The Golden Valkyrie (2 page)

The portable dining table moved smoothly over the plush hunter-green carpet of the hall, despite the added weight of the passenger occupying the bottom storage shelf. Why couldn’t she have been one of those petite five-foot-nothing types? Honey wondered gloomily, trying to keep her long legs curled under the sheltering confines of the overhanging white damask tablecloth.

“Okay?” Raphael called down to her cheerfully. “We’re almost there, Miss Winston. It’s just down the next corridor.”

“I’m fine,” Honey lied, knowing she’d scarcely be able to walk when she was able finally to uncurl from this pretzel-like position and get off this blasted shelf. There wasn’t any use complaining to Raphael. He had done the best he could under the circumstances.

When she had met the young Latin bellhop inside the delivery doors forty minutes ago, she had been deluged by bad news. Security for the hotel’s famous guests had been tightened unexpectedly, with the locks changed on the VIP suite, and only the security officers had been given passkeys. In addition, Prince Rubinoff had canceled his plans to dine with the mayor this evening, and he and his cousin were having dinner in their suite before leaving for River Oaks to attend the party.

Honey had scarcely had time for the disappointment to sink in when Raphael had come up with an alternate plan. He had persuaded the usual waiter from the dining room to let him substitute, and he was going to smuggle Honey into the suite on the shelf under the dining table. She could hide there while Prince Rubinoff and Alex Ben Raschid dined. Once they’d left the suite, she would be able to slip off the trolley and go about her business. He had clearly thought his solution a stroke of pure genius, and Honey had fallen in with the plan out of sheer desperation. It might not be foolproof, but it was the only plan in town.

The trolley had halted now, and she heard Raphael knock softly on the door. Then there was a murmur of voices and the table was once more in motion. This time the carpet was even plusher, and of a rich russet shade, she noticed before the trolley once more came to a halt. There was a murmur of voices once again. Raphael’s and two others’, and then the soft closing of a door.

She was on her own. Now all she had to do was to keep absolutely still for perhaps another forty-five minutes and she would be home free. It might not be all that easy, she thought ruefully. She was already getting a cramp in her left thigh. Why didn’t they sit down and eat their dinner, damn it?

The gentlemen were obviously not willing to oblige her, for she heard the soft clink of crystal across the room. Marvelous. They were going to have a cozy predinner drink. They must have carried their drinks across the room, for though their footsteps were silent on the thick carpet, their voices were suddenly clearly audible.

“You know that his honor the mayor isn’t going to be pleased about this, Lance,” a deep voice drawled casually. “He’s not a man who’s used to being stood up.”

“Too damn bad.” He was answered coolly. “I’ve put up with this bureaucratic folderol for three days now, Alex. You told me this was going to be a vacation.”

“Be patient,” Ben Raschid urged lazily. “A few more social duties and we’ll be free to play a little. It doesn’t hurt to strengthen diplomatic ties with a city as rich in technology as Houston.”

“I should have known that you’d squeeze a few business shenanigans into this trip.” Rubinoff’s voice had an underlying note of amusement, despite its exasperation. “If I recall, you persuaded me to come with you on the pretext that it would be your last spree before you took over control of the business from your grandfather. Yet here you are, wheeling and dealing. I might just as well have stayed in Zurich.”

It was odd how much you noticed about voices when you couldn’t see the people involved, Honey mused. Both men were speaking in English, which wasn’t unusual, considering that they’d attended Oxford together. But neither had the upper-class, public-school accent that she would have expected. Ben Raschid had a trace of a British accent, but Lance Rubinoff sounded almost aggressively American.

“You were getting bored with painting all that snow anyway,” Ben Raschid replied. There was the abrasive sound of a match being struck, a short pause, and then Ben Raschid continued, “You said yourself that you were ready for a change.”

Oh, my Lord, she hadn’t considered the possibility that one of the men might smoke! Oh, please, let Ben Raschid be sitting far away from the table, or let it just be a cigarette. She was violently allergic to cigar smoke, and its effect on her soon escalated from violent sneezing fits to actual nausea.

“You caught me in a weak moment,” Rubinoff said lightly. “I was finding that red-haired Olympic figure skater a trifle boring. She kept nagging me.”

“Nagging?” Ben Raschid asked, puzzled. “The woman appeared to be completely crazy about you. She couldn’t keep her hands off you.”

Oh, Lord, it
was
cigar smoke, and Ben Raschid must be practically right next to her. Honey could feel that first tingle in her nostrils that was the ominous harbinger of things to come.

“Oh, I couldn’t fault her eagerness,” Rubinoff was saying gloomily. “It was her kinkiness that was the problem. She wanted to do it on the ice.”

There was a short silence, and then Ben Raschid asked carefully, “It?”

Rubinoff tersely supplied an obscene Anglo-Saxon noun that caused Honey’s eyes to widen in shock.

Ben Raschid exploded in laughter. “My Lord, you do know how to pick them. Nude?”

Rubinoff was chuckling now too. “Of course. She seemed to think it would be the ultimate experience,” he said ruefully. “I must be getting old. Ten years ago I would probably have done it.”

“Ten
weeks
ago you probably would have done it,” Ben Raschid corrected dryly. “She must have caught you in an unusually sedate mood.”

The tickle in her nose was getting almost unbearable. Why couldn’t Ben Raschid be a pipe smoker? Hadn’t anyone ever told him that Middle Eastern potentates were supposed to be addicted to the hookah?

“Perhaps,” Rubinoff admitted. “I might have been more amenable if she’d settled for an indoor rink, but she was continually raving about the magnificence of nature in the raw. It’s below freezing in Switzerland at this time of year!”

It was coming. Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t everything have gone as smoothly as she’d planned? It just wasn’t fair, damn it!

“I can see how you could have found that a bit dampening to your enthusiasm,” Ben Rachid said solemnly. “Perhaps you could have worn—”

He broke off abruptly as Honey sneezed explosively. The sneeze was followed by two more of equal violence. They couldn’t have helped but hear, Honey thought morosely. That sudden silence in the room was very expressive. Bracing herself for the coming confrontation, she waited resignedly.

The damask tablecloth was abruptly flipped back, and she was suddenly practically nose to nose with that face Nancy had rightly described as full of the devil. The bright blue eyes so close to her own were certainly dancing with satanic mischief at the moment. His gaze traveled leisurely over her contorted figure before returning to her face.

“Are you supposed to be the hors d’oeuvres or do we save you for dessert?” Rubinoff asked politely, squatting down so that they were on the same level.

Honey gazed at him hopefully. “Would you believe that I’m a quality-control agent for the hotel, checking on the dining service?”

He cocked his head consideringly. “No, I don’t think I’d believe that,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t think you would,” Honey said gloomily. “I guess you might as well help me out of here.”

“Delighted,” the prince said solemnly, offering his hand and helping her solicitously from her metal nest. As she unwound to her full five feet nine, he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle of appreciation. “I underestimated you. You’re not a dessert; you’re a blooming smorgasbord.”

But she was in no mood for clever metaphors. No wonder the smoke had affected her so quickly, she thought crossly. Ben Raschid was lounging lazily on the couch not six feet from the elegantly appointed dinner trolley, and he still had the slender brown cigarette in his hand that had been her downfall. Despite its thinness, it must have been exceptionally strong, for now that she was no longer protected by the filter of the tablecloth, it was overpowering. Her stomach lurched, and she experienced a dizzying nausea. She was going to be sick. “Oh, no,” she moaned miserably, and turned and flew toward the silk-curtained window at the end of the room.

“My God, she’s going to jump!” Rubinoff cried, startled, as she tore the beige drapes aside and worked frantically at the window. “You little fool, we’re twenty stories up!”

Honey had the window up now and was leaning out, breathing in the brisk, invigorating coolness, when she felt two strong arms forcefully grab her from behind.

“Are you crazy?” Rubinoff asked angrily. “You could have been killed. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The fresh air was blessedly relieving her of that horrible queasiness, but she took a few more deep breaths before she risked an answer. “I wasn’t trying to jump,” she gasped, “I just felt sick and needed some air.”

“I see,” Lance Rubinoff said slowly, his arms tightening around her. “You weren’t thinking about escaping, then?”

She shook her head, still breathing deeply.

He moved closer, his hands sliding up and around her rib cage to just below her breasts. “You’re not even a little suicidal?” he asked softly.

“Of course not,” Honey said. “You can let me go now.”

“Perhaps that wouldn’t be a very good idea,” he said silkily, his hands moving up a fraction so that he was lightly cupping the fullness of her breasts. “You said that you were ill. What if you got dizzy and fell out the window?”

“I’m not dizzy anymore,” she told him breathlessly. That wasn’t quite true. She was feeling oddly light-headed, and those strong, gentle hands seemed to burn through the cotton of her leotard.

“You’re sure?” Rubinoff murmured wistfully. “We wouldn’t want an international incident, you know. Can’t you see the headlines? Lascivious prince throws beautiful trespasser out the window.”

She giggled helplessly. The man was completely mad. “I’m quite sure,” she said firmly.

“Pity,” he said, and his arms dropped reluctantly away from her. He stepped back, and she turned to face him. His blue eyes were twinkling. “No one in his right mind would believe that I’d toss a luscious thing like you away under any circumstance.” He raised an eyebrow mockingly. “If you get so violently claustrophobic, don’t you think you could have tried to meet me some other way than hiding under that little cart?”

“I’m not claustrophobic,” she said indignantly. “It was the smoke. I’m allergic to it.” She pointed accusingly to Ben Raschid, who was regarding them both with quizzical amusement. “Tell him to put out the cigar.”

“Put out your cigar, Alex,” Rubinoff ordered obediently, his lips twitching.

“Certainly,” Ben Raschid said politely, leaning forward to crush out the cigar in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. “Anything else?”

Rubinoff turned to Honey. “Anything else?” he asked gravely.

Honey shook her head.

“That will be all, Alex,” Rubinoff said grandly. “We’ll let you know if she changes her mind.”

“Good,” Ben Raschid drawled. “Now, bring her over here and let’s get a better look at her.”

Rubinoff gestured mockingly. “Milady?” Taking her by the elbow he propelled her gently across the room until she stood before Ben Raschid. Then he strolled over to half lean, half sit on the arm of the couch beside his cousin.

Honey felt rather like a slave on an auction block as they appraised her admiringly and intimately from her ballet-slippered feet to the top of her white-gold head. In sheer self-defense she stared back just as blatantly.

Both men were tanned, dressed in dark evening clothes, and were well over six feet, and there the similarities ended. Cousins they were, but they bore practically no resemblance to each other. Prince Rubinoff’s dark-auburn hair and brilliant blue eyes shone like restless burning flames in contrast to the raven-dark hair and piercing black eyes of Alex Ben Raschid. Though the contrast in coloring was extraordinary, it was their expressions that truly set them apart.

Lance Rubinoff’s countenance was so boldly, joyously alive that Honey found herself gazing at him in helpless fascination despite herself. It was as if he were lit from within by that flame to which she had mentally compared him. Ben Raschid’s expression, on the other hand, was guarded and faintly cynical, and if there was passion behind that dark, saturnine face, it would be released only at Ben Raschid’s will.

“Very nice,” Ben Raschid said casually, leaning back on the couch, his gaze narrowing on Honey’s lower anatomy speculatively. “Gorgeous legs. I’ll flip you for her.”

“No way!” Rubinoff said softly, his eyes not leaving Honey. “This one’s mine. She’s got me hot as a firecracker just looking at her. I think you’ll have to make my excuses to the mayor. I plan on being very busy this evening.”

Honey frowned fiercely. “If you’re through gloating over me as if I were a piece of prime sirloin—”

“Very prime, indeed,” Rubinoff murmured outrageously, and as she glared at him indignantly, he said solemnly, “Sorry. Please continue. You were saying?”

“I was about to ask what you intend to do with me,” she asked tautly.

“But I’ve just been telling you, love,” Rubinoff protested gently. “Such ingenuity deserves a reward. I’m going to skip the party and we’re going to spend the evening in bed.” He grinned mischievously. “Perhaps tomorrow, too.” He shook his head admiringly. “God, you’re a clever little puss. Cleopatra could have taken lessons from you.”

“Cleopatra?” Honey asked.

“She had herself wrapped in a carpet and smuggled into Caesar’s audience chamber,” he explained patiently. “I’m sure she did the best she could with the materials at hand. I doubt that they had portable dining trolleys in ancient Egypt.”

“From what I hear, she did exceptionally well with what she had ‘on hand,’” Ben Raschid commented, his lips quirking. “A girl after your own persuasion, Miss…” He trailed off inquiringly.