Golden Paradise

'Thousands,' he teased.

'In that case I'm leaving,' she responded with a hotness not altogether feigned. He'd said all these things before to too many women, and green demons of jealousy ate at her reason. Even the beauty of his body, as he lay, nude and virile, irritated those feelings. How many women had seen him so? Relaxed and charming, perfection in face and form.

'Going where?' he mildly inquired, his gaze surveying the mountain peaks surrounding them.

'Away… home… into some other man's arms,' she heatedly said, wanting revenge for all his past lovers, in words at least.

'In that case, I'll have to tie you to my bed.'

His calmness more than his statement shocked her. 'You wouldn't!'

'In a minute,' he said, his eyes having lost their amusement at talk of another man.

'I don't believe you,' she replied.

'Leave then and test me.' He hadn't moved in his lazy sprawl, but a new alertness was evident, as though he were coiled to spring at any suggestion of movement.

'You mean it, don't you?' she softly asked, astonished at how little she knew the man she'd been in constant company with for more than two weeks.

'I'm a possessive man,' he replied as quietly as she. He was, but never before with women. He chose to overlook the significance of this discrepancy, knowing only that he wouldn't let her leave. Too many generations of royal blood, both Russian and Persian, flowed through his veins, too many tribesmen owed him obeisance, too many regiments obeyed his commands, to nurture humility. He would take what he wanted and keep it until he no longer wished it.

'I want to be alone,' Lisaveta whispered, this new image of Stefan a chill shock to her senses.

'Don't go far' was all he said, as King Darius might have commanded a harem girl centuries ago.

And when she rose from his side and walked away, he watched her, no benevolence visible in his eyes.

Lisaveta sat on a window seat in a small parlor on the far side of the lodge, away from Stefan and Stefan's room. Wrapped in a soft mohair robe, her knees drawn up to her chin in a contemplative pose, she was trying to come to terms with the fact that she loved a man who was anathema to many of her most fervent beliefs.

How was it possible, she thought, her fingers smoothing in an unconscious gesture of indecision over the soft white wool of her robe.

She'd always assumed one fell in love with someone who idealized those principles one most cared for oneself, a man who was handsome but also kind and loving and imbued with a certain humanity. Was that all fantasy-the ideal, the perfect Prince Charming melded into her naive image of love? Was this even love she was feeling? Perhaps it was only sensual infatuation for Russia's most lionized hero. Was this overwhelming need to be close to Stefan love or merely obsession from another female hero-worshiper?

She wished she weren't so unpracticed and unfamiliar with the sensation. Since she'd never been in love she had no guidelines or experience to draw on. And Stefan never spoke of love. He spoke of adoration and enchantment, of need and desire, but never love.

That omission, she realized, was the dilemma in her own uncertainty. If his declarations were of love, would she even be questioning her feelings? She wouldn't, she sadly thought. She would be joyously oblivious to this unhappy speculation…

So how did she deal with her emotions in the absence of any reciprocal declarations from Stefan? The one she'd wrung from him to love only her for their holiday time had been carefully worded-although in truth, those days ago, her demand had been as inchoate as his answer was glib.

Can you love a man who not only sees a woman in an inherently subservient role but is quite literally deluged with submissive women willing to love him on any terms?

Her answer, she sorrowfully realized, was yes.

Can you love a man who not only is engaged to be married but is callous and selfish enough to leave his fiancee in pursuit of his own pleasure?

That answer too, after a minimum of introspection, was also yes.

Can you love a man who plans to leave you when his furlough is over with nothing more than a goodbye?

She touched the texture of the native rug covering the window seat, as though an answer lay beneath its rich and glowing color like a jinni in a bottle. It had been woven, Stefan had said, in Haci's village, and its colors were the favorite deep scarlet of the local tribes, contrasted with decorative detail in the expensive indigo carried overland from the East. Her pale hand lay on the stylized flame motifs, their crimson tones like blood, juxtaposing the fluffy white mohair of her robe and the rug's dramatic geometric designs, a stark contrast in color and tactile image, a contrast, too, of metaphoric innocence and the austere symbols of Stefan's tribal world. She didn't have the hard resilience of Stefan no matter how much she favored independence; she would never understand completely the primitive savagery of his background. She was a scholar, and he was a man of action.

Who unfortunately saw women as only adjuncts to his life- minimal adjuncts.

She sighed dramatically because she was alone and the sensation was comforting, and then she sighed again because there was satisfaction in her silliness. She smiled a little after that, thinking she was indeed being melodramatic beyond all sensible proportions. It wasn't as though she'd been deceived about Stefan's intentions from the very beginning. He'd been careful to promise nothing.

Now she wanted to blame him for her own vast affection when he wanted neither love nor blame. He only wanted the pleasure of her company.

Papa had once said years ago, on a rare occasion when he spoke of Maman that he treasured the time they had together as a gift from God and he had Maman always in his memory. Maybe she should deal as appreciatively with her time on Stefan's mountain. Maybe life didn't always transpire exactly according to one's wishes. Maybe she was as selfish as she accused Stefan of being for wanting him to change his life for her.

Stefan, on the other hand, didn't question his feelings of happiness. Lisaveta was superb, she was beautiful and passionate, she entertained him with her charm and intelligence, she was grace and elegance and also girlish innocence in scintillating variations he found forever exciting. She wasn't a woman with a predictable personality and manner-the kind he always grew bored with. He'd experienced no sense of jaded ennui with Lisaveta and they'd been in continual company for more than two weeks. If he'd contemplated the novelty of that circumstance, perhaps their feelings would have been more in accord. Prince Stefan Bariatinsky, however, prided himself on his hedonist principles, and contemplation of any kind was nonessential.

He thought instead in practical terms. The Countess was unhappy and pouting or pouting and angry or any combination thereof, all of which could probably be satisfactorily relieved by a handsome gift or two or ten. Since his mountain lodge was often used for his amorous entertainments, and since females were prone to emotional outbursts and tears, he kept a ready supply of restorative baubles on hand.

So he rose from his languorous repose near the pool shortly after Lisaveta entered the house and, after dressing, went to his study, where his safe was housed. Pulling out a large chamois bag from it, he proceeded unceremoniously to dump its contents on his desktop. The jewels and jewelry and small carved animals in semiprecious stones fell out in a tumble of color, fractured light and glitter.

Spreading them out with one abrupt motion of his palm, he searched the disarray for items that would appeal to Lisaveta. Her hair was a rich chestnut but not so dark that dramatic jewels were appropriate, and her temperament was so naive and green-grass new at times that he automatically thought of pearls. Drawing out a three-strand necklace clasped with a pale rose of South Seas coral, he set it aside. The gold diamonds caught his eye next as though they were nudging his thought process. Of course, he realized with sudden delight, the rare pale yellow diamonds from India were a perfect match for her eyes. He lifted the drop earrings from the scattered jumble of rainbow hues.

They had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, the jeweler had boasted. After the revolution they had found their way into Catherine the Great's collection along with many other emigre treasures. They brought one luck, the jeweler had added, at which point Stefan had skeptically raised a brow, since Marie Antoinette's life had not been crowned with success. 'The earrings, Your Excellency, were her maidservant's means of escape from Versailles so they were lucky, you see-they bought her life.'

Stefan smiled now at his recollection of the jeweler's wide-eyed recitation of the little maid's miraculous escape from the guillotine, and holding the oddly pear-shaped diamonds up to the light, he thought how perfect the pale jewels would look against Lisaveta's golden skin. Her skin glowed as though it were touched by the soft paint of