The Golden Valkyrie (13 page)

No, wait, where was the
Hidden Lagoon
? She remembered asking Lance how he’d gotten that curiously intimate effect, with the sheltering trees surrounding the mystic, tranquil waters. Frantically she went through the canvases again. Maybe she’d just overlooked it. Let it be here, please. It wasn’t! Nate had missed it. And how many others that she couldn’t recall at the moment? Lance’s beautiful children.

No, damn it. She wouldn’t let them be taken away by a stupid freak of nature!

Her movements were almost automatic as she swiftly spread out several tarpaulins on the floor and folded them carefully. She tucked the bulky bundle under her arm and left the library, running toward the front door. She had no time to get a coat or other rain gear. It would only protect her for a few minutes, anyway, in a torrential storm like this one.

She couldn’t have been more right on that score. The rain hit her like a blow, and she was drenched to the skin in seconds. The wind was blowing water before it with such force that Honey had to struggle to keep her feet on the palm-bordered path down the hill to the beach.

The path was a muddy quagmire, as she half ran, half slid down the incline. The trip that should have taken her five minutes took her a full fifteen, and by the time she reached the beach, she was almost panicky. The storm was moving with such ominous swiftness. Would the cottage be flooded already when she reached it?

It was impossible to see the cottage until she was almost upon it, so blinding were the solid sheets of rain pounding at her. She stumbled over the front stoop and had to catch her balance by grabbing at the jamb of the front door, or she would have fallen to her knees. The stoop was already completely flooded, and water was running under the front door when she threw it open and staggered into the cottage.

She wasted scarcely a glance on the stripped living-dining area, but ran immediately to the studio. That, too, was stripped and bare. It was clear that Nate had salvaged all of the paintings he’d noticed, but when she threw open the door of the closet, Honey saw what she’d expected. Propped in a shadowy corner were three canvases. One was fairly small, but the other two were good-sized, and she immediately recognized one as the
Hidden Lagoon.
She gave a sigh of relief, and lifted the precious canvases carefully out of the closet, after meticulously checking the shelves to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

The water was washing under the door of the studio now, and Honey knew she didn’t have much time. She quickly unfolded the tarpaulins. She’d purposely taken more than she’d thought she would need. Now, after her wild journey down the hill, she was glad of the extra protection. It would be ironic if, after all her trouble, the paintings were damaged on her way back to the Folly. Keeping a wary eye on the seawater that was rushing under the door in a constant tide now, she quickly wrapped each painting in a double thickness of tarpaulin and then tied them all together under the protection of a larger one. By the time she finished, a thin stream of water was washing around her kneeling figure, and she hurriedly picked up the paintings, hugging them to her breasts as she opened the studio door. The water gushed into the room with a little swoosh, and Honey could feel a thrill of sheer panic as she fought her way to the front door through the knee-deep water. If it was this bad in the cottage, what must it be like outside?

It was like jumping into the ocean itself when she stepped off the stoop. The pounding waves were more than waist deep, and it was impossible to keep the paintings entirely out of the salt water as she struggled to make her way toward the path, whose lower reaches were now invisible beneath the stormy surf. Her breath was coming in sharp, painful gasps as she finally tore herself from the deadly clinging waters, which threatened to suck her back into their embrace with each swirling pull of the pounding waves.

Honey staggered drunkenly to the side of the path and leaned against a tall palm, trying to get her breath. There was a sharp stitch in her side, and she felt almost dizzy with exhaustion as she clutched the bole of the tree with one arm and the paintings in the other. She’d never dreamed there was so much water in the world. For a while she couldn’t determine what was sea and what wasn’t, so thick was the blanket of rain that surrounded her.

The sea was again licking hungrily at her ankles, she noticed numbly. How high must she climb to escape its reach? She released her grip on the tree, tightened her arms around the paintings, and began to fight her way up the path. It couldn’t be much farther, could it? It seemed as if she’d traveled miles already. She stumbled and fell to her knees in the mud of the trail, and for a moment she stayed there, too weary to move, gathering her resources for the next effort.

“Honey! My God, I could murder you!”

She raised her head slowly, not even surprised to see Lance standing on the path in front of her. He was very wet, she thought numbly. His jeans were clinging to the strong line of his thighs like a second skin, the dark copper of his skin visible through the wet cotton of his shirt. She couldn’t see his features through the dense curtain of rain, but his tone was enraged.

Great. That was all she needed at the moment, to have Lance furious with her. Well, she’d better face it standing up. She was starting to struggle to her feet, when Lance suddenly pulled her up, shaking her like a rag doll. That was just what she felt like, she thought dazedly. Her legs were certainly stuffed with cotton, for they gave way, and she felt herself falling. Then she was scooped up and held close to Lance’s chest, while a string of obscenities issued from him in a strange, broken voice.

“Calm down, Lance,” Alex’s voice came out of the darkness somewhere over Lance’s shoulder. “You’re not making it any easier for her.”

“I don’t want to make it any easier for her. I could beat her. Just look at her, damn it!” Lance said harshly. “Take those blasted canvases from her and get rid of them, will you? She’s got them in a death grip.”

“No!” Honey gasped sharply, her arms tightening possessively on the paintings.

Alex was beside them now, and his voice was as gentle as Lance’s had been harsh. “Let me have them, Honey. I’ll take good care of them.”

Yes, Alex would take good care of them, she thought tiredly. Her hands loosened, and the paintings were lifted from her clasp. Her arms felt oddly empty as they fell to her sides. “Yes, you take care of them, Alex,” she said. “I’m so tired.” She relaxed drowsily and then nestled closer in Lance’s arms. There was an odd sound that was half growl and half sob beneath her ear, but she didn’t hear it, as she fell peacefully asleep.

Honey’s next conscious awareness was of being lowered into a tub of warm bubbly water that jolted her from sleep to a disgruntled wakefulness.

“Not more water,” she protested disgustedly, opening sleepy eyes to glare indignantly at Lance. “I’m practically pruney now.”

“Too bad!” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his wet cream shirt with one hand while he steadied her with the other. “You’ll just have to bear with it. At the moment, you’re so muddy, you look more like a tar baby than a Valkyrie. Now, be quiet while I get you cleaned up and into bed.”

She opened her lips to reply, but they were immediately covered by a ruthless hand wielding a soapy washcloth, and she was forced to shut them abruptly. Lance’s movements were far from gentle as he scrubbed her from head to toe, until she glowed pink and saucy as a baby. Then he washed her hair with equal impersonality and cool efficiency, his expression granite-hard and guarded. An expression that reminded her of Alex. Alex?

“The paintings!” she exclaimed, suddenly sitting upright in the tub. “Are they all right?”

“Alex said that would be the first thing you’d ask,” he said, grabbing a bath sheet from the towel rack. “You’ll be happy to know that they were in perfect condition when Alex unwrapped them.” He stood up and lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her in the voluminous towel. “Which is a hell of a lot better than you. What in Hades happened to your knees?”

“My knees?” Honey asked vaguely. Looking down, she noticed with surprise that they were both badly bruised, and one had a ragged cut across the kneecap. “I must have done it when I fell in the mud.” She frowned in puzzlement. “I don’t remember its hurting when I did it.”

“You were probably in shock,” Lance said roughly, briskly rubbing her hair dry. “You’re still not very coherent. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head out there?”

She slowly shook her head, frowning at him crossly. “I’m perfectly coherent,” she said resentfully, “though I don’t know how you can judge. You haven’t been letting me say a word.”

“Silence is golden and, in your case, a good deal safer,” Lance muttered between his teeth as he scooped her up and carried her into the adjoining bedroom. He sat her on the edge of the bed and left her for a moment to fetch the portable hair dryer from the dresser across the room. “It’s a little late for you to turn verbose. Now, shut up while I get your hair dry. You’ll be lucky if you come out of this without pneumonia.”

She opened her lips to answer but she was interrupted again, this time by the shrill roar of the dryer, as Lance proceeded to dry her hair.

Honey sat obediently silent under the warm blast of air, but her temper was slowly burning. Lance acted as if she’d committed a major crime instead of merely trying to salvage a few paintings. She hadn’t expected him to be grateful, but he didn’t have to be so damned churlish. Even Alex had been more gentle with her than this red-haired bear of a man.

Lance clicked off the dryer and threw it carelessly on the lime-cushioned empress chair by the bed. “It’s still a little damp, but it will have to do.” He turned and strode toward the bathroom. “Get under the covers and keep warm until I get out of the shower.” His hands were rapidly unbuttoning the sodden cream shirt. “But don’t go to sleep—I still have to care for those knees.”

Honey stood up, clutching the bath sheet firmly to keep it from slipping. “You needn’t bother,” she said coolly. “I’ll attend to them myself. I’ll be dressed for dinner by the time you get out of the shower.”

“Dinner!” His laugh was a harsh bark as he pulled off the wet shirt and tossed it on the carpet. “We’ll forget about dinner this evening. Thanks to your stupidity, I don’t think any of us are in the mood for a congenial meal.” He disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Honey glared belligerently at the door before stalking angrily to the Korean wedding chest that served as a bureau in the corner of the room. So she was not only in Lance’s bad books, but was to be sent to bed without any supper! She wasn’t in the mood for a social dinner either, but she was hungry, damn it.

She snatched the first nightgown she saw in the drawer, and noticed with satisfaction that it was a shapeless, thigh-length cotton nightshirt with a friendishly smiling Garfield the Cat on the breast. She certainly didn’t want Lance to think she was trying to seduce him into a better humor. He was entirely in the wrong, and she would make sure that he was aware of that fact. Two minutes later she had folded back the lime-and-white bamboo-patterned spread on the bed and slipped between the sheets, plumping the pillow with furious energy and pulling the sheets up to her chin before settling down to wait grimly for Lance.

When he did stride back into the bedroom, with only a white towel draped about his hips, she felt a treacherous wavering of her resolve. Why did the man have to be so damn sexy? she wondered gloomily. He was all sleek copper muscle and virile grace as he moved toward her, and she felt a familiar stirring in her loins, which she tried to disregard. His face was still grimly set, she noticed sourly, and she girded herself for the battle to come.

“Did you take care of your knees?” he asked tersely as he sat down on the side of the bed.

“Of course I did,” she lied defensively, her glance sliding guiltily away from him. She’d been so incensed by his arrogance and unjust anger that she’d completely forgotten. Her injuries weren’t all that bad anyway.

“Fine!” he said curtly, ripping off the towel. He punched the button on the lamp on the bedside table, and the room was suddenly in darkness. She felt the mattress depress as he slid beneath the sheets and settled himself on his side of the bed. “Good night.”

Good night? Was that all? How dare he be so cool and unconcerned, after the way he’d treated her? She was the injured party, and in more ways than physical, yet he was calmly going to sleep without giving her a chance to air her grievances. Could anything be more infuriating? Well, perhaps “calm” was the wrong word to use. Even across that icy expanse of bed, she could detect the tenseness of his muscles as he lay there, and a taut aura of leashed emotion was crackling about him like a live wire. It was clear that he was still angry with her and was letting her know it in no uncertain terms. Tonight was the first time since they’d become lovers that she wasn’t sleeping in his arms. Not that it mattered to her if he was as remote and cold as the Himalayas, she assured herself. It was just that she had become used to that warm, loving embrace enfolding her, and she felt a little lonely without it. Suddenly there was a rumbling deep in her stomach. That did it! She’d had enough!

Throwing back the covers, she jumped out of bed and strode purposefully toward the louvered closet.

“Where the hell are you going?” Lance’s surprised voice came out of the darkness behind her.

“I’m hungry,” Honey said belligerently. “I may not be considered worthy of dinner, but you can’t object if I go downstairs and raid the refrigerator. You may aspire to being a starving artist, but I’m just a pragmatic private investigator. I want something to eat!”

The light immediately flicked on behind her, and she riffled through the closet for a robe as Lance hissed an imprecation. She ignored him, pulling a white terry-cloth robe off a hanger and slamming the door behind her as she turned around.

“Garfield?”

“What?” she asked, frowning crossly at him. Then she followed his eyes down to the leering cat on her breast. “I like him,” she said defensively. “He has character.” She struggled into the terry-cloth robe. “And feelings! And that’s more than some people I know.”