At the time, Elissa had been thoroughly ignorant of birds and hadn't known about this particular trait of Amazon parrots. She had taken Warchief to her cottage, and promptly at dusk she'd discovered why his former owner had been so enthusiastic about selling him.
Covering the cage had only made the parrot madder. She'd frantically thumbed through one of the old bird magazines she'd been given to an article on screaming, biting birds. Don't throw water on them, the article cautioned. If you do, instead of a screaming, biting bird, you'll have a wet, screaming, biting bird.
She'd sighed worriedly, gnawing on her lower lip as the parrot began to imitate a police siren. Or could it be the real thing? Perhaps her new neighbor in that big white villa had called the Jamaican police?
At that point a loud, angry knock on the front door had startled her. "Hush, Warchief!" she'd pleaded.
He'd squawked even louder, rattling the bars of his cage like a convict bent on escape.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she'd wailed, holding her ears and peeking out the curtain before she opened the door.
But it hadn't been the police. It was worse. It was the cold, hard, mean-looking man who lived in that huge white villa down the beach. The man who looked as intimidating as a stone wall and walked like a bulldozer hunting hills. He seemed furious, and Elissa wondered if she could get away with pretending she wasn't home.
"Open this door, or the police will," a deep, Western-accented voice boomed.
With a resigned sigh, she unlocked it. He was tall, whipcord lean and dangerous looking, from his tousled dark hair and his half-opened tropical shirt to the white shorts that emphasized the deep tan and pure muscle of his long legs. He had a chest that would have started fires in a more liberated woman than Elissa. It was very broad, with a thick wedge of black hair that curled down past the waistband around his lean hips. His face was chiseled looking, rough and masculine, with a straight nose and a cruelly sensuous mouth. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, and he smelled of tangy cologne-expensive, probably, if that Rolex buried in the thick hair on his wrist and the big diamond ring on his darkly tanned hand were any indication of material worth. He made her feel like a midget, even though she was considered tall herself.
"Yes?" She smiled, trying to bluff her way through his obvious animosity.
"What the hell's going on over here?" he asked curtly.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I heard screams," he said, his very dark, almost black, eyes staring intently at her face.
"Well, yes, they were screams, but-" she began.
"I bought my house specifically for its peaceful location," he broke in before she could finish. "I like peace and quiet. I came all the way here from Oklahoma to get it. I don't like wild parties."
"Oh, neither do I," she said earnestly.
At which point Warchief let out a scream that could have shattered crystal.
"Why is that woman screaming? What in hell kind of company are you keeping here, lady?" The man from Oklahoma spared her a speaking glance before he pushed past her into the cottage and began looking for the source of the scream.
She sighed, leaning against the doorjamb as he strode into the bedroom, then the small kitchen, muttering about bloody murder and the lack of consideration for the neighbors on this side of the island.
Warchief began laughing in an absurd parody of a man's deep voice, and then he screamed again, his tone rising alarmingly.
The Oklahoman was back, hands on his narrow hips, scowling. And then his eyes found the covered cage.
"Hellllllp!" Warchief moaned, and the man's eyebrows shot up his forehead.
"The wild party," she informed him calmly, "is in there. And wild is really a good word for that particular party."
"Ouuuuut!" the parrot wailed. "Let me out!"
The Oklahoman pulled off the dark cover, and Warchief immediately began making eyes at him. "Hello!" he purred, leaping from his perch ring to the cage door. "I'm a good boy. Who are you?"
The tall man blinked. "It's a parrot."
"I'm a good boy," Warchief said, and he laughed again. As an encore he turned upside down, cocking his head at the man. "You're cute!"
Cute wasn't exactly the word Elissa would have used, but that parrot had style-she'd say that for him. She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.
Warchief spread his tail feathers and ruffled the rest of himself, dilated his pale brown eyes in what bird fanciers call "blazing" and let out a beaut of a wail. The stranger from Oklahoma raised one heavy eyebrow. "How would you like him," he asked darkly, glancing at her, "fried or baked stuffed?"
"You can't!" she moaned. "He's just a baby!"
The parrot let out another bloodcurdling scream.
"Down, boy!" the man growled. "I don't have my ears insured."
Elissa muffled a giggle. "He's terrific, isn't he?" she asked gleefully. "Now I see why his owner had to sell him when he moved into a small apartment building. I didn't realize it until the sun started going down."
The intruder stared at the pile of bird magazines on the glass-topped coffee table. "Well? Haven't you learned yet what to do about his screaming?"
"Of course," she replied, tongue in cheek. "You cover the cage. It works every time. This expert-" she held up the magazine "-says so."
He glanced at the cover of the magazine. "That issue is three years old."
She shrugged. "Can I help it if bird magazines aren't exactly the going thing on the island? The owner gave these to me along with the cage."
His eyes told her what he thought of the magazines, the cage and the bird in it. Her, too.
"So he screams a little," she defended, shifting under that hot glare. "Basically he's a nice bird. He'll even let you pet him."
He eyed the bird. "Want to show me?"
"Not really." But at the man's baleful glance, she moved closer and held out her hand. The parrot cackled and made a playful swipe at it. She jerked her hand back. "Well, he'll almost let you pet him," she equivocated.
"Care to try again?" he challenged, folding his darkly tanned arms across that massive chest.
She put her hands behind her. "No, thanks. I've kind of gotten used to having ten fingers," she muttered.
"No doubt. What in heaven's name do you want with a parrot, anyway?" he asked, clearly exasperated.
"I was lonely," she said bluntly. She glanced down at her bare feet.
"Why not take a lover?" he returned.
She looked up and saw that his eyes were full of what looked like mischief. "Take him where?" she asked glibly, hiding the uncomfortable reaction his suggestion evoked from her.
A corner of his firm mouth seemed to twitch. "Cute."
"You're cute!" Warchief echoed, and he began to strut in a circle, fluffed up like a cat in a dryer, screaming his lime-green head off. Even the streak of yellow on his nape seemed to glow.
"For Pete's sake, boy!" the man burst out.
"Maybe he's a girl," Elissa commented. "He sure seems to like you a lot."
He glared at Warchief. "I don't like the way he's looking at me," he commented. "I feel like an entree."
"His former owner promised he wouldn't bite," she faltered.
"Sure he did." He held out his hand, and Warchief seemed to actually grin before he reached through the wide cage bars for it.
He wasn't a malicious bird; he just liked to test his strength, Elissa rationalized. But the man from Oklahoma had strong fingers. He let Warchief bear down for a minute before he leisurely removed the big beak and firmly said, "No!"
He picked up the cage cover and put it back in place. And to Elissa's amazement, the parrot shut up.
"You have to let an animal know who's boss," he told Elissa. "Never jerk your hand back if he starts to bite, and don't let him get away with it. You'll only reinforce his bad behavior."
She blinked. "You seem to know a lot about birds."
"I had a cockatoo," he told her. "I gave it to a frie
nd of mine because I'm away so much of the time."
"You're from Oklahoma, you said?" she asked, curious.
He cocked an eyebrow. "Yes."
"I'm from Florida," she said with a smile. "I design sportswear for a chain of boutiques." She peeked up at him. "I could design you a great sun dress."
He glowered at her. "First the parrot, now this. I don't know which is worse, lady, you or the last woman who lived here."
"The woman I bought the cottage from?" she recalled, frowning. "What was wrong with her?"
"She liked to sunbathe nude when I was swimming," he muttered darkly.
She grinned, remembering the woman very well. She was about fifty years old, at least a size twenty and only five feet tall.
"It's not funny," he commented.
"Yes, it is," she laughed.
But he still didn't smile. Despite his earlier flip remarks, he looked like a man who hadn't much use for humor.
"I've got three hours of work left before I can sleep," he said curtly, turning away. "From now on, cover that bird when he starts whooping. He'll get the message sooner or later. And don't keep him up late. It isn't good for him. Birds need twelve hours each of daylight and dark."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Anything else, sir?" she asked pertly as she skipped along beside him to the door.
He stopped short, his dark eyes threatening. "How old are you, anyway? Past the age of consent?"
"I'm a candidate for the old folks' home, in fact." She grinned. "I'm pushing twenty-six. Still about twenty years your junior, though, I'll bet, old man."
He looked stunned, as if no one had ever dared speak to him in such a manner. "I'm thirty-nine," he said absently.
"You look more like forty-five," she sighed, studying his hard, care-creased face. "I'll bet you take five-hour vacations and count your money every night. You have that look, you know." His eyebrows shot up, and she wiggled hers. "Rich and miserable?"
"I'm filthy rich, but I'm not miserable."
"Yes, you are," she told him. "You just don't realize it. But don't worry. Now that I'm around, I'll save you from yourself. In no time you'll be a new man."
"I like me fine the way I am," he said tersely, glaring down at her. "So don't pester me. I don't care to be remodeled, least of all by some bored textile worker."
"I'm a designer," she shot back.
"You can't possibly be old enough." He patted her on the head, the first glimpse of real humor she'd seen in him. "Go to bed, child."
"Mind you don't trip over your long beard, Grandpa," she called after him.
He didn't look back or say another word. He just kept walking.
And that had been the beginning of an odd friendship. In the months that followed, Elissa had learned precious few actual facts about her taciturn neighbor, but she'd gleaned a great deal about his temperament. His full name was Kingston, and no one called him King. Except Elissa. He spent most of his waking hours on business. Although he traveled extensively, his home base was Jamaica because few people except those who really needed to, knew how to get in touch with him there. He liked his privacy and avoided the social gatherings that seemed de rigueur for the Americans in their exclusive part of Montego Bay. He kept to himself and spent his rare free time walking on the beach, alone and apparently liking it. He might have gone on for years that way. But Elissa had saved him from himself.
Although she didn't trust most men, she instinctively trusted King. He seemed totally uninterested in her as a woman, and when weeks went by without his making a suggestive remark or a pass, she began to feel totally safe with him. That allowed her to indulge her fantasy of being the sophisticated, worldly kind of woman she liked to read about in novels. It was an illusion, of course, but King didn't seem to mind her outrageous flirting and sometimes suggestive remarks. He treated her much like a young girl, alternately indulging and teasing her. And that was fine with Elissa. She'd long since learned that she wouldn't fit easily into the modern world. She couldn't bring herself to sleep with a man just because it was the fashion. And since most men she dated expected that courtesy, she simply withdrew. She never took a date home-not anymore, at least. There had been a nice man when she was twenty. A real jewel, she'd thought-until she took him home to meet Mom and Dad. She'd never seen him again.
For all her religious outlook on life, her parents were characters. Her father collected lizards, and her mother was a special deputy with the sheriffs department. Odd people. Lovely but very odd. Since she'd given up on expecting tolerance from the opposite sex, she couldn't imagine a male friend really understanding her delightful family. So it was a good thing she'd decided to die a virgin.
Fortunately, King had no designs on her whatsoever, so he was good company and a hedge against other men when she was on the island. He was the perfect safe harbor. Not only that, but he needed a little attention to keep him from becoming a hermit. And who better to draw him out than Elissa, given her somewhat evangelical background?
At first she contented herself with leaving little notes for him to find, exhorting pithy things like "Too much loneliness makes a man odd" or "Sunstroke can be hazardous to your health." She put the notes on his front door, on the windshield of his car, even under the rock where he liked to sit and watch the sunset. From there, she took bolder steps. She baked things for him. She put flowers on his doorstep.
Eventually, he came over to tell her to stop-and found her waiting for him with an elaborate meal. Clearly it was the last straw, and he gave up trying to ignore her. After that, he came to eat at least once a week, and sometimes they walked on the beach together. Despite her outgoing approach, she was a little wary of him at first, until he proved by his attitude that he wasn't going to try to get her into the nearest available bed. And then he became her friend. She totally relaxed with him and looked forward to their times together. He seemed pleased enough with that arrangement himself, talking to her as if she were a sister.
When she went back to the States to work, he generously offered to keep Warchief. She'd been delighted, and King had given the bird a nice substitute home. When he was out of the country on business, he even hired a woman to look after the house and the bird. For all his hardness, he had a soft center- if one looked closely enough. He was still impatient and demanding with most people-Elissa had once had her ears curled listening to him chew out a subordinate-but he seemed to tolerate her better than he tolerated others.
The only puzzling thing about him was his lack of a love life. He was devastatingly handsome and physically near perfect. At his age, she'd have expected him to be married. But he wasn't and evidently never had been. He dated occasionally, but Elissa never spotted him bringing a woman home overnight. Even in her innocence Elissa knew it was rather unusual for a man who was so much a man to spend so much time alone. She wondered about it frequently, and once she even got up enough courage to quiz him on the subject. But his face had closed up, and he'd changed the subject. She hadn't asked again.
Despite her innate curiosity, she was relieved that he'd never once made a pass at her. She had some hang-ups from an experience that her parents didn't even know about, thank God. One wild party, attended without their knowledge, had cured her of any wanton imaginings. She'd barely escaped with her innocence intact, and she'd gleaned a very unpleasant, threatening picture of the aroused male. She'd been careful ever since.
She was only grateful that her parents weren't in any danger of dropping in at the Roper villa. If they'd seen her in King's bed... Then she laughed, remembering how they were. They knew her so well that they'd have asked what was the joke. How marvelous having parents like hers, idiosyncracies and all.
King was due any minute, and Elissa's part in this practical joke was simply to lie back and look loved. She wasn't sure why he wanted to give that impression, or to whom, but he'd once saved her from the unwanted attention of a very persistent insurance salesman, so now she was saving him. From something. Really, though, he was going to ow
e her a steak dinner for all this bother.
She heard the front door open, and voices drifted down the hall. She recognized King's, and for one wild second she let herself pretend that she was waiting for him as a lover. The thought didn't terrify her, and that puzzled her. In fact, her body began to tingle in the oddest ways, and that really puzzled her.
Then the bedroom door opened, and King stared at her over the head of the most beautiful blonde Elissa had ever seen.
The blonde wore a look of helpless longing and unholy torment. And King's expression was a revelation as he glanced down at her. For a face that rarely gave away a trace of emotion, it was suddenly explicit with tender interest. Who was the woman? Elissa wondered. And why would King want to discourage her when he was so obviously attracted to her?
Elissa was so confused that she almost forgot to play her part. This vulnerability in King was so expected. But there must be a reason he wanted that lovely woman with him to think he was involved with someone else, and this was obviously no time to ask questions.
"Well, hello, darling," Elissa said in her best husky voice. She tugged the covers up demurely and yawned delicately. "I fell asleep again," she added meaningfully, and she waited for the blonde to react.
Chapter Two
The reaction was almost instantaneous. "Oh!" The woman faltered, stopping beside King as if frozen to the spot. She stared at Elissa with huge, soft eyes, clearly struggling to find words, and her delicate skin colored, making her even more beautiful. "Ex-excuse me."
"I didn't expect you to still be here, Elissa," King said with a smile that was obviously forced.
Elissa played her part to perfection, letting her eyes droop sleepily. "I'm sorry if I've overstayed my welcome."
"Don't be absurd," he replied. "There's no reason you shouldn't stay if you like. Bess, do you mind...?" he asked the blonde. "There's a guest bathroom just down the hall."
Books By Diana Palmer Page 28
