"Who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?"

"Whoa, now!" he grinned. "One at a time. Matter of fact, I was looking for a castle. I thought I'd found it, but now I'm not so sure."

She stared again, breathing hard. "A castle? What do you mean, you were looking for a castle? Have you lost one?" As he listened, he guessed that she would have a nice voice in more favorable circumstances. By the sound, she came from somewhere very close to the Mason-Dixon line. He poured on the wide-eyed charm.

"That's neat. Have I lost one, hah! Do I look like I would lose a castle, always supposing I had one to lose?"

"You look as if you could lose just about anything, including your way. I don't see any road stretching away in back of you. Is it your habit to stroll casually over mountains and into private property?"

"Private?" he queried, and she extended her long arm to point. He looked and saw what he had guessed, a pair of heavy iron gates barring a tunnel cut through the rock.

"Private!" she repeated, and he shrugged.

"I didn't see those. I could see the road going straight on down to the sea, and no castle. I knew it had to be hereabouts someplace. But I don't get it. There isn't a thing in the guidebook about the Achilleion being privately owned. Since when?"

CHAPTER THREE

Now her blue gaze grew so sharp that he could have used it for shaving. "You," she said, "are either a stupid fool or a terrible liar. Which is it, Mister...?"

"Summers. Nathan Summers. You don't leave me a great deal of choice there, Miss...?"

"My name is Winter. Katherine Winter."

He grinned. This was an unexpected bonus and he grasped it quickly. "That's one for the book, isn't it? Summers—Winter! What d'you know! And what a chilly name for a pretty—er—warm-looking kind of person. Doesn't suit you at all."

She thawed a little, but not much. "You still haven't answered my question, Mr. Summers. Let me put you into the picture just a little. In the first place, this is not a castle. The only castle I know of, in this region, is in town. This is a palace. There is a difference. In the second place, this is not the Achilleion. Frankly, I do not see how anybody could possibly make such a mistake as that, especially someone with a guidebook. And in the third and most important place, this is private property, and it says so, clearly, on the other side of those gates. Now, Mr. Summers?"

"Three strikes and out," he admitted cheerfully. "You certainly make me sound like a Grade A cluck. But look at it from where I am. In the book it says the Achilleion is about seven or eight miles south of town. So I walk. It's a nice day and I like walking. But after a while I begin to wonder. I know you don't expect to see signposts stuck up in the middle of the road saying 'This way to the Achilleion', nor would you look for a palace—or a castle—right there beside the road. But there has to be some signs of life! And I had walked just a bit more than I bargained for. So I suspected it was tucked away someplace. Then I saw a side-road. So I wandered a little. And I was right. It certainly is tidily tucked away! But now you tell me this isn't the Achilleion at all! Now what kind of a deal is it when somebody owns a palace, private?"

"This is the Argyr Palace," she told him, very firmly. "It is the private residence of the Countess de St. Denis."

"Oh, sure!" he nodded in heavy irony. "You're a beautiful Princess and she's the wicked stepmother, and I'm a knight in shining armor, only it's all enchanted and doesn't show until I kiss you and break the spell. Where have I heard that story before? And you're not doing it right, you know. You're supposed to be shut up in a tower, on bread and water. Come off it, sister. The Countess de San-whatsit—that's French. I don't want to be thought bright, but I do know that much. And this is Greece. What are you trying to hand me, hey?" He turned to look at the candy floss palace and then came back to her again. "Or are you trying to cover up? What is it, a laughing academy for the better class dim domes?"

"A what?" she demanded, completely baffled.

"You know, the kind of place you put rich Uncle George in when he starts thinking he's a turkey and laying eggs all over the place. You know, a rest-home?"

"Mr. Summers!" She was scandalized. "Do I look like a wardress in a lunatic asylum?"

"No. Nor even an inmate," he told her enthusiastically. "I don't know you well enough to tell you just how you look, to me. But what you do not look like, one hundred per cent for sure, is French aristocracy. Nor do you sound like it. For that matter, you're no Corfiote, either. You are as American as I am. Your turn!"

"I have never tried to suggest that I am anything but American—not that it is any of your business. I work here. I manage the domestic side of her ladyship's affairs. If you must know, I'm a cook-housekeeper. And I have no intention whatever of losing my job through indiscretions with you. May I remind you, for the last time, this is private property. I think I had better escort you to the gate and out." She reached for the mooring rope, hauled the airbed in close, and accepted his helping hand to step up and out onto the wall. This close, she smelled like some new kind of perfume. Solo allowed his expression to dissolve into chagrin.

"I do believe you're not kidding. Are you? This is for real, the Countess and everything?"

"Of course!" She stepped past him and began to lead the way, very decoratively, to the path.

"Look," he pleaded, following her, "I didn't do any harm. All right, so I'm a fool, but maybe I could meet the Countess and explain..."

"I hardly think so. Madame sees very few guests, and those only by special arrangements. Her desire for privacy is quite genuine."

"Squashed again. Miss Winter, I have to apologize to somebody, just to prove that I have nice manners. How about you? You can't cook-housekeep all the time. When's your night out?" They came to the tiled stretch, and she stopped to gather a pair of rope-soled slippers, then, as she came erect again, she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Summers. I had hoped to avoid this, but I'm afraid you really are in trouble this time!"

Following the direction of her gaze, he saw a curious little vehicle coming rapidly towards them from the Palace, along the grey-black roadway. It was silent, rubber-tired, with a double-seat in front and a locker-box behind, looking some thing like a golf cart. One glance sufficed for the vehicle. The occupant deserved more, and got it from him. Solo studied her openly as the cart purred right up to them and stopped. The beauty that had warmed his eyes at a distance lost nothing at all by being seen close at hand. If anything, it was enhanced, and, for once in his long and adventurous career, Solo found himself face to face with a woman who defied all his attempts at analysis.

He could, and did, catalogue the details. Her hair was so black as to be blue where the sun caught it, and her eyes were so dark as to be almost the same color. Her complexion was the hue of fine honey. Her shape, a combination of bountiful curves and willowy slenderness, stopped just a breath short of exaggeration, and should have seemed outrageous, but didn't. And that was where the magic started. He had seen all these bits and pieces before, on other women, and they were in no way unique, nor was her wisp-of-white bikini a new experience to him. But there was something in the way all these things went together that made this woman considerably more than just the sum total of all the parts.