A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  Her voice was a whisper. “I don’t want anybody to take care of me, Grant.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I’m strong enough alone. I have to be.”

  He heard his own lifelong theme song in her words and realized how empty it sounded. “You are strong enough alone,” he said. “But you don’t have to be. Let me stand with you.”

  Holding her arms tight around her middle as though she could lock out the world, she gave an almost imperceptible nod. “All right,” she said. “For now.”

  “I’ll pay your taxi. Why don’t you come out onto the verandah with Mama Hannah and me? I’ll fix a pot of tea, and we can sit and listen to the waves. Kind of take our minds off hit men and account deficits—minor details like that—and focus on what’s really important.”

  Alexandra lifted her head. “What’s really important anymore?”

  “You,” he said. “You’re important. And you’re alive, which is very important. Me, your belated rescuer. I’m important. And then there was this morning on the beach.” He bent and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I thought that was pretty important.”

  She stood still for a moment, her eyes still closed from his kiss. “Yes,” she whispered. “That was pretty important to me, too.”

  “The verandah then?”

  “Give me ten minutes. I want to take a quick shower.”

  Grant stroked a hand down her bare arm; then he turned and left the room.

  After paying the taxi driver, he went to the kitchen, set a kettle of water on the stove, and took a collection of cups and saucers from the cabinet. He poured a little milk into a jug and placed some sugar cubes in a bowl. As he arranged the tea things, he shook his head.

  Carrying the tray to the verandah, he realized he felt curiously light-headed. Odd. Nothing much had changed. Same wicker chairs. Same night watchman lurking in the shadows. Same moon shining down on the same palm trees. Mama Hannah was sitting where he’d left her.

  “Alexandra came back,” he said, joining the old woman. And he knew that was the reason for his altered mood. Alexandra was back—his again, if only for a few more days. He had managed to defeat her determination to leave and his own instinct to prefer solitude. He had managed, somehow, to keep her.

  “Yes, she returned,” Mama Hannah said. “But not for the luggage. She came for you.”

  Grant stretched out his legs and perched his feet on the low rattan table. “You reckon?”

  “Certainly.”

  He sat in the silence, basking in the warm yellow glow of the verandah lamps and in the comfort of Alexandra Prescott’s presence in his life. If he could protect her, she was his—to have and to hold, from this day forward . . . until she left. Until she went back to her own life. New York, that foreign land. A place he could never belong.

  He frowned. “Mama Hannah, have you ever heard of something called the home shopping network?”

  The old woman shot him a look. “Home shopping network? For what purpose is this thing?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you can buy things you see on television.”

  Mama Hannah gave a grunt of dismissal. “Let us speak of Africa and faith and families, toto. Let us talk of things we know.”

  Grant mused a moment. “I wonder what a thigh toner is.”

  ELEVEN

  Alexandra sat on a bench in the Mombasa railway station and stared at the surrealistic scene. Africans clambered up the sides of the steel cars and onto the roofs to tie on produce headed for market—burlap sacks stuffed with charcoal, wicker baskets filled with live chickens, and cardboard boxes brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables. One man shoved a bleating goat into the air while a companion reached down to lift the animal into place. Passengers of the human species elbowed their way through the narrow car doors and crowded onto the seats. Vendors carrying trays filled with everything from grilled corncobs to Chiclets chewing gum hawked their wares at the open train windows.

  Two Indian women in bright red and blue silk saris climbed aboard with their black-haired children in tow. A Sikh gentleman in a starched white turban walked by, pausing to glance at the huge gold watch on his wrist. Three children chased a scrawny puppy along the rails, while a gray-suited African businessman mopped his brow.

  Oblivious to the array of colors, the babble of cries and chatter, and the swirling smells of ocean air and crushing humanity, Mama Hannah sat beside Alexandra on the bench and read her Bible. “Here the wise King Solomon has written a very interesting thing,” she said, looking up. “‘The wicked run away when no one is chasing them, but the godly are as bold as lions.’ Do you think this means it would be good for us to be bold and to hunt down the wicked man who tries to kill you?”

  Alexandra let out a breath. “I don’t know what it means.”

  “Jesus told his followers, ‘God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be shown mercy.’ So, shall we be bold, as King Solomon said? Or shall we show mercy to this wicked man, as our Lord commanded? Perhaps it is bold to be merciful. What do you think?”

  Trying to concentrate, Alexandra shifted on the bench. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Of what are you sure, toto?”

  “Not much these days. I just hope Grant gets here with the tickets pretty soon. That train is jammed.”

  Mama Hannah folded her hands around her Bible. “I do not believe you are thinking about the train. What fills your mind, toto?”

  Alexandra shrugged. “I guess I’m wondering what’s happening to my money, and I’m trying to figure out how that’s going to affect my life. If the message I got at the lodge was accurate, I may not have any money to wonder about.”

  “Ehh.”

  “I’m also thinking about what it’s going to feel like when Jones finally kills me.”

  Mama Hannah clucked in sympathy. “Death comes in many forms. It is good that you and I have the promise of eternal life.”

  “Somehow I can’t make the thought of heaven seem very comforting right now. I’m not ready to die, Mama Hannah. I want to do things. I have plans. Dreams.”

  “Oh, yes indeed. You are young. The young forget so quickly that no one knows what tomorrow may bring. Hope in the Lord, toto.”

  Alexandra reached over and patted the old woman’s folded hands. How could Mama Hannah know the impact of losing more money than she had ever imagined? How could she possibly understand what it meant to be betrayed by the only person you truly trusted? How could she relate to the aura of impending death that hung over Alexandra’s head like a black cloud—a constant threat that followed her everywhere, lurking, waiting, seeking out her vulnerability.

  “Tickets,” Grant announced as he strode toward the bench. “First class. No one ever said that Thornton can’t treat two lovely ladies to the elegance they deserve.”

  Alexandra glanced at the train with more than a measure of skepticism. Elegance? She’d have to see that to believe it.

  Grant loaded her bags onto a luggage cart and set off toward the train. Alexandra and Mama Hannah followed more slowly, making their way past vendors eager to sell them a packet of cashews or a few ripe tangerines. Every touch on her arm made Alexandra’s spine prickle. Twice, when someone brushed against her, she jumped. Sensing someone following, she kept turning to scan the crowd behind her. But she never saw anyone resembling the hulking Nick Jones.

  “This way, ladies,” Grant said, offering a hand to Mama Hannah first and then to Alexandra as they climbed aboard the first-class car.

  Sure enough, it was nearly as full of passengers as the rest of the train, the floor under the narrow leather seats cluttered with bags, baskets, and cardboard boxes. Grant picked his way down the crowded aisle to their designated seats. He offered Mama Hannah and Alexandra the two adjoining seats, but the older woman deferred.

  “I will sit there,” she said, indicating the empty seat beside a dignified elderly man wearing the traditional embroidered white Muslim cap and ankle-length caftan. She leaned against Ale
xandra. “If not, I am afraid Grant will bother the poor gentleman with requests for stories and legends of Muhammad. No one should have to endure such a thing for nine hours.” She tugged at Grant’s sleeve. “And do not disturb Miss Prescott either. Today she is considering important subjects. She is thinking of money and dying.”

  “Money and dying?” Grant gave Alexandra a curious glance. “You want to explain that one?”

  She groaned inwardly as he stepped aside to allow her the window seat. “Forget it,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

  Grant slid down into his seat, his knees touching the seat in front. “Fine with me.” He gave a yawn and dug around in his jeans pocket. “I don’t want to talk about money and dying. Two of the most desolate subjects I know. Care for a lemon drop?”

  He held out a couple of cellophane-wrapped candies dusted with lint. Afraid to ask how long they’d been in his pocket, Alexandra took one, blew off the lint, and unwrapped it. Savoring its sweet-sour flavor, she relaxed against the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Money,” Grant said, “is overrated. True, you’ve got to have it to get by in the modern world. But nobody needs it.”

  Alexandra opened one eye. “Give me a break.”

  “I’m serious. It’s not a basic need—like shelter, food and water, meaningful work.”

  “How do you get shelter and food without money? And what kind of meaningful work is there that doesn’t pay wages or a salary?”

  “Anthropology.”

  “If you want to live in a tent and eat bananas.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I’m sure it does. Excuse me, I’m going to take a nap now.” She shut her eyes again as the train began to roll out of the station. “No matter what kind of skewed logic you try to use on me, I’ll always think money is important. I need it to give my life significance.”

  “Supposing that stockbroker has bled you dry. Are you saying your life has no meaning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You are not your money. You are you: Alexandra Prescott.”

  “I’ve never been Alexandra Prescott without money. I don’t know who that is.”

  “I’ll tell you who she is. She’s one smart, talented, beautiful woman.”

  “And what good are any of those things without money?”

  Irritated in spite of his compliment, Alexandra edged up in her seat and leaned one elbow on the window. The passing scenery only served to remind her how completely off-kilter her world had become. Unlike the commuter railway on which she watched New York’s skyscrapers give way to small Westchester County towns composed of brick stores and tidy houses, this rickety train chugged past square, red-mud huts and swaying palm trees. How on earth had she ended up here?

  “When you get back to New York,” Grant asked, “are you going to start living in a subway station and pushing all your belongings around in a shopping cart?”

  “Of course not. I earn a decent living from my fabrics. I’ll survive. I just won’t be . . . the same. I won’t be able to start my design firm, for one thing. And the little stuff I’ve always counted on will be much more difficult. You know—going out on the town for a nice Chinese dinner or enjoying front-row seats at a Broadway theater on opening night or dropping into Macy’s for a pair of designer shoes.” She looked down at her comfortable rubber-tire sandals. “Oh, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Grant studied her shoes for a moment. “You have a problem with the footwear I bought you?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “You don’t like what I’ve been feeding you?”

  “I’ve eaten well enough. It’s just that—”

  “You don’t like sitting on a verandah with front-row seats to the sound of ocean waves?”

  Alexandra reflected on the previous evening she had spent with Grant and Mama Hannah. The three had sipped hot tea while sea breezes played in the dried fronds of the thatched roof. Silent, they had listened to the rush of waves on the sand and the gentle creaking of the palm trees. It had been relaxing, peaceful, perfect.

  “It was a wonderful evening,” she acknowledged.

  “Didn’t cost a thing.”

  “Nothing’s free in New York.”

  “Maybe you ought to change your address.”

  Alexandra gave him a frown. “Are you suggesting I move to Kenya and live in a tent or something?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d be terrible at it. No electricity for your hair dryer.”

  “I resent that. What makes you such an expert? I could live in a tent if I wanted to, Grant Thornton.”

  “No way. You are a woman accustomed to the finer things in life. You need your designer clothes and satin sheets.”

  “I don’t have satin sheets.”

  “And your sketches. You definitely need a studio with a telephone, fax machine, computer—”

  “Oh, what do you know about my work?” She crossed her arms. “I can design anywhere I want. If I had to, I could sketch and paint in Timbuktu.”

  “Timbuktu. Now there’s a brilliant thought. You’ll have to talk to my sister Tillie about it. Maybe she can put you up at her place when she gets back to Mali.”

  “There’s not really a city called Timbuktu, is there?”

  “Sure. And now that you’ve decided you don’t need money after all—at least not to live in a decent place and keep doing the work you love—maybe you’d like to move there.” He gave her a smug grin.

  Unfortunately, the morning light that filtered through the train window made the man’s devastating gray blue eyes actually sparkle. Otherwise, Alexandra would have been tempted to wipe the smirk off his mouth. As it was, she felt sorely tempted to kiss it. The mouth, not the smirk— although Grant Thornton did have a pretty cute smirk. The creases that crinkled at the corners of his eyes only added to his charm, and when a curl drifted down onto his forehead, Alexandra had to look away.

  “I’m not moving to Timbuktu,” she said.

  “But you could. That’s the point. You don’t need your money.” He let out a breath. “Now that we’ve resolved the issue of money, let’s move on to the subject of death.”

  “You’re driving me nuts. Look, I just want to take a nap, okay? Could you possibly allow me to have a few minutes of uninterrupted silence?”

  “You’re not going to die anytime soon.”

  “Shh.”

  She closed her eyes and did her best to feign sleep. Grant had somehow managed to argue her into a corner about the stocks. It was true she’d been making ends meet without her father’s money, and she could survive if James Cooper had destroyed her inheritance. She wouldn’t want to, but she could.

  If she lived that long.

  Grant had no business pontificating about the fact that she could be killed. He hadn’t been attacked under a thorn tree. He hadn’t nearly been pushed out a fifty-foot-high window. And he certainly didn’t know how it felt to be stalked by a hired killer.

  “If Jones has any sense,” Grant spoke up, “the logical thing for him to do would be to lie low and then slip out of Kenya before they can arrest him.”

  “Logic doesn’t have anything to do with this,” she mumbled.

  “But I do. Even though Jones came close at Fort Jesus, he didn’t succeed. I wasn’t there as fast as I wish I’d been, but I got to you in time to run him off. I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” He took her hand. “There’s my ring right on your finger. My promise of protection.”

  Alexandra opened her eyes as Grant threaded his fingers through hers and pressed her hand against his chest. For some reason his simple gesture sent a flood of warmth into her chilled heart. She had known a lot of men in her life. But not one of them had Grant Thornton’s assurance, intelligence, and wit. Certainly none shared his obvious concern for her.

  That was the oddest thing. Grant care
d about her. It wasn’t her money or her family name or even her designing ability that had caused him to take her hand and promise to protect her. Such details didn’t matter to him. She mattered.

  Alexandra leaned toward him and laid her head on his shoulder. “Thanks,” she said. “For the ring.”

  He kissed her forehead and began to stroke her hair with his fingertips. She had never felt anything better in her life.

  The longer Alexandra slept, the more uncomfortable Grant became. And it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she was resting against him with her head on his shoulder. It was simply her: Alexandra. The reality that she would be gone soon. Too soon. The leaden stone of dismay that settled in the pit of Grant’s stomach grew heavier each time he looked at the woman.

  Her blonde hair lay like threads of silk scattered on his shirt as she napped all morning and right through the lunch hour. Several times he couldn’t resist touching the soft strands, sifting them through his fingers and marveling at the way they caught the brilliant sunlight. He’d always been partial to long hair, maybe because his sisters had worn theirs at waist length in girlish pigtails and braids. But Alexandra’s short, bouncy style was just right for her. More important, it smelled good, and the pleasure of brushing his cheek against her head reminded him of the scent of a frangipani blossom. Exquisite, exotic, alluring.

  Though he had never been a drinking man, Grant felt intoxicated in the woman’s presence. Alexandra’s hair had besotted him, and her face held him in trance-like fascination. He studied the way her eyelashes cast long, dark shadows across her cheeks. Perfect lashes, curved like a pair of satin fans. Perfect cheeks, the skin now rosy and soft, healed from her sunburn. He memorized her mouth. Perfect lips, a pair of damp pink petals. How quickly he had seen her mouth alter from a pout of frustration to a tense line of fear to the wide exaltation of her laughter.

  How am I going to forget her mouth when she goes?

  He would never forget it—and that was the trouble. Grant knew Alexandra was going to be impossible to put out of his mind. He’d gotten used to the sound of her voice. He knew exactly the touch of her hand. Like the professor in the play he’d watched on Broadway years ago, Grant had “grown accustomed to her face.”