20 - The Corfu Affair (4 page)

"This is the Argyr Palace," she told him, very firmly. "It is the private residence of the Countess de St. Denis."

"Oh, sure!" he nodded in heavy irony. "You're a beautiful Princess and she's the wicked stepmother, and I'm a knight in shining armor, only it's all enchanted and doesn't show until I kiss you and break the spell. Where have I heard that story before? And you're not doing it right, you know. You're supposed to be shut up in a tower, on bread and water. Come off it, sister. The Countess de San-whatsit—that's French. I don't want to be thought bright, but I do know that much. And this is Greece. What are you trying to hand me, hey?" He turned to look at the candy floss palace and then came back to her again. "Or are you trying to cover up? What is it, a laughing academy for the better class dim domes?"

"A what?" she demanded, completely baffled.

"You know, the kind of place you put rich Uncle George in when he starts thinking he's a turkey and laying eggs all over the place. You know, a rest-home?"

"Mr. Summers!" She was scandalized. "Do I look like a wardress in a lunatic asylum?"

"No. Nor even an inmate," he told her enthusiastically. "I don't know you well enough to tell you just how you look, to me. But what you do not look like, one hundred per cent for sure, is French aristocracy. Nor do you sound like it. For that matter, you're no Corfiote, either. You are as American as I am. Your turn!"

"I have never tried to suggest that I am anything but American—not that it is any of your business. I work here. I manage the domestic side of her ladyship's affairs. If you must know, I'm a cook-housekeeper. And I have no intention whatever of losing my job through indiscretions with you. May I remind you, for the last time, this is private property. I think I had better escort you to the gate and out." She reached for the mooring rope, hauled the airbed in close, and accepted his helping hand to step up and out onto the wall. This close, she smelled like some new kind of perfume. Solo allowed his expression to dissolve into chagrin.

"I do believe you're not kidding. Are you? This is for real, the Countess and everything?"

"Of course!" She stepped past him and began to lead the way, very decoratively, to the path.

"Look," he pleaded, following her, "I didn't do any harm. All right, so I'm a fool, but maybe I could meet the Countess and explain..."

"I hardly think so. Madame sees very few guests, and those only by special arrangements. Her desire for privacy is quite genuine."

"Squashed again. Miss Winter, I have to apologize to somebody, just to prove that I have nice manners. How about you? You can't cook-housekeep all the time. When's your night out?" They came to the tiled stretch, and she stopped to gather a pair of rope-soled slippers, then, as she came erect again, she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Summers. I had hoped to avoid this, but I'm afraid you really are in trouble this time!"

Following the direction of her gaze, he saw a curious little vehicle coming rapidly towards them from the Palace, along the grey-black roadway. It was silent, rubber-tired, with a double-seat in front and a locker-box behind, looking some thing like a golf cart. One glance sufficed for the vehicle. The occupant deserved more, and got it from him. Solo studied her openly as the cart purred right up to them and stopped. The beauty that had warmed his eyes at a distance lost nothing at all by being seen close at hand. If anything, it was enhanced, and, for once in his long and adventurous career, Solo found himself face to face with a woman who defied all his attempts at analysis.

He could, and did, catalogue the details. Her hair was so black as to be blue where the sun caught it, and her eyes were so dark as to be almost the same color. Her complexion was the hue of fine honey. Her shape, a combination of bountiful curves and willowy slenderness, stopped just a breath short of exaggeration, and should have seemed outrageous, but didn't. And that was where the magic started. He had seen all these bits and pieces before, on other women, and they were in no way unique, nor was her wisp-of-white bikini a new experience to him. But there was something in the way all these things went together that made this woman considerably more than just the sum total of all the parts.

There was a glow, he thought, that wasn't just on the surface but came from some power source deep down inside her. And, though she stood quite still once she had dismounted from the cart, he had the sensation of seething motion, in the same way that a spinning flywheel only looks as if it is standing still. Insanely, he felt sure that if he touched her he would feel a shock! Then, becoming aware that he was staring at her, he drew a trembling breath and manufactured a smile. The lady looked right through him then turned her head.

"Kate, who is this man and what is he doing here?"

Her voice matched her looks and set the seal on the whole of her. It was a full round contralto, like a cello-string bowed by a master hand. Solo suppressed a shiver, remembering the warning, 'This woman is dangerous!'

"I'm sorry, Madame, I really don't know. He says he was looking for the Achilleion, and was under the impression that he had found it."

The dark eyes swiveled back to Solo, and now they really had fires in them. Scorn infused her lovely face.

"The Achilleion? Bah!" Emphasis agitated her curves alarmingly. "You must be a simpleton, monsieur, or a fool, to mistake my palace for that dreary museum of relics. Kindly regard it!" She flung a hand, a slim arm, to point. "Does it look like an ancient Greek monument?"

Solo struggled for composure. This was the contact he had hoped for but never really expected to make so soon or so easily, and now, just when he needed all his wits, they were tangled.

"Your palace?" he queried unsteadily.

Miss Winter came to his rescue. "Mr. Nathan Summers, you are speaking to the Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis!"

Solo had no need to pretend his distress. He could feel the sweat standing out on his face. Hoping that his dazed expression would pass for typical title-worshipping humility, he mumbled:

"Gosh! A Countess! A real live French Countess!"

The vision smiled suddenly, and it was as if someone had put a match to a torch—and cast light into a dark place. It was a vivid and beautiful smile. He struggled to make words.

"You'll have to excuse me, your ladyship. Gosh, I'm honored, real honored!" He offered his hand. It was ignored utterly. He looked at it and let it fall again. The Countess laughed, and all at once his mind was full of parallels. Just like this Poppaea might have laughed at the first announcement of Christians-to-the-lions week. Or Helen of Troy at the big launching. Or Salome... Solo brought his imagination back from the images and tried to be calm.

"You are surprised, Mr. Summers?" she challenged. "First you cannot tell the difference between an old castle and my own beautiful palace, and now you are confused because I am a Countess and I look just like any other woman. Are you always so deranged as this?" It was open mockery, and just what was needed to snap his wits into their more normal efficiency. His smile came easier now.

"It's just not my day, I reckon. But honest, how could I know it was the wrong place until I'd seen it? Soon as I did, I suspected it was wrong. As I told Miss Winter here, it's not a bit the way I heard."

"It is perhaps not so good?"

"Ah now, I didn't say that. How can I tell? I haven't seen the other place yet. I'll say this: if it's better than this it sure must be someplace!"

"Mine is better," she told him flatly. "You understand such things?"

"I'm no expert, but I do have an eye for beauty, of any kind. And I hate to contradict anyone, but you don't look just like any other woman."

"You think I am beautiful, yes?" She threw out the challenge openly, but he grinned and took it, appreciating that she was trying to keep him in the wrong. The candid type. He could be candid, too.

"Put it this way," he said, frankly. "I don't know all that many titled ladies, not to be familiar with, but I reckon you'd beat them all. In a way, it's a crime..."

"What is a crime?" she demanded quickly, as he paused. "Oh, nothing. Just the way you're hid out, here. On a remote little island, and tucked away in this palace, and, so Miss Winter says, you have very few guests. That's all wrong. What I mean, if I hadn't stumbled on this place by accident I would never have seen you. And just think what I would have missed!"

It was a critical moment. Had he piled it on a bit too thick? This woman was no fool. Had she seen through him? After a pause, her smile gave him the answer. He could have used it for any welding job.

"So gauche," she said. "But so sweet, too. I like you. And yes, sometimes I have guests. You will come to dinner this evening."

"Ah, now!" He put up a protesting hand. "I wasn't fishing..."

"Zut! Say no more. It arranges itself, and it pleases me. A Frenchman would have used twice as many words and meant less. You will come. I will send the car for you. Where?"

"I'm at the Palace," he told her, then laughed. "I mean the Palace Hotel, of course. You're very kind. Formal?"

"
Quoi
?" She was momentarily baffled, then nodded. "You mean, shall you dress up in a stiff shirt? But now you look comfortable. Why change? I shall be the one to dress up. You shall see!" She wheeled away from him with out a further word, moved to the back of her vehicle and lifted a lid to pull out a bundle of fleecy white towels which she dropped on the tiles. Turning back to him she put out her hand.

"Now I shall swim a little before
dejeuner
. And I shall look forward to this evening.
Au 'voir
, M. Summers."

It seemed only natural to take her hand and raise it to his lips, so he did that. She seemed pleased.

"
Alors
, Kate!" she said. "You will take the cart and give M. Summers a ride up the hill as far as the main road, yes? It is not right he should walk so far on such a hot day!"

It wasn't all the heat of the day, he thought wryly. Solo realized he was perspiring freely as he settled beside Miss Winter in the double front seat of the cart. Employing his handkerchief, he said:

"She is quite a girl. Was that me, or is she always like that?"

"She's impulsive, but I never knew her to invite a perfect stranger to visit, like that. Just what is your game, Mr. Summers?"

"Whoa now!" he sighed. "Don't let's start that again. I already told you…"

"You've tried to tell me that you are just a casual tourist looking for the Achilleion and that you found the Argyr Palace by accident."

"And?"

"I don't believe you. For just one thing, you're carrying a camera, but you didn't attempt to take any pictures!"

"So what do you think I am?" Solo offered her the chance to talk, wondering what was in her mind. In his own was the strange awareness that this girl was every bit as lovely as the Countess and yet totally different in her presence. She exuded a pleasantly warm glow, whereas the other one tended to make a man boil. Odd stuff, chemistry!

"I think you're a fortune hunter," she said, quite positively. "Her ladyship is extremely wealthy, very beautiful, and a widow."

"And what are you?" he wondered aloud. "Part-time guard dog?"

"That's uncalled for!" she snapped. "But, if you must know, I'm safeguarding my own interests. I have a very good position here, and I intend to keep it. So, I ask you again, just what are you after, mister?"

The trundling cart came now to the large steel gates. Miss Winter got down to operate a push-button that sent them sighing wide open, then she rejoined him and the cart purred out into the road, making a left-hand turn uphill.

"Seriously," he murmured, "I've done a lot of things in my time, but marrying a woman for her money has never been on the cards for me. You said she was a widow?"

"Four times!" she said, with just a tinge of malice.

"There you are! I'm not about to become the fifth, at anything. But, and I wouldn't kid you, I am curious. You say she has money. How? Did she marry it?"

"Not all of it, no. She owns the St. Denis laboratories, in Paris. And she is a world famous cosmetic surgeon!"

"Hah!" he said, pretending surprise and enlightenment. "That's where I've heard the name before. Cosmetic surgeon? So that's where she gets the Cleopatra shape from."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Miss Winter retorted sharply. "That shape is her own. At least…"

"The whole point about cosmetic surgery," he pointed out, "is that you can't tell the difference. For all I know, you may be one of her best customers, or a sample product."

"How would you like to get off and walk?" she invited icily, and he stifled a grin at the fury in her voice.

"No offence intended, honest. Only making the point that if it is expertly done you can't tell the difference. All the same, though, I don't see how she could do surgery on herself, so I take it all back. Anyway, you're just the cook-housekeeper, nothing else, eh?"

"Absolutely nothing else. I have no connection with her business and I mind my own. I would advise you to do the same, Mr. Summers."

"Call me Nathan," he invited. "I have the feeling you don't trust me, Kate. I wish there was something I could do to convince you that I'm on the level."

She halted the cart with the main road just in front of them and turned to him, a curious expression on her face. Then she got down and waited for him to follow, so that she could point.

"You can't go wrong from here. It's that way. Mr. Summers... Nathan, there's something I can do, if you'll promise me you won't get any wrong impressions. It's the only way I know for telling a good man from a bad one. May I?"

"Go ahead." He eyed her warily. All at once she surged close and threw her long arms around his neck, capturing his mouth with hers. By the time she released him they were both breathing considerably faster.

"Did I pass the test?" he demanded, and she sighed.

"I think so. I'm not absolutely sure, but whatever you are up to, it can't be all that bad!" With that she spun round and climbed back into the cart, sending it purring away back down the little road, leaving him standing with a frown.