I used it to create my collage.”
In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”
“You want me to explain?”
“Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”
His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.
In another aside he added, “I’m fascinated to discover how this instrument contributed to the final product.”
Did he even like the final product? He still hadn’t said a word about it.
“If you really want to know, I’ll demonstrate.”
Without meeting his penetrating gaze, she took the rolling pin from his hand, then tore off a corner of the newspaper lying on the floor.
She could sense his body next to hers as she wadded the paper in her palm, then cleared a glass and some cutlery from her minuscule counter so she’d have room to work. Placing the little wad in the center, she began pressing it down with the roller. She ran over it this way, then that.
“You have to do this about ten times until you achieve the desired crinkled effect. I did this to every piece of paper in the collage so that each one resembled an old man’s weathered face. Then I opened the paper and applied a hair spray meant to add lighter streaks to dull blond hair. Every tiny crease captured the glaze, gilding it, producing an all-over effect not unlike faience, a kind of fine porcelain with thousands of weblike lines.
“After the piece dried, I cupped it in my palm, shaping it to resemble people or the Greek motif on the outside of your building. Then I curled the ends under, and dipped them in wallpaper paste before working the treated paper into the collage.
“As you can see—” Her eyes darted to the canvas propped on the card table. “The spray enhanced every color, but more importantly, the overall impression should convince the viewer that he’s looking at a collage made of the most translucent bone china.” After a slight pause, “At least, it’s supposed to create that effect.”
“Rest assured you achieved your goal. In fact, you achieved a great deal more than that,” came the cryptic comment. As he said the words, his dark gaze trapped her astonished one, sending a strange thrill of sensation chasing across her skin.
Unused to the hairs standing on the back of her neck, she rushed over to the card table to begin her task.
Out of the periphery, she watched him approach her only folding chair and examine the half dozen remnants of upholstery cloth she’d hand woven before he fingered various fishnet chains she’d designed. They were hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.
While he was thus engrossed, she laid the canvas flat on the tabletop. Using her hip for leverage, she positioned it against the wall. Carefully she placed the edge of the chisel at the base of the window in the collage and started to tap the handle with the hammer.
But she hadn’t counted on the card table jiggling under the pressure.
It caused the canvas to slide, which in turn sent the sharp end of the chisel into the fleshy portion of her palm. Unknowingly she cried out as blood gushed all over her artwork.
She had no idea anyone of Mr. Kostopoulos’s size could move as fast as he did. In a lightning gesture he’d pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and had grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding.
Oblivious to the pain, her heart began to thud from the close proximity of their bodies. She heard him mutter another unrepeatable epithet. “The wound is too deep to close by itself. You’re going to need stitches and a tetanus shot.”
“I’ll be all right,” she murmured breathily. For some reason, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. She had to fight the urge to cling to him and draw from his strength. “I don’t have any insurance and can’t afford a visit to the doctor.”
“You think I’d let you pay when I was the one who forced the issue?” His scathing tone left her in little doubt he was taking full responsibility. “We’re leaving for my doctor now.”
“But my collage! I’ve got to get the blood off it.”
No sooner had she spoken those words than he relinquished his hold of her hand and took her canvas to the sink to run cold water over the soiled portion. Within seconds it looked like new again. In a deft movement, he propped it on the card table, much the same way she’d done the night before.
Immediately his concerned gaze flicked to her injured hand where she pressed the handkerchief to apply pressure.
“It’s to your credit that you had the foresight to spray the collage with a protective sealer. Otherwise the water would have permeated the paper and ruined your unique masterpiece. Now that we’ve erased that worry, we can go.”
His compliment, albeit grudgingly given, filled her with such warmth, she went along without protest.
Unbelievably, she found herself back in his car where a new, strange silence prevailed. He seemed to be in a world all his own. For that matter, so was she. The events of the last few hours had left her bemused and shaken.
As soon as they merged with the traffic, he managed to get her to a private clinic in record time.
Of course the receptionist knew him on sight, and though there were still some patients in the waiting area, one word from him and Sam was rushed into the first available examining room.
Apparently Dr. Strike was a compatriot of her abductor. The second the attractive, dark-haired man breezed inside, his face broke out in a broad smile. “Perseus!” he called to Mr. Kostopoulos, and they began conversing in Greek like longtime friends.
Sam sat there in stunned surprise. The image of the god Hades faded from her mind as she remembered her favorite story from Greek mythology.
The strong, handsome Perseus, son of Zeus and Danae, rejected by his mother’s abductor, the cunning King Polydectes, set out to prove he could do anything, even free his mother, and eventually brought home not only the head of Medusa to turn the king and his courtiers to stone, but acquired a wife in the form of the beautiful Andromeda whom he rescued from the sea monster.
It may have been a coincidence, but to a large degree, Mr. Kostopoulos’s life appeared to have paralleled that of the mythical Perseus. As today’s world viewed him, Perseus Kostopoulos was a presence to reckon with. Even Sam had attributed him with godlike characteristics the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.
Were there more similarities? Was he on a quest of some kind? Was there still a woman to be rescued whom he’d make his own?
For an unknown reason, those fanciful thoughts were very disturbing to Sam who could wish she were that special woman he’d been roaming the world to find.
Realizing what dangerous channels her thoughts were drifting into, she made a determined effort to concentrate on the doctor’s instructions as he put in three stitches, bound her hand with gauze and gave her a tetanus shot. All the while he spoke, she felt his speculative gaze.
Naturally he was trying to work out why someone of Perseus Kostopoulos’s stature would
