A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  “Tell me about your sisters,” she said. “I grew up as an only child. What was it like to have siblings?”

  “With Tillie, Jessica, and Fiona around, things could get pretty crazy. Lots of laughter. Some tears. They drove me crazy most of the time, but I love my sisters.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Tillie’s the youngest. She was a little scalawag with long blonde braids and skinny legs— always planting things. That’s what she does now. She’s an agroforester in Mali, West Africa. She’s hoping her trees will hold back the Sahara and make the ground stable for crops. A while back she married some kind of renegade writer. I haven’t met the guy, but I have a hard time believing any man is good enough for Tillie.”

  “Pretty special, is she?”

  “A gem. Then there’s Jessica, the artist of the family. She’s a very sensitive and tenderhearted girl. She just hooked up with her husband after a ten-year separation. They’ve got a great kid. I don’t know how it’s going to work out. Rick ran off and left Jessica after they’d only been married a short time. I couldn’t understand why she married him in the first place. He drank too much—always riding around on his motorcycle and shooting off his mouth. Mama Hannah says he’s cleaned up his act. Found the Lord or something. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Sounds like two humdingers for brothers-in-law. What kind of a guy did your third sister pick?”

  “Fiona’s not married. She doesn’t like people much.”

  “Is this the sister who lives with the elephants?”

  “Yep. She’s a gifted scientist. Her research has broken a lot of new ground.”

  “But she hates people?”

  “More or less. It goes back to our childhood. She had a hard time of it. . . . I guess we all did. Anyway, she’s afraid to trust anybody. Sort of like you.”

  Alexandra glanced at him. “I’ve been working on that. My most recent effort at trusting people landed me Nick Jones, remember?”

  “I thought I was your most recent effort.”

  She shook her head. “Okay, okay. I have to admit, I trust you.”

  “How much?”

  “A little. How much do you want?”

  “More.” He stopped walking. “Alexandra, on the road to Oloitokitok you asked me not to touch you.”

  “That’s true.” She paused. The hem of her skirt fluttered against her ankles with the same breathless beat her heart suddenly began to play. “I did say that.”

  “But in the airplane you held my hand,” he said, slipping his fingers through hers. “So that must be okay.”

  “I guess that’s okay.” His hand was warm and firm, reassuring in its strength. “I don’t mind.”

  “And you didn’t mind at the hospital yesterday when I put my arm around your shoulders.” Still holding her fingers, he slid his free hand behind her back, turning her into his embrace. “Kind of like this.”

  “No, I didn’t mind.” She could hardly breathe. He stood barely two inches away, and the fresh scent of his clean hair and skin drifted around her. Did she mind? Did she want this? Could she allow him to get this close?

  “And I’ve been wondering a lot,” he murmured near her ear, “whether you would be too troubled by . . .” His lips brushed against her temple. “By the touch of my mouth . . .” It grazed across her cheek. “On your skin . . . like this . . .”

  He bent and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss, over in a breath and as tempting as sweet honey. Alexandra hung suspended against him for a moment, looking up into his denim blue eyes and trying her best to draw air into her lungs. His mouth wore the hint of a smile as he awaited her response.

  “Like that,” he said in a low voice. “Which is what I’ve been wanting to do for a long time now.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah.” And he did it again, only this time longer.

  Alexandra floated in the sensation, something brand-new and so unexpected she felt dizzy. Kisses had never felt the way they did with Grant Thornton. Instead of binding, his arm around her was an emblem of security. Rather than demanding, the brush of his mouth on hers was a gift. Though he held her tight, so tight, he didn’t possess her. Instead . . . somehow . . . he set her free.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes, that troubles you?”

  “Yes, I trust you. And yes, it troubles me, too.”

  He searched her eyes. “I won’t hurt you, Alexandra.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Not ever.”

  “I suspect you will. These things never work out well for me.”

  She stepped out of his arms and began walking again. How could she explain to a man whose real estate consisted of two tents what it felt like to be respected and desired only for your bank balance? Grant couldn’t understand such a thing, and Alexandra knew he would never treat her that way. Yet any feelings between them were an unnecessary complication. They lived in separate worlds, had opposing belief systems, and would never see each other again after she flew back to New York.

  “You’re analyzing this thing. I can almost hear your brain clicking,” Grant said, matching her stride. “That’s my job, you know. I’m the scientist.”

  “So analyze.”

  “Gladly.” He held up a hand and began to tick off his fingers. “A, beautiful woman—that’s you—finds herself in the company of B, dashing stranger—that’s me, of course. The two ingredients are mixed. They form a slightly unstable, highly volatile combination. And then—”

  “Boom! Big explosion. That’s how my science experiments usually ended.”

  “Then you didn’t mix your ingredients carefully. Things like this require gentle handling.”

  “So what’s C?” Alexandra asked. “What’s the result of your experiment with A and B?”

  “Undetermined,” he said. “More kissing required.”

  Alexandra giggled as Grant swung her into his arms again and demonstrated. This time, she welcomed him, sliding her hands up his back and allowing herself to savor the moment. Crazy, yes. Doomed, no doubt. But it felt wonderful—deliriously wonderful—to drink in this man. His strength warmed her. His intelligence intrigued her. His wit delighted her. And his mouth . . . oh, his mouth . . .

  “You’ve been fooling me about this loner business,” she said against his cheek. “You must have been practicing this.”

  “You’re the first woman I’ve kissed in six years.”

  “Something pretty bad must have happened six years ago.”

  “Nothing happened. Nothing at all. That’s why I quit the dating game and turned my focus to my work. I haven’t regretted it.”

  “So what about A and B?” she said. “Anything happening there?”

  “Sparks.” He ran a thumb up her cheek. “Lots of sparks. Dangerous sparks.”

  “Mmm. A tropical beach and a dashing stranger. I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Bwana?” A deep voice cut into their conversation. “Would you like to buy some shells? or perhaps a newspaper?”

  Alexandra turned to find a tall, thin African man holding out a flat tray filled with trinkets. On the top lay a newspaper, its English headline blaring “AMERICAN HEIRESS FOUND IN MOMBASA.” The man tapped the paper.

  “Perhaps you would like to read this article, madam,” he said quietly. “You would find it most interesting.”

  Alexandra glanced at Grant, who quickly pulled her close. Then she looked down at the vendor’s shoes. Green thongs.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll read it.”

  “Five shillings, please.” He held out his hand and added in a murmur, “Please keep your attention on these items in my tray and no other place.”

  Grant paid him for the paper. “Are we being watched?”

  “It is possible, bwana.”

  Alexandra felt her blood rush to her knees. Was Jones here on the beach? How could he have found her so quickly? The newspaper article, of course. Now everyone in the country knew where she was. She swallowed and for
ced herself to casually finger the knickknacks in the man’s tray.

  “You would like to go to another place this afternoon, bwana?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Grant acknowledged. “I think Miss Prescott would enjoy seeing Fort Jesus. Will that be all right?”

  “Fort Jesus is a good place to visit. There are few people and many tall walls and cliffs. The memsahib should go alone.”

  “No,” Grant said. “I won’t allow that.”

  “Bwana, that is the order I have received. You must comply. And which ring does the memsahib like? This silver one is very nice.”

  Alexandra selected a ring embedded with a sliver of mother-of-pearl. “I like this one. Grant?”

  “A trinket for the American heiress,” he said, digging into his wallet again. “All right, I’ll agree to Fort Jesus. But I’m going with her. I’ll leave her alone for a few minutes at a time—and I won’t be far away.”

  “Very good. Asante sana, bwana!” Smiling as though the sale had made his day, the man walked backward and called out. “Enjoy the fort!”

  “Thank you,” Grant said. He turned to Alexandra and slipped the ring over her little finger. “A promise,” he said. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  She forced herself to smile. “I know,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

  NINE

  Grant held Alexandra’s hand as they climbed the broad walkway to the outer gate of the huge Fort Jesus. The bastion, built of carved coral blocks by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, had weathered countless attacks and sieges. But it wasn’t the fort’s colorful history that dominated Grant’s thoughts.

  Back at the bungalow, Mama Hannah had insisted she was feeling fine—“The Lord is with me, toto.” But she didn’t look fine. On changing her bandage, Grant found the entire area swollen and flecked with dry blood. The knife wound snaked from her eyebrow to her ear, dotted with stitches like a row of black gnats. Jones had left his mark, and not even Mama Hannah’s beloved nylon head scarf would cover the scar. Grant reminded himself that the guard outside the bungalow would keep a close watch on the old woman while he was away.

  Then there was Alexandra. Tall and confident, she walked along beside Grant with her sketch pad under her arm as though this were nothing more than a casual afternoon outing. On the beach, she had seen no one who resembled Nick Jones. All the same, she was determined to lure her stalker into the open as quickly as possible. Grant thought the plan was crazy and more than a little dangerous, and he wasn’t about to let her go off alone.

  Something about the woman intrigued him. Fascinated him. He felt a powerful need to protect her from the man who threatened her life. The emotion she evoked in him was unsettling. He didn’t know what to make of it—and he sure couldn’t suppress it.

  “Take a look at this, Grant!” she said, pointing out the lengthy inscription inside the long coral tunnel that led into the bastion. “‘In 1635 Francisco de Seixas de Cabreira, age twenty-seven years—’”

  “‘Was made for four years captain of this fort,’” Grant continued. “I can quote the whole thing. When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was Francisco de Cabreira. I subjected all the people along the coast to His Majesty the King of Portugal. I made the African kings of Otondo, Mandra, Luziwa, and Jaca tributaries to the king. I inflicted punishment on the towns of Pate and Sio. I had all the rebel governors and leading citizens of Pemba executed. In short, I was the meanest, baddest Portuguese captain who ever ravaged the coast of East Africa.”

  “Ooh, I’m scared,” Alexandra said.

  Grant caught the sparkle of laughter in her blue eyes, and he grinned. “Unfortunately the kings of East Africa—whose real names were Fiona, Jessica, and Tillie—weren’t always as cooperative as I would have liked. Sometimes they ganged up and whipped the tar out of me.”

  “Aw, you poor tyrant.” Chuckling, she leaned against him and grazed his cheek with a quick kiss. “You just needed Wonder Woman at your side, didn’t you?”

  Glad to have her with him now, Grant watched the sunshine gild Alexandra’s blonde hair as they emerged from the tunnel into the main courtyard of the fort. When her lips parted and she caught her breath at the sight of the towering battlements, Grant felt his heart stumble. He was smitten— and he didn’t know how it had happened.

  He had always imagined his heart to be as impenetrable as this fortress. And why not? He had built the walls himself— hewn them out of disappointment, frustration, even rage. But Alexandra Prescott had somehow soared right over those barriers and into the inner sanctum of his very soul.

  “There’s the ticket office,” she said. “Grant, I’m going to give my broker another call. It’s still early in New York, but this might be my best chance to catch him.”

  “Go ahead.” He couldn’t understand why Alexandra kept making calls to a man who rarely even left her a message in response. But then, he really couldn’t imagine money being all that important. He needed financial support, of course, and the thought of losing his funding left him uncomfortable. But not desperate.

  Grant paid for the tickets, and then he stood beside Alexandra as she dialed the international operator on the public pay phone. He took the opportunity to study her. In the short time he had known her, Alexandra had changed. Not drastically, but in a subtle, deeply affecting way. She had ceased being glamorous and had become . . . beautiful.

  The sleek, chic hairstyle had given way to a casual bob that bounced just below her ears when she walked. Grant had gotten used to seeing her in the tattered dress she was wearing when the Maasai brought her to his camp—or in his own shirt and trousers cinched at the waist with a rope. But with the return of her baggage, this intriguing blue outfit had emerged. The gauzy fabric draped on her tall frame like the gown on a Greek statue. Her designer shoes had been replaced by the tire sandals, which, oddly enough, looked perfect on her slim, pale feet.

  Grant turned his focus to the tourists who meandered around Fort Jesus. Was one of them Nick Jones? The two men had met in the darkness once, and Grant could not swear he’d actually seen the man’s features.

  Alexandra had described her attacker as broad shouldered and brawny. He wore his dark hair combed back into a wave, and he had a gold stud in one ear. The most defining feature was his narrow black mustache.

  “James!” Alexandra exclaimed suddenly into the receiver. “Is that really you? It’s me—Alexandra Prescott.” She laughed in delight. “I know, I know—but I’m okay now. Yeah, I was scared, too. He’s some kind of a lunatic, I think. He knows about my family—the business and all. I suspect that’s probably what’s behind it.”

  Grant glanced over at Alexandra. She clutched the telephone cord like it was a lifeline to safety. A link to the real world. It was hard to imagine that in a couple of days she would fly out of Grant’s life and back into her own. But she would. He’d better get used to the idea.

  “How’s Lily?” she asked. “The kids? Harvard! You’re kidding, James! That’s great. Give Betsy my congrats, okay? Listen, James, about that weird cablegram I got—” She paused for a long time, listening.

  Grant’s gaze zeroed in on an African man who wandered up to the ticket counter. Most of the tourists were European or Asian—of the dangling-camera, baggy-shorts species. The African studiously turned the pages of his guidebook as he sauntered past the telephone, his sandals slapping the concrete floor. Green thongs.

  “Are you sure everything’s all right?” Alexandra asked. “James, you know how important those stocks are to me. If anything is wrong, I want you to tell me.” She paused again. “Okay, listen, I’m staying in Mombasa. I have a little bungalow on Diani Beach, and I’m doing some touring. Don’t worry, okay? I’m safe. The police have posted a guard outside the bungalow at night, and an undercover officer follows me by day. We’re actually doing a little sleuthing, trying to lure out the bad guy.” She laughed. “I know what Daddy would say! But stop worrying, James. You’re starting to sound like an old mother hen.”
Another pause. “All right, I’ll call you soon. Even at home. Even if I wake you up. Okay, relax, would you? Say hi to everybody for me. I’ll be back . . . soon.”

  Grant shifted from one foot to the other. Already she sounded like she was halfway gone. Alexandra hung up the receiver and let out a breath.

  “There was a mix-up at the brokerage while James was away on vacation,” she explained. “The notice I got was supposed to go to another client, but his secretary sent it to me instead. One of those glitches.”

  “So your treasure is safe?”

  “Safe and sound.”

  He pointed in the direction of where they should begin their tour of the fort. “You know what Mama Hannah would say about all this, don’t you?” he asked. “There’s something in the Bible about treasures on earth that rust and rot . . . and treasures in heaven that nothing can destroy.”

  She gave him a curious glance. “Quoting Scripture, Professor? I thought you didn’t believe in that nonsense.”

  “The Bible isn’t nonsense. It’s a very thorough mythology. Origins of the universe. Commandments by which to live. Proverbs. Even poetry. Biblical doctrine provided a strong moral backbone for Western civilization.”

  “Indeed.”

  They strolled across the courtyard and paused to inspect a row of long black cannons lined up on the grass. Grant had played around the guns as a child, and he couldn’t summon up as much interest as Alexandra. On the other hand, curiosity about her plagued him like an itch that demanded to be scratched.

  “You’re an intelligent woman,” he said as he watched her peer into a cannon’s iron muzzle. “Do you really believe a man walked on water?”

  “I believe Jesus Christ did. He was a man, but he was also God.” She looked up at him. “That made walking on water a cinch.”

  “So, you accept the dogma that Jesus was actually conceived in the body of a virgin?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her blue eyes narrowed as she stood. “Is this some kind of pop quiz? Get any answers wrong and I’m eternally doomed?”