A Whisper of Danger (18 page)

Giving her a resigned smile, he pedaled off, his goat blinking at Jess as its owner wobbled toward town. Rick pulled his cycle onto the shoulder and let it idle. Turning toward her, he offered his helmet.

“It’s a little damp,” he said. “I was diving this morning.”

Unable to make herself speak, Jess studied the helmet. How many miles of African roads had she and Rick flown along together in the old days? It had been their greatest pleasure—wind whipping at their clothes as miles of open grassland rolled by. Her first taste of freedom had come on the back of Rick’s motorcycle. She had envisioned them riding forever, always together, always in love. But years ago, he had taken that motorcycle and ridden off without her.

“Put on the helmet, Jessie,” Rick said in a low voice. “Come with me.”

“Motorcycles are not really my thing anymore. I guess I’ve grown up some.”

“We both have. I use it to get around, that’s all. Best way to get where you want to go in Africa.” He stuck a thumb in the direction of the black machine. “Transportation. Coming?”

“Better you than the goat, I guess.” She settled the helmet on her head and fastened the chin strap. Against her better judgment—or what was left of it—she climbed onto the bike behind Rick. When he pulled out onto the road, she had no choice but to grab two handfuls of his T-shirt. It was damp from his swim, and she could feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton knit.

Praying that she could hang on, Jess vowed she would not drape herself over the man’s back as she had when she was a girl. In those days, nothing had felt better than wrapping her arms around his chest and laying her cheek on his hard shoulder. No way would she do that now. Not even if it meant flying off the motorcycle and landing in a ditch.

The countryside flashed by, a blur of palm trees, small houses, blue sky. Rick navigated the potholes in the bumpy road, and he managed to steer his way between two humpbacked old cows without nudging either one. Jess hung onto his T-shirt until the fabric stretched into two big wads in her fists. Never—not in all her imaginings—could she have pictured herself riding a motorcycle again with Rick McTaggart.

At least she was on her way to town. She would make it to her appointment with the principal. She could take care of her errands. And maybe she was even conquering some of her revulsion for Rick.
Revulsion
was not the right word any longer, Jess had to admit. She was still angry with him, and she was more than a little fearful of him and of what he might do in regard to Splinter. But he didn’t sicken her. He didn’t enrage her. She was actually beginning to tolerate the undeniable fact that he was back in her life.

“You want me to take you to the school?” he asked. He turned around and leaned back into her. “It’s right down that street.”

“Yes.” She barely managed the word. His face was inches from hers, so close that she could see salt from the dried seawater dusting his brown skin. Tendrils of still-damp hair curled around his ears. His blue eyes seemed to drink her in.

And then he turned to watch the road again. In moments, he was driving up to the front of a tidy white-and-blue school building, its lawn rimmed in bougainvillea and hibiscus. When Rick stopped the motorcycle, Jess practically jumped off. She whisked the helmet from her head and thrust it at him.

“Thanks,” she said. “I owe you one.”

“Make it up to me, then.” He searched her eyes. “Have lunch with me today, Jessie.”

“Oh, Rick. Really, I . . . I have a lot to do in town.”

“You gotta eat sometime.”

“Yes, but—”

“I
know
I’m better company than the goat.” When she smiled in spite of herself, he leaned forward. “I’ll meet you at the Kilau Coffee House on Baghani Street at noon. They make a mean shrimp-and-egg curry. And the mango milk shakes . . . unbelievable.”

Jess could feel herself weakening. He was back, the old charmer. Smiling at her with his brown hair all windblown and his T-shirt molding to his chest, Rick looked like a million bucks. Worse, he hadn’t done one thing to antagonize her. He was nice. Perfectly, wonderfully nice.

But it was all a front. She was sure of it. Underneath that gentleness, he must still be an irresponsible rogue. People just didn’t change that completely. Did they?

“I have to buy uniforms for Splinter,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the town’s center. “I’ll just get a bite somewhere.”

“Kilau’s has cappuccino.”

“Really?”

“And créme caramel.”

“You’re a rat, you know that? You really are.”

He grinned. “That’s what you’ve been telling me.”

“It’s true.”

“Only way you’ll know for sure is to hang around and find out. I might surprise you, Jessie.”

“You’ve surprised me enough for a lifetime just by being in Zanzibar.”

“I told you that was no accident.”

She studied his blue eyes, trying to read the truth in them. Sometimes these days he looked so different to her. It was as if the rage inside him was gone. Something about him was calmer . . . more at peace.

“Baghani Street,” he repeated. “Noon.”

“Maybe,” she called as he pulled away. “And maybe not.”

As she turned toward the school building, she had the terrible feeling that just at noon Baghani Street would draw her like a magnet.

The best elementary school on Zanzibar Island made no special provisions for its intellectually gifted students. Mr. Ogambo assured Jess that her son’s precocious intelligence would be more than stimulated by the mixture of races, cultures, and languages at the school. There would be field trips to forts dating back three hundred years, to the city square where slaves once had been sold, and to the museum where students would examine memorabilia of Dr. Livingstone and Mr. Stanley. Spencer would be able to study the purest Swahili spoken anywhere. He would visit clove, copra, and fabric factories. And he would learn the history of the greatest market and meeting place in Africa.

By the time Jess walked out of the school building, Mr. Ogambo had convinced her that in exchange for modest school fees—though they seemed steep to her—Spencer would be receiving the finest education imaginable. Not only would he learn the essential academics, he would gain firsthand a sense of appreciation for the people and cultures of his world.

Jess fairly floated out into the street. As long as the Kima the Monkey series continued to sell well in the children’s market, she believed she could afford the school fees. She hurried into the city center as she imagined the doors that would open for Spencer. With such a rich international background, he could go anywhere in the world. Do almost any job. Live successfully in any culture.

The relaxed, almost somnolent culture of Zanzibar Island nearly proved Jess’s undoing in the next hour. She managed to get into the office of the electric company’s manager, but he was reluctant to return service to Uchungu House. All the wires would have to be inspected, he said, and many would need replacing. It could take months.

At the post office, Jess had to wait in a long line at the single open window. No one was in a hurry, and Jess forced herself to calm down and adjust her timing to the tropics. Around her, good-natured laughter filled the cavernous office building. People chatted, read books, ate sack lunches. By the time Jess got up to the window it was nearly noon. She handed over her precious sketches and watched in trepidation as the clerk stamped the packet and set it on a counter behind him.

“That envelope must go to England today,” she pointed out.

“Yes, madam. It will go.”

“By air. Not sea.”

“Yes, madam. We have good postal service in Zanzibar. Very few parcels become lost.”

“That’s not just any parcel, you know. It’s very important to me. I don’t want it lost.”

“Please do not worry.” He gave her a warm smile. “Perhaps you will feel better after eating your lunch.”

“Perhaps.” As she left the post office, Jess spotted the sign for Baghani Street. Her stomach knotted into a tight ball. Should she have lunch with Rick? What would he think she meant by it? Would it open a door better left shut?

Yes.

She turned around and started down the street in the opposite direction. It would be stupid to eat with Rick. Crazy to have anything more to do with the man.

On the other hand, what difference could a simple meal really make? She had eaten with him the night before, hadn’t she? And no doubt she would see him at Uchungu House again. If he had something he wanted to say to her, she knew she was going to have to listen to it eventually.

She stopped walking. In fact, she might as well hear him out in the middle of Zanzibar town, safely away from Splinter’s ears. Maybe they would just go at each other’s throats. Spill the whole past onto the table at Kilau’s Coffee House and be done with it.

Jess turned around and headed back down Kenyatta Road toward Baghani Street. When she rounded the corner, she spotted Rick at once. Leaning against the wall of the café, he was staring at the sidewalk. His face held a look of immeasurable sadness. She stopped again, suddenly in doubt. In the past, Rick had never been open with his feelings, never readable. A cocky grin had been his trademark, the perfect mask to cover his anger and rebellion.

Now, Jess felt she could see into his heart . . . but maybe she didn’t want to. She gripped her purse. She should leave. This was a mistake. There was nothing he had to say that she wanted to hear. Or was there?

“Rick,” she said softly.

He lifted his head. His blue eyes snapped to life, and a smile spread across his face. “Jessie. You came.”

She shrugged. “You gotta eat sometime.”

Rick led Jessie through the dim interior of the Kilau Coffee House and out into the sunlit courtyard. He couldn’t believe she had come. All morning, he had told himself she wouldn’t be there. Why should she? He had done nothing but hurt her. Even now, he was clearly a threat to her peace of mind. He had stood on the street, waiting, turning over in his thoughts the hundred wrong things he had done to her in their brief marriage, trying to prepare himself for her rejection.

And then she was there.

Thank you, Lord,
he prayed as he seated Jessie at a small metal table beneath the gray branches of a frangipani tree.
Please teach my mouth the right words to say to her. Speak to her heart through me.

“I’ve got to try one of those mango milk shakes,” she said. “That sounds outrageous.”

He sat across from her, memorizing the play of sunshine in her auburn hair. She had on a simple yellow knit polo shirt and a plain blue denim skirt, but he thought he’d never seen a woman so beautiful. Her fingers were slender and long as she held the menu—artist’s hands. Her skin glowed. Her eyes danced with life.

Rick felt like the teenager he’d been when they first met. Heart hammering, breath short, hands clumsy, he ordered a chicken sandwich. He doubted he could eat a bite. He was alone with Jessie. Beautiful, smart, intriguing Jessie. If he stood up, he’d probably fall flat on his face. He couldn’t even think of anything to say.

“I’ll have the curry plate,” she told the waiter.

Rick fumbled his napkin into his lap. “So . . . uh, how did your morning go? The school . . . think Splinter will like it?”

Her eyes clouded, and he knew he’d made a mistake.
Don’t talk about her son, you idiot! She’s scared to death you’ll horn in on their relationship.