Iris Johansen - Everlasting

She got up to read the title on the frame. Song of the Talking Wire by Henry Farny. It was a strong, lonely picture depicting an Indian who was no longer young, standing by a telephone pole in a desolate western landscape. He had been hunting and his kill was draped over a horse standing with as much dignity as the Indian man. There was a weariness as well as a strength about the old Indian. The weariness could have been the result of the hunt or the bewildering encroachment of white man's civilization, represented by the telephone pole against which he was leaning.

Had Damon, living in a world of two cultures, felt that same conflict? If he had, he obviously had resolved the conflict. There had been nothing discouraged or bewildered about the man who had stepped out of that Rolls tonight. He was the most confident and aware man she had ever seen. She sighed. The mystery of Zack Damon couldn't be solved by studying this painting. She felt a twinge of disappointment as she sat back down on the couch and curled up in the corner. She had always found that understanding made even the most intimidating people more approachable, but there was no reflection of any human foibles in Damon's surroundings. The room was as much of an enigma as the man himself. She would just have to wait until Damon himself appeared on the scene and then play it by instinct alone.

She wearily rubbed the tense muscles in the back of her neck. She had been traveling constantly and sleeping very little during the last few days. Her vitality was usually so great that flying didn't faze her. It was only because her nerves had been stretched to the breaking point that she had been unable to overcome jet lag. Her nerves were still taut and she was growing more hyper with every passing moment. She had to try to relax or she would be in no condition to face Damon when he finally arrived. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep, steady breaths. There, that was better. She could feel the slightest ebbing of tension. If she could keep it up, perhaps she would be relaxed and refreshed when the time came to face Zack Damon.

Kira was asleep. Of all the states in which he had imagined he might encounter her, sleeping wasn't one. She was curled up, her head pillowed on the arm of the couch, her hair splayed in a fiery mass against the beige velvet of the cushions.

He stood looking down at her and felt an odd tightness in his throat. She seemed infinitely small and vulnerable at this moment. When she was awake she exuded a vitality and vivaciousness that was incandescent, making her appear larger, stronger. But now her lips were pink and crumpled looking, their look of sensitivity enhanced by being slightly parted. Her nose was small, her cheekbones high; her triangular face was more fascinating than pretty. When she was awake her features were mobile and constantly alight with laughter and joie de vivre , but now sleep revealed a curious helplessness about her. He'd better enjoy that helplessness while he could, he thought, amused. When she lifted those long lashes, her sapphire eyes would hold challenge, not vulnerability, and her boneless grace would be transformed into a soft curvaceousness that could raise a response in a man to rival the heat of an Arizona summer.

He would not wake her. There was no hurry. He felt a deep contentment at the sight of her, relaxed and abandoned in this room, in his home. He moved swiftly to the easy chair across from the couch and sat down. He had no need to draw control and patience to him now. She was here. He would sit and watch her while she slept. His waiting game was almost at an end.

HOW COULD SHE have believed that his dark eyes were enigmatic? Kira wondered. They were gentle and wise and so deep that she felt lost in them. No, not lost. He would never let her be lost. He knew exactly where he was and his place in the scheme of things. If she clung to him tightly, she could never be lost again. He had a beautiful mouth too. She hadn't noticed how well shaped it was when she had first seen him.

The faintest smile curved those lips. “Good evening, or perhaps I should say good morning? It's almost three o'clock, you know.”

She looked around for a clock and was immediately struck by the strangeness of her surroundings. Oh, Lord! She bolted upright, swinging her legs to the floor. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go to sleep.” She brushed unruly curls away from her cheeks, saying impulsively, “I haven't had much rest in the last few days and…” She drew a deep breath. This was ridiculous. She was acting like a frightened child. She straightened with royal dignity and lifted her chin. “How do you do, Mr. Damon. I'm Princess Kira Rubinoff.”

“You'll forgive me if I don't stand and bow, Princess Rubinoff,” Zack Damon said in a lightly teasing tone, “but I've had a rather tiring day myself.” He stretched his long legs out before him. He had taken off his black tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt but was still dressed in the tuxedo he had worn at the gala. “I assure you I had no intention of committing lese majesty.”

She made a face. She'd probably sounded as stiff-necked as Stefan, she thought ruefully. “Insult this royal person in that way all you please. I'm afraid that whenever I get flustered, I fall back on those pompous manners drilled into me from birth. Please call me Kira. Everyone does.” She smiled. “Besides, economically speaking, you're far more royal than I'll ever be. I have a wardrobe allowance, but little else. Stefan keeps me a virtual pauper.”

He lifted a brow. “Really? I had no idea Tamrovia was so poverty-stricken. Is the purpose of your visit to enlist foreign aid?”

“Foreign aid… well, yes. In a funny way, I guess that is why I'm here.” Her smile faded and her gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “You know who I am. I wouldn't have thought you would. There are so many princesses running around Europe these days.”

“But you're an exceptionally newsworthy princess. It isn't every princess who dances in Rome's Trevi Fountain at midnight.”

“I wasn't dancing in it,” she said indignantly. “The paparazzi misrepresented the episode. Actually, when I tossed my coin in the fountain I was so furious that I made a horribly bloodthirsty wish against someone who was annoying me at the time. Then I had second thoughts and decided he didn't really deserve such punishment.”

“So you tried to get your coin back and undo the curse?”

“Well, I didn't want to take chances. You never can tell what works and what doesn't.”

“No?” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Were you also trying to undo a curse when you pushed the Spanish pretender to the throne off the dock at Corfu?”

“Hm-m. It seemed an effective way to get his pudgy hands off my body and keep them off. He appeared to be intent on adding this princess's scalp to his belt.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that, should I? I didn't mean to cast aspersions on your Indian heritage. So much for the foreign aid.” She heard a deep chuckle and her eyes flicked open. “Thank heaven you have a sense of humor.”

“I'm serious about my heritage, not fanatic.” He smiled faintly. “You'd be a most desirable prize whether you were a princess or not. I can't say I like the literal image of your scalp dangling from a warrior's belt, though.”

Kira felt oddly breathless. There was something… She breathed deeply. “I assure you that José wouldn't have wanted the scalp-or anything else-if I didn't have the title. I didn't realize that my escapades had been so well publicized in the States.” She shrugged. “Maybe it's because I went to college here. Well, all of that business with fountains and docks took place when I was much younger. I'm not so impulsive anymore.”