She was sliding the shirt from his shoulders and down his arms. “I know,” she said, pressing her lips to his shoulder. “I know very well what I’m doing.”
He was breathing raggedly, and she could feel the rapid throb of his heart beneath her lips. “There’s one thing you’ve got to promise me, Honey,” he said hoarsely as he pushed her down in the sand, his hands working at the fastening of her navy shorts. “No abortion.” His expression was pale and stern in the dim light. “Whatever happens, no abortion. Okay?”
She smiled up at him tenderly. It was entirely what she would have expected of someone as vividly alive as Lance. How much he had yet to learn about her and the love she felt for him. “Okay,” she agreed softly, pulling him down into her embrace. “Whatever happens, love.”
SIX
THE WIND WAS tearing wildly at her hair and robbing her of breath as she and Lance ran the last few yards to the porch of the Folly. Lance didn’t bother to knock, but threw open the door, bustled her into the foyer, and slammed the door behind them.
Honey was trying futilely to smooth her hair as she turned and gazed laughingly up at him. “You really know how to pick the time to accept a dinner invitation, Lance. That wind almost blew us away. I must look a complete mess.”
“I like it,” he said softly, his eyes running lingeringly over her tousled white-gold hair and equally windblown tailored cream slacks and chocolate silk blouse. “It makes you look very satisfyingly primitive,” he added, smoothing his own rumpled hair. “Perhaps I should change the background in your painting. A Valkyrie should really have a storm setting to be really effective.”
“Just so you don’t insist on having me bare-breasted and wearing a horned helmet,” Honey said dryly, making a face at him.
He shook his head ruefully. “I learned my lesson that first day I tried to paint you nude. I find you too much of a temptation in the buff, my proud beauty.”
Her eyes twinkled teasingly. “I noticed you didn’t get any work done that day. And I thought artists were supposed to regard their models in a purely objective light.”
“Never purely,” he said with a wicked grin. “Not when the model is you, Honey sweet. Objective? Perhaps in fifty years or so I might muster a little objectivity.”
Honey inhaled sharply, feeling a flutter of delight deep in the heart of her. It was the first time in the two weeks they’d been on the island that he’d intimated that their affair was to be anything but fleeting. She didn’t fool herself that Lance would make any lasting commitment to her.
The past weeks had been the happiest she’d ever known, and she felt she had grown closer to Lance Rubinoff than to anyone before in her life. Not only did they share a white-hot physical affinity that rocked them to their depths, but they’d found that they shared a gentle camaraderie that was amazing, considering the disparity in their upbringings. She was almost sure that Lance felt the golden ties that were being forged between them, but this was the first verbal indication he’d ever made that their idyll might extend beyond the confines of Londale’s Folly.
Her face must have mirrored the glowing delight she was feeling, for his eyes were suddenly narrowed and intent, and he took an impulsive step toward her. “Honey,” he said huskily, “let’s go back to the cottage.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Alex Ben Raschid’s voice cut through the velvet sensual haze that was beginning to envelop them. Alex stood in the arched doorway of the living room. “I haven’t been able to pry the two of you away from that seaside love nest since we arrived. I’m tired of my own company, damn it.”
Honey could feel the hot color flood her cheeks, as she watched Ben Raschid stroll lazily toward them. Dressed in dark cords and a long-sleeved black shirt, no one could have looked more self-sufficient and less dependent than that sleek panther of a man.
Lance’s expression was also plainly skeptical, as he took Honey’s arm in a possessive clasp and turned to face Alex. “Nice to know we were missed,” he said mockingly. “However, I don’t seem to remember you pounding down our door. Admit it, Alex, you’ve been so busy wheeling and dealing that you didn’t even remember that we were alive.”
“I refuse to admit any such thing,” Alex replied, his lips quirking. “I would never have committed the faux pas of interrupting love’s young dream without a good reason. I don’t have an artistic temperament to excuse my rudeness.”
“No, just that Ben Raschid arrogance,” Lance murmured silkily. “And you seem to have overcome your scruples enough to send a note down with an invitation that was the equivalent of a royal command.”
“Sheer desperation,” Alex said, making a face. “I may have been able to tolerate my own company, but I wasn’t about to fight off the Teutonic Terror on my own. She’s been calling, wanting to speak to you, for the past three evenings.” He looked at his watch. “She said she’d be calling you tonight at seven-thirty our time. Knowing Bettina’s Germanic efficiency, that leaves you exactly three minutes to gird your loins for battle.”
Lance gave him a look of utter disgust. “My God, Alex, couldn’t you have told her that I was in Sedikhan? Clancy could have fobbed her off. Lord knows he’s had enough practice.”
Alex shook his head, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “She’d still track you down, with her usual bloodhound’s persistence,” he said. “It’s a quality I rather admire. I thought she deserved at least to talk to you.”
“Thanks,” Lance said gloomily, running a distracted hand through the auburn hair that he’d so recently smoothed. “I’ll do the same for you sometime.”
“Teutonic Terror?” Honey asked, puzzled. “Who on earth are you talking about?”
“Baroness Bettina von Feltenstein,” Lance replied absently, still scowling at Alex.
As if on cue, Justine appeared in the foyer. “Baroness von Feltenstein is on the phone for Prince Rubinoff,” she announced quietly before disappearing once again toward the rear of the house.
Alex glanced at his watch. “She’s thirty seconds early.” His lips twitched. “Most reprehensible. Be sure to reprimand her, Lance.” He gestured toward the door at the far end of the foyer. “You can take it in the library while I get Honey a drink.”
Lance muttered a distinctly blue imprecation and strode quickly through the foyer, slamming the library door behind him.
Honey followed Alex to the bar at the far side of the room, slipped onto a yellow-cushioned barstool, and watched distractedly as Alex went behind the bar.
“Ginger ale?” he inquired as he took two glasses from beneath the bar and placed them on the polished teak counter.
“You have a good memory,” she said. “Why is Lance so upset?” she persisted, watching as he poured his own brandy and replaced the crystal decanter beneath the bar.
“She’s his parents’ choice for a blushing bride,” he explained. He came around the bar and half sat, half leaned on the stool next to her own. When he noticed Honey’s look of surprise, he added quickly, “Not Lance’s. He can barely stand the woman. She’s a bit too aggressive for his taste. He just can’t convince Bettina of that fact. She’s been so brainwashed that she can’t conceive why Lance doesn’t want to marry her and have a multitude of splendidly bred Teutonic princelings.”
“I see,” Honey said slowly, looking down at her glass to mask the sudden jolt of pain she was feeling. “It must be very exasperating for him.”
“I don’t think you do see, Honey,” he said quietly. “I’ve never known Lance to do anything he didn’t want to do. He can’t be bulldozed into a state marriage unless that’s what he wants. I think you know Lance well enough to realize that’s definitely not what he wants.”
She looked up, and her eyes were bright with tears. “I haven’t known Lance long enough to be that sure of him,” she said quietly. “He’s not the easiest person to understand. About ninety percent of Lance Rubinoff is beneath the surface.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I think you have a bett
er chance at probing those depths than any other woman has had,” Alex said gently. “The man is obviously crazy about you.”
Honey felt a surge of hope. “It is a comfort to me,” she said honestly, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you for telling me, Alex.”
“The woman is completely impossible!” Lance exclaimed explosively, striding into the room and heading immediately for the bar. “She’s a ranting lunatic.” He poured himself a double. “And she has the persistence of a bloody bulldog with a fresh bone!”
“I gather that you didn’t convince her that you were quite happy with your single state?” Alex asked, arching a mocking brow.
“My God, when that woman begins quoting bloodlines, she makes me feel like a blasted stud!” Lance said disgustedly, downing half his drink in one swallow.
“Well, she can only judge by your past performance.” Alex grinned. “The results may not be evident, but the inclination certainly was. Is she going to pay us a visit to try to further her cause?”
“Probably,” Lance replied gloomily. “I did everything I could to discourage her, but it was like talking to a post.”
Suddenly Honey couldn’t take any more. Couldn’t they talk about anything but that highbred vamp? She slipped off the stool and wandered over to the French windows, where sheets of rain were pounding against the panes. “We’re going to be drowned before we get back to the cottage,” she said, with an effort at lightness. “This doesn’t look like a pleasant little tropical shower.”
“You won’t be going back to the cottage tonight,” Alex said calmly, and when she whirled to face him with a surprised exclamation, he gave a resigned sigh. “I forgot how primitive you are down at the cottage. You don’t even have a radio, do you? You’re right, this isn’t just a shower. It’s been officially labeled a tropical storm.” His lips tightened grimly. “If it stays in the Gulf much longer, it will probably escalate to a full-fledged hurricane. At any rate, you won’t have to worry about any surprise visits from Bettina for the next day or so.”
“Thank God,” Lance said emphatically, taking another drink. “I’m grateful for small favors.”
“I sent Nate down to the cottage to pack your belongings and bring them up here,” Alex said. “Until the storm passes, you’ll have to remain as my guests. The cottage will be completely flooded in a few hours. I’ve told Justine to prepare a guest room.”
“What about Lance’s paintings?” Honey asked worriedly.
“They’ll be quite safe,” Alex said soothingly. “I told Nate to wrap them carefully in tarpaulin before trying to transport them.”
Honey breathed a sigh of relief. She should have known that Alex would take every care. He valued Lance’s work almost as much as she did.
“They should be in the library by now, if you want to examine them for possible damage,” he continued, turning to Lance, as he finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar.
Lance shook his head. “Nate’s pretty careful. I’m sure they’re all right,” he said carelessly, finishing his own drink. “I’ll check them after dinner.”
“Perhaps you should take a look now,” Honey urged, her brow creased in a frown. “You wouldn’t want to chance having any of them ruined.” She cast an uneasy glance at the rain pounding against the window. “There can’t be much time left.”
Lance’s lips curved in a cynical smile. “I can always paint another one.”
Honey expelled a deep breath of sheer frustration. “I won’t even honor that idiocy with a reply,” she said between her teeth. Then, unable to resist, she burst out, “You’re not some hack painter, damn it. Everything you do is important.”
Alex gave a low whistle. “I think I detect the trace of a long-standing argument,” he remarked, straightening. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go to the library and make a number of completely unnecessary phone calls. Justine will let us know when dinner is ready.”
“You needn’t leave, Alex,” Honey said tautly. “I know when I’m beating a dead horse. Where did you say the guest room is? I believe I’ll go upstairs and freshen up.”
“It’s the first door on the left,” Alex said promptly, settling back on the stool. “And if you’re not going to argue, I believe I’ll stay and have another drink.” He cast an inquiring glance at his cousin. “Lance?”
“Why not?” Lance asked, his eyes fixed broodingly on Honey’s back as she walked swiftly toward the door. “Lord, save me from obstinate women.”
That the charge was leveled at her as well as the absent Teutonic Terror was more than clear, and Honey felt a little stab of hurt along with her annoyance and distress. She didn’t answer, but swept regally from the room and up the stairs. There was very little she could do with her slightly tousled appearance, but if she hadn’t gotten out of that room, there would have been the argument Alex had predicted.
Alex was right. Their argument was of long standing, the only one to disturb the golden tranquility of their time together. Why couldn’t the man see that he needed that God-given talent he’d been blessed with to be recognized? Such great creativity couldn’t be hidden away in a studio, like the canvases that Lance had shoved carelessly away in the closet.
She stopped short on the top step. Oh, God, surely Nate had gotten those paintings out of the closet? Without thinking, she whirled and flew back down the steps and through the foyer to the library. Nate was careful, as Lance had said, but he must have been in a tremendous hurry to get all their belongings together and up to the Folly before the deluge. What if he’d failed to check the closet?
She burst into the library, paying no attention this time to the portrait of Karim Ben Raschid, which subtly made the room its own. The canvases were stacked against the wall, carefully wrapped in the waterproof tarpaulin. There were so many, but were they all there? She hurriedly tore the tarpaulin off the pictures, giving each one a cursory glance. She had grown to know them all in the last weeks, as if they were beloved children. They were children, in a way. Lance’s children, product of the genius he refused to acknowledge. Damn, why couldn’t she remember which paintings had been in the closet? Perhaps Nate had brought them after all.
No, wait, where was the Hidden Lagoon? She remembered asking Lance how he’d gotten that curiously intimate effect, with the sheltering trees surrounding the mystic, tranquil waters. Frantically she went through the canvases again. Maybe she’d just overlooked it. Let it be here, please. It wasn’t! Nate had missed it. And how many others that she couldn’t recall at the moment? Lance’s beautiful children.
No, damn it. She wouldn’t let them be taken away by a stupid freak of nature!
Her movements were almost automatic as she swiftly spread out several tarpaulins on the floor and folded them carefully. She tucked the bulky bundle under her arm and left the library, running toward the front door. She had no time to get a coat or other rain gear. It would only protect her for a few minutes, anyway, in a torrential storm like this one.
She couldn’t have been more right on that score. The rain hit her like a blow, and she was drenched to the skin in seconds. The wind was blowing water before it with such force that Honey had to struggle to keep her feet on the palm-bordered path down the hill to the beach.
The path was a muddy quagmire, as she half ran, half slid down the incline. The trip that should have taken her five minutes took her a full fifteen, and by the time she reached the beach, she was almost panicky. The storm was moving with such ominous swiftness. Would the cottage be flooded already when she reached it?
It was impossible to see the cottage until she was almost upon it, so blinding were the solid sheets of rain pounding at her. She stumbled over the front stoop and had to catch her balance by grabbing at the jamb of the front door, or she would have fallen to her knees. The stoop was already completely flooded, and water was running under the front door when she threw it open and staggered into the cottage.
She wasted scarcely a glance on the stripped living-dinin
g area, but ran immediately to the studio. That, too, was stripped and bare. It was clear that Nate had salvaged all of the paintings he’d noticed, but when she threw open the door of the closet, Honey saw what she’d expected. Propped in a shadowy corner were three canvases. One was fairly small, but the other two were good-sized, and she immediately recognized one as the Hidden Lagoon. She gave a sigh of relief, and lifted the precious canvases carefully out of the closet, after meticulously checking the shelves to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
The water was washing under the door of the studio now, and Honey knew she didn’t have much time. She quickly unfolded the tarpaulins. She’d purposely taken more than she’d thought she would need. Now, after her wild journey down the hill, she was glad of the extra protection. It would be ironic if, after all her trouble, the paintings were damaged on her way back to the Folly. Keeping a wary eye on the seawater that was rushing under the door in a constant tide now, she quickly wrapped each painting in a double thickness of tarpaulin and then tied them all together under the protection of a larger one. By the time she finished, a thin stream of water was washing around her kneeling figure, and she hurriedly picked up the paintings, hugging them to her breasts as she opened the studio door. The water gushed into the room with a little swoosh, and Honey could feel a thrill of sheer panic as she fought her way to the front door through the knee-deep water. If it was this bad in the cottage, what must it be like outside?
It was like jumping into the ocean itself when she stepped off the stoop. The pounding waves were more than waist deep, and it was impossible to keep the paintings entirely out of the salt water as she struggled to make her way toward the path, whose lower reaches were now invisible beneath the stormy surf. Her breath was coming in sharp, painful gasps as she finally tore herself from the deadly clinging waters, which threatened to suck her back into their embrace with each swirling pull of the pounding waves.
The Golden Valkyrie Page 11
