin’, complete with food and drinks, to discuss it. I had to listen ad nau’seam while they disqualified every girl they knew as a potential partner for me.”
    The plane dipped suddenly and a flash of lighting pierced the blackness outside the windows. Sara yelled, grabbing her stomach with one hand and digging her nails into Zak’s arm with the other. “Oh, shit.”
    “It’s fine. Keep talking.” Zak patted the digging hand and the nails withdrew.
    “I hate this crap. Anyway, my parents made their money in oil—olive and crude. The olive-oil business was my great-great grandfather’s in Italy. But Dad wanted to diversify, so he got into crude when the market was down. That was a smart move. When I was growing up, it was the thing to educate your children in Europe. I spent a lot of time in different cultures, volunteering in the communities and learning the languages.”
    The more Sara talked about her family and their lives together, the more sober she became, as if the memories were too important to utter irreverently.
    “My dad died of a stroke five years ago. He’d arranged for my mother and me to be cared for, so we converted everything else into philanthropic ventures. I know that prob’ly sounds lame to you, but it really means something to me—what I do.”
    But Sara’s words lacked conviction and her eyes told a different story. What could possibly be missing from this woman’s life? It was perfect, by contemporary standards: power, position, all the benefits of wealth, and a more-than-willing woman. Sara seemed sad and lost in a way that Zak couldn’t understand until it occurred to her that they were alike. She was running away to Africa to reexamine her life too. Both of them had some sort of connection missing in their lives. It pleased and worried her that she and Sara shared something so essential. Then she realized Sara was looking at her, waiting for a response to her last comment.
    “A person should care about what they do. It helps define them.”
    Sara stared at her as though she’d made a unique, profound statement worthy of deep consideration. “You’re exactly right.”
    “Ladies, we’ll