The Golden Valkyrie

by Iris Johansen

“I came to my senses,” she said softly. “You’re quite a man, Lance. You made me pretty dizzy for a while.”

  “Past tense?” he asked caustically. “I can’t have a very lingering appeal. You seemed to have completely recovered your equilibrium.” His voice was rough with frustration. “Look at me, damn it. That blasted picture can’t hold such a degree of fascination for you.”

  Her gaze moved reluctantly to his taut, angry face. She felt that familiar melting sensation even now, as her gaze lingered on the strong male beauty of that face, with its cap of shining auburn, burnished by the overhead lights. A man had no right to be so beautiful, she thought desperately, wanting to close her eyes and shut out the sheer virile magnetism of him. “I just don’t consider the game worth the candle, Lance,” she said, steadying her voice with no little effort. “I don’t want to be one of your one-night stands; nor do I want to figure in the tabloids as your latest mistress.” Her eyes darkened stormily. “I don’t particularly relish the company I’d be in. Wasn’t it only six months ago that you were squiring that extremely pricey call girl about the Riviera?”

  “For God’s sake, that has nothing to do with us,” he said indignantly. “I told you—”

  “I’m sure you tell all of us just the pretty lies that we crave to hear,” Honey interrupted, her eyes flashing. She turned and stalked toward her room with regal dignity. “Well, I’ve heard all I want to hear tonight.”

  “Damn it, Honey, I don’t lie,” Lance grated out behind her. “I know what happened downstairs came as a shock to you, but if you were thinking clearly, you’d realize that it has nothing to do with what we feel for each other. And don’t try to tell me that what we shared in that taxi was one-sided.”

  She turned at the door, her eyes bright with tears. “I didn’t say that,” she said huskily, her lips trembling slightly. “I wanted you. I’d be a terrible hypocrite not to admit it. I just can’t tolerate being Prince Rubinoff’s latest. I wouldn’t know how to cope with it.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m just not that tough.”

  His expression softened, the anger dissipating. He shook his head slowly. “You’re not tough at all. You’re a sweet, loving woman, and I want every single bit of you.” He smiled ruefully. “But I guess I can wait a little longer. Run along and hide your head in the sand, sweetheart. You’ll have to surface sometime, and when you do, I’ll be here waiting.”

  “I mean it, Lance,” Honey said gravely, her face troubled. “I don’t want this type of relationship. I have no use for it in my life.”

  “I know you mean it.” Lance smiled lovingly at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t change your mind. I’m told that I can be a very persuasive fellow.”

  The door was closing behind her when he called softly. “Honey?”

  She paused.

  “I’ll order breakfast for nine,” he said. “If you have any packing to do, do it tonight. We’ll be leaving for the island promptly at ten.”

  FOUR

  LONDALE’S FOLLY PROVED to be a tiny tropical island set like a glittering emerald in the azure waters of the Gulf. From the air it appeared to be scarcely two miles across, with the only habitation a large stone house on the crest of the hill overlooking a sheltered cove. When the orange-and-cream helicopter was secured on the concrete landing pad in that same sheltered cove, Honey found that the notion there was only that one house on the island wasn’t precisely correct.

  Ben Raschid turned to Lance, one dark eyebrow arched inquiringly, as he picked up his small duffel bag from the pad. “Shall I tell Justine that you’ll be up to the house for dinner?” he asked.

  Lance shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said absently, picking up his own small case as well as Honey’s much larger one. “I have some work I want to do while the light is good. We’ll rummage in the kitchen for something to snack on. Justine usually stocks the refrigerator pretty well.”

  His eyes flicked with sudden amusement to Ben Raschid’s face. “Besides, I don’t think you’d be very entertaining company this evening, Alex—you’re looking a bit on the frayed side. I imagine that you’ll opt for an early night. Was your redhead worth it?”

  “Inventive. Very inventive,” Ben Raschid replied with a distinctly Mephistophelian grin. “But she wasn’t a real redhead. I’d say she was originally a Scandinavian blonde, like our Honey, here.” He gave a mocking bow in Honey’s direction. “Though not as beautiful, of course.”

  “How disappointing for you,” Lance said, his lips quirking as he took Honey’s arm. “I’m glad that she made up in talent what she lacked in fire.”

  He turned Honey and gently propelled her forward, away from the helicopter. He looked over his shoulder to say, “We’ll be up at the main house for brunch tomorrow at ten. I trust you’ll be recovered enough to act the proper host. I know what a churlish bastard you can be, but we wouldn’t want to disillusion Honey so early in your acquaintance.”

  Honey heard Ben Raschid’s amused chuckle behind them, but Lance had accelerated his pace, and she hadn’t time to glance behind as he hurried her from the landing pad down a gently sloping gravel path to the beach that she’d noticed from the air.

  “Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly, trying to keep up with him. “And why isn’t Alex going with us?” Then, when he didn’t answer but continued to gaze at the horizon, she skidded to a stop and jerked her arm from his grasp. “Will you answer me, Lance?” she demanded in exasperation.

  “What?” he asked absently, then apologized a trifle sheepishly. “Sorry, Honey. I was just admiring the play of the sun’s rays on the water. The light is absolutely incredible here, isn’t it? The only place that might possibly equal it is in Greece. There are times when Delphi appears to be bathed in liquid gold.” His gaze went back to the horizon. “This island is much more arresting during a storm, though.”

  “That’s utterly fascinating,” Honey said caustically. “Now will you please tell me where you’re taking me?”

  Lance took her arm again. “We’re almost there.” He nodded to the curve in the beach ahead. “I have a small cottage on the beach, which I use when I’m here.”

  “You mean that you two don’t even stay in the same house while you’re on the island?” she asked. At his gentle nudge she once again fell into step with him, her eyes on his urbane face. “And may I ask how I’m supposed to maintain any kind of security if you’re on opposite sides of the island?”

  “We’re not on opposite sides of the island,” he said patiently. “The main house is only a five-minute walk from the cottage, and as for security, we couldn’t be safer. The only permanent residents are Nate and Justine Sonders, who take care of the big house. Justine is cook and housekeeper, and her husband acts as general handyman.” He darted her a mischievous glance. “They’re both in their late sixties, so I think Alex and I may be able to handle them if they become too obstreperous.”

  “Very amusing,” Honey said crossly. “They may be the only residents, but no island is totally inaccessible.”

  “This one comes pretty close. This is the only cove that’s not too rocky to permit access by boat, and if a helicopter tried to land anywhere on the island, we’d hear it.” He frowned at her impatiently. “Relax. We’re both a hell of a lot safer than we were in Houston. Your only problem is going to be how to avoid getting a sunburn while you’re playing on the beach. I hope you brought a bikini.”

  She shook her head. “I never wear one.” She felt a sudden relief as she realized that Lance was probably right. If the island was as inaccessible as he’d said, then it would be fairly easy to keep an eye out for trespassers.

  “Never?” Lance raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I like the idea of your appearing in the altogether before anyone but me. The cove is fairly private, but it’s visible from the big house. Perhaps you’d better wait until after dark to go skinny-dipping.”

  Honey’s eyes had been searching the terrain for possible landing spots,
but as the last words sank in, her eyes flew back to his face. “Skinny di—” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you talking about?” Then, as she met the dancing blue devils in Rubinoff’s eyes, her own lips curved in a reluctant smile. “I meant I wear a very respectable maillot,” she told him sternly. “A bikini on a woman of my proportions has a tendency to look a bit skimpy.”

  “An effect much to be desired,” Lance murmured, his glance moving over her with a lingering intimacy that caused that hot, glowing warmth to kindle in the pit of her stomach. “All that lovely skin must be well-nigh mind-boggling. You’re sure you won’t go skinny-dipping with me?”

  “I’m quite sure,” she said firmly, frowning at him.

  “Pity,” he said morosely, shooting her a sly sidelong glance. “I guess we’ll just have to confine it to the bathtub. Oh, well, it’ll be cozier there anyway.”

  Honey shook her head ruefully. The man was totally incorrigible. Trying to distract him, she asked quickly, “The main house seems to be quite large. Why don’t you stay there?”

  He shrugged. “We both like to have our own space. It would take considerably more rooms than the Folly possesses to reconcile our two life-styles. I’d probably drive Alex up the wall in a matter of hours. My clutter would grate on that high-powered computer he calls a brain like the sound of nails on a chalkboard.”

  “Clutter?” Honey asked.

  His expression became oddly guarded. “I paint a little,” he said casually. “I’m afraid I have the usual artistic disregard for order.” He made a face. “To be less euphemistic, I’m a complete slob.”

  “I don’t remember reading anything in the papers about your being an artist,” Honey said slowly. Actually, though, now that she thought about it, hadn’t Alex mentioned something about Lance’s painting when she had been crammed beneath that trolley? “Have you ever had a show?”

  Rubinoff shook his head, his expression closed and tight. “I’m strictly an amateur,” he said curtly. “And the gossip columns don’t have access to every facet of my life.” They had rounded the headland and come upon a white stone cottage with surprising suddenness. “Here we are, such as it is.”

  When Lance threw open the door and allowed her to precede him into the cottage, Honey realized what he meant. The interior seemed smaller than she had thought at first glance. Evidently the former owner had not wasted much of his extravagance on this tiny place. They entered directly into the principal living area, which consisted of a combination lounge/kitchen that was surprisingly stark and ascetic. There was no furniture at all in the room, with the exception of a black leather couch, a teak coffee table, and a scarlet leather breakfast booth in one corner of the room, opposite an ancient kerosene stove. Instead of carpet or tile, the floor consisted of polished flagstones in a dull slate blue. Two doors opened off the central area, and it was toward the farthest of these that Rubinoff headed.

  “There’s only one bedroom, with an adjoining bath,” he said briskly as he threw open the door. “I’ve converted the other one into a studio. The light is better from the north.” Then, as she started to protest, he waved her impatiently to silence. “Don’t worry; there’s a couch in the studio that I can bunk down on.” He arched an eyebrow inquiringly. “That is, if you insist on being so selfish about sharing your bed.”

  “I insist,” Honey said softly, glancing into the bedroom. It was as sparsely furnished as the other room, containing only one double bed, covered in a durable forest-green denim spread, and a strictly utilitarian night table. “I suppose the flagstone flooring is very practical in this climate,” she commented. “It’s probably cool no matter what the temperature.”

  “More practical than you’d imagine.” Lance’s tone was dry. “It was Londale’s only sop to conventional practicality when he built the cottage. Located on an open beach, with nothing to shelter it, on an island that’s smack dab in the hurricane belt?” He shook his head ruefully. “Every time the island is hit by a tropical storm, the cottage is completely flooded.”

  “So that’s why it’s furnished so meagerly,” Honey said thoughtfully. “Don’t you find it inconvenient to have to move to the main house whenever there’s a storm?”

  “It doesn’t happen that often,” he said casually, crossing the room to put her suitcase on the bed. “We’ll probably only use the island a few months a year, and the chances of a really bad storm’s hitting while we’re here are minimal.”

  “Not if you plan on using it in September,” Honey replied lightly, following him into the room and dropping her purse on the bed beside the suitcase. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that this is definitely not the season for island hopping?”

  “I think I’ll get to work,” Lance said, and there was a barely restrained eagerness in his face that was oddly intriguing. “I’ll see you later. Why don’t you slip into that depressingly sensible swimsuit and go play on the beach? There should be something in the refrigerator if you get hungry later.”

  The door closed behind him, leaving Honey to stare at it in rueful bewilderment. So much for the trepidation she’d had about staving off Lance’s amorous advances. He might just as well have told her to run along and not bother him. Not exactly uplifting to the ego. After those tempestuous moments in the taxi last night and his blunt threat before she’d left the room, she’d been distinctly wary. It appeared she’d definitely overestimated her attraction for Rubinoff.

  Though both Lance and Alex had been charming to her on the trip from Houston, she didn’t fool herself that either man had been pursuing her. She might almost have been a younger sister, for all the sexual awareness Alex had shown, and except for a few teasing remarks, Lance had displayed the same platonic affection.

  In fact, Lance had been a little more distracted than Alex. There had been that curious leashed eagerness, a charged restlessness that had seemed to electrify him from the moment they’d met in the living room of the suite for breakfast this morning. He’d been rather endearingly like a little boy anticipating a special treat. Well, the little boy had gone off to play with his paints, and she’d been sent off to the beach with her pail and shovel to amuse herself.

  She didn’t ask herself why she was experiencing this weird sense of betrayal, as she turned and briskly unstrapped her suitcase. She withdrew the maligned maillot and looked at it critically. It wasn’t all that stodgy, she thought defensively. Though not cut exceptionally low in the bodice, it had the popular French cut that made her legs look deliciously long and shapely, and its nude color was provocative in itself. Not that there would be anyone to provoke, with Lance locked in that room with his precious canvases.

  He hadn’t even made mention of her hairstyle, coiled in the usual businesslike style this morning. Not that it mattered to her, she assured herself. The less he noticed about her, the more pleased she would be. She was glad to be left alone to enjoy herself without masculine interference. She’d take a swim and explore the island and then come back to fix them a bite to eat. No, she’d fix herself a bite to eat. Lance could just shift for himself—if he decided to come out and grace her with his royal presence, she decided, and she began to unbutton her blouse. The less she saw of that impossible man, the happier it would make her.

  Honey was frowning with annoyance, and her violet eyes were stormy as she traversed the last few yards to the front entrance of the Folly the next morning and knocked peremptorily on the brass-bracketed oak door. She knew that she was in no fit temper for a social breakfast, but there was no way she was going to remain by herself any longer in this so-called island paradise.

  The door was opened by a small, plump woman dressed in a dark dress and a pretty flowered smock.

  “How do you do. You must be Justine,” Honey said, forcing a polite smile. “I’m Honey Winston. I believe Alex Ben Raschid is expecting me.”

  The woman smiled with quiet friendliness. “Mr. Ben Raschid is breakfasting on the terrace, Miss Winston,” she said. She gestured toward an arched doorway on
her left. “If you’ll go right through, I can get back to my kitchen.”

  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.”