The Count From Wisconsin Read online

  The Count from

  Wisconsin

  ❖

  Billie Green

  One

  "But you must believe me, mon ange. Would I lie to someone as lovely as you?"

  Kate slowly sipped her drink, smiling vaguely at the man standing beside her. When he began to speak again she stifled a bored yawn and allowed her gaze to drift around the crowded room, as though she could actually see more than three feet in front of her face.

  How do I get myself into these messes? she wondered. She didn't want to be at this party, pretending to be intrigued by a man with the IQ of a bagel. She wanted to be back at her friend Heather's house. Or better yet, back in her own home, sitting in her worn recliner, wearing her comfortable old fleece robe instead of the bit of gold nothing that an enthusiastic saleswoman had insisted was absolutely right for her.

  "Listen to me, my sweet, I say to myself the minute you walk in—Francois, I say, you must meet. . ."

  Kate tuned out the persistent flattery that was making this difficult evening even more difficult. Schmaltzy flattery was bad enough, but schmaltzy flattery with a French accent was farcical. She was simply not equipped to handle that kind of thing without giggling.

  Having already informed this tailor-made, gold-plated neo-Adonis that, no thank you, she honestly didn't care to dance with him ... or to stroll down to the cabana ... or even to go back to his place to experience a "fantastique" hot tub, what more could she say?

  Suddenly Kate tensed, turning her head sharply to the right. There it was again. That crazy tingling on her face. For the last hour she had experienced this peculiar sensation at odd intervals, as though someone were staring at her off and on with concentrated intensity.

  She lifted her hand to check her hair, but every strand of the honey-gold mass was still secure in the almost invisible snood.

  This feeling of being watched was the weirdest thing, enervating and stimulating at the same time. At first she had explained it away as a figment of her overactive imagination. She was feeling out of her stratum, yet that still couldn't account for the prickling sensation on a different area of her body at a different time . . . sometimes on her face, sometimes sliding down her body. She had never felt something so odd.

  Staring at the blurred crowd across the room, her eyelids drooping uncontrollably over her brown eyes, she felt the tingling grow stronger. Moistening her lips nervously, she tensed as the sensation slid down her body. It was as though she were being held in place by invisible, caressing hands.

  Then suddenly she was released and she sagged in relief. It took a moment for her to regain her equilibrium, so forcefully had she responded to the sensation.

  Kate jerked her head around when she felt someone blow in her ear. Murder! Was he still hanging around? She gave her persistent admirer a stare that was guaranteed to shrivel sumo wrestlers at ten paces and almost groaned when she received an enthusiastic smile in return.

  I wonder how you say "shove it" in French?

  Giving a small sigh of resignation, she decided this awful scene was the price she had to pay for being so headstrong. She simply had never learned to curb her impulsive, inquisitive nature. And once an idea had gotten a grip on her imagination, it refused to let go.

  She probably should have known from the beginning that this escapade would cost her. It had all been too easy, the most difficult part being the transformation of ordinary Kate Sullivan into a glamorous woman of the world.

  A new hairdo had helped. The waist-length hair she usually wore in one long braid down her back was now sleek and sophisticated, pulled to the crown of her head and bundled into a fine gold snood. And with discreet makeup, the salon had transformed the quietly pretty face that glowed with a healthy, outdoor look into a picture of classic beauty.

  As a finishing touch, they had added false eyelashes and, although Kate had to admit they were very dramatic, the sooty fringe seemed unreasonably heavy, weighing down her eyelids to give her a sleepy, seductive look. The whole effect was of a chic sensuality that would have shocked her had she been aware of it.

  One thing that couldn't escape her attention, however, was the amount of her flesh that was showing above the little gold dress, and the display definitely made her uneasy.

  Maybe uneasy is too mild a word, she thought caustically as the man beside her pinned his bright Gallic eyes on her breasts.

  "I have things to tell you, ma chere," he murmured. "Things that will make you look at me with warmer eyes."

  He leaned his head close as he spoke, his voice soft and romantic. Kate glanced up, and at that angle was presented with a most interesting view. She missed what he was saying as she found herself mesmerized by the hairs in his nose.

  I wonder if I should tell him? she thought, then gave her head, a small, distracted shake, deciding it would take something more devious to get rid of him.

  And getting rid of him had suddenly become not only desirable but also necessary to her mental well-being. She was spending her evening staring vacuously into space trying to ignore the flashy protosimian at her side and wondering how long the human brain could be deprived of intelligent conversation before atrophying. Wondering when someone in this blurry crowd would discover she was a cartoonist who had sneaked in uninvited to copy their wealthy quirks in a syndicated strip. Wondering when they would see through her flimsy disguise and eject her from the midst of their Olympian gathering.

  Enough is enough, she thought, glancing up again at the man beside her. Letting her frown melt into what she hoped Was a seductive smile, she placed her hand on his sleeve and said, "I think I'm tired of this wine . . . um . . ."—what was the man's name?—". . . sweetums. Do you suppose you could possibly find a glass of champagne . . . pink champagne?" she added, to make the task more difficult, feeling very smug as he walked away because if he managed to find refreshment in the endless tangle of rooms he was better than she was.

  She watched until he moved out of her range, then sighed in relief and leaned against the wall, feeling the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper against her bare back.

  She cocked her head, hearing the orchestra in the next room swell above the noise with the beautiful strains of a Chopin polonaise, and smiled her first genuine smile of the evening.

  Surveying the people immediately surrounding her, Kate wished again that she hadn't found it necessary to discard her glasses for the night. They hadn't exactly matched her new image, but she could see nothing clearly without them and her loss of vision left her feeling strangely disoriented.

  Her limited range of vision made her feel as though she were enclosed in a thick, luminous fog. She hadn't realized being without her glasses would be this much of a handicap.

  Ah, vanity, she thought as she wondered again in which room of the enormous house the food dwelt. She was sure that only the rumble of voices kept the people around her from hearing the rumble of her stomach.

  How disgustingly underbred, she thought, holding back a snort of equally underbred laughter.

  Then, as unexpected as before, the electric vibration of her nerve ends began again, racing quickly through her body, concentrating at times on her face. It was almost the same sensation that comes when the circulation returns to a foot or hand that has fallen asleep. Almost, but not quite. The pin prickles were missing and, as much as she hated to admit it, this was decidedly more pleasant.

  Weird, she thought in distraction. Very weird.

  Then a voice to her right caught her attention and she shook her head sharply, forcing herself to get back to the reason she was here.

  The voice came from a small group of people on her immediate right. Now this was the kind of grand monde that Kate had been expecting. The bos
omy, middle-aged woman was not one of the flashily dressed younger crowd. In fact, she was dressed a lot like Kate imagined Queen Elizabeth would dress for a party. Her face had a haughty, withdrawn expression as she raised her elegant brows in response to the woman speaking to her.

  After watching the woman for several minutes, Kate discarded her as a possible character for the strip. She simply wasn't what Kate was looking for. In fact, nothing she had seen or heard so far had been what she was looking for. She didn't mind that what she was doing was unethical, but unethical and unproductive was too much.

  One would think that in a place with Monte Carlo's reputation, a person would have been able to find at least a single character interesting enough, but it seemed as if bland was "in" this season. It was time to cut her losses, Kate decided, time to clear out and leave the festivities to the people who belonged in this mansion.

  And besides, she thought with an impertinent grin, if I don't find a hamburger pretty soon, I'll pass out right at their well-shod feet.

  No sooner had she made the decision than she acted on it and headed for the door that led to the garden. It was the nearest visible exit and, considering the distance she would have to walk to reach her rented car, a few hundred extra feet wouldn't make much difference.

  Skirting the crowd of people who huddled in lively clusters around the patio and pool area, Kate caught her breath at the stunning blue blur in the distance. It had to be the Mediterranean. She had to admit the party was being held in a magnificent setting, situated as it was on the edge of a rugged cliff overlooking the glistening water. It was too bad she had never caught a glimpse of her unwilling host; he had excellent taste. People said money couldn't buy everything, she thought with a smile, but it certainly bought an outstanding view.

  As a party of guests passed her, staring in momentary curiosity, Kate turned away from the scenery with a sigh of regret and moved swiftly toward a wooded area to the side of the mansion.

  As she walked, the lights and smoke and noise of the party faded gradually to be replaced by cooling shadows, the sweet, heavy scent of roses and carnations, and the soft rustle of leaves.

  Slowing her pace, Kate breathed deeply of the evening air, hoping it would clear her head, but instead it brought a sudden swimming dizziness as though maneuvering without her glasses had affected her equilibrium. She leaned slowly against a tree, resting her head on the rough trunk.

  "That was very effective."

  The deep, brown velvet voice brought her head up sharply to search around her for its source, but the shadows revealed nothing to her nearsighted gaze. For a moment she wondered wildly if the voice weren't simply one more piece of unreality in an extremely unreal night. Then the disturbing voice continued and the sheer force of it demanded that she accept its reality.

  "I've been watching you through the window."

  The words were casually spoken, but she thought she detected humor in his voice ... as though watching her had amused him.

  "All evening you've been looking straight through each man in the room as though he didn't exist. So cool and above it all, like Queen Boadicea surveying the great unwashed."

  Suddenly a large shadow detached itself from a tree and she felt again that strange, ghostly tingle on her flesh as he continued to speak lazily. "Then you turned those sleepy siren eyes in my direction in the most blatantly erotic invitation I've ever encountered."

  He chuckled quietly and the rich, mellow sound pulled at her senses.

  "I'm sorry, Duchess, but whoever the look was intended for doesn't seem to have caught it. I watched and no one followed you out." He sounded almost apologetic. "But I'm here. Why don't you tell me what you had in mind? Maybe we could work something out."

  I should have known, she thought in resignation. Considering the way her luck usually ran, she should have expected something like this. Why should she come out of the evening scot-free? Who else but Kate Sullivan would run into an oddball lurking on the grounds of a millionaire's mansion, an oddball who got his kicks from peeking through windows?

  Suddenly the garden where they stood seemed isolated. Pulling away from the tree, she cleared her throat nervously. Although she tried to sound confident her words came out in a husky, apologetic whisper. "I'm—I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else."

  He moved a step closer, his face still obscured by darkness, his shape looming large before her. "I guess I'm not who you were expecting."

  He laughed again and the sound surrounded her, pinning her to the tree behind her. "I hate to say this, Duchess, but I'm afraid you were a little obvious—examining the prey with that cool, bored expression to intrigue, then seducing him with that last look."

  The words gave the impression that he admired her, but by now she knew he was definitely laughing at her. She wasn't sure how she liked being the source of a stranger's amusement. For a moment she considered being offended, but as she pushed away from the tree, the content of what he said sunk in.

  "Queen Boadicea?" she asked, intrigued against her will. She moved a step in his direction as the notion took hold of her imagination. "Did I really look like a vamp?" She smiled her generous, irrepressible smile. "No one has ever mistaken me for a femme fatale before. In fact," she added confidingly, moving even closer as she considered the idea, "I don't think I've ever met a femme fatale. Unless you count Maria Thompkins from high school. . . she wore Frederick's of Hollywood underwear under her miniskirt."

  She smiled again, deciding she definitely liked the idea. But her smile faded when he stepped forward, his soft laugh filling the shadows. Her eyes grew round and she backed hastily to her former place against the tree.

  "That's a start," he murmured huskily. "You've got a stunning smile and it almost makes it worth my while . . . but not quite."

  He continued to move steadily toward her as he spoke, and the closer he drew, the stronger the tingling became, until when he was a couple of feet away, her flesh almost burned with the sensation.

  She felt it linger on her face as she nervously moistened dry lips, then on her full, firm breasts, causing her nipples to grow taut and thrust tightly against the thin gold silk. When the whisper of electric current moved slowly across her stomach and down to her hips and thighs, it spread a sizzling warmth to the secret places of her body.

  She drew in her breath sharply at the incredible sensation, then shifted in acute awareness as the tingling returned swiftly to the rounded tops of her breasts that the indrawn breath had exposed above the low-draped bodice.

  Leaning weakly against the tree, she closed her eyes in frustration. This man was definitely dangerous. Perhaps not in the way she had originally imagined, but dangerous nonetheless. She suddenly had the feeling that she was no longer in control of her own body.

  Making a tremendous effort to pull herself together, Kate decided that not being able to see him clearly had to be part of the reason he disturbed her senses so. She drew the large tortoise-shell glasses from her purse and slid them on.

  As she did, the moonlight struck full upon him and the shadowy garden seemed to fade and disappear into nothing until there was only his face. Her heart stopped for a breathless moment, then picked up again with a hectic, almost painful beat as she felt an indescribable, fleeting moment of recognition,

  Not that Kate had ever seen him before; she definitely would have remembered him if she had. It wasn't recognition of a face or shape; it was something more basic and came from a deeper level.

  The shadows filled the crevices in his face; the rays of the moon highlighting his hard, vital features. The overpowering masculinity, high cheekbones, and strong, distinctive nose gave him the look of a Comanche warrior ... or a devil. Satan in tight black slacks and white shirt, open low at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

  "Geronimo," she whispered vaguely.

  He stopped abruptly. "I beg your pardon," he said, his voice frankly puzzled.

  "Geronimo," she repeated.

>   "That's what you say when you jump out of an airplane." Now she could see the amusement on his strong, irregular features. "Somehow the significance of that escapes me," he said and shook his head.

  "Come to think of it, that's how I felt a minute ago," she said frankly, her tone woeful; then she stared at him inquisitively as she recalled what he had said earlier. "Were you really peeking in the windows?"

  "Yes, I really was." He chuckled.

  "Aren't there guards or eunuchs or something hanging around to stop that kind of thing?"

  "I haven't seen a single guard," he said, then paused thoughtfully. "There was one man who I couldn't swear wasn't a eunuch, but he was inside."

  "Oh, really?" she asked, her eyes brightening with interest, and began to walk toward the villa. "I knew I was missing a lot by not wearing my glasses," she threw over her shoulder in a disgusted voice.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, following behind her.

  "I want to see," was her only explanation as she approached a large, diamond-paned window. Peering inside, she whispered, "Which one is the eunuch?"

  His voice came from directly behind her as he watched from over her shoulder. "The bald one over there in the corner," he said, chuckling quietly.

  "The one with the sash?" she asked. "No, definitely not a eunuch . . . look at the way he's eyeing that blonde." She paused. "Who's the one in the middle of the room who looks like Charles Laughton?"

  "Let's see," he said, leaning closer. "That's Charles Laughton."

  "Idiot," she said, smiling as she leaned against the wall. "It's a woman."

  "Oh, my mistake," he apologized. "That's Charles Laughton's mother."

  She laughed as she darted him a look of accusation. "You don't know who they are any more than I do."

  "Yes, I do. It's just that the truth is boring compared to speculation."

  "Give me a for instance."

  "Okay . . . see that man?" He indicated a tall, elegantly dressed man standing next to an ebony escritoire. "Take a guess on what he does."