“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.
“Honey Winston,” she supplied.
The men exchanged amused glances.
“An actress?” Rubinoff asked.
“No,” Honey answered crossly. She had always hated her name with a passion. “It’s my real name. I was told that my mother thought my hair looked like honey when I was born.”
“It must have lightened considerably since then,” Rubinoff said softly. “It looks like snow in the moonlight now. How long is it when you take it down?”
“Almost to the middle of my back,” she answered automatically, gazing hypnotically into those soft, glowing eyes. Then she shook her head as if to clear it. “What earthly difference does it make how long my hair is?” she demanded, almost stamping her foot in exasperation.
“I like long hair,” he explained with utmost reasonableness. “It’s virtually a fetish with me.”
“I’m sure a man of your experience has quite a few of those,” she said crossly. “I’m surprised you didn’t give in to your little figure-skater’s demands.”
He looked momentarily surprised. “That’s right! You did overhear that, didn’t you?” He smiled so warmly that it took her breath away. “Did the idea appeal to you? I wouldn’t mind doing it with you, sweetheart. I don’t think I’d even notice the cold.”
Honey mentally counted to ten before she said quite slowly, enunciating every word precisely, “No, it does not appeal to me. I do not want to make love with you on the ice, or in a bed, or on top of Mount Everest. I do not want to make love with you at all. Is that clear?”
“I didn’t offer Mount Everest,” Rubinoff said, his lips curving in an impish grin. “But it’s not a bad idea. The thin air could make it quite an erotic experience. Perhaps we’d better think about that.” He turned to Ben Raschid and asked interestedly, “You do a lot of mountain climbing, Alex. Is this a good time of the year for scaling Mount Everest?”
Ben Raschid cocked his head thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said lazily. “I’d wait a month or so, until the weather is less uncertain.”
“Why don’t you listen to me?” Honey wailed. “I didn’t come here to go to bed with you. I came to get Señora Gomez’s letters.” She ran her hand frustratedly through her carefully coiffed hair, scattering pins in all directions. “If you hadn’t been such an egotistical monster and insisted on keeping them, none of this would have happened.”
“Letters?” Ben Raschid asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Have you started collecting mementos, Lance?”
“Of course not,” Rubinoff said, still gazing at Honey with that molten, glowing warmth. She wished he wouldn’t do that. It had a very peculiar effect on her. “Manuela Gomez? I don’t even recall receiving any letters from Manuela. Are you a friend of hers, sweetheart?”
“She hired me to get back the letters,” Honey said. She was a bit relieved that at least they were beginning to listen to her. “I’m a private investigator.” She glared at Rubinoff accusingly. “She was very upset. She said she’d begged you to return her letters but you just laughed at her.”
“A private investigator?” Lance Rubinoff asked softly. He shook his head firmly. “That’s not a job for a lovely thing like you. You could get into all kinds of trouble, smuggling yourself into strange men’s hotel suites.”
His eyes traveled admiringly over her curves and long, shapely legs in the black tights. “I thought private detectives all wore trenchcoats and deerstalker hats. I must admit that I much prefer your outfit, sweetheart. Is it your usual garb or do you save it for burgling hotel suites?”
“Of course it’s not my usual outfit,” she said in exasperation. “I didn’t know what I’d find when I arrived here. I thought I might possibly have to get in by way of an air-conditioning vent or something.”
Rubinoff cocked his head consideringly as his eyes went to the twelve-inch-square opening of the vent across the room. His eyes returned to linger on the voluptuous swell of her breasts. “You’d never have made it, love,” he said solemnly.
“I know that now,” she said. “Will you or will you not give me those letters to return to Señora Gomez?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Rubinoff said, as he lazily rose to his feet. “But I have every intention of finding out. I’ll just give Manuela a call and see what she’s up to.” He took a step closer to Honey. “We might as well take the rest of those pins out; it’s falling down anyway,” he added softly, his gaze holding hers. She was scarcely aware of his deft hands plucking at the remaining pins, until her hair tumbled into a heavy white-gold glory about her shoulders.
“God, that’s fantastic,” he breathed hoarsely. “Isn’t that beautiful, Alex?”
“Beautiful,” Alex agreed lightly, but his voice served to break the spell Rubinoff seemed to weave about her so effortlessly.
She took a deep breath and stepped back. “I am not a thing,” she said firmly. “I’m an intelligent professional, not some pretty little sex object for your amusement.”
“And spirit, too,” Rubinoff said. “Damn, she’s a sweet little th—woman,” he corrected smoothly. He turned and strode swiftly toward a door on the far side of the room. “I’ll call Manuela on the bedroom extension,” he continued briskly. “Don’t let our guest leave before I get back, Alex.” He turned at the door, his blue eyes twinkling. “And don’t let her put her hair back up!”
Little? She’d never felt little or lacking in strength in her whole life until she’d encountered one Prince Rubinoff, she mused bewilderedly. Why did the man have such a weird effect on her?
“Is he always like that?” she asked dazedly, gazing bl
ankly at the closed bedroom door.
“Most of the time,” Ben Raschid said with a shrug. “Won’t you sit down, Miss Winston? Lance may be some time. As I remember, Manuela Gomez can be voluble.”
Honey crossed to the couch and dropped down on its cushioned surface, her eyes still fixed on the room into which Rubinoff had disappeared. “He’s totally and certifiably insane,” she said positively.
Ben Raschid shook his head, his dark eyes thoughtfully following her own. “No,” he denied quietly. “He’s quite brilliant, really. Don’t be fooled by that flippant facade. Have you ever read Rafael Sabatini?” At Honey’s questioning nod, he went on. “There’s an opening line in Scaramouche that always makes me think of Lance.” He quoted softly: “‘He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense of the world gone mad.’” His lips twisted mockingly. “You’ll note the distinction. If a man believes the world is mad, how can you expect him to take it seriously?”
“It must be a trifle uncomfortable for those around him who don’t view life so lightly,” Honey said, frowning disapprovingly.
“I don’t think he’s had any complaints so far.” There was a suspicion of a twinkle in the dark eyes. “Certainly not from any of the women of his acquaintance.”
That went without saying. Honey had just had a potent demonstration of that dizzying charm and overpowering virility. Yet she still felt called upon to protest acidly. “Evidently Señora Gomez is the exception to the rule.”
“I suggest that we wait and see,” Ben Raschid answered cynically. “I rather suspect that Manuela is playing a little game. If Lance says there were no letters, then they just don’t exist. I’ve never known Lance to lie about anything. He has a positive passion for honesty.” He grimaced wryly. “Which is why we try to keep him away from the company director’s meetings.”
“He’s no businessman, I gather.”
“No one expects him to be. His interests lie in other areas,” Ben Raschid said carelessly. “When Grandfather deeded him his property, his only stipulation was that he cast his vote in the board meetings with mine. He knew he could trust Lance to keep his promise. He’s completely loyal to those he cares about.”
The Golden Valkyrie Page 2
