The Count From Wisconsin (3 page)

The small, dark chef was wrapped in a voluminous apron and wore a white beret-type cap on his dark head. When he turned to scowl impatiently at the intruders in his kitchen, Kate quickly hid her hands behind her back, then glanced up at the man beside her.

"Moustafa, wonderful Moustafa," he said in a humble voice. "May we have some food? Just a crumb to hold off starvation? Something you had Intended to throw away?"

"Food!" the small man exploded, his accent one Kate didn't recognize. "It's not enough that I prepare food of the gods to throw to unappreciative pigs, now you want I should watch the pigs eat?"

The string of expletives that came next could only have been a mixture of every language known to man, and Kate's mouth dropped open in wonder at his proficiency.

She leaned close to her new friend. "They like you in the kitchen, huh?"

He laughed, then continued to cajole the small, volatile chef. "But you won't have to watch us, Moose. We'll sit quietly in the pantry and I swear youll never know we're there."

"Take it! Take It all," the little man fussed. "Here . . . here, would you like my watch and ring also?"

Kate's companion picked up a small platter and began to fill it with an assortment of the food that key before them. Five minutes later they sat on a sturdy wooden table in the roomy pantry, their feet swinging beneath them as they dined on crab legs and caviar, sweetbreads and souffle ... what he called "a gentle sufficiency."

With a glass of wine In one hand and a piece of exquisitely tender crab meat in the other, she made an inarticulate sound of pleasure; then, after removing a drop of wine from her lower lip with the back of her index finger, she turned to the man beside her.

"Moose?" she said Incredulously, then started to giggle as she repeated, "Moose?"

He swallowed a mouthful of cheese unsteadily, punching her gently in punishment as his choking laughter increased her amusement.

"Would you be brave enough to call him Mouse?" he asked when he was able to speak.

"Oh, no! If he wants to be called Moose, then Moose it is." She glanced up at him. "He talked so fast I couldn't understand a word. I swear one time he said, "Where's the boeuf? " she said, leaning against her companion, very much at ease. "What did he say as we left? He kept repeating a word over and over."

"
'De l'audace, encore de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace
,' " he quoted, chuckling. " 'Audacity, more audacity, and even more audacity.' Afterward he looked at you with a definite gleam in his eyes, then at the tray of food, and said, '
Si jeunesse savait, si vleillesse pouvait.
' "

"Should I ask what that means?" she asked warily.

" 'If youth only, knew, if age only could.' I believe he thinks I'm wasting time eating when I could be making love to you," he said softly.

Kate felt a shiver run up her spine and looked away quickly, but before she could reply, the sensuality in his voice and eyes disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Would you like dessert? I could creep in while Moose's back is turned and get something."

"No, I'm content with our gentle sufficiency," she said, smiling up at him. She looked around the room he called a pantry that was as big as a normal kitchen. "You know, this is much nicer than the party out there."

"You didn't like the party?"

"It was interesting, but not exactly my style. I like watching people, so I might have enjoyed it more if I had been able to see." She paused. "But only as an observer. I can't relate to those people. I listened to them talking about stocks and bonds and Dior underwear, none of which I know anything about. They all looked so gorgeous, while I was standing there trying to suck in my thighs."

She watched his laughing face for a moment, then her brown eyes brightened with curiosity, a smile lingering on her full lips. "Isn't it strange? I feel like I've known you for years, but I still don't know your name." She laughed. "I can't keep calling you Tom."

"Actually you could," he said, an odd smile twisting his lips as he watched her keenly. "One of my names is Thomas."

"One of them?" She leaned back, her expression intrigued. "Do you have a lot of names?"

"Dozens. Alexandre Marie Thomas Adrien. . ."

She started to laugh in surprise at the string of names, then something began to nag at the edge of her mind and she moved slowly upright.

". . . Gervais Alain Rene Delanore . . . Comte de Nuit," she finished, closing her eyes with a fatalistic sigh. The shirt, she thought in dismay. The shirt was silk. That was what had bothered her earlier. She opened her eyes to give him a rueful glance. "My host?" she asked in resignation.

"The same," he confirmed with a grin.

She looked around the pantry, taking in nothing as she assimilated what he was saying, then glanced back to the man beside her. "Say something rich," she said in a last attempt to deny the truth.

"Send me the bill," he offered, not attempting to hide his amusement.

"That'll do," she said, and began to study him closely. "So you're a count. I thought you were Belgian, not American. An American count?" Before he could respond, she added curiously, "Why are you sitting in the butler's pantry with the
hoi polloi
instead of mingling with your guests?"

"It looked like a very dull party, so I escaped to the garden ... at least It looked dull until I began watching you through the window." He shrugged nonchalantly, then added, "And the title is Belgian, but I don't happen to be."

She stared at his strong face for a moment, then slid off the table. "It's been real nice, Alexandre-Marie-whatever, but I think I'd better go now."

"Wait." He slid down quickly and grasped her arm as she headed toward the door. "Aren't I allowed to know your name in return? I'm sure I saw it on the invitation, but It must have slipped my mind."

"Cute," she said, acknowledging the thrust. "Very cute. You know I wasn't invited." She glanced up at him. "Are you going to have me thrown out?"

He laughed. "Somehow you don't sound very worried about that possibility. No, you may have attended the other party uninvited, but you definitely had an Invitation to this one," he said quietly, giving her a coaxing, crooked smile.

"My name is Kate Sullivan," she said finally, unable to repress an answering grin. "I could stretch it out to Kathryn Louise Sullivan, but even that doesn't come near Alexandre, etcetera, etcetera."

"It could come near If it wanted to," he said softly, then when the color began to rise in her cheeks he added, "It's a very nice name, Kathryn.

And if it makes you feel any better I usually go by Alex Delanore."

"No one calls me Kathryn." She glanced away, avoiding his eyes. The softness of his tone brought a strange feeling to the pit of her stomach. "It's just plain Kate."

"Never plain," he objected. "But you're right, Kate is for a party in the butler's pantry."

He moved closer and placed his hand on the wall above her head. When he spoke again his voice had deepened and She tensed, knowing what to expect. She didn't have to wait long. Within seconds the electric charge she had felt earlier came back full force.

"Kathryn is for making love," he continued, as though he weren't aware of the fact that she was slowly dissolving and would soon be a puddle of mush at his feet.

She slid away from him warily, avoiding the lips that drew near. "I think," she said with a breathless laugh, "that you could be a very dangerous man, but—but I am not going to stay to find out."

His mood shifted abruptly and she stopped in surprise at the startling change. He shoved his hands in his pockets and the expression on his face reminded her of a small, belligerent boy.

"But you can't leave," he said stubbornly. "You haven't told me why you came." He ran his eyes over her. 'You don't look like a groupie."

"Thank you ... I think. I came to—" She paused, wondering how to explain the idea that had gripped her earlier that day. Then, with a shake of her head, she decided not to try. Why bore him with her life story? "I came to get something," she said finally.

She didn't actually see him stiffen. It was more an awareness of his sudden alert posture, a quickly disguised watchfulness. "And did you get it?" he asked casually.

She considered the question for a moment, thoughtfully tugging at her earlobe. "Not enough," she murmured finally. "No, I don't think it's going to be enough."

"Who are you, Kate?" His voice sounded strange, as though he were repressing some strong emotion.

She stared at him in curiosity, then shrugged. "I'm a tourist," she said dryly. "You know, those people with cameras who get in the way of your Lamborghini."

"I drive a Ford." He relaxed perceptibly. "You sound as though you don't like wealthy people."

"What's not to like? I just know where I belong," she said firmly. "And I don't belong here."

He remained silent for a moment, then with equal firmness asked, "When can I see you again?"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" she asked in exasperation.

"You said you don't belong here," he said, smiling. "So we'll meet somewhere else. I could probably find a local soup kitchen if you'd be more comfortable there."

She laughed. "If you're trying to make me feel ridiculous, it won't work. I think my position is perfectly understandable. Most people are uncomfortable with people whose lifestyle is different. We all tend to stick to people who have a common background, common goals. It's not really prejudice; it's more a matter of comfort. It's nice to know how other people live and what they think, but when it comes to choosing companions, we all want people around us whom we can relate to, whom we can understand and empathize with."

He shook his head and smiled. "I didn't intend to ridicule you, but your Ideas seem a little narrow. You can't choose your friends by their bank account and social life. It has to be because of what's inside them." He paused, staring down at her, studying her face as though he could find some vital key to her personality in her features. "Haven't you ever known anyone who lives just exactly as you do, but seems to have nothing in common with you?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

"So when can I see you again?" She made an exasperated gesture. "You're not just someone with a different lifestyle; you're a count. And Cinderella was never my favorite fairy tale."

"What was your favorite?" She laughed. "I can't remember the name of it, but it was the one where the villainess ends up being rolled down a hill in a barrel lined with nails."

"My, my," he said, lifting his heavy eyebrows. "Vicious little darling, aren't you?"

"I was teasing," she said, chuckling. "My favorite was actually the story about the girl who had to weave capes from nettles in order to change her brothers from swans back to people." She glanced at him. "Yes, I know what you're thinking. It does say something about me. I believe in accomplishing what I want by the honest sweat of my brow. The work ethic is very deeply imbedded in my nature."

It suddenly struck her that if she really believed what she was saying, she could possibly have trouble with her new cartoon about high society. Would her feeling show through and taint the flavor of her work?

She shook her head slowly. "Maybe what I'm planning to do isn't the right thing," she said quietly, unaware of how closely he watched her. "I simply don't know if I can pull it off."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Would you like to tell me what it is you're planning to do?"

"It's only tentative, you understand," she began, anxious to discuss the idea with someone. "But the thing that's realty throwing me is my feeling toward the subject. Do you suppose I might just screw up everything because of some stupid buried contempt?"

"Well—"

"It's different from anything I've ever done . . . that makes it a challenge," she continued as though he hadn't spoken. "But you have to remember that I'm from Plum, Texas. We don't get many society folk down that way. There are all kinds of hidden traps. Do you think I should stick to something I know better?"

"Actually—"

"Oh, I know it would be cowardly to back out now, and I've never turned my back on something just because it was difficult. If I'm intelligent enough to recognize the problems, then surely I'm intelligent enough to work them out." She looked up at him and sighed happily. "Thanks, Alex. It always helps to have someone else's input."

"My pleasure," he said doubtfully, shaking his head in amused confusion. "Now that we've gotten that straightened out," he continued, "when am I going to see you again?" Before she could protest, he clasped her hand and said, "Please."

She glanced up at him and caught a strange expression on his face. It was very similar to the one she had seen earlier - almost vulnerable. Then he shook his head in regret and drew in a deep breath. Murmuring something softly In French, he touched his lips to hers before she could move away.

"Have you no blood In your veins, Kathryn?" he whispered against her lips. "How can you walk away from these emotions, these sensations? When I saw you in the garden I was feeling empty and alone. I thought you were . . . well, I thought you were something that you could never be. I thought you were the kind of woman who leaves you feeling emptier than ever. Then I touched you and saw the look in your eyes and"—he paused and a strange expression came to his face—"I was filled with the most incredible emotion. It was almost a renewal." He touched her neck softly with his hand. "This means something, Kathryn. And in an age when so much is meaningless, we can't just let it go."