Free A Touch of Betrayal by Catherine Palmer Page B

and inner-tube straps beside the cot. “I traded a ballpoint pen for these. They’re high fashion in the bush.”
    Alexandra stared at the shoes. “Thanks . . . I think.”
    “No problem. Meet me at the Land Rover in ten minutes.”
    He started out of the tent, but she called to him. “Grant, when the man stopped you a minute ago—what was the name he called you? It didn’t sound like Bwana Hadithi.”
    He raked a hand through his mop of light brown hair. “It’s just a nickname. You know . . . sort of a joke.”
    “Another joke? These Maasai seem to have a good sense of humor. So, what do they call you?”
    “ Ol-oibor siadi . It’s a play on my name. There’s a species of gazelle known as Grant’s gazelle.”
    “Ol-oibor siadi,” she said. “I’ll try to remember that in case I get lost again.”
    “I wouldn’t if I were you. They’ll . . . uh . . . they’ll laugh.”
    “I don’t see what’s so funny about a gazelle.”
    A strange flush of color crept up the back of Grant’s neck. “That particular gazelle has a patch of white near its tail. Oloibor siadi means ‘he of the white behind.’”
    “I see.” It was all Alexandra could do to contain the giggle that rose up inside her.
    “It’s a pun,” he went on, his voice assuming a scholarly tone. “The Maasai enjoy riddles and wordplay. In fact, that subject actually comprises one of the chapters of the book I’m writing. The Kikuyu were the first to call me Bwana Hadithi—a straightforward description of my role as a collector of stories. But the Maasai like to play with words. So the nickname they’ve given me fits their anthropological profile. Ol-oibor siadi refers to Grant’s gazelle on the one hand . . .”
    “And on the other?”
    “The fact that I happened to be spotted swimming in the river one day—without anything on—which amused the folks around here to no end. So, that’s the explanation.”
    “Anthropologically speaking.”
    “Are you laughing at me?”
    “Me?”
    “Because I did bring you those fine shoes. And I’m your entire source of hope for getting out of this mess.”
    “I thought you were in the mess,” she said, slipping her feet into the sandals. “Ole Engipika in the kraal , remember?”
    He regarded her for a moment. “The Land Rover,” he said. “Ten minutes.”
    As Grant walked out of the tent, she sang out, “Yes, sir— he of the white behind.”

    “We’re going up Mount Kilimanjaro?” Alexandra asked.
    Grant steered the Land Rover along the narrow dirt road.
    “The town of Oloitokitok sits at an altitude of about five thousand feet. But you won’t feel like you’re on the slope of the highest mountain in Africa. It’s deceptive.”
    “And you’re sure they’ll have a telephone?”
    “One. If we’re lucky.”
    He glanced over at the woman beside him. Expecting to read dismay in her blue eyes, he was bemused at the look of fascination he read there. Alexandra was leaning forward in her seat and gazing up at the imposing vista of the snow-capped dormant volcano. In the open window her blonde hair blew away from her sunburned face, revealing high cheekbones and a finely sculpted chin. Lips parted, she looked breathlessly eager—as if the journey itself excited her, and not just the prospect of using a telephone.
    “Take a look at the trees,” he said. “You reach a certain altitude on the mountain, and all of a sudden they start cropping up.”
    “What kinds are they?” she asked.
    “Those with the pink flowers are called Cape Chestnuts. That’s a eucalyptus. And that one—with the big, orange-red blossoms—is a Nandi Flame Tree. Like it?”
    “It’s beautiful.”
    He could almost say the same about his companion. Since he’d first met her, Alexandra Prescott seemed to have changed in a rather interesting way. It wasn’t so much the sunburn—though that pale face he’d spotted at the airport could have used a little color. It wasn’t even the change of clothes. He