Fit for a King (2 page)

12

Diana
Palmer

Fit for a
King

13

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 pre
vious
owner, who'd been moving into an apartment
Warchief
definitely wasn't an apartment bird. He her
alded 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 sell
ing him.

Covering
the cage had only made the parrot mad
der. 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 pretend
ing 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

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Diana
Palmer

Fit for a
King

15

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, mut
tering about bloody murder and the
lack of consid
eration 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 eye
brows shot
up his forehead.

"The wild party," she
informed him calmly, "is
in there. And
wild
is really a good word for that par
ticular
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.

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Diana
Palmer

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King

17

"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 cack
led 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 mut
tered.

"No doubt.
What in heaven's name do you want
with a parrot, anyway?" he
asked, clearly exasper
ated.

"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 en
tree."

"His
former owner promised he wouldn't bite,"
she faltered.

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Diana
Palmer

Fit for a
King

19

 
“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 de
sign 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 re
called, frowning.
"What was wrong with her?"

"She liked to sunbathe
nude when I was swim
ming," 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.