"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."