Fit for a King. Diana Palmer
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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 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