Alexandra stared at the shoes. “Thanks . . . I think.”
“No problem. Meet me at the Land Rover in ten minutes.”
He started out of the tent, but she called to him. “Grant, when the man stopped you a minute ago—what was the name he called you? It didn’t sound like Bwana Hadithi.”
He raked a hand through his mop of light brown hair. “It’s just a nickname. You know . . . sort of a joke.”
“Another joke? These Maasai seem to have a good sense of humor. So, what do they call you?”
“Ol-oibor siadi. It’s a play on my name. There’s a species of gazelle known as Grant’s gazelle.”
“Ol-oibor siadi,” she said. “I’ll try to remember that in case I get lost again.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. They’ll . . . uh . . . they’ll laugh.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny about a gazelle.”
A strange flush of color crept up the back of Grant’s neck. “That particular gazelle has a patch of white near its tail. Oloibor siadi means ‘he of the white behind.’”
“I see.” It was all Alexandra could do to contain the giggle that rose up inside her.
“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 swim
ming 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—”
“I don’t care if you could pay me ten thousand dollars— or ten dollars. My friend Kakombe is bringing his father over from the kraal to meet me this afternoon. He’s a respected elder. If he gives his permission, I’ll be issued a formal invitation to an Eunoto—an elder-initiation ceremony. To me, that opportunity is worth more than any amount of money you could offer.”
“I see.”
“Now if you wouldn’t mind getting back into the Land Rover, I’ll drive you the rest of the way to Oloitokitok so you can call this broker who’s so important to you. I don’t want to miss my afternoon meeting.”
Without answering, she climbed in and shut the door behind her. Grant walked behind the vehicle, wondering if he had somehow put his foot in his mouth again. Probably. He’d never been known for finesse. Well, if she was mad, she’d get over it. In a day or two he’d pack her off to Nairobi, and Alexandra Prescott would never cross his mind again.
All the same, her silence made him feel increasingly uncomfortable as the Land Rover climbed the mountain. “Are you okay?” he asked finally.
“Yes,” she said.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Those seven socks you own.”
He glanced over to find a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I think a vervet monkey stole number eight off the clothesline,” he said. “That’s what I get for washing them.”
Her laughter filled the Land Rover with a warm, joyful sound that danced into his chest. It twined with his powerful need to protect and formed a slender vine that began to curl around the edges of his heart. And suddenly he wasn’t so sure about anything.
Alexandra stood inside a cement-block office in the little town of Oloitokitok and listened to the overseas telephone operator tell her—repeatedly—that all international circuits were busy at this time. Across the room, Grant was speaking to an African man about the pipeline that carried water from the snows of Kilimanjaro down to the main highway and the town of Emali. From there, it was piped to Nairobi—melted snow that was a primary source of drinking water for an equatorial city.
The whole experience of Africa seemed unreal to Alexandra. Things had come at her so unexpectedly that she felt off-balance. She was supposed to be on a planned tour. Hotels. Meals. Guides. Everything had been scheduled and organized to maximize her exposure
to the Dark Continent.
Exposure to the Dark Continent? What a joke! She had gotten to know the real Africa by walking alone through the brush in the middle of the night, being attacked by wild dogs, drinking milk and blood from a dried gourd, and traveling on a cowhide stretcher carried by a band of native warriors. Oddest of all was how natural this world seemed to the American man who had become her guide and helper.
As she stood listening to the operator try to place her call, Alexandra studied Grant Thornton from a distance. He stood chatting with the official, his hands illustrating the point he made with his words. How badly she had misjudged him that evening at the airport. Grant wasn’t a derelict. He fit perfectly into this life. He blended.
If she looked at him from that perspective, Alexandra realized, Grant was a very attractive man. Tall and broad shouldered, he had the build of an athlete. He was clearly accustomed to walking long distances, and he knew how to survive in the most rugged environments. He willingly ate whatever was on hand, whether it was a handful of candy bars or a hearty African stew. Comfortable with himself, he wore clothing that fit his lifestyle.
She recalled the tailored, starched, and pressed businessmen she passed on the streets of New York. The choking neckties. The women with their moussed and sprayed hairdos. The tight skirts. The uncomfortable shoes. Odd that such apparel had once seemed so right, so perfect, in her mind. Now it seemed almost silly.
She glanced at the tire sandals strapped to her feet, and a bubble of giddiness rose up inside her. What on earth would her associates think if they could see Alexandra Prescott now? She wiggled her toes. No polish. She hadn’t had a dusting of powder on her face for days, and her skin was still a bright pink. What must Grant think of her? She glanced at him again, and at his acknowledging tip of the head, something warm curled around the pit of her stomach. Startled at her own response, she turned away, her hand damp on the receiver.
“Hello,” a voice said on the other end of the line. “James Cooper and Company. May I help you?”
The real world slammed back into place. “Yes, I need to speak with James Cooper’s secretary, please,” Alexandra said. “I’m calling long distance.”
A Touch of Betrayal Page 7
