Fit for a King

by Diana Palmer

  Eccentric neighbor, loyal friend, and totally innocent tease, impish Elissa Dean was exactly what Kingston Roper needed—to get him out of a romantic bind, that is. His sister-in-law’s intentions were anything but sisterly, and King had to produce a make-believe lover to run interference. Sweet Elissa fit the bill nicely.

  The act seemed foolproof… until seeing Elissa in his bed heated King’s blood and holding her filled him with unbearable longing. As the fantasy threatened to become reality, King was torn—did he desire a woman he could not touch? Would he touch a woman he dared not love?

  DIANA PALMER

  New York Times and USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  FIT FOR A KING

  Dear Reader,

  I really can’t express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Harlequin Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.

  But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You can’t imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.

  I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Harlequin Books—from my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.

  Thank you for this tribute, Harlequin, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.

  Diana Palmer

  Table of 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 halfheartedly 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 tak
en 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 an Indian 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 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.

&nbs
p; 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 entrée.”

  “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 friend 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.”