Fit for a King. Diana Palmer

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.

      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.”

      “The woman I bought the cottage from?” she recalled, frowning. “What was wrong with her?”

      “She liked to sunbathe nude when I was swimming,” 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.

      “You look more like forty-five.” She sighed, studying his hard, care-creased face. “I’ll bet you take five-hour vacations and count your money every night. You have that look, you know.” His eyebrows shot up, and she wiggled hers. “Rich and miserable?”

      “I’m filthy rich, but I’m not miserable.”

      “Yes, you are,” she told him. “You just don’t realize it. But don’t worry. Now that I’m around, I’ll save you from yourself. In no time you’ll be a new man.”

      “I like me fine the way I am,” he said tersely, glaring down at her. “So don’t pester me. I don’t care to be remodeled, least of all by some bored textile worker.”

      “I’m a designer,” she shot back.

      “You can’t possibly be old enough.” He patted her on the head, the first glimpse of real humor she’d seen in him. “Go to bed, child.”

      “Mind you don’t trip over your long beard, Grandpa,” she called after him.

      He didn’t look back or say another word. He just kept walking.

      And that had been the beginning of an odd friendship. In the months that followed, Elissa had learned precious few actual facts about her taciturn neighbor, but she’d gleaned a great deal about his temperament. His full name was Kingston, and no one called him King. Except Elissa. He spent most of his waking hours on business. Although he traveled extensively, his home base was Jamaica because few people except those who really needed to, knew how to get in touch with him there. He liked his privacy and avoided the social gatherings that seemed de rigueur for the Americans in their exclusive part of Montego Bay. He kept to himself and spent his rare free time walking on the beach, alone and apparently liking it. He might have gone on for years that way. But Elissa had saved him from himself.

      Although she didn’t trust most men, she instinctively trusted King. He seemed totally uninterested in her as a woman,