Fit for a King

“Yes?” She smiled, trying to bluff her way through his obvious animosity.

“What the hell’s going on over here?” he asked curtly.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I heard screams,” he said, his very dark, almost black, eyes staring intently at her face.

“Well, yes, they were screams, but—” she began.

“I bought my house specifically for its peaceful location,” he broke in before she could finish. “I like peace and quiet. I came all the way here from Oklahoma to get it. I don’t like wild parties.”

“Oh, neither do I,” she said earnestly.

At which point Warchief let out a scream that could have shattered crystal.

“Why is that woman screaming? What in hell kind of company are you keeping here, lady?” The man from Oklahoma spared her a speaking glance before he pushed past her into the cottage and began looking for the source of the scream.

She sighed, leaning against the doorjamb as he strode into the bedroom, then the small kitchen, muttering about bloody murder and the lack of consideration for the neighbors on this side of the island.

Warchief began laughing in an absurd parody of a man’s deep voice, and then he screamed again, his tone rising alarmingly.

The Oklahoman was back, hands on his narrow hips, scowling. And then his eyes found the covered cage.

“Hellllllp!” Warchief moaned, and the man’s eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“The wild party,” she informed him calmly, “is in there. And wild is really a good word for that particular party.”

“Ouuuuut!” the parrot wailed. “Let me out!”

The Oklahoman pulled off the dark cover, and Warchief immediately began making eyes at him. “Hello!” he purred, leaping from his perch ring to the cage door. “I’m a good boy. Who are you?”

The tall man blinked. “It’s a parrot.”

“I’m a good boy,” Warchief said, and he laughed again. As an encore he turned upside down, cocking his head at the man. “You’re cute!”

Cute wasn’t exactly the word Elissa would have used, but that parrot had style—she’d say that for him. She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.

Warchief spread his tail feathers and ruffled the rest of himself, dilated his pale brown eyes in what bird fanciers call “blazing” and let out a beaut of a wail. The stranger from Oklahoma raised one heavy eyebrow. “How would you like him,” he asked darkly, glancing at her, “fried or baked stuffed?”

“You can’t!” she moaned. “He’s just a baby!”

The parrot let out another bloodcurdling scream.

“Down, boy!” the man growled. “I don’t have my ears insured.”

Elissa muffled a giggle. “He’s terrific, isn’t he?” she asked gleefully. “Now I see why his owner had to sell him when he moved into a small apartment building. I didn’t realize it until the sun started going down.”

The intruder stared at the pile of bird magazines on the glass-topped coffee table. “Well? Haven’t you learned yet what to do about his screaming?”

“Of course,” she replied, tongue in cheek. “You cover the cage. It works every time. This expert—” she held up the magazine “—says so.”

He glanced at the cover of the magazine. “That issue is three years old.”

She shrugged. “Can I help it if bird magazines aren’t exactly the going thing on the island? The owner gave these to me along with the cage.”

His eyes told her what he thought of the magazines, the cage and the bird in it. Her, too.

“So he screams a little,” she defended, shifting under that hot glare. “Basically he’s a nice bird. He’ll even let you pet him.”

He eyed the bird. “Want to show me?”

“Not really.” But at the man’s baleful glance, she moved closer and held out her hand. The parrot cackled and made a playful swipe at it. She jerked her hand back. “Well, he’ll almost let you pet him,” she equivocated.

“Care to try again?” he challenged, folding his darkly tanned arms across that massive chest.

She put her hands behind her. “No, thanks. I’ve kind of gotten used to having ten fingers,” she muttered.

“No doubt. What in heaven’s name do you want with a parrot, anyway?” he asked, clearly exasperated.

“I was lonely,” she said bluntly. She glanced down at her bare feet.

“Why not take a lover?” he returned.

She looked up and saw that his eyes were full of what looked like mischief. “Take him where?” she asked glibly, hiding the uncomfortable reaction his suggestion evoked from her.

A corner of his firm mouth seemed to twitch. “Cute.”

“You’re cute!” Warchief echoed, and he began to strut in a circle, fluffed up like a cat in a dryer, screaming his lime-green head off. Even the streak of yellow on his nape seemed to glow.

“For Pete’s sake, boy!” the man burst out.

“Maybe he’s a girl,” Elissa commented. “He sure seems to like you a lot.”

He glared at Warchief. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me,” he commented. “I feel like an entrée.”

“His former owner promised he wouldn’t bite,” she faltered.

“Sure he did.” He held out his hand, and Warchief seemed to actually grin before he reached through the wide cage bars for it.

He wasn’t a malicious bird; he just liked to test his strength, Elissa rationalized. But the man from Oklahoma had strong fingers. He let Warchief bear down for a minute before he leisurely removed the big beak and firmly said, “No!”

He picked up the cage cover and put it back in place. And to Elissa’s amazement, the parrot shut up.

“You have to let an animal know who’s boss,” he told Elissa. “Never jerk your hand back if he starts to bite, and don’t let him get away with it. You’ll only reinforce his bad behavior.”

She blinked. “You seem to know a lot about birds.”

“I had a cockatoo,” he told her. “I gave it to a friend of mine because I’m away so much of the time.”