Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (30 page)

A
t nine that night darkness enshrouded the inside of Thorsen’s main store in downtown Seattle. The two floors above the market also appeared deserted, all except for a single light on the upper level shining from the window of a corner office. Thor’s office.

A night watchman let Andrea in, and she climbed to the top floor, struggling to catch her breath. Normally, such a climb wouldn’t leave her winded, not with her lifestyle. Nor would it make her heart pound so erratically. She ran a hand through her short curls, groaning in dismay to discover her fingers shook. Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.

Okay, so she was scared. Any woman about to throw herself at a man’s feet, prostrate herself before him, and plead for mercy, would be just as scared.

She paused, chewing on her lip. Maybe she wouldn’t have to plead. These things weren’t mandatory, after all. She brightened. She could leave out that part. He’d never miss it. With any luck, she could skip over the prostrating bit, too. And instead of throwing, perhaps she could toss herself at him. Gently.

That resolved, she found the nerve to walk down the long hallway to his office. His door stood open. He sat behind his desk, his tawny head bent over some papers. Her nerve cut and ran. Deciding to follow suit, she reversed engines, determined to beat a hasty retreat. She couldn’t cope with this right now.

“Andrea?”

Too late. “You’re busy. I’ll come another time,” she called, backpedaling down the hall and nearly tripping over her own two feet.

He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. A lazy grin spread across his broad mouth. “Chicken,” he murmured in a husky voice.

She nodded. “Cluck. Cluck.”

He held out a hand. “Come on, sweetheart. You got this far. You might as well finish it.”

His hand was large and strong, heavy calluses ridging his palm and fingers. She took a deep breath and slowly, tentatively, with utmost caution, returned to his side and fit her hand into his. The soothing warmth of his fingers engulfed her and she relaxed, her resistance fading. Her hand felt at home.

He tugged her closer, so close, in fact, that if she inched forward just a tad, she’d be in his arms. She’d missed those arms about her, their tender power, their warmth and security. She’d also missed the way their bodies fit in such perfect alignment, his height easily topping her extra inches.

“So,” he rumbled close to her ear, laughter evident in his deep tones. “To what do I owe the honor?”

She sighed. Maybe pleading, prostrating, and throwing herself at his feet wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Which, she wondered, would he expect first? Pleading, most likely.

“I’ve come to ple—” She lifted a hand to her throat, choking on the word.

He chuckled. “Ple? Ple what?”

“Ple—” The word refused to leave her tongue. She tried to scrape it off with her teeth and came up empty. Maybe prostrating would work better. “I’ve come to pros—”

“Ple pros?” His mouth twitched. “Is that a new fruit, perhaps? Put me down for five cases.”

She took a steadying breath. The man redefined insufferable! He knew full well why she’d come. Why didn’t he help a little?

“I’ve come . . .” Her chin shot up. The hell with it. “I’ve come for proof.” Yeah, proof. That beat out plead and prostrate any day of the week, not to mention tossing herself at his feet. “You said you could help solve my problems if I marry you. I’ll agree to marriage if you show me some proof first.” She groaned. No question about it. A full quota of pride, all present and accounted.

His smile turned sardonic. “Of course. Ple pros. Proof. I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection right away.” She agonized through a full two minutes of uncomfortable silence. Just when she’d reached the breaking point and was on the verge of caving, he said, “Tell me your problem. I’ll take care of it. My pleasure.”

A grub couldn’t have felt lower than she did at that moment. She crossed to the chair in front of his desk and perched on the edge. In a minimum of words, she filled in the gaps about the situation with Hartsworth, Thomas, and the eastern Washington farmers.

“I realize there isn’t much you can do tonight,” she concluded.

“No?” He flipped through his personal directory and picked up the phone, punching in a series of numbers. “Oh, ye of little faith. Listen and learn.”

He called his own lawyer first. After giving the attorney a specific list of instructions, he phoned Mr. Thomas. She didn’t have the nerve to ask where Thor had gotten the man’s home number, and on such short notice. Or had he anticipated her coming? Considering his ultimatum, her arrival couldn’t have been much of a surprise.

“This is Thor Thorsen,” he announced briskly, listening for a moment before replying, “That’s right. Thorsen’s Produce. I understand there’s some conflict between your client, Mr. Hartsworth, and my fiancée, Andrea Constantine.” He fell silent for several moments more. “That’s an interesting claim, though not quite what the federal produce inspectors state on their report. I’ve instructed my attorney to file suit against Mr. Hartsworth on behalf of Ms. Constantine first thing in the morning.”

He lifted his foot and rested it on the desk, dangling the phone from its cord. He smiled at Andrea. It took five minutes before the voice shrieking through the receiver quieted.

Thor spoke again. “No, you listen to me. This is my one and only offer. Your client will have a truckload of corn sitting on Constantine’s loading dock within twenty-four hours. Once that’s done, a certified check will be messengered to Mr. Hartsworth. What’s your answer?” He smiled. “I thought so. Nice doing business with you.”

“That’s it?” she demanded the instant he hung up. “Thomas agreed?”

“Of course.”

Of course. She sat and stewed. He resolved her problem with such ease. Why did she find that so annoying? She knew why. Because she couldn’t handle it on her own. All her pleading and all her threats hadn’t done a bit of good. And yet, one word from Thor Thorsen and people fell all over themselves to do his bidding. Corn would magically appear on her dock. The farmers would fight to be the first to deliver their apples. Undoubtedly quality would improve a thousandfold. The scenario left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“You don’t seem pleased,” he observed.

“I’m not,” she admitted with blunt honesty. “I’m grateful, but I’m not pleased. It shouldn’t require male interference to take care of Constantine’s problems.”

“No, it shouldn’t. If it bothers you so much, get out of the business.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “I can’t, remember? If I try to sell Constantine’s, you’ll dump me. The business could fold.”

He shrugged. “The way things are going, it’ll fold, anyway.”

“No, it won’t!”

“Face facts. You can’t win on your own.” He leaned across the desk, his facade of indifference disappearing. “You’ve always loved working the business. Are you going to let a bunch of unscrupulous bastards force you out? They fight by fair means or foul. Take a leaf from their book. If you use their own rules against them, you stand a chance of winning.”

She looked away, her spine rigid with defiance. She’d agreed to marry Thor if he solved her problem with Hartsworth. She’d honor her promise just as she honored all her business commitments. First, they’d discuss the terms of surrender.

Her mouth turned down. “All right. I need you. There, I’ve admitted it.”

“That’s big of you,” he said dryly.

“Do you still insist on marriage?”

“I do.”

“Do you object to a prenuptial agreement keeping our two businesses separate?”

“No. I prefer it.”

“Okay. I’ll marry you.” She glanced at him, and froze in her chair. Triumph glowed deep in his eyes, turning the color a brilliant sea blue. So he’d beaten her, after all. He must be very pleased. Foreboding filled her, teasing her with what lay ahead—a marriage based on desire and business, not on love.

“About time,” he muttered in a rough voice. He stood and she followed suit, backing away.

“I want a few marital ground rules set up first,” she spoke hastily.

He smiled and his resemblance to a huge hungry lion grew. “Such as?”

“We divorce in three months.”

He shook his head and came around the side of his desk. “Six. Minimum. It’ll take at least that long to get Constantine’s in shape.”

“Okay, six,” she agreed, edging away. “But I can’t marry you for two more months. Things are too hectic at work right now.”

“We marry in four weeks.”

She put the chair between them. “That’s too soon!”

“Tough.”

He hooked a foot around the chair leg and booted it to one side. “The wedding,” she gasped. “I want it small and intimate.”

“Try large and public and at my church.” He kept coming. “The whole purpose of this ceremony is to broadcast it to as many people as possible, not keep it quiet. I’ll take care of the wedding arrangements. All you have to do is show up. Any more conditions I should know about?”

“Yes! I . . . I won’t share a home with you.” She took several quick steps backward. “There’s no reason to. It isn’t like this is a real marriage or anything.”

He grinned in amusement. “I think we’ll leave that question open for future negotiation. Anything else?”

She nodded, speaking fast, aware she’d soon run out of retreating room. “And I won’t have . . . I won’t be . . .” He reached her and her eyes widened in alarm. “No touching!”

“Trust me. There will be lots of touching. Starting now.”

The bright glitter from his hammer earring flashed like a warning beacon before his gentle yank sent her tumbling into his arms. He slid one hand around her waist, the other up her spine to the nape of her neck. His fingers eased into her hair, tangling in the short blond curls. He studied her upturned face, his expression serious, almost thoughtful.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers.

She stiffened against him, part of her desperate to fight. The other, more insidious part wallowed in the mind-splintering sensations he aroused. She’d forgotten—heavens, how’d she’d forgotten!—the impact of his kiss. It felt like soaring over one of her rainbows straight into a miracle. Hope and faith and promises abounded.

She found it impossible to resist. With a tiny sigh, she relaxed, taking the momentary joy offered. She’d worry about the consequences later. Much later.

“There’s your touching rule taken care of,” he muttered against her mouth, satisfaction heavy in his voice. “Shall we lay odds on how long we maintain separate living accommodations?”

L
ater that night, Andrea stood in the middle of her loft and silently fumed. How could she have forgotten, even for a single instant, what a total louse her ex-fiancé—correction,
current
fiancé—was?

Her brow puckered in a brooding frown, and she ran a hand over a cluster of prisms, sending them spinning. How many of her ground rules had he swept aside? All but one by her accounting, and then only because he’d chosen not to fight over maintaining separate living accommodations. Yet. Would she have any luck holding him off if he made an issue of it? She hadn’t with any of her other demands.

He’d summarily dismissed her proposed limit of a three-month marriage. She grimaced. Okay, so he’d come up with a reasonable excuse. That didn’t mean he could dictate how they’d marry, when they’d marry, and even where they’d marry.

Although, loath as she was to admit it, a large wedding did make good business sense. And if they had to wed, the sooner they got it over with the better. As to the rest of the wedding arrangements, she didn’t really mind his taking care of those.

But his audacity in breaking that touching rule!

She shivered. He’d leveled her with his kiss, no doubt about it. He’d taken her emotions and turned them upside down, inside out, and all-around backward. How could she have let that happen? And how could she protect herself in the future?

No touching, that was how, she vowed then and there. Certainly no kissing. Not even a friendly hug. Before he said, “I do,” he’d have to promise, “I won’t”!

Much relieved at taking a hand in her own fate, she climbed into bed and snuggled beneath the covers. One final annoying question popped into her head. Why, she wondered, vaguely insulted, hadn’t he insisted they live together? Her lower lip inched out as sleep laid claim. You’d think he’d have insisted.