A Touch of Betrayal (10 page)

“It’s a pun,” he went on, his voice assuming a scholarly tone. “The Maasai enjoy riddles and wordplay. In fact, that subject actually comprises one of the chapters of the book I’m writing. The Kikuyu were the first to call me
Bwana
Hadithi—a straightforward description of my role as a collector of stories. But the Maasai like to play with words. So the nickname they’ve given me fits their anthropological profile.
Ol-oibor siadi
refers to Grant’s gazelle on the one hand . . .”

“And on the other?”

“The fact that I happened to be spotted swimming in the river one day—without anything on—which amused the folks around here to no end. So, that’s the explanation.”

“Anthropologically speaking.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Me?”

“Because I did bring you those fine shoes.
And
I’m your entire source of hope for getting out of this mess.”

“I thought
you
were in the mess,” she said, slipping her feet into the sandals. “Ole Engipika in the
kraal
, remember?”

He regarded her for a moment. “The Land Rover,” he said. “Ten minutes.”

As Grant walked out of the tent, she sang out, “Yes, sir— he of the white behind.”

“We’re going up Mount Kilimanjaro?” Alexandra asked.

Grant steered the Land Rover along the narrow dirt road.

“The town of Oloitokitok sits at an altitude of about five thousand feet. But you won’t feel like you’re on the slope of the highest mountain in Africa. It’s deceptive.”

“And you’re sure they’ll have a telephone?”

“One. If we’re lucky.”

He glanced over at the woman beside him. Expecting to read dismay in her blue eyes, he was bemused at the look of fascination he read there. Alexandra was leaning forward in her seat and gazing up at the imposing vista of the snow-capped dormant volcano. In the open window her blonde hair blew away from her sunburned face, revealing high cheekbones and a finely sculpted chin. Lips parted, she looked breathlessly eager—as if the journey itself excited her, and not just the prospect of using a telephone.

“Take a look at the trees,” he said. “You reach a certain altitude on the mountain, and all of a sudden they start cropping up.”

“What kinds are they?” she asked.

“Those with the pink flowers are called Cape Chestnuts. That’s a eucalyptus. And that one—with the big, orange-red blossoms—is a Nandi Flame Tree. Like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

He could almost say the same about his companion. Since he’d first met her, Alexandra Prescott seemed to have changed in a rather interesting way. It wasn’t so much the sunburn—though that pale face he’d spotted at the airport could have used a little color. It wasn’t even the change of clothes. He had to admit she did look pretty cute with his khaki trousers gathered up and held on by a piece of tent rope around her waist. But there was something else different about Alexandra . . . something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was just that she’d lost the big-city look. Earthiness became her.

“What are you staring at?” she asked warily.

“You.”

“Why?”

“You’ve changed since the first time we met. Must be the shoes.”

Her face sobered. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“Nothing.” He focused on the road. “Just that I like the trousers. Especially the rope. It gives them kind of an avant-garde look, don’t you think? They make a real statement.” He playfully tugged on her shirtsleeve. “What would you call it in the fashion industry—that rugged outdoorsy feel?”

When he turned to give her a wink, she reached for the door handle. “Let me out,” she said in a clipped voice. “Stop the car right now.”

“What?” He eased up on the gas pedal. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not going.” She threw open the door and stumbled out of the moving vehicle.

Grant stepped on the brake. Leaving the Land Rover idling, he jerked open his own door and jumped down. “Alexandra?”

“Stay away from me!” She was backing down the road, a stick in her outstretched hand. “I don’t . . . I won’t . . .”

“Hold on, Alexandra.” He took a step toward her. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“No. Don’t come near me!”

“Look, stop walking away, okay?” The panic in her eyes told him what he hadn’t seen before. He had somehow terrified her.

“I was making conversation about the trousers,” he said. “All I want to do is take you up to Oloitokitok to use the telephone. I’m trying to help you.”

She stopped fifty feet down the road. From that distance she looked so fragile, like a bruised flower. “You can trust me, Alexandra,” he called. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

All of a sudden her shoulders sagged, and she covered her face with her hands. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot.” Grant walked slowly toward her. Her body shook slightly as she wept into her hands. He continued, “I didn’t realize how my words sounded.” As he finished speaking, he reached out and laid a hand on her arm.

She jerked backward with a gasp. “Don’t touch me again! Don’t . . . don’t you . . .”

“Sorry!” He held up both hands. “I’m not touching you, see? I’m not going to hurt you.”

Heart hammering, he shoved both hands into his pockets.

She was frantically brushing away the tears that spilled from her eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she choked out. “I had this awful feeling you were taking me away to . . . to . . .”

“I’m not taking you away. I’m driving you up to Oloitokitok. You asked me to get you to a telephone.”

“Yes, that’s true.” She tucked the ends of her hair behind her ears. “But the way you were talking . . . you sounded like him.”

“I’m not him.”

“I’m so confused. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like for me here. You speak the language, and you wear these clothes. The people like you. They trust you.”

“I trust them. They’re honorable people—most of them.” He paused. “I’m an honorable man, Alexandra. I won’t hurt you.”

“Just don’t touch me.”

“I won’t, okay?” He looked into her blue eyes and saw the fear begin to fade. “Do you think you can get back into the Land Rover?”

She nodded and began walking beside him. “I’m a mess. Do you think I’m nuts?”

He glanced at her and then turned quickly away. “What am I supposed to say? I’m half-scared to even look at you again.”

“You can look at me.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “It was sort of a flashback or something in the car. It was weird. Nick Jones . . . we met beside the swimming pool. I didn’t want to leave the lodge . . . but . . . but . . .”

“You’d better not talk about it.”

“I need to talk about it.”

Grant stole another peek. That was exactly the kind of thing he didn’t understand about women. First Alexandra couldn’t even think of the attack without going off halfcocked. Just a misspoken comment from him had sent her into a tizzy. Now she
needed
to talk about it.

“At the edge of the pool,” she said, “he started forcing me to walk down toward the water hole. I told him to let go of me. And then he was pushing and shoving me. I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth. I couldn’t get away.”

Grant stopped walking. At her words, something powerful rose up inside him. Something so overwhelming he could hear his own pulse hammering in his temples. This woman—alone, afraid—had been abducted. Terrorized. And then what? Grant wasn’t sure he could hear what the man had done to her next. The force inside him demanded action.
Take her in your arms, Grant. Hold her tight. Protect her. . . . And kill that creep!

“It was dark,” she said, her head bent. “I couldn’t see much. He threw me down under a tree. Then he said he was going to kill me. . . . I could choose the way I died.”

“Why?” Grant demanded. “Why was he going to kill you?”

“I don’t know. He said he’d done it dozens of times. There was a man in Mexico—”

“Is he a serial killer or something?”

“I don’t know, Grant. I told you I had just met him. He . . . he said he had a knife and a wire. Or he could break my neck—”

“The guy’s a barbarian!”

“Break my neck like a chicken’s.” She covered her face with her hands again. “I don’t know what I did wrong! Why did he pick me? I was just sitting by the pool sketching. And . . . and I listened to him read a poem . . . but I wasn’t encouraging him. I didn’t like him. I don’t want . . . don’t want any man to . . . to . . .”

“Alexandra.” Grant reached out to her. Then he stopped, squeezed his hand into a fist, and hammered it into the side of the Land Rover. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The man is deranged. He probably picks his victims at random.”

“In Africa? Why here? I expected snakes and lions. Dangers like that. But a serial killer from New York?” She was knuckling away tears again as fast as she could. “I should tell the police. Identify him. Protect other women. But if he finds out I’m alive . . . he said he’d come after me.”

“That was just a threat.”

“No!” She looked up at him, her blue eyes rimmed in red. “Grant, I really think he wanted to kill me.
Me.
He said something by the pool that haunts me now. He knew I was planning a trip to the beach.”

“Almost every tour through Kenya includes a stop at the coast.”

“But he said it with such confidence. Like he
knew
.” She shook her head. “He knew all about my father’s business, too. Not even our closest friends talked about what Daddy did.”

“What did he do?”

“He made hangers.”

Grant frowned. “Something wrong with making hangers?”

“Prescott Company,” she said. “Did you have any idea that was hangers?”

“I’ve never even heard of Prescott Company, Alexandra.”

“See what I mean? But Nick Jones knew! He knew everything.” She shuddered. “I think he picked me out. I think he’d studied me. And I . . . I’m scared he may be looking for me right now.”

Again Grant had to restrain himself to keep from touching Alexandra. She looked as though she might shatter into a thousand pieces without the most gentle handling. Something inside him urged him to give her that—to cradle her, soothe her, tuck her away from every fear and every evil. It was a new feeling, a compulsion that startled him in its intensity. For years now, Grant had looked after himself. Only himself. For the first time, he needed to touch another human being—and she had forbidden it.

“He won’t find you at Oloitokitok. It’s sixty miles from the main highway and the nearest town of any size. If this Jones fellow has any idea that you’re alive, and
if
he really wants to kill you, he’ll assume you’d do what anybody in their right mind would do: Go back to Nairobi and get out of the country as fast as possible. He’s not going to look for you in some podunk village at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“But what if he does?”

“Then he’ll have to deal with me, right?” Saying it felt good. Grant had no permission to put protecting arms around Alexandra. But let that Jones creep show his face, and he’d regret it.

“Why would you do that for me?” she asked.

“Why not?” He leaned back against the Land Rover and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re a person. I’m a person. It’s the right thing to do.”

“But I . . . I’m not sure I can pay you for all this. My money . . . my passport . . . I left everything at the lodge in Amboseli.”

Grant couldn’t hide a scowl. “Do I look like the kind of man who does things for money, Alexandra?”

“Well . . .” She looked him up and down, taking in his faded khakis and denim shirt. It was the first time in years that Grant had felt the least bit uncomfortable about his appearance. “Maybe not. But I don’t know of anyone who
doesn’t
do things for money.”

“Meet Grant Thornton,” he said, “whose total worldly wealth consists of one Land Rover, two tents, five shirts, seven socks, and four pairs of trousers—one of which you’re wearing.” At the look of incredulity that crossed her face, he couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I’m helping you because you’re in a tight spot, Alexandra.”

“But—”