Golden Paradise (20 page)

Stefan, on the other hand, didn't question his feelings of happiness. Lisaveta was superb, she was beautiful and passionate, she entertained him with her charm and intelligence, she was grace and elegance and also girlish innocence in scintillating variations he found forever exciting. She wasn't a woman with a predictable personality and manner—the kind he always grew bored with. He'd experienced no sense of jaded ennui with Lisaveta and they'd been in continual company for more than two weeks. If he'd contemplated the novelty of
that
circumstance, perhaps their feelings would have been more in accord. Prince Stefan Bariatinsky, however, prided himself on his hedonist principles, and contemplation of any kind was nonessential.

He thought instead in practical terms. The Countess was unhappy and pouting or pouting and angry or any combination thereof, all of which could probably be satisfactorily relieved by a handsome gift or two or ten. Since his mountain lodge was often used for his amorous entertainments,
and
since females were prone to emotional outbursts and tears, he kept a ready supply of restorative baubles on hand.

So he rose from his languorous repose near the pool shortly after Lisaveta entered the house and, after dressing, went to his study, where his safe was housed. Pulling out a large chamois bag from it, he proceeded unceremoniously to dump its contents on his desktop. The jewels and jewelry and small carved animals in semiprecious stones fell out in a tumble of color, fractured light and glitter.

Spreading them out with one abrupt motion of his palm, he searched the disarray for items that would appeal to Lisaveta. Her hair was a rich chestnut but not so dark that dramatic jewels were appropriate, and her temperament was so naive and green-grass new at times that he automatically thought of pearls. Drawing out a three-strand necklace clasped with a pale rose of South Seas coral, he set it aside. The gold diamonds caught his eye next as though they were nudging his thought process. Of course, he realized with sudden delight, the rare pale yellow diamonds from India were a perfect match for her eyes. He lifted the drop earrings from the scattered jumble of rainbow hues.

They had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, the jeweler had boasted. After the revolution they had found their way into Catherine the Great's collection along with many other émigré treasures. They brought
one luck
, the jeweler had added, at which point Stefan had skeptically raised a brow, since Marie Antoinette's life had not been crowned with success. "The earrings, Your Excellency, were her maidservant's means of escape from Versailles so they were lucky, you see—they bought her life."

Stefan smiled now at his recollection of the jeweler's wide-eyed recitation of the little maid's miraculous escape from the guillotine, and holding the oddly pear-shaped diamonds up to the light, he thought how perfect the pale jewels would look against Lisaveta's golden skin. Her skin glowed as though it were touched by the soft paint of sunset or kissed by a warm morning sun. It made one want to touch it to see if it was as warm as it looked. And he remembered in the next flashing moment how she felt beneath him, how she
did
feel warm, with the sensual heat of welcome and passion.

He set the earrings beside the pearl necklace and then plucked out two tiny jade turtles, because Lisaveta had admired a small water turtle yesterday at the pool. She'd mentioned that that particular color was rare where she lived and had blushed when he'd complimented her on the rarity of
her
beauty.

He wanted more, though, than the usual gift of jewelry; he wanted something to make her smile again.
Something special.
It came to him a moment later as he sat at his desk mentally eliminating all the habitual gifts he gave to his lovers—the female gifts of furs or perfume or gowns.

Hafiz.

He found her five minutes later after searching the upstairs first. When he entered the room she turned her head but didn't speak.

"Don't be unhappy," he said immediately. "I'll be
very
good from now on." He smiled then like a contrite young boy.

He looked very much unlike a small boy, though, in the loose leather breeches worn by the mountain warriors and an embroidered shirt in the same gunmetal gray. His feet were
bare,
his shirt open at the neck, and all he lacked was a gold earring to take on the full-fledged appearance of a brigand. His deeply bronzed skin and overlong hair did nothing to dispel the image of bandit, and when he pulled out the handful of jewels from his pocket, offered them to her on his open palm and said, "My apologies,
mademoiselle,"
she thought for a moment she'd been transported to another time.

But it was not another time really, but actually that Stefan Bariatinsky lived a very similar life to that of his Kurdish bodyguards. "Did you pay for those?" she asked in a voice that gave him to understand that his apology was not instantly accepted.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied, responding to the doubt in her voice. Her question, of course, implied he had not.

"Meaning?" she coolly inquired, thinking him the most beautiful man she'd ever seen and trying without success to remain angry with him.

"Meaning—" he grinned widely "—of course, moppet." He decided he also adored her for her sweet pouty bottom lip, which reminded him strongly of a spoiled little girl. "I paid for them," he assured her, "or my business agent paid for them, or someone else on my sizable staff in Saint Petersburg brought a smile to Lazant and Sons establishment, I'm sure of it. Now take them."

When she wouldn't, he dropped them into her lap. "The canary diamonds were Catherine the Great's," he said, his grin undiminished. "She was, I hear, pouty like you."

"Which I'm sure your ancestor Orlov was able to mitigate with his…" She let the insinuating pause lengthen.

"Charm?"
Stefan offered.

"Is that what you call it?"

"A euphemism of course."

"Blood must run true." It was not a compliment.

"I understand the Kuzans are reputed to be hot-blooded," he replied softly. "Although there are, no doubt, exceptions on the family tree," he added with a mocking irony that implied she was not one of them.

"Is this an argument over passion?"

His expression matched his brigand garb, as did his suggestive predatory tone. "I certainly hope so." But he saw immediately that he'd gone too far in his teasing, and with
a self
-assurance devoid of the insecurities of lesser men, he became instantly conciliatory. His wolfish expression altered into contrition and he said with genuine regret, "I don't want to argue. I don't want you unhappy." His voice, his intonation, his entire manner were without jest. "Tell me what to do."

Everything she wanted to say was melodramatic and infantile. So instead of saying, "Leave your fiancée for me," as she longed to do, she compromised with a statement that told at least half the truth. "Don't be an autocrat with me."

"My word on it," he quietly said. "And?" he prompted her, because he could tell there was more from both her hesitancy and mood.

"There's no 'and,' " she lied.

"But there is. Tell me." He was intent on pleasing her.

She looked down at the necklace and earrings, objects of beauty and luxury so casually given, fingered the two small jade turtles nestled in the white mohair of her robe and sighed, her gaze on the exquisite ornaments. "I don't want to argue anymore, and if I tell you we will. Besides…"

He coaxed her when she didn't continue. "Besides…"

"Nothing, really, darling," and she smiled for the first time since he'd come into the room. Nodding at the book he held in his hand, she changed the conversation from the futile controversy over their differing beliefs. "What's that?"

"Your friend Hafiz."
Understanding her tactic, he obliged her.

"He's here? I thought he was at your palace in Tiflis." She was so immersed in the fabric of the poet's life and work that she spoke of him as a living being.

Stefan smiled. "He's both places."

"Let me see." Her voice was excited, her face animated with delight, and he knew he'd selected the right gift.

She moved the jewelry from her lap when he handed her the small leather-bound book and he thought how rare that gesture was in his experience. No other woman he knew would have casually set aside a fortune in jewelry as though she were putting away an empty tea glass.

When she carefully opened the rare volume to the frontispiece to check its provenance, her face lighted up.
"A Baghdad Rotan edition!
Where did you ever find it? There's only two outside the Ottoman Empire." She looked up at him quickly. "And this is one of them."

"The
other's
in Paris."

"They were both in Paris."

"Were," he said quietly.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment more, as she was reminded of both his enormous wealth and power. How much had it cost him to prize this loose from its former owner? And then the vital opportunity for research overcame her speculation. "May I take notes from it?"

Her eyes were the color of brilliant sunshine. "You may have it," he said.

"I couldn't," she exclaimed. "It's nearly priceless. The ones in Turkey are never displayed. Even the ones I was studying in Karakilisa were only available to me because of my father's long friendship with the Khan."

"If you don't take it," Stefan genially said,
"I
shall pout."

For a moment she considered both his levity and seriousness. "You mean it."

"You have never seen anyone pout as brutally as I."

Her smile was pure sunshine. "You really mean it." He could have been giving her her complete heart's desire for the joy in her voice.

"I mean it,
dushka…
truly."

"In that case I accept," she readily agreed, "because you've been a monster and I deserve it, but mostly because I've lusted after this book for an eternity."

"You don't like the jewelry."

"Oh yes, Stefan, it's wonderful! I didn't mean to be ungrateful. It's very beautiful and I'll think of you every time I wear it. But, darling,
darling,
you can't know how much this book means to me."

He found himself strangely jealous on two counts. First, because she had casually mentioned she would remember him with the jewelry as if he were a summer fling at one of the spas, as if she'd think of him later only when clasping the pearls around her neck or slipping Catherine's canary earbobs in her ears. He could visualize her in a year or so, saying to some man she'd married as she put on the yellow diamond earrings, "What was his name again
… ?"
And second, he took mild issue with the adoration in her voice over the book. He envied the damn book!

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Lisaveta cried happily. Carefully placing the book on the windowsill, she threw herself at Stefan, wrapping her arms around his neck.

I've thirty more books by Hafiz, he thought smugly, savoring the feel and scent and excitement of this remarkable young woman who'd been thrown into his path on the Plain of Kars. He was looking forward to offering her the remainder of his gift. "You're very welcome, moppet," he murmured, his arms folded around her, her head resting against his chest. "And we're not going to fight again, I promise."

"It's my fault, too," she said softly, clinging to his strong shoulders, knowing she never felt happier than in his arms. "I should overlook your autocratic ways. They're cultural… that's all."

"I'll be better."

"And I'll be more understanding." His voice had a smile in it. "I see only blue skies ahead."

"Without a cloud," she sweetly added.

He laughed. "How long will all this harmony last?"

"Till the end of time or your first surly remark," Lisaveta dulcetly said, "whichever comes first."

"Or yours."

"It won't be mine."

"Is this a contest?"

''Depends on the wager.''

"Say… loser bathes the winner for a week."

"You're on,
mon général.
"

It was a wager that could have only winners.

N
ow, while all this teasing bantering was taking place on the mountain rim of the world, Nadejda was saying to her mother, "Must we have the graceless woman over for tea? She has no manners at all."

"Yes, we must. She's his only aunt, and it's fortunate for you, my dear, that Papa and I talked some sense into you when we did or you might have done something foolish."

"I don't know how you can be so lenient, Mama. He ignored you and Papa, as well," Nadejda
said,
her face fretful with annoyance. She was still abed though it was past noon, the bedclothes scattered with crumbs from her breakfast tray.

"Darling, these things happen. Stefan was called back to the front." Although Princess Irina Taneiev was as swift to take offense as her daughter, her added years of experience cautioned her to prudence. One never, she'd reminded both her daughter and husband the day of Stefan's abrupt departure, risked losing a fortune such as Stefan's over something as foolish as temper.