“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “Read away.”
He unwadded a cocktail napkin and cleared his throat.
“I fly up in the sky so blue;
The mountain is below me, too.
The green grass grows upon the hill.
The river flows. It don’t stand still.
I think about the one I love . . .”
He stopped and glanced at her.
“Go on,” she said.
“I can’t ever think of words to rhyme with love. Wouldn’t you know it? The best word in a poem and nothing to rhyme with it but of, dove, or above.”
“You’re in an airplane in the poem. Maybe you could write something like . . . I think about the one I love . . . and God—”
“No, wait! I got it. I think about the one I love and all the rainbows up above.”
“Nice.” She picked up her tote bag, stood, and stepped into her shoes. Nice—if you’re in the second grade. No, Lord, don’t let me be so judgmental!
“Thanks,” he said, scribbling the new words onto the napkin. “I’m glad you like it. I’ve got a whole lot more back in my room.”
“Oops, looks like the mosquitoes are coming out.” She gestured to her bare arms. “I understand you can get malaria in Kenya. I guess I’ll go on inside and get ready for dinner. See you later.”
“How about a drink afterward?” He stood, a good two inches shorter than she was but twice as wide through the shoulders. He stuck out a beefy hand. “I’m Nicholas Jones. My friends call me Nick.”
“Nick.” She shook his hand. “Alexandra Prescott.”
“Prescott? Like with Prescott Company? The wire hangers?”
Alexandra stiffened. Her parents had been well-known in Dallas high society. But few spoke of the source of their money—plastic-coated wire hangers, wire shelving systems, wire utility baskets.
From humble roots, Alex Prescott had built his company into a multimillion-dollar enterprise. At his death, he had left his only child a dazzling fortune. She was always the center of attention. The heiress, Alexandra, and where she would go to college, whom she would date, what she would be wearing at the charity ball tended to obscure the source—wire hangers.
“My dad worked in the garment district,” Nick said proudly. “Seventh Avenue. We always knew about the Prescott Company.”
“Are you in clothing?” She couldn’t imagine what this man was doing on a luxury safari in Africa. “Design?”
He laughed. “I’m in security.”
“A policeman?”
“Bodyguard.” He stuck out his chin. “I protect the personal interests of my clients.”
“Ahh. So, you’re here with one of your clients.”
“Naw. Just came on a vacation by myself. I wanted to get away, you know. Do some thinking.”
“Write poetry?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “You know something? I like you, Alexandra Prescott. You’re a good-looking woman. Smart, too. I can tell. What about that drink after dinner? Out here by the pool.”
“I don’t drink.” She slung her tote over her shoulder. “Besides, I want to turn in early. I’m going out at dawn to study the wildlife.”
She started toward the main building of the luxury lodge, but he came after her. When he grabbed her wrist in a bone-crunching grip, she came to a stop and winced in pain.
“Oh, sorry.” He let go of her hand and fingered the thick gold chain around his throat. “I guess I don’t know my own strength. You okay?”
She rubbed her wrist. “I’m fine. Look, let’s be up-front about things. I came here to get away. I don’t want any involvements.”
“Who said anything about involvements? I’m not looking for a long-term deal. Not at all. I just asked you for a drink, okay? You’re out here by yourself. Me, too. We’re both artists.”
“How do you know I’m an artist?”
“Well . . . your notebook.”
“I’m a commercial designer. Fabrics. I’m in Kenya on business. I have just a few days to come up with an entire line that will be carried by Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, Neiman Marcus, everybody. My time is booked solid. I’m trying to be polite here, but please—leave me alone.”
“Whoa. You don’t strike me as nice as I thought at first.” He looked down at his feet. “I was just trying to be friendly. That’s all. Just one decent human being to another.”
Guilt ate into Alexandra’s resolve. “I’m sorry, Nick. Really, I just—”
“Prescott! Prescott!” An African waiter carrying a small chalkboard hung with bells walked down from the lodge. “Is Prescott by the pool, please?”
“I’m Alexandra Prescott,” she said. “What is it?”
“A cablegram.” He handed her a small white envelope. “You will find a telephone at the front desk, madam, should you have an emergency.”
Emergency! Had someone she loved died? She couldn’t think of anyone she had allowed close enough to fit that category. Her mouth suddenly dry, Alexandra tore open the cablegram. It was from the brokerage firm that handled her investments. She had given her itinerary to the secretary, so the cablegram itself was not a surprise. The message inside was.
DUE TO STOCK-MARKET FLUCTUATIONS, YOUR ACCOUNT SHOWS A DEFICIT BALANCE OF -$203,127.36. TO AVOID PENALTIES AND FEES YOU MUST IMMEDIATELY DEPOSIT . . .
Two hundred thousand dollars! Alexandra stared unseeing at the mountain in the distance. How could her account be short? James Cooper, her broker, was a gifted money manager. He had always invested capably on her behalf. This had to be a mistake. She read the rest of the message—a composite of dire warnings and veiled threats. In sum, it sounded as though she was on the brink of losing everything.
“Something wrong?” Nick asked.
“I need to make a call.” She looked down at her watch. Was it eight hours earlier in New York or only seven? Grant Thornton’s face flashed before her eyes. What had he told her? We don’t mess around with the time in Africa. Sun rises at six. Sets at six. A pale orange glow lit the snows of Kilimanjaro. Six in the evening in Kenya . . . that would make it ten in the morning in New York. Thank heaven. She would call James Cooper.
“Excuse me,” she said to the burly bodyguard. “I have to go.”
Before he could reply, Alexandra hurried up from the pool and into the lodge, where she began trying to place a long-distance call to the United States. Easier said than done in the Third World. She spent an hour talking to operators, listening to the beep of phone lines, and enduring the repeated mechanical comment that “all international circuits are busy at this time.”
Finally her call to the brokerage firm went through. “James Cooper, please,” she said. “This is Alexandra Prescott. I’m calling from Africa.”
“Africa!” The secretary seemed stunned. “I’m sorry, Miss Prescott, but Mr. Cooper is on vacation this week. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”
It was the best she could do. Alexandra listened to the reassuring tones of the man who had been her family’s financial adviser and the trustee of her own accounts since her father’s death. At that time, she had been little more than a teenager, and James Cooper was the only man she had allowed herself to trust with the true status of the vast Prescott portfolio. Aware that her focus of interest lay in design rather than in finance, he had assured her that he would take care of everything, and his monthly statements to her had always confirmed his skills in money management.
“James,” she said when the recording of his voice had finished playing, “this is Alexandra. As you know, I’m in Kenya. I just got a cable that says my account is short. I don’t understand what’s going on, James, but I want you to take care of this. Leave a message with your secretary. I’ll check back in tomorrow.” She paused and took a deep breath. “James, I’m counting on you.”
After hanging up, she stood in silence, pondering the ramifications of the situation. Two hundred thousand dollars in deficit. How could that be? James had always been
a prudent investor. Where could the money have gone? She envisioned her father’s face—the strain of years of shrewd deals and risky business decisions etched in the lines across his forehead. Though they were worlds apart in personality, she had loved him deeply. She had always felt a responsibility to safeguard and increase the legacy he had left.
Very little of the Prescott Company money went into her pocket. She took pride in supporting herself financially. Her education and talent had brought her a respectable income of her own. But in the back of her mind she had plans for her father’s money. Once she had garnered industry respect and a sizable clientele, she would establish her own New York design firm. Already, she was considered a major talent in the field, and if she launched out now, she could probably make her mark. But a few more years working for others would ensure success. Then she could hire skilled artists, develop her own signature lines, and build a name that would bring honor to her father’s heritage.
But she could never do it without his money.
A knot was forming at the top of her stomach as she turned away from the lobby desk and studied the lodge dining room. Guests were setting wadded cloth napkins on the tables and rising to leave. She had missed the dinner hour. Great.
“Got a problem?”
Grant? Her heart contracted as she swung around. In the anthropologist’s place stood the Polyester Poet. “Oh, Nick. It’s you.”
“Just thought I’d check on you. You’ve been on the phone a long time.”
“I was calling the States. It’s hard to get through.” Why had the thought of Grant Thornton come so quickly to mind? Alexandra conjured the image of the derelict. At this moment the sight of a sensible, intelligent human being would be a blessing. She looked at Nick Jones, and her heart sank.
“Everything okay?” he asked, digging between his two front teeth with a wooden toothpick. “I don’t mean to pry or nothing, but you look kind of worried.”
“Just business. Some sort of mix-up with my brokerage account.”
He shook his head. “And you’re all the way out here in Africa. Did you get ahold of anybody who can help?”
“My broker’s on vacation.” She considered for a moment. “You know, I think I’ll phone a guy I know in Dallas. He’s an old friend of my family. Maybe he can give me some advice.”
She turned back to the phone, but Nick inserted himself between her and the lobby desk. “Not so fast there. You better take care of you first. It’s still morning in New York, and you got plenty of time to make your calls. But you haven’t had a bite to eat, have you? I didn’t think so. How about I put in an order with the hotel kitchen, and then we’ll take a walk by the pool while they fix it? I don’t mean to intrude on your private business, you understand. But you and me . . . we’re the only two Americans in the place. I reckon we ought to stick together, huh? What do you say?”
The last thing Alexandra wanted to do was go for a walk with Nick Jones. “It took me nearly an hour to get through to New York—”
“Yeah, and if you start trying to call again, you’re gonna fade away from hunger. Am I right? Okay, so put this in my hands, babe. I’ll take care of you. Not horning in or nothing. Just seeing to the welfare of my fellow American. Now sit down over there on that chair. I’ll get you a sandwich. How about it? Ham and cheese?”
“Fine. Okay.” Alexandra rolled her eyes as he walked toward the kitchen. Just what she needed. A hero wannabe. Rescue the damsel in distress. Only she’d never been the wilting-violet sort. She hadn’t inherited her father’s interest in mechanics and high finance, but she certainly had his backbone. She would get to the bottom of this mess. And she didn’t need Nick Jones’s help to do it.
The thought of valuable stocks being sold off in order to bolster an account deficit she hadn’t even known was there sent another knot into her empty stomach. She would have no choice but to leave the lodge in the morning. The hotel personnel could help her find a travel agency and book a flight out of Nairobi. By the following day she’d be back in New York—back in charge.
Staring out into the black African night, she tried to form a prayer. God had given her this life, these responsibilities. She needed his advice. Father, you’re the only one I can trust. Please, Lord, show me what to do about my dad’s money. Don’t let them sell off the stocks.
It seemed a little shallow to pray about money. All the same, she couldn’t make her dreams come true without it. Her dreams . . .
“Two ham and cheese sandwiches coming up. Fifteen minutes max,” Nick Jones said. He sauntered toward her, a slight smirk on his thin upper lip. “Come on, Alexandra. Let’s get you out into the moonlight. A walk will do you good. Clear your head.”
Alexandra considered protesting again. If he got ideas that this gallantry act of his appealed to her . . . still, she would be grateful for the sandwich. The other guests had apparently retired to their rooms or the hotel’s bar, and the place was deserted. A walk around the pool actually would give her time to think—assuming Nick didn’t start reciting iambic tetrameter again.
“Cooler than you’d think,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist. “Dumb, I guess, but I figured it’d be hot as blazes at the equator.”
“Maybe it’s the altitude.” She attempted to politely shrug him away.
His hand settled on her hip, holding her firmly in place at his side. “Snow at the equator. Kind of brings on the muse, doesn’t it?”
“I’m really not in the mood for poetry.”
“Me either.” He rubbed his free hand down her bare arm. “You got goose bumps, pretty lady. I bet you won’t have those when you get to the beach.”
Alexandra stiffened. How did he know she was going to the coast? She hadn’t told him her itinerary. “Nick, listen—”
“Hey, let’s walk over to the edge of the patio. Did you get a look at the water hole down below there this afternoon? I counted fifteen deer.”
“Antelope.” He was leading her determinedly toward the shadowed stone wall that rimmed the lodge enclosure just beyond the swimming pool. For some reason, the pressure of his hand on her waist sent a curl of panic through Alexandra. She didn’t like people coming so close. Especially someone she hardly knew. Again, she tried to push away. “Listen, Nick—”
His hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her words. “We’re outta here, baby,” he said. Half lifting her from her feet, he exited the pool area through an iron gate and started down the steep slope toward the water hole. Obviously a path used only by hotel staff, it was narrow and unlit. Terror poured through Alexandra. She stumbled over an exposed root as she tried vainly to push away from him. He left the trail and began dragging her through the tall grass away from the lodge, away from safety and reason and all that was civilized.
Horror mingling with determination to escape, Alexandra bit down hard on the man’s finger. He didn’t flinch. What could she do to stop him?
As he continued on, moving her farther and farther from the remnant of artificial light, she shuddered, nauseous. This couldn’t be happening. She had to get away. Had to fight. God, give me strength! She kicked his shin and rammed her elbow into his stomach.
He marched doggedly onward, his fingers and thumb crushing into her cheeks. “You don’t want to fight me, okay?”
Dragging her now, he moved toward a faintly moonlit outcrop of rock she had not noticed during the day. “You fight me . . . it’s only gonna hurt worse,” he continued. “I can make this nice and quick. Or not. It’s kind of up to you.”
Oh, God! The prayer was wrenched from Alexandra’s heart. God, help me! Help me!
“See, the thing is, you made a mistake.” He lugged her around the rock. “You trusted somebody you shouldn’t ought to have trusted. Never trust nobody, baby. That’s the rule I live by.”
Alexandra swallowed and tried to force herself upright. If she could somehow trip him. Or distract him. Or outsmart him. Oh, Lord, he’s so much stronger than I am! You’ve got to save me!
“This looks like a good spot,” he said.
Struggling to breathe, focus, concentrate, Alexandra searched her surroundings. A huge tree overhead. A strange pointed mound of dirt nearby. Grass. Lots of moonlit grass. A weapon? Anything?
Dear God! Give me something to fight him with!
“I never killed anybody in Africa before,” Nick said. “I did a guy in Mexico one time.”
Alexandra moaned as he threw her to the ground beside the tree. He stood over her, one leg on either side, pinning her in place.
“Nick!” Her mouth finally free, she sucked in a breath. Reason with him. Logic. “Nick, think about this. People saw us together. We’re the only Americans.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of this. I done it a hundred times.” He flexed his arms and began stretching his fingers. “Truth is, I like what I do. It moves me—kind of like an inspiration, you know? You ought to read the poems I got about it. This one is gonna be real different. Out here, see, the animals will finish off what’s left. That way I don’t get the blame. No fingerprints, no nothing.”
Oh, God, he’s going to kill me! Kill me!
He set his hands on his hips and looked down at her. “You wanna choose? A gun’s best, but I ain’t had time to acquire one. I got a little knife that’s quick across the throat. I got some wire. That way you black out before you go. Or I can just snap your neck. Kinda like a chicken. It’s fast.”
“Nick . . . Nick . . . please . . .”
“I’d pick the knife if I was you.”
“Please!” Give me time, Lord God; give me time. Help me!
“Just don’t fight me. I hate that. Wears me out, and then I got to walk all the way back to the hotel.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of curled electrical wire. Looming over her, he tested it, snapping it taut twice and then winding one end around the meat of his hand.
A Touch of Betrayal Page 3