A Touch of Betrayal (20 page)

“Where’s Jones?” she whispered.

“The detective went after him.”

He got away.
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. He had escaped, and he would come after her again. She could hear Grant reassuring the frightened tourists, telling them he would take care of her now, insisting that the detective would catch her assailant.

But he wouldn’t. As Alexandra knotted her fists around clumps of Grant’s shirt, she knew the truth. Jones would kill her.

“Alexandra?” Grant’s hand cupped her head, holding it against his chest as the tourists left. “You’re bleeding. Did he cut you?”

“My ear.” She couldn’t make herself let go of him. “Grant, I’m going to die.”

“You’re not. The police have seen Jones in action. They know their man, and they’ll catch him.”

“He’s too good. He had already picked out the window. Grant, he knows what he’s doing.”

“I can’t believe he got his hands on you,” Grant muttered under his breath. “I couldn’t get to you in time. I thought he might . . . I couldn’t let him hurt you. It was the knife that held me back. He pulled it on you so fast. He’s a pro, all right.”

As his words sank in, she lifted her face to his. “Yes . . . he
is
a professional. A hired killer.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

“He told me this was a job. A
job
.” She swallowed. “And the first time . . . under the tree . . . he said he had committed dozens of murders. There was a man in Mexico . . . his only other killing outside the States. Jones said he was a bodyguard in New York, but he knew all about my family, my background. It was like he had a dossier on me. He even knew my travel plans. Grant, I think . . . I think someone hired Nick Jones to murder me.”

Falling silent, he brushed the hair away from her ear and neck. His fingers dabbed at the trickle of blood running down her skin. “We ought to wash this off. You might need stitches.”

“Grant, did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you. But right now, I don’t care why he’s after you. I just want him stopped.”

“Madam! Madam!” Two African museum guards came racing up the steps of the bastion. “Were you the victim of an attack? The others reported the trouble. We have notified the police!”

Alexandra let out a sigh. It would begin again. The clinic, the police, statements and reports, long hours of sitting in bare offices. “I’ll go with these guys to the police station,” she told Grant as the officers waited for her. “There’s nothing more you can do for me here. I’ll stop by the bungalow later to pick up my things and say good-bye. I have to get a plane back to the States and hire some protection. Please go on to Mama Hannah now. Would you do that for me?”

“I’m not leaving you alone, Alexandra.” Grant took her hand. “I don’t trust the situation. We’ll go to the station together. Once you’re under close guard, I’ll check on Mama Hannah. Not before.”

Without the strength to argue, she walked beside him toward the two officers. She felt like an armed grenade— explosive, dangerous, a threat. At any moment, the people she cared about could lose their lives because of her. And all she wanted to do was rest in the strong embrace of Grant Thornton, a man she had no choice but to leave behind.

Grant stood at the edge of the bungalow verandah and flipped through the pages of Alexandra’s sketchbook. After she was placed under the protection of two armed officers at the police headquarters, he had returned to Fort Jesus to look for clues. He had discovered her pad on the walkway near the place where Jones had first accosted her. Her pencil case had been lying open there, some of the pencils scattered and their colored tips broken. Grant had set each one in its slot, running his fingers down the smooth wood, trying to understand what would make anyone want to kill a woman like Alexandra.

Still turning the question over in his mind, he looked through her sketches as if in them he might find a clue. Was she creating something that someone wanted to stop? Was Nick Jones a deranged serial killer and Alexandra just a random target? Or had someone hired him to kill her for another reason—her money, an inheritance, a business deal gone bad?

Who could possibly want Alexandra dead? She was full of goodness, purity, honesty. Even her artwork showed a unique clarity of vision. Such sensitivity. She had been gifted with a talent few human beings could claim. Who would want to snuff that out?

“She has not returned,” Mama Hannah said, joining Grant at the verandah’s edge.

He glanced over at her. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Bed, bed.” She dismissed the notion with a wave of her gnarled hand. “Do you not remember what wise King Solomon wrote? ‘A little extra sleep, a little more slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest—and poverty will pounce on you like a bandit.’”

Grant chuckled. “Now what do you care about poverty, Mama Hannah?”

“I care about you,
toto
. And I want to get out of that bed and talk to you about all of these troubles.”

“Would you at least sit down?” He led her to a woven rattan chair. “You’re making me nervous tottering around with all those drugs in your system.”

“Ehh, I have not taken a pill since you left me. No, do not argue. The pain in my head is not so bad now.”

“You’re a pain in
my
neck, is what you are.”

“Why? Because I will not take elephant pills and lie in bed all day? Or because I was injured and caused you to miss the important Maasai ceremony? Or because my words touch places in your heart?”

“I’ve resigned myself to missing
Eunoto
.” He shut the sketchbook and sat down beside her. “I’ve already gathered a lot of research on the ceremony. I wanted to see it for myself, but I’m sure I’ll manage to write the chapter anyway. No, it’s not that. And it’s not the medicine either. If you don’t want to take your elephant pills, that’s fine with me.”

“Then it is my words. You know that I speak the truth— even when it is not what you wish to hear.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your stories, Mama Hannah.”

“Stories? Do not talk to me of stories and myths, Grant. I speak truth when I speak of a person’s need for God—and you know this in your heart.”

“Maybe.” It was the closest he could come to an admission of the empty place inside him—a void he had long ago filled with his research, his work, his travels. Or tried to fill.

“I also spoke the truth about Alexandra, did I not?” Mama Hannah said. “You love her.”

“Love her!” Grant tipped back his head and laughed. “You jump to conclusions faster than anybody I ever met.”

“Ehh.”

“I don’t
love
Alexandra Prescott. I like the woman. I admire her. She’s smart and artistic and good-hearted.”

“And beautiful.”

“Yeah, she’s beautiful.” He shut his eyes, distracted by the memory of kissing her on the beach that morning. “Soft, too. And she smells good.”

“
That
you have noticed? Her scent?” Mama Hannah clucked. “Oh, Grant, this is very serious.”

“It’s not serious,” he said. “It can’t be. She thinks this Jones guy is going to kill her if she doesn’t get back to the States and hire a bodyguard or something. Alexandra’s leaving, Mama Hannah.”

“You will let her go?”

“I don’t
own
the woman. She’s got a life in New York. I live in a tent out in the African bush. Of course I’m going to let her go. What choice do I have?”

“You could ask her to stay.”

He shook his head, constantly amazed at the old woman’s naïveté. For all her wisdom, she could be as blind as a bat. “Look at the facts here, Mama Hannah—”

“You should look at your heart instead of facts.”

“My heart doesn’t matter. The facts say I’m better off as a loner and Alexandra’s better off doing her fabric design thing in the big city. She’s going to get on a plane, and I’m going back to Mount Kilimanjaro to finish my research.”

“And you will never see her again?”

“Maybe one day I’ll stop in New York on one of my university speaking tours. I’ll drop by the design firm she’s planning to build, and we’ll reminisce about our adventures. She’ll show me pictures of her kids or something. That’s how it’ll be. That’s how it
has
to be.”

“Ehh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grant jumped up from his chair and strode to the verandah railing again. Frustration poured through his veins at his inability to accept the picture he had painted of his own future. All he had ever wanted to do was live out in the bush among the Africans. Now . . . because of some tall . . . blonde . . . beautiful . . . sweet-smelling . . . wonderful . . .

“Where is she?” he exploded, hammering the rail with his fist. “She should have left that police station hours ago. They already know the whole story. How much more could she give them?”

“You are so certain Alexandra will abandon you,” the old woman said. “Perhaps she already took a taxi to the airport and got on an airplane to Nairobi.”

“She wouldn’t leave her bags here, would she?” Grant walked over to the bedroom door that opened out onto the verandah. Alexandra’s suitcase lay unlatched on the bed, clothing and shoes spilling across the spread. Maybe she
would
leave her stuff here. Why not? She was rich. She could buy more dresses. More shoes.

He pushed open the door, walked to the bed, and began rooting through her things. Feminine things, silky and gauzy things. Alexandra things. Was there anything in the bag to hold her? Anything she couldn’t live without?

“Here’s her Bible,” he called out to Mama Hannah on the verandah. He picked up the little leather-bound volume and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Alexandra might want that one of these days. He could mail it to her.

“She left a lot of socks and shirts and sweaters behind, too,” he added. He lifted a cotton blouse and held it to his nose. Alexandra’s scent clung to the folds of fabric—something floral and exotic. Where would she keep the bottle? He’d like to know its name. Searching, his fingers stroked over a scattering of black sequins. “Here’s some kind of fancy evening dress. Looks expensive. And jeans. She’d need those, wouldn’t she?”

“It’s a little hot for jeans at the coast,” Alexandra said behind him. “What are you doing in my suitcase, Dr. Thornton?”

Grant dropped her blouse and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I thought . . . maybe . . . maybe you left already. Maybe you caught a plane.”

“I said I’d come back, didn’t I?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I told you I’d say good-bye. Didn’t you believe me?”

“You were in a hurry.”

She shrugged and began to refold her clothes. “They didn’t catch Jones,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “The police are posting a watch at the airports and border crossings.”

“Are you all right?”

“My hands are sore.” She attempted a smile. “Ear’s okay, though. No stitches.” She tucked her hair behind her ear to show him the flesh-toned plastic bandage on her lobe.

“How about your knees?”

“Skinned, but stronger than I knew. Thank goodness for that thigh toner I ordered off the shopping network, huh?” she said sarcastically. “You know, somebody ought to put me in a commercial: Are you being stalked? Has someone tried to push you through a . . . through a window?” Her face began to crumple. “Try the Mombasa Squeeze . . . free thirty day . . . thirty day . . . money back . . .”

Grant folded her into his arms. “Alexandra, what did the police tell you after I left? Do they have anything on Jones?”

“Nothing. Nobody knows anything. He vanished. They said maybe . . . maybe there’s an accomplice. Maybe it’s the Mafia or something.”

“It’s not the Mafia, is it?”

“I don’t know!” She slammed her fists against his chest. “I don’t know who Jones is! I don’t know why he wants to kill me. If he’s not nuts, then somebody wants me to die and is paying him to murder me—and I don’t have any idea why!”

Grant rubbed his hand down her back, trying to calm her. “I’ve been thinking about the money. The bank-account thing.”

“It’s not the money. He won’t get a penny of my money by killing me. Maybe if he kidnapped me and demanded a ransom—”

“Do you have a will? Does someone stand to inherit if you die?”