Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (41 page)

A
nother ten days passed and Andrea couldn’t seem to break through Thor’s wall of reserve. He worked from dawn until dusk and then some. She knew why, and could see no way of preventing what she suspected would follow.

Soon Thor would feel confident enough in her abilities to switch the daily running of Constantine’s over to her. Once that happened, there’d be no further call for him to work in Nick’s office, so he’d return to Thorsen’s. After another few months, he’d regain confidence in her financial stability. Slowly, but surely, he’d distance himself until . . .

Until he ended their marriage. Tears flooded her eyes.

“Mrs. Thorsen?” Marco stuck his head in the door. “Lumpers are unloading that shipment of lettuce. We’ve got slime. Will you come and look?”

“I’ll be right there.” She turned away and discreetly wiped her cheeks. Business first, she reminded herself. She mustn’t give Thor undue cause to stick around. She hurried to the loading bay, despite the tears nearly blinding her.

She stood at the rear of the forty-foot tractor-trailer, watching a dockworker, or “lumper,” pull off the first stack with a hydraulic pallet jack. She’d placed this order, and she’d be very upset if someone pulled a fast one on her. With luck it wouldn’t be slime at all, only a little mud from the recent rains. She stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse inside one of the cartons.

“Andrea! Look out!”

She moved. Fast. Thor moved faster. He slammed into her, knocking her to one side just as the top layer of boxes tipped and crashed to the cement floor.

“Thor!” she shrieked. She rolled over, expecting to see him crushed beneath a load of lettuce. Instead, she found him on his knees beside her. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Yes. No. Are you . . . ?”

She burst into tears. “Which is it?”

Through blurred eyes, she saw the blood staining his jeans and the arm of his shirt. She lifted a shaking hand to her mouth.
Oh, Lord, don’t let me get sick. Not here in front of all my employees. Not when Thor needs me.
She wouldn’t be dependent and clingy. She wouldn’t.

“Where were you hit?” Thor asked, his hands sweeping over her.

She fought for equilibrium. “Nowhere. I’m fine, but you’re not.” She gave up the battle, wailing. “Oh, Thor, you’re bleeding.”

“Skinned knees and shoulder. Nothing serious.” He stood and helped her to her feet.

Only then did she notice the silent, horrified crowd surrounding them. “It’s all right,” she called. “No real damage done.”

“Mr. Thorsen, Mrs. Thorsen, I’m so sorry.” The lumper wrung his hands. “I didn’t realize the stack was unbalanced.”

“Forget it.” Thor cut in. “It’s not your fault.” He turned to Andrea’s head salesman. “Marco, take over, will you? We’re going home for the rest of the day.”

“You got it.”

Thor practically carried Andrea off the dock. “You’ll make the bleeding worse,” she tried to protest, seeing the dark stain growing at his shoulder. “I can walk.”

“Tough. I’m not letting you go.”

The taut, white line about his mouth kept her from saying more. She understood how he felt. She needed the reassurance of his touch, too. He settled her into the car before climbing in himself. The worst of the shock wore off during their drive home, allowing her to feel the bruises and aches emanating from every muscle in her body.

He parked in the driveway and they sat motionless. She sighed. “You can’t get out, either?”

A wry smile touched his mouth. “Nope.”

She pushed open the door and cautiously lifted one leg at a time. Several contortions later, she exited the car. “You’d think we were ninety, the way we’re creeping along.”

Thor groaned, inching out of the bucket seat. “Huh. Aunt Gerda’s ninety and she can still do handsprings.”

“Good for Aunt Gerda.” She massaged her aching hip. “I couldn’t do handsprings at sixteen. I’d be hard pressed to manage even a somersault right now.”

“A hot bath for you, sweetheart.”

“Sounds great.”

In her room, she eased off her shirt and jeans and peered in the dresser mirror. She’d bruised her shoulder and hip when Thor threw her to the concrete. A huge purple blemish showed above the edge of her bikini underpants. Carefully she slid her bra strap to one side and winced.

“Ah, sweetheart,” Thor murmured from the doorway. “That looks painful.”

She glanced up, startled. He stood there, a tube of salve in his hand, staring at the ugly abrasion on her shoulder. The tautness returned to his mouth.

“It would have been a lot worse if the lettuce boxes had hit me,” she said, trying not to feel too self-conscious.

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am.” She cleared her throat. “Your shoulder. Is it okay?”

“Just a scratch.” He seemed frozen in the doorway and she held out her hand, gesturing awkwardly toward the tube. “Is that for me?”

“Yes.” He stepped into the room. “I’ll do it for you,” he offered.

Her hand dropped to her side and she stood motionless before him. “Thanks.”

He squeezed some of the ointment onto his fingers and her eyes fell shut. Gently he rubbed the cool balm into the scrape. “Where else do you hurt? Here?” He lowered his head, his lips touching the joining of her neck and shoulder, just above the bruise. His hands spread across her back, tenderly probing, seeking each sensitive area.

“My hip,” she gasped, shivering in his arms. “And near my knee.” Carefully he anointed her bruises, one after another. By the time he’d finished her aches were long forgotten, desire a welcome substitute.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Don’t make me wait any longer. When I think what could have happened today . . .” His arms tightened around her. “You could have been killed.”

Her eyes darkened. “Or you.”

“Then be my wife.”

There was no decision involved and only one possible answer. She loved him. She wanted to give her marriage a chance, to commit herself to him in every way. She didn’t care about the past. Only the future counted. And she’d fight for a future with Thor.

“Yes, please,” she said, as politely as though she’d been asked to tea.

There was nothing in the least polite about his response. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He lay down beside her and, with infinite patience and loving tenderness, showed her the true meaning of marital bliss.

“
W
hy didn’t we do this sooner?” Andrea asked, curling up beside her husband.

“You didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t?” She thought for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me what I’d be missing?”

He chuckled. “It loses something in the translation.”

“Perhaps if you’d explained better, I would have understood.”

“I can explain it again if you think it would help.”

Considering how well her reply had worked last time, she repeated it. “Yes, please.”

“
. . . t
hink he’d have preferred a son. Maybe if I’d been one, he’d have given me a better grounding in the business.”

“I doubt it. My father didn’t.” Thor rolled over and rested on an elbow. “After his injury, I really had to hustle. We almost lost it all.”

“You should have told me.”

He shrugged. “What’s to tell? I had a duty to my father and to my family. You don’t discuss taking responsibility. You just do it.”

Her brows drew together. “And is that what I am? A responsibility?”

He smoothed a tumble of wheat-colored curls from her face. “You’re the best kind of responsibility,” he said with a smile. “You’re my wife.”

“I don’t want to be another duty or obligation,” she whispered. “I want more than that from a marriage.”

He remained silent for a long time. “Sometimes you have to take whatever’s available and make the best of it.” He turned to her. “Why don’t we make the best of it now?”

She grinned. “Yes, please.”

“
. . . 
t
ook me about four hundred hours to build the one in the living room.”

“Four
hundred?”

“At a guess. There’s a lot of little pieces.”

“You carved them all?”

“Every last strake.”

“So, this . . . what is it exactly?”

“It’s a longship.”

“A longship. You make it to scale?”

“Yup. I have a friend who’s a shipbuilder. He showed me how and offered some assembly tips.”

She tried to imagine the amount of time and effort, not to mention sheer determination, such an undertaking would require. “Why do it?”

His brow creased in thought. “I guess because it represents my Norwegian heritage, a heritage I take very seriously. The Vikings were an incredible group of people, and I’m related to them. Look at all they accomplished. It reminds me of what’s possible with the right kind of drive and ambition.”

“You’re an amazing person, Mr. Thorsen.” She glanced at him shyly. “I’m glad I married you.”

His eyes blazed. “So am I.”

She leaned toward him. “Before you ask . . . Yes, please.”

“
. . . t
old you about my ships. Explain all those prisms.”

“That’s easy. They’re rainbow makers.”

“And rainbows stand for . . . ?”

“Hope for tomorrow. Hope everything will work out in the future.”

“Faith?”

She nodded. “Faith. Trust. But mostly hope.”

“I like that.”

“Me, too.” She touched his gold hammer earring. “Strength and power?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “Determination.”

“You keep hammering away until you win?”

“Not win. Succeed. There’s a difference.”

She looked at him quizzically. “There is?”

“Yes. When you win, someone else loses. When you succeed, you overcome obstacles and obtain an important goal. It’s a subtle difference, I’ll admit. But an important one.”

“Hope and determination,” she murmured.

He gathered her in his arms. “Together they’re an unbeatable combination, wouldn’t you say?”

“The perfect combination,” she agreed.