A Touch of Betrayal (23 page)

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.”

But his fair lady was an educated career woman with a life of her own. And she intended to get on with it.

Grant thought about his small campsite, his two tents, his old Land Rover, and his battered gas cook-stove. Instead of comforting him with their familiarity and the promise of interesting work they provided, the images sent a wave of discontent through him. No matter what Alexandra claimed about her ability to live anywhere, she wouldn’t want to spend the rest of her life on a permanent camp-out. Not many people would—which was why Grant had made up his mind to be a bachelor. Busy, contented, challenged, alone.

He looked out the train window and studied the passing scenery. Wide-open savanna grasslands stretched to the horizon. The occasional baobab tree lifted long bare limbs toward a cloudless blue sky. Scrappy acacias provided scant shade for a small herd of gazelles or a lone bull elephant.
Africa.
No matter how lonely he might get, Grant could never give it up for paved streets and skyscrapers.

And so he would go on back to his tents and his Land Rover. He would fall asleep to the sound of lions grunting in the darkness, and he’d wake to the patter of vervet monkeys on his canvas roof. Alexandra would fly away to New York’s glass-sided buildings and clattering subways. She would sleep with the honk of passing cars, and she’d rise with the drone of street-sweeper machines and the cries of newsboys.

Grant looked down at her sun-kissed cheeks and golden hair. The leaden stone in his stomach turned over, and he swallowed against the gritty lump that had somehow lodged in his throat. That’s how it would be. That’s how it had to be.

Sultan Hamud. Konza. Ulu. The strange names of towns hardly larger than a train platform danced in Alexandra’s head as she peeled a banana. The fresh scent of the ripe fruit was like nothing she had ever smelled in a grocery store or supermarket. And the taste—the sweet white pulp melted in her mouth like butter.

“Most of this land we’re passing through once belonged to British colonists,” Grant said. His arm around her shoulder, he leaned forward to watch the passing landscape. “Traditionally, it’s a no-man’s-land between two enemy tribes—the Wakamba and the Maasai. The British took it over at the turn of the century. They had concocted the idea of establishing huge ostrich ranches.”

“For meat?”

“Feathers. You know those fancy hats women used to wear?” He swirled his fingers around his head indicating the huge, ostrich-plumed hats favored by late-Victorian and Edwardian society. “But two things conspired against the intrepid ranchers. First, lions discovered how easy it was to raid the ostrich pens and decimate the flocks.”

“Fast food?” Alexandra said.

Grant chuckled. “Carnivore style. The second problem the ranchers faced—and what really defeated them— occurred back in Europe. The automobile was invented, and its low roof made the fancy hats impractical. So that was the end of ostrich farming.”

“Did the British pack up and leave?” Alexandra peeled a second banana. She was enjoying Grant’s tales of the African countryside. In fact, with a good rest and a little food in her stomach, she had started to feel more optimistic.

“Hardly,” Grant said. “The colonists turned to cattle ranching and dairy farming. They hired Wakamba tribesmen to guard their herds against lions and against their enemies, the Maasai. See, the Maasai believe that
Engai
—their name for God—originally gave their tribe all the cattle in the world. Logically then, anyone else who owns cattle must have stolen them from a Maasai.”

Alexandra laughed. “How convenient. So if a Maasai raids a Wakamba’s or an Englishman’s herd, he’s not really stealing. He’s just taking back what rightfully belongs to him.”

“Exactly. The only problem with your statement is the linguistics. One member of the Wakamba tribe is called a Mkamba. See, in Swahili, we have what we call the M-Wa class. The ‘people’ class. Wakamba is plural, Mkamba is singular.” He paused and reflected a moment. “I guess you don’t need to know that.”

Surprised at the sudden change in his tone, Alexandra glanced over at him. He was right, of course. She didn’t need to know any of it—the history, the tribal names and legends, the intricacies of the language. In Nairobi she would book a flight to New York. Within a day or two, she’d be gone.

Strange. Not too long ago she would have left this country without a second thought. In fact, she would have been thankful to see the last of it. Now, the idea of leaving sent a pang of dismay through her stomach. But it wasn’t the loss of Kenya that grieved her, even though she was learning to appreciate the spacious vistas and the eternal sunshine. What pained her was the prospect of leaving this man.

Did he feel the same about her? Or was she just another diversion, an interesting anomaly he could study and analyze? Did he care at all that she’d soon be gone, or was he anticipating the peace and solitude she would leave in her wake?

“You could teach me a little Swahili,” she offered, trying to gauge the response in his eyes. “Languages fascinate me.”

“We should have started you on a crash course sooner.”

“Well, I might not leave Kenya right away. For a few days, anyway. I mean, I’ll have to find a flight with empty seats.”

“You’ll find one.”

She looked away. “I guess so. I hate to let Jones run me off. After all, I had scheduled a whole excursion, and I don’t have as many sketches for my designs as I’d hoped to do.”

“Maybe you’ll come back after you get Jones put away.”

“Maybe.” She thought about the chances. Slim. She wasn’t even sure she’d have the money to make it from one month to the next, let alone to buy an expensive ticket back to Kenya.

“I guess you’ll be pretty busy,” Grant said. “Your work and all that.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “How about you? When will your project be finished?”

“A few months. Maybe a year.”

“So, what will you do after that? Take a vacation?”

“I might.”

“Do you ever get to the States?”

He stared at the seat in front. “Not often. Every four or five years maybe. I have to track down grants and endorsements. Usually I hit a few universities and do some speaking. Sometimes I get a magazine assignment, or I’m asked to contribute to a textbook. At that point I might need to meet with the publisher.”

“Why don’t you come to New York on your next trip?” she tossed out, as though she’d just thought of it. “I’ll show you the sights.”

He met her eyes. For a moment he said nothing, holding her gaze. Then he let out a breath. “The only sight I’d care to see in New York City is you.”

A ripple of delight ran up her spine. It was just as quickly squelched by the fact that he turned away and dropped his head back against the seat. She could see the muscle in his jaw flicker with tension.

“Grant,” she said softly. “We can always—”

“No, we can’t. You know it. I know it. Anybody with half a brain in his skull knows it. The facts just don’t add up. You’re there, I’m here. You’re big city, I’m Africa. You want money, I want freedom. You’re wrapped up in religion, I’m a doubter.”

“Yes, and you’re analyzing again.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Feel. Listen to your heart.”

“Feelings are for artists. I’m a scientist, Alexandra. I want to figure things out.”

“But that’s not what’s happening between us, Grant. It’s something in here.” She laid her open palm on his chest. “Isn’t it?”

He covered her hand with his and shut his eyes. “I don’t trust my heart.”

“Somehow,” she said, struggling to contain the emotion welling inside her as she felt his heartbeat hammering against her palm, “somehow, you taught me to trust
you
, Grant. At a time when people I’ve counted on have let me down, when I could so easily choose to shut the door of my heart to everybody, you walked in. Into my heart. I don’t know how you managed it, and I don’t pretend to understand what’s going to happen. Sure, my brain is telling me the same facts yours is telling you, and I’ll listen to it, of course. But I’m not going to shut off my heart. I can’t.”

He studied her, the gray in his eyes reflecting the turmoil inside him. “Does the human heart give honest answers, Alexandra? Can emotion ever lead to truth?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to understand everything, Grant. You don’t always need proof. Sometimes you just have to trust.”

As she turned back to the window and the sight of Nairobi’s approaching skyline, she heard her own heart whisper words of truth:
“For I know the one in whom I trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him until the day of his return.”

Her thoughts tumbled out in the form of a prayer.
Lord, my life belongs to you. My faith and my hope lie in you. I entrust you with Grant Thornton now. Open him. Fill him. And teach me how to give you this terrible . . . unbearable . . . ache I feel inside whenever I look into his eyes.

T
WELVE

“Grant!” A woman with billowing long blonde hair and a bulge the size of a baby elephant under her dress waved from the far end of the platform at the Nairobi railway station. “Hey, Grant! It’s me, Tillie!”

Tillie?
Grant stopped stock-still and stared. This beautiful, vivacious, and incredibly maternal-looking woman was his scrawny little sister? And who was the big guy beside her? Not the renegade who’d taken her on a wild-goose chase up the Niger River and then married her. Not him . . . Tillie’s husband . . .

Every protective big-brother instinct surged to the forefront of Grant’s being as the woman who claimed to be his sister hurried toward him as fast as her swaying gait would take her. The guy had better be good to Tillie. He’d better be faithful. He’d better be employed and hardworking and—

“Grant!” Tillie threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Grant, it’s so good to see you! You look great. Such a handsome devil!” She detached herself and whirled away. “Mama Hannah!” she exclaimed, clasping the older woman. “I heard what happened to you. Oh, let me see your head.”

With the women chattering to one side, Grant sized up his approaching brother-in-law. At least the guy wasn’t some knock-kneed kid. His hair was too long. Too black. He looked like a rugby player or something.

“Dr. Thornton?” the man said, extending a hand. “I’m Graeme McLeod. Tillie’s husband.”

Grant gave the man’s hand a firm shake. Not a bad grip, anyway. “Call me Grant.”

“Oh, Grant and Graeme!” Tillie swung around. “I’m so glad you two are finally meeting. Graeme’s a writer, too, Grant. He’s working on a biography of the explorer Joseph Thomson, so it worked out great for us to fly over to Nairobi so he can do research and I can have the baby. Perfect timing, huh? And now you’re here! I was afraid you’d be dug in with your Maasai.” She turned to Alexandra. “And is this your . . . ?”