The Golden Valkyrie (9 page)

She turned and bustled away, and Honey obediently made her way through the arch into the spacious room, which was as different as chalk and cheese from the barren cottage she’d just left. She cast a glowering look at the gleaming white terazzo floor, covered with glowingly colorful scatter rugs, and the graceful cushioned white rattan furniture as she made her way toward the French doors. The room was full of lush green plants and bouquets of flowers, and everything about it was polished and well maintained. This aspect, more than any other, served to aggravate Honey’s annoyance. If there was one thing that she wasn’t feeling at the moment, it was cosseted and lovingly cared for.

Her displeasure must have been mirrored in her expression, for Alex’s dark brows lifted in mock surprise as he slowly got to his feet when she strode out on the flagstone terrace.

“Don’t say anything,” he said, motioning to a graceful white wrought-iron chair at the elegantly appointed glass table. “Just sit down and have a cup of coffee. I gather Lance has gotten himself into your bad books. I rather thought he would.” He poured a cup of hot fragrant coffee from the carafe on the table into an exquisite china cup. “He’s not showing up for breakfast, I gather?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Honey said shortly, plopping down in the chair he’d indicated. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.” She glared at him crossly. “And I have no need to cool off. I’m not in the least annoyed. I just thought that someone should have the courtesy to show up and make an explanation.”

A little smile tugged at his lips, and his dark eyes glinted with amusement. “I see,” he said slowly. He refilled his own cup and set the carafe back on the table before resuming his seat and leaning lazily back in his chair. “Naturally, I appreciate your courtesy as well as your charming company,” he drawled with an enigmatic smile as he stretched his jean-clad legs before him. “Drink your coffee,” he urged quietly. “Justine is serving strawberry crepes this morning, and you won’t even know what you’re eating if you don’t calm down.”

“I am calm,” she retorted indignantly. “I’m not in the least upset.” Then, as she met the cool derision in the dark eyes opposite her, she admitted reluctantly, “Well, perhaps I’m a
little
upset.” She rushed on hurriedly. “But it has nothing to do with Lance. It’s this blasted island. I’m a city girl. I don’t know what to do with all this fresh air and glorious nature in the raw.”

“And you had no wild Scaramouche to keep you entertained,” Alex added softly, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I told you that he had nothing to do with it,” Honey said, frowning at him fiercely. “My relationship with Prince Rubinoff is strictly business, and I certainly have no right to expect him to treat me as anything but his bodyguard.” She bit her lip vexedly. “I’m just not used to not having anything to do.” She looked up hopefully. “Lance said this was going to be a working holiday for you. I’m pretty good at hunting and pecking on the typewriter—perhaps I could help.”

Alex shook his head immediately. “No way,” he said definitely. “Lance made it very clear that you’re out of bounds for me in any capacity. I’ve no desire to provoke that redheaded temper of his by trespassing on his property.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “I know, you’re just his bodyguard.” He lifted his cup and took another sip of coffee. “But we both realize that Lance is aiming for another type of relationship entirely. If I gave you something to do that would take you out of his immediate orbit, he’d raise the roof.”

“He doesn’t even know I’m on the same island,” Honey said tartly. “He didn’t come out of that studio all night, and when I knocked on the door this morning, he didn’t even bother to answer.” She pouted mutinously. “I don’t think you need to worry about purloining my services.”

“It’s not unusual for Lance to get caught up in his work and labor through the night,” Alex said quietly. “Particularly when he just gets back to it after an absence. Give him a day or so, and he’ll surface to the point of being moderately civilized again.” His lips quirked indulgently. “He’s always just like a kid let out of school at first.”

Honey took a drink of her coffee, not really tasting it, her gaze fixed unhappily on the delicate floral design on her cup. “I noticed,” she said. “Are you as enthusiastic about your hobbies, Alex?”

“Hobby?” His dark eyes narrowed on her face. “Painting isn’t a hobby with Lance; it’s a full-scale passion. Didn’t you see any of his work before he shut himself into his studio?”

She shook her head. “He couldn’t be bothered to do anything but pat me on the head and send me off to play,” she said. She looked up, a flicker of curiosity piercing the hurt. “If painting is such a passion for him, why haven’t I read about it in the tabloids? He certainly makes no effort to avoid publicity. His life’s an open book.”

“Is it?” Alex asked mockingly. “I think you’ll find when you get to know Lance a little better that he’s an intensely private person concerning the things he cares about. If an item appears in the gossip column, you’ll know that Lance doesn’t give a damn about it. I doubt if more than five people in the world know that he’s an artist.” He lifted his cup in a little salute. “You should be honored, Honey.”

“Is he any good?” Honey asked.

“Good?” A curious smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Yes, I think you might say he’s good. Would you like to see one of his paintings?”

“You have one here?”

“In the library,” Alex said, rising to his feet. “It’s a portrait of my grandfather. Lance gave it to me for my birthday last year.” His dark eyes were veiled. “I believe you might find it quite interesting.”

Honey’s first impression as she entered the book-lined library was how small the room was. Then she realized with a sense of shock that the room was quite spacious; it was the large portrait on the wall over the desk that was dwarfing and dominating the room and producing that curious shrinking effect. Karim Ben Raschid was dressed in the traditional robes of his desert people, but that was the only conventional aspect of the portrait. His booted feet were crossed and propped insolently on a massive desk, which was as sleekly modern as he was roughly barbaric. “A wily old cutthroat,” Lance had called him, and it was all there in the strong, sensual face and gleaming dark eyes that were so like Alex’s own.

But there was more, too. There was determination in the set of that bearded chin and a certain tenderness in the curve of his lips. Or was it mockery? She moved forward in compulsive fascination. No, she was sure it was tenderness. She shook her head in bewilderment as she noticed a fugitive devil in the depths of those ebony eyes, which had at first not been apparent. The more she looked, the more that was revealed to her.

“Well?” Alex’s voice was amused, and she could feel his eyes on her from where he leaned indolently against the doorjamb.

“Is it as good as I think it is?” Honey asked in a hushed voice, not taking her eyes from the painting. “It’s the most powerful portrait I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s great,” Alex agreed quietly. “And it’s not even his best work. Lance prefers not to paint anyone he has a personal attachment to. He says that it ruins his perspective.”

“But why hasn’t he had a show? Any gallery in the world would be proud to display paintings of this caliber.” She tilted her head, trying to determine what masterly technique Lance had used to make that barbaric figure in the frame come alive.

“You’ll have to ask Lance about that,” Alex said. “I just thought you ought to know that Lance isn’t simply a dabbler amusing himself. It may help you to accept a few of his eccentricities.” There was a thread of amusement running through his voice. “Like completely ignoring you for days at a time.”

She reluctantly turned away from the painting, and faced him. “Thank you,” she said thoughtfully. “I do understand better now.”

“Good,” Alex said with a grin that illuminated his dark, cynical face with surprising warmth. “Then Lance owes me one.” His brow arched mockingly. “And believe me, I always collect.”

She just bet he did, Honey thought, looking at that face that was as forcefully enigmatic as the one in the portrait above her. “Do you have to make excuses for your cousin very often?” she asked lightly.

He shook his head. “I don’t usually bother. If Lance doesn’t give a damn, why should I?” The mockery faded from his face. “But this time I think the situation’s a little different.”

“Different?” Honey asked.

“His reactions regarding anything concerning you have been a bit unusual, to say the least. I have an idea that he’ll mind very much that he’s made you upset with him.”

“Not enough to interrupt his work, evidently. Not that I’d expect him to, of course,” she added quickly.

“Of course not,” he said solemnly, his lips quirking. “As you say, it’s strictly business between you two.” He gestured for her to precede him from the library. “And since you’re so adamant on that score, I don’t feel in the least guilty about enjoying your exclusive company at breakfast. Come on along and try Justine’s strawberry crepes. Perhaps you’re in a better humor to enjoy them now.”

The strawberry crepes were delicious, and Alex’s conversation over breakfast was fascinating and carefully impersonal. He had little chance to enjoy his own breakfast, however. He was interrupted twice with business calls from Houston and once with an urgent call from Sedikhan.

When he returned to the table after the third call, he shook his head ruefully. “Sorry about that. I’ve told Justine to hold my calls until after breakfast.”

“And this is a vacation for you?” Honey asked lightly as she sipped her coffee. “Lance said you were something of a workaholic.”

“The pot calling the kettle black,” he replied, re-filling his cup. “He’s as bad as I am. He just refuses to acknowledge that what he does is work. He calls it an enjoyable pastime and completely different from my dull, stuffy business affairs.”

“But you don’t look at it the same way, do you?” Honey asked thoughtfully, her eyes on his face.

“Very perceptive of you,” he said softly, looking up. There was a flicker in the depth of his eyes. “No, I think we’re both artists. I just use a different brush and a wider canvas.” His eyes narrowed. “And I can assure you that the colors I select are just as carefully considered.”

“But not always subdued,” Honey said with an impish grin. “I noticed that you have a distinct preference for red.”

“Everyone has his little quirks,” he said, grimacing. “And Lance makes damn sure that everyone is conversant with mine.”

“Have you always had this passion for redheads?” Honey asked lightly.

“As long as I can remember.” His expression was ruminative. “I’ve often wondered if it had something to do with Lance.”

Honey’s eyes grew round. “You mean that you…?”

“No, I do
not
mean that,” he rapped sharply, scowling at her with extreme displeasure. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from giving out tales to that effect even in the performance of your blasted duty.”

“Sorry,” Honey said, trying to hide a smile.

Evidently she didn’t succeed, for Alex continued to frown at her fiercely. “I should hope so,” he said emphatically. Then he sighed resignedly. “What I meant was that it might have some psychological connection to my relationship with Lance,” he explained patiently. “I’m a very cynical person. My grandfather made sure of that, for sheer self-protection. Lance has been the only person in my life whom I’ve ever trusted totally. There’s a possibility that I may be attracted by women of similar coloring because I feel safer with them.”

“Not because they’re more passionate, as you implied?” Honey asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Well, that, too,” he replied, with an answering grin. Then, as if remembering his annoyance with her, he said belligerently, “And I’d like to state categorically that I’ve never been attracted to a member of the same sex, redheaded or not. Is that clear?”

Honey nodded meekly. “Very clear.”

“Good,” he said, relaxing. “Now that we’ve got that settled, why don’t we go back to the library, and you can choose a few books to read? They may come in handy when Lance opts out of the human race again.”

When Honey opened the door to the cottage two hours later, it was as silent as when she’d left. She cast a speculative glance at the closed door of the studio on the way to her bedroom but resisted the temptation to knock. Surely the man couldn’t still be painting. That would be carrying his artistic marathon into the realms of the ridiculous. No, she must just assume that he wanted to be left alone, and indulge his whims. She was a mature woman, and certainly didn’t need anyone to amuse her, as Alex had suggested.

She dropped the armload of books she was carrying on the bed in her room and swiftly changed into her nude-colored maillot. It was still a little damp from her swim yesterday afternoon, she noticed, and felt clammy against her skin despite the noonday warmth. She supposed she really should have brought another suit with her. This island living was going to be very hard on her meager wardrobe, and how was she going to keep her clothing clean, when there wasn’t even an automatic washer in the cottage? She’d just have to go up the hill to the big house and ask Justine if she could use the one at the Folly.

The door of the studio was still stubbornly closed when she left the cottage, and she determinedly looked away from it as she passed. If he was still in there when she returned from her swim, she would have to breach his privacy even if it did annoy him. She had to be certain that he was all right, didn’t she? She’d be derelict in her duty if she let a full twenty-four hours go by without setting eyes on the man. There was a satisfied smile on her face as she ran lightheartedly down to the beach.

“Don’t you have any sense at all? You’re going to burn to a crisp, staying out this long.”

Honey felt her heart leap in her breast at the sound of the familiar voice, but she didn’t open her eyes. She was much too content just lying here on the beach with only the blanket between her and the soft cushiony sand.

“I have sunscreen on,” she said composedly. “I haven’t been out nearly as long as I was yesterday, and I didn’t get even a little sunburned then.”