A Love Like This

by Diana Palmer

  She didn’t even answer the question. “Please get dressed and go away,” she said in a ghost of her normal voice. “You can’t imagine how silly you look.”

  She turned and went back into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

  There was a faint knock at the door.

  “Nikki...” Ralley called through it, his voice sad, faintly embarrassed. “Nikki, he wrote telling you he was coming. I...I intercepted the note at the office. I’m sorry.”

  But she didn’t answer him. She was crying too hard.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NIKKI WENT DOWNSTAIRS an hour later, when she’d had a bath she didn’t need and put on a beige pantsuit and blotted her eyes for the tenth time. She’d cried until her eyes were raw. But all the tears in the river wouldn’t bring Cal back, and she knew it.

  Ralley had gone home, and it was beginning to get dark outside. Nikki poured herself a glass of wine and dumped it down her throat. She still felt miserable, so she refilled the glass and drank it down. Damn Ralley—when she got herself together enough, she was going to kill him. On second thought there must be something worse than that she could do to him. Perhaps she could write a false exposé on the police chief and publish it under his byline. She remembered the size and temper of the public official and smiled half-heartedly. Ralley would be turned into chili powder. Unfortunately so would Mike, who would be blamed for it. With a sigh she refilled the glass once more and sat down on the sofa.

  It was just as well, she told herself. Cal lived in a different world. She’d never have been able to cope. Her eyes teared again and the hot, bright dots rolled pitifully down her cheeks.

  Her mind went homing back to Nassau, to that unexpected night with Cal. All over again she could feel his hands, so tender, so wary of hurting her, his mouth blazing on her bare skin while he whispered words that still could make her blush.

  She got up, almost tripping over the rug, and walked the floor, sipping at the red wine. She’d never see him again. She’d grow old and spend her miserable life trying to make do with memories. And it just wasn’t going to be enough. All the memories on earth wouldn’t amount to one minute with Cal.

  “I always seem to love the wrong men,” she grumbled, tossing off the rest of the wine. She stared into the empty glass, frowning slightly. Where had it gone so fast? Perhaps she’d spilled part of it. She remembered Ralley pouring the glass of wine down the front of her white outfit and her lips pouted wildly. Without thinking she flung the empty glass at the fireplace and watched it splinter. Good enough for it. It wouldn’t stay full, anyway.

  Bells sounded in her ears. She blinked. Surely she wasn’t that drunk? She shook her head and listened. There it was again, that funny chiming... Of course, she thought with an off-center smile, it was the doorbell. Mike must have forgotten his key. Or it could be Ralley again...

  She made her way toward the front door. If it was Ralley, she was going to kill him. She was debating on methods when she opened the door and found a ghost standing there.

  Cal was still wearing his evening clothes, but his tie was untied and the top buttons of his expensive ruffled white silk shirt were undone. He looked tired, angry and exasperated, all at once.

  Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, Cal,” she whispered brokenly. Without thinking she held out her arms, wondering vaguely if he’d push her away.

  He moved forward like a conquering army, jerking her against his big body to lift her while his mouth crushed down on hers. She felt the tremor shake him even while he deepened the kiss, his tongue penetrating, his breath sighing raggedly against her cheek as his arms contracted painfully around her.

  Tears rolled helplessly down her cheeks when he finally paused long enough to take a breath. Her fingers caressed his broad, darkly tanned face, trembling.

  “It wasn’t true, it wasn’t...” she whispered unsteadily.

  “I know.” He kissed her again, letting her body slide down his until her feet touched the floor, “I’m so sorry, darling,” he whispered roughly. “God, I want you...!”

  Her arms linked around his neck and they swayed together wildly, so lost in each other that they were aware of nothing else. Her thighs trembled against the hard muscles of his, and she thought wildly that if she died right now, it would be enough that she’d held him, kissed him, one last time.

  “I love you,” she whispered into his devouring mouth.

  He trembled convulsively at the words, drawing back to look into her misty, wide eyes. “I love you, Nikki, for always,” he whispered back, his voice shaky, his eyes punctuating the incredible statement.

  “But...you said...” she faltered.

  He smiled faintly. “I know. But that was before I tried to function without you.” He drew in a steadying breath, taking time to reach behind him and close the door.

  “You were so angry,” she whispered, searching his dark, soft eyes, “I was afraid you were gone for good. Ralley intercepted your note—I never even saw it—and he staged that whole scene. He spilled wine on me and when I went upstairs to change...”

  He smoothed the hair back from her tearful face. “Hush, darling, it’s all right, I’m here now.” He bent and kissed the tears from her eyes. “I remembered when I got to the airport that there was a wine stain on your slip and an empty glass in his hands. And along with that, I remembered something else.”

  “What?” she asked, smiling wetly.

  He brushed his mouth across hers. “That you loved me,” he said simply. “So I came back.”

  Her lips trembled, her eyes widened. “You could have gone away, and I’d never have seen you again...”

  “That’s not likely.” He lifted her, carrying her easily into the living room, to sit down in Mike’s big armchair with Nikki in his lap.

  She nuzzled her face into his warm throat. “I wanted to kill Ralley...”

  He chuckled softly. “Hush, it’s all over. I’m here, and I love you.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said it,” she whispered.

  His big arms tightened. “If I keep saying it, perhaps you’ll begin to believe it.” He eased her head back on his shoulder so that he could see her face. “Didn’t you hear what I told you before I left the last time? That we belonged to each other?”

  “I thought it was just because you were the first...”

  He sighed deeply. His fingers toyed with the hair at her ear. “Nikki, all the time I was spouting those clichés about not wanting commitment, I was making plans. Hundreds of them, and they all included you. Vacations in France, buying a house outside Chicago, buying furniture…none of which I could picture without you. And something else, something more…” He tilted her eyes up to his. “Nikki, the next time we make love, I’m not going to hold back. I want a child with you.”

  That was the final surrender, she thought wildly, that was total commitment.

  Her fingers traced the lines of his hard, chiseled mouth, “I’d like very much...to give you a child,” she whispered softly. “Very, very much.”

  “Then suppose you put this on,” he murmured, drawing a box out of his pocket, “and we’ll go somewhere and discuss it.”

  She turned the black velvet box in her hands curiously before she opened it over a blaze of emeralds. Her breath stopped as the two rings filled her gaze. An engagement ring and a wedding band ringed around with emeralds and diamonds. She looked up at him.

  “Cal...?”

  “I’m good in bed,” he reminded her. “And I don’t have many bad habits.”

  She laughed through her tears as she buried her face against him. “Oh, I love you so!”

  He laughed gently. “When do Mike and Jenny get home?” he asked.

  She drew back and sat up. “Oh, not for three or four hours at least,” she murmured, peeking up at him through her lashes.

  Without another word
he got up, lifting her with him, rings and all, and started up the staircase. She clung to him, her eyes full of emeralds and babies and the long, sweet years ahead.

  * * *

  Fit for a King

  For parrot people everywhere...

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE KING-SIZE BED felt strange to Elissa, which was no surprise, really, since it wasn’t her own. It belonged to Kingston Roper, and it was a good thing they were friends or she’d never have done him this “little favor” on a minute’s notice. Elissa’s own safe, single bed was in her little cottage on the white Jamaican beach near Montego Bay, only a short walk from King’s enormous villa.

  In the past two years Elissa knew she’d gone from being just an irritating neighbor to the only friend King had. And friend was the word; they certainly weren’t lovers. Elissa Gloriana Dean, for all her eccentricities and uninhibited appearance, was an innocent. Her missionary parents had given her a loving but restrictive upbringing, and not even her budding success in the sophisticated world of fashion design had liberated her in any physical way.

  This trip down she’d been on the island only since that morning, missing King, who wasn’t at home, and half-heartedly working on her newest collection of colorful leisure wear for the boutique that carried her exclusive designs. Then, just an hour ago, King had phoned her with this wild request and had hung up without a word of explanation the moment she’d agreed to help him out. She couldn’t imagine why he wanted her to be found in his bed. He didn’t seem to be dating anyone. But then again, maybe he was being hounded by some bored socialite and wanted to show her that he was already involved. This tactic did seem a bit drastic, though, especially since King was adept at speaking his mind. He never pulled his punches, even with people he liked. Oh, well. All the wondering in the world wasn’t going to give her any answers. She’d simply have to wait to hear what King had to say.

  She stretched luxuriously in his huge bed, the smooth satin sheets feeling cool and sexy against her skin. She was wearing a nightgown, but it was made of the finest cotton and slit to the hips on both sides. In front, it made a plunge to her navel. The daring pink negligee was part of her fantasy life, she admitted to herself. In some ways she might be repressed on the surface, but in her mind she was a beautiful siren who lured men to their dooms.

  Only with King could she safely indulge that fantasy woman, however, because he never approached her physically. With King, she could flirt to her heart’s content. Although she was friendly to most men, she was careful not to tease. The instant a man mistook her playful friendliness for a come-on, she retreated into her shell, the fantasy shattered. It was one thing to pretend to be sexy, but quite another to follow through. A frightening experience in her teens had left her extremely wary in that regard.

  King was safe, though, Elissa reminded herself. Over the past two years he’d become a friend and a confidant, and she wasn’t afraid to let down her guard with him. She wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing this revealing gown in front of anyone else. But despite their sometimes flirtatious camaraderie, King scarcely even seemed to notice that she had a body, so this little charade held no danger. She smiled to herself, feeling womanly and sexy and wildly come-hitherish. She would put on a great act for whoever this persistent female was, and later King could tell her all about it.

  Kingston Roper, she mused. He could be such an enigma at times—like now. He was a big-time businessman, she knew—oil and gas and a few diversified interests, as she recalled. He’d inherited interest in the family company, which had been on the verge of bankruptcy, and had used his business savvy to make a fortune. Apparently his half brother, whose father had left the business to both sons, had been competing like mad to overtake King ever since.

  Although they talked frequently and freely, she and King didn’t spend a whole lot of time discussing everyday details about themselves, and as a result, she now realized, she didn’t know all that much about his family. His half brother, Bobby, was married, and King had said something about expecting him and his wife for a visit. But that was at about the time she’d had to go back to the States to oversee her latest collection as it was assembled.

  She smiled again as she thought about the success of that collection, which allowed her the luxury of spending time in Jamaica. Her name was her label—Elissa—and she catered to a unique clientele. Her sportswear was exotic, and its fantasy flair was designed to capture the eye as well as the imagination. She favored dramatic combinations of red and black and white, with the emphasis on cut and silhouette. Her styles had taken some time to catch on, but now that they had, sales were booming, and she was making a nice living. The cottage had been a godsend—she’d bought it at a terrific price when she’d been on a rare vacation—and for the past two years, whenever she needed rest or inspiration, she left the small Miami house she shared with her parents and came to sunny Jamaica.

  She’d led a sheltered but happy life, one of the consequences of being the only child of former missionaries. Her parents were highly individualistic and encouraged Elissa to be the same—except in one respect. They were extremely moral people, and they had instilled that same morality into their daughter. As a result of her upbringing, Elissa was something of a misfit in the modern world, but in most respects—even in her wild designs—she was an individual.

  When she came to Jamaica, she relaxed by watching out for King, who seemed to be in almost permanent residence these days. Two years ago she’d taken him on as a social project, since he kept so much to himself, never smiled and seemed to think about nothing except business. Gradually, she reflected, he’d thawed a little. She grinned, then tensed, listening carefully to the sounds coming from the next room. Realizing it was only Warchief mumbling to himself in his covered cage, she relaxed.

  The big yellow-naped Amazon parrot belonged to Elissa, but she’d never taken him to the States. He belonged on his tropical island, and she loved him too much to risk disturbing his delicate immune system with the stress of international travel. King seemed to like him well enough, since he let the five-year-old parrot stay with him when Elissa was away. Warchief had had a bad cold when she’d arrived in Jamaica this time, and to avoid upsetting the bird with a move while he was still sick, King was letting him stay at the villa until he recovered. He’d be well soon, though; already he was as feisty as ever.

  It had been Warchief who’d first introduced them, she remembered fondly. Elissa had nearly drained her bank account to buy the big green bird from his previous owner, who’d been moving into an apartment. Warchief definitely wasn’t an apartment bird. He heralded dawn and dusk with equal enthusiasm, and his ear-piercing cries did sound like a Native American warrior of old on the attack. Hence, his name.

  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 l
oud, 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.