A Touch of Betrayal (4 page)

But then she remembered Grant Thornton.
Dr.
Grant Thornton, the beloved anthropologist who was preserving the tales of the African people for posterity. She had dismissed him as a derelict. And the tiny dark-skinned woman—Mama Hannah—had turned out to be a committed Christian.

How wrong it was to judge people by their appearance. She should have learned that lesson long ago, yet she failed again and again. She knew why trusting people was so hard for her. Years ago her father’s misplaced confidence in an associate had nearly cost him his company, and the lesson had not been lost on his daughter. “They’re all after your money,” he had told her. And he had been right. Rather than wonder whether people liked her for herself or her wealth, Alexandra had simply avoided getting close.

“Are you an artist?” the man asked.

Alexandra stirred the water with her toe.
Lord, help me start to trust. Teach me to care about others.

“I mean, I noticed your notebook and all,” he went on. “I’m kind of an artist myself. A poet, really.”

“You’re a writer?” she asked, deliberately turning toward him. She should at least give the man a chance. “Have you been published?”

He snickered. “Naw, I just do it for myself, you know. But you come out here to a place like this and first thing you know, the muse strikes. In fact, I wrote a little verse this morning on the way down here to the lodge. I guess you didn’t notice me on the plane, but I sat behind you.” He fished in the front pocket of his polyester shirt. “Would you like to hear it?”

Alexandra swallowed. No, she didn’t want to listen to some stranger’s poetry. In preparation for dinner, all the other guests had abandoned the pool, and she relished the silence. She wanted to drink in the evening, gaze at the mountain, and translate her emotions onto the page of her sketch pad.

“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.

D
UE TO STOCK-MARKET FLUCTUATIONS, YOUR ACCOUNT SHOWS A DEFICIT BALANCE OF -$203,127.36.
T
O 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.