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  A Touch of Betrayal

  Copyright © 2000 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo copyright © 2000 by Paul and Linda Marie Ambrose/FPG. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Melinda Schumacher

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:

  Palmer, Catherine, date

  A touch of betrayal / Catherine Palmer.

  p. cm. — (HeartQuest) (Treasures of the heart ; 3)

  eBook ISBN 978-1-4143-3878-1

  1. Women textile designers—Fiction. 2. Anthropologists—Fiction. 3. Americans—Africa— Fiction. 4. Africa—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PS3566.A495 T6 2000

  813´.54—dc21 00-030244

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Printed in the United States of America

  14 13 12 11 10 09 08

  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Patty Osman

  My dear friend

  Don’t store up treasures here on earth, where they can be eaten by moths and get rusty, and where thieves break in and steal. Store your treasures in heaven. . . .Wherever your treasure is, there your heart and thoughts will also be.

  —JESUS CHRIST (MATTHEW 6:19-21)

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  TEN

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  She stepped past the immigration desk at Nairobi International Airport, slipped her passport and visa into her purse, and looked for the smiling man who would be holding a placard that read her name: Alexandra Prescott. He wasn’t there. She searched the line of cars waiting outside. No limousine. She studied the row of booths proclaiming hotel names: Hilton, Intercontinental, New Stanley, Norfolk. Abandoned.

  Despite the late hour, the main terminal—a concrete-walled building with a cement floor—swarmed with activity. African businessmen in tailored suits greeted associates warmly. Indian women swathed in bright silk saris tended scampering children while their husbands summoned baggage handlers to begin loading mountains of suitcases. A janitor strolled across the floor pushing a long-handled broom. A shopkeeper washed the windows of his kiosk.

  Alexandra fought the flutter of panic in her stomach. At nearly six feet tall, blonde, blue-eyed, and dressed in black New York City chic, she knew she stood out like a bare lightbulb. The only other Caucasian in the terminal looked like he’d gone AWOL from a halfway house. A real derelict. The man’s scruffy whiskers and shaggy brown hair perfectly echoed the fashion statement he made in his dusty khaki trousers, faded shirt, battered suede boots, and baggy jacket covered with bulging pockets. Appalling.

  Alexandra clutched her purse under her arm and breathed a fervent prayer. The scent of something raw and unrefined filled the air in the terminal—a mixture of spices, strong coffee, and tropical flowers. She swallowed hard. Dear Lord, please help me. This was not what she had expected. She was supposed to be met by a limo driver, taken to the Hilton Hotel, and greeted with a cup of papaya punch. That’s what the brochure had said. Papaya punch.

  She flicked open the clasp on her purse and pulled out the itinerary. There it was. Papaya punch at the Hilton. Dinner at eight. A six o’clock departure for the game park the following morning. Everything was organized. Efficient. No surprises.

  Alexandra crumpled the brochure in her fist and studied the rapidly dispersing crowd. Did anyone in the place even speak English? Doubtful. She walked over to a luggage handler.

  “Excuse me, sir.” She held out the wrinkled brochure and pointed to the itinerary. “I expected to be met here by a representative from the Hilton Hotel. Do you know where that gentleman could be?”

  The African shook his head. “Madam, you will have to talk on the telephone.” He pointed to a row of pay phones on a far wall.

  “I don’t have my hotel’s number. And I don’t have any coins. I haven’t exchanged my money yet.”

  “Madam, I cannot exchange money for you,” the man said gravely. “The black market is against the law in Kenya. I will lose my position.”

  “No, no, I’m not asking you to—” But he was hurrying off with a suspicious last glance in her direction. Alexandra let out a breath. “Great. Just wonderful.”

  “Got a problem?”

  It was the derelict. She could tell by the man’s accent that he was American—and he was clearly the best example of the depths to which an expatriate could sink. Probably into drugs or gun smuggling. Alexandra squared her shoulders inside her silk-lined jacket as if she could somehow improve the image of her country by outshining this vagabond.

  “Yes, I have a problem,” she said. “My expectations have not been met.”

  A grin turned up the left corner of the man’s mouth. “Expectations?”

  “I was given this in New York.” She held out the brochure. “The travel agency planned everything. And they’ve failed.”

  “Failed?”

  “Is that all you can do? Repeat everything I say?” She tapped the toe of her leather pump. “Look, I’m here on business. I have a room at the Hilton, and if I can get there, everything will be all right. So if you’d just show me where to find the hotel limousines . . .”

  “Let’s see.” He pushed back the frayed cuff of one sleeve and studied the watch on his wrist. “It’s 9:00 p.m.—”

  “Nine!” Alexandra slid her jacket sleeve up her arm and stared at her Rolex. “I knew the plane was late, but I thought . . . is Kenya eight hours later than New York or nine?”

  “Depends on the time of year. Daylight saving time throws everything off. We don’t play around with the time in Kenya, you know. Sun comes up at six. Sets at six. Equator runs right through the country.” He smiled, as if this knowledge might somehow reassure her. “The exchange bank is closed, so you’re out of luck there. Hotel booths are shut down. Looks like you’ll have to hitch a ride with somebody.”

  “You mean—hitchhike?”

  He laughed. “Relax, I’ll take you into the city. The plane I’m meeting is due from Tanzania in a couple of minutes. If you want to visit the ladies’ room, it’s right around the corner there. I’ll watch your bags.”

  Sure you will. Alexandra crossed her arms. She wasn’t stupid. Let these suitcases out of her sight for a moment and the derelict would snatch them and run. She hadn’t lived in New York City for six years without learning a thing or two. And as for riding with him . . .

  “So, you’re in Kenya on business,�
�� he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Let me guess. You live in New York, but you’re originally from . . . Texas.”

  “How did you—?”

  “The accent. You’re a Rice graduate?”

  “Baylor.”

  “Of course. Green and gold. Sic ’em Bears.” He gave her that lopsided grin again. “You studied business, but you got a job in . . .” He looked her up and down. “Fashion merchandising.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Design.”

  Who was this man? “Fabric design,” she said. “Look, I’m exhausted. Could we drop the inquisition?”

  “Inquisition? I simply analyzed you, proposed a theory, and was proven correct.” He turned toward the security gates, where a line of arriving passengers was assembling. “This must be her flight.”

  Alexandra used the moment to study the man beside her. Despite his shabby appearance, the derelict was downright pompous. I’ll take you into the city. . . . I’ll watch your bags. . . . Sic ’em Bears. . . . As if a man like him had ever seen the inside of a university classroom. His hair had probably been trimmed with a hunting knife. And those whiskers. At least three days of dark growth shadowed a jaw that might actually look firm if he bothered to shave.

  The fellow had straight teeth and bright gray blue eyes, but the getup he wore! On a fashion runway it might be called nouveau Indiana Jones . . . grungy chic. On this guy, it looked like nothing better than bottom-of-the-barrel thrift shop. Who on earth could he be meeting? A wife? A girlfriend? Hard to imagine.

  “Good thing Hannah’s plane was late, too,” he said. “Otherwise, you’d be stuck without me.”

  “Too bad.” She searched the crowd for the man’s likely match. If the woman looked even halfway respectable, Alexandra might accept a ride with the two of them. “So, who’s Hannah?”

  A slow smile crept across his lips. “Hannah . . . she’s my mom.”

  “Your mother? You’re waiting for your mother?”

  “Sort of.” He lifted a thumb. “There she is! Hey, Hannah.”

  Expecting to see an elderly version of the derelict, Alexandra scanned the passengers flooding through the gates. A tiny, dark-skinned wren of a woman picked her way through the crowd and held out her arms. The man covered the space between them in two strides, picked up the old lady, and planted a big kiss on her chocolate brown cheek. An African? The man’s mother was an African?

  Alexandra reached for her carry-on bag. This was too weird. She had to find another way out of her predicament.

  “Mama Hannah,” the man said, setting the little woman in Alexandra’s path, “you look great. The same as ever. How’s Jessica? Did she and Rick really get back together? And what’s this about Tillie? She’s pregnant?”

  “Grant.” The old woman cupped the man’s stubbly cheeks in her two hands. “So handsome. My toto . . . all grown up. You don’t look very sick. Not as I feared.”

  “Just a touch of the old bug. A little fever, that’s all. You didn’t need to come all this way.”

  “I wanted to see you. And Jessica and Rick should have time together . . . time alone.” Bright brown eyes turned on Alexandra. “Who is this? Grant, you did not tell me you had found a woman. She is such a beautiful girl.”

  “Her?” He glanced at Alexandra as if seeing her for the first time.

  “He’s been analyzing me,” she explained to Hannah as the two women shook hands. “But I don’t think he’s actually looked at me. My name is Alexandra Prescott. I’ve just arrived from New York, and my limousine failed to pick me up.”

  “Are you afraid?” Hannah asked, searching her face.

  “No. I’m just . . . just a little irked. I’m tired.”

  “I also am tired. Come along, Grant,” Hannah said. “Pick up the bags. Take us to your car.”

  Alexandra tried to hide her smirk as Mr. Pompous meekly gathered up two of her wheeled bags and the old woman’s small suitcase. She felt sure Hannah wouldn’t allow any nonsense. Whoever this Grant was, it appeared he could be trusted to take Alexandra as far as the Hilton Hotel.

  As they began walking toward the wide exits, she let out a deep breath. This was not so bad. She had expected an adventure in Africa, inspiration for the line of exotic fabrics she was designing. She had looked forward to a change from the routine of city life, and she eagerly anticipated a break from the onslaught of another New York winter. The travel agency had let her down, but she had learned to be flexible.

  And she sensed that God was with her. He had provided the derelict and his African mother—a pair of odd angels, to be sure. All the same, Alexandra was going to be all right.

  ONE

  As Alexandra stepped out into the African night, a sense of the mystery of the great continent prickled up her spine. No, there weren’t any cannibals jumping around a fire or leopards creeping through the jungle or sahibs riding by on elephants. In fact, compact European cars cruised paved streets that led to a distant skyline of glittering lights. It might have been New York—except for the palm trees rustling in the warm breeze, the fragrance of tropical blossoms, the Swahili cries of vendors hawking newspapers and roasted corn on the cob. And overhead . . .

  Alexandra stared up in wonder at the multitude of stars, billions of twinkling crystals. Constellations she had never seen before lay across the velvet expanse like expensive, Tiffany-designed brooches and necklaces. The Milky Way carved a creamy path through the midst of the heavens. And all of it hung so close, just over the tips of the palm fronds.

  “Better close your mouth or you’ll start catching flies.” Grant took Alexandra’s attaché case out of her hand before she could reply. He slung it into the back of a rusty Land Rover and slammed the door. “In Africa, those could be tsetse flies. First thing you know, you’ll fall into a deep sleep—and it’ll take more than the kiss of a handsome prince to wake you up.”

  “Grant!” Hannah touched Alexandra’s hand. “He has always been a naughty boy, that one. I promise you will not find tsetse flies in Nairobi. They live in the bush country.”

  “That’s a relief.” Of course, she would be heading out on a safari into the bush country in a matter of days. She was scheduled to tour game parks, visit the coast, and even climb Mount Kilimanjaro. But tsetse flies certainly hadn’t been in the brochure.

  “Hop in the back, Miss Prescott,” Grant said, tilting the front seat forward. “Just push some of that stuff out of the way.”

  Alexandra set one foot into the Land Rover and stared in disgust at the heaps and piles on the backseat—tattered books, reams of dog-eared papers, blackened banana peels, stray socks, tape recorders, and enough empty candy-bar wrappers to fill two trash cans. The smell made her gasp. Who was this guy? Some kind of international, roving garbage collector?

  She cleared a space between a box of cassette tapes and a wadded-up coat. Then she sat down carefully, her knees tucked together and her toes aligned. She wouldn’t be the least surprised if something came crawling out to sit on her lap.

  “Oh, Grant, my toto,” Hannah said as she climbed into the front seat. “You are worse than ever with your things. And what have you been eating? Kit Kat bars? Will you survive on those? No wonder the malaria attacked you so easily. You must become strong. Don’t you know that your body is the temple of the Lord?”

  The man beside her leaned over and planted another kiss on the old woman’s leathery cheek. “I’m a bachelor, Mama Hannah. I like it that way. Eat what I want, when I want. Sleep when I’m tired. Mind my own business. You know what I mean?”

  As he started the Land Rover, the African woman shook her head. “I never mind only my own business.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “Jesus Christ gave you and your three sisters into my hands long ago. How can I stand back and watch you live in this way?”

  “Mama Hannah, I’m thirty-three years old.”

  “By now you should have a wife. Children.” She looked over the back of her seat and studied Alexand
ra. “What do you think about this, Miss Prescott? Should this boy not find a good woman to marry?”

  Alexandra cleared her throat. “Well, I—”

  “Mama Hannah,” Grant cut in, “you’ve been hanging around with my moon-eyed sisters too long. I’m happy for Tillie and Jess. I really am. But I don’t want you doing any matchmaking for me, okay? I have a lot more important things to focus on. Did I tell you about the group of Ilmolelian clan members I’ve been talking with over near Mount Kilimanjaro? Ilkisongo area. Intriguing bunch. You’ll be fascinated.”

  “He changes the subject,” the old woman said to Alexandra. “Do you see how he does that? This boy is very smart. I cannot understand why a woman would not want to marry him.”

  Alexandra mustered a smile. She could understand perfectly. What woman in her right mind would hook up with this derelict? Sure, he had an obvious tenderness for the African woman. You could even say the man had a nice pair of eyes and a disarming grin. But his clothes . . . and this car! She had heard enough sermons to know it was wrong to judge a person by outward appearance. But she had dated enough men to trust her intuition just a little. If this Grant fellow didn’t care about his health and his appearance— what would he care about?

  “Miss Prescott, you have come a long way from New York to Kenya,” Hannah said. “I wonder what you will do here.”

  “Business,” Grant answered in Alexandra’s place. “She’s a fabric designer. Getting ideas from the wilds of Africa.”

  “I am certain you will make beautiful designs,” Hannah said.

  “I suggest you study the animals closely while you’re here,” Grant continued. “Scrutinize the fauna. Really look. The lines of a zebra’s hide. Fascinating. The babies are brown and white, you know. Please don’t give them black stripes. African elephants have big ears, huge tattered appendages. Don’t draw in the tiny little flappers that Asian elephants have. In fact, you ought to visit my sister Fiona. She lives with the elephants over in the Serengeti. She could show you a thing or two.”

  “Your sister lives with elephants?” Alexandra asked. She was beginning to assemble a very odd portrait of this family. A derelict brother. A crackpot sister. And a mother—the sanest of the lot—who couldn’t possibly be their mother.