A Touch of Betrayal
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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.
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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
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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
D
on’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.
—J
ESUS
C
HRIST
(M
ATTHEW
6:19-21)
Contents
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?