Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (5 page)

“Not another one,” Jordan muttered, rolling her eyes. “First politics, now sex. I swear these vegetables see more action than I do.”

“I— Oh, oh yes,” Mrs. Swenson said in apparent fascination.

“Even the shape is womanly,” Rainer continued. “Round and full-bodied, the skin, warm and firm and smooth.” He grasped her other hand so they held the eggplant between them. “Do you feel that, how it invites the touch? Eggplant is one of the most sensuous vegetables you’ll find.”

Mrs. Swenson gave a deep heartfelt sigh and Jordan listened in amazement. Eggplant, sensuous? Apparently, the woman agreed with him, because she nodded, her faded blond topknot bobbing up and down.

“Sensuous. Very sensuous,” she repeated breathlessly.

Rainer eased the eggplant into the plastic basket she carried on her arm. “Not as sensuous as tomatoes, of course.” He slipped his hand beneath her elbow and spared Jordan a quick glance. “Coming?” he asked, before leading her customer toward the tomatoes. “You can’t buy your man eggplant,
kjæreste
, and not tempt him with love’s most infamous vegetable.”

“Sweetheart.” Mrs. Swenson sighed again. “My husband used to call me that.”

“Feed him more tomatoes,” Rainer responded promptly, “and he will again.”

“Well I’ll be a pickled herring,” Jordan muttered, staring after them. She didn’t know whether to be grateful, annoyed, or suspicious. Suspicion won out. Who did he think he was, Svengali? And what had he done to her customer? At a guess, charmed Mrs. Swenson into buying more produce in one day than she had in the past month.

Jordan drummed her fingers against the wooden counter, her eyes narrowed. That golden-haired, smooth-talking, devil incarnate wanted something, and if she was wise, she’d find out what. Pronto.

Before she could act, Uncle Cletus tapped her on the shoulder and gestured toward Rainer. “Who is that?” he asked, intrigued.

“Trouble, with a capital T.”

Her uncle shook his head. “Impossible. A man with such an instinctive understanding of the basic nature of eggplant can’t be all bad.”

“Trust me on this,” she said dryly. “Bad doesn’t begin to describe the man.”

Determined to find out why he’d come, she followed Rainer. She didn’t buy two coincidences in a row, especially when the first wasn’t one. So, what did he want? Not the bananas, that didn’t make sense. Or did it? She paused in midstride, her right hand straying to her pocket. Maybe he’d found out about the coin trick and had come to reclaim what he deemed his property. Jordan smiled coolly. If so, she’d soon disabuse him of the notion.

By the time she caught up with Rainer and Mrs. Swenson, they were examining the tomatoes. Her gaze snagged on Rainer’s lean fingers stroking a plump red tomato. He was right about one thing. Tomatoes were sensuous, at least the way he touched them. Suddenly she knew she’d never be able to think about them the same way again.

She swallowed.

The man had an exquisite touch. What a shame to waste it on an inanimate vegetable. Not that she’d care to experience his caresses personally. But, to give such loving attention to a tomato?

He bent down and whispered something in Mrs. Swenson’s ear. To Jordan’s astonishment, the woman turned as red as the vegetable he held and let out a snort of laughter.

“It’s the truth,” he insisted. “If you don’t believe me, ask Jordan.”

“Ask me what?” she asked, not certain she wanted to know.

Rainer held up the tomato, turning it. “That one of the names for this vegetable is the love apple.’”

As much as it went against the grain, she forced herself to agree with him. “It’s one name for them, among others.”

“Quite right. Also the wolf peach—”

“The mad apple—”

“And the rage apple.” He offered the tomato to Mrs. Swenson. “But to me, it will always be . . . the love apple.”

So he liked to play games, did he? Well, she played games and quite ably, too. “Tomatoes,” Jordan stated with determination. “Low in calories, high in nutrition. They contain vitamins A, B1, B2, and C—”

“Once considered poisonous,” he broke in, shooting her a wicked look, “they were later believed harmful only to the chaste. All proper maidens who guarded their virtue avoided what many considered an aphrodisiac.” He selected another tomato and offered it to Jordan, along with a mocking grin. “Shall I tempt your virtue?”

She took the proffered fruit.
“Lycopersicon esculentum
, literally ‘juicy wolf peach.’ A member of the nightshade family, the fruit is the only edible portion. In actuality a berry, it is legally a vegetable.”

Rainer stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “There are literally thousands of varieties, such as the Bonny Best, the Atom, the Droplet—”

“The Cannibal, the Jetfire, the Dutchman—”

He interrupted, his voice low and intimate. “The Moon Glow, the Perfecta, the Terrific . . .” He paused, his gaze unbearably seductive, and suddenly Mrs. Swenson ceased to exist. “The Crimson Cushion, the White Beauty, the Red Glow.” His voice lowered still further, caressing every syllable. “And the Venus.”

She spoke crisply. It was a struggle, but she did it, emphasizing each chilly word. “The Subarctic, the Snowball, the Toy Boy, the Crackproof—”

“You forgot the Superman.”

She raised her chin and stared him straight in the eye. “And the When-Hell-Freezes-Over.”

A delighted grin crossed Rainer’s face. “I must have missed that one. I’ll have to get out my Burpee catalogue and look it up.”

“Well, which kind of tomatoes are these?” Mrs. Swenson wanted to know, peering from one to the other in bewilderment.

Jordan didn’t miss a beat. “They’re the When-H—”

“Behave-yer-selves,” he inserted smoothly, quelling her with a glance. “Behave-yer-selves Beefsteaks.”

“That’s . . . different,” Mrs. Swenson said. “Where do they come up with such peculiar names?”

“From peculiar people with strange senses of humor,” Jordan couldn’t resist saying.

Rainer inclined his head. “Thank you, sweetheart, though I prefer eccentric to peculiar.”

“We can’t have everything we want.”

He gave a little sigh. “You weren’t listening this morning at the wholesale market, were you?” His relentless gaze intimidated her, made threats she knew he’d keep. “You’ll find I always get what I want.”

“Not always, Mr. Thorsen,” she dared to remind him. “You lost the bananas.”

He didn’t immediately respond, instead placing half a dozen tomatoes into Mrs. Swenson’s basket. Then he said gently, “I only lost if the bananas were my ultimate objective. They weren’t.” He allowed Jordan to mull that over, before adding, “I always get what I’m after. Some things take a little time, but in the end, I get them just the same. I always do. I suggest you remember that.” He smiled down at Mrs. Swenson. “Shall we move on to the roots?”

I always do. His threat hung in the air. Jordan couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. For the first time she knew fear, honest to goodness, belly-deep, stomach-curdling fear. What did he want? It was imperative she find out. Think, darn it,
think!

Unfortunately, her instinctive ability to grasp a situation chose that moment to desert her. Normally she could size up an individual with no problem, sensing his or her strengths and weaknesses. But this man was all strengths and no weaknesses. And without a weakness, how was she expected to decide on an angle of approach?

Should she force the issue? Should she charm him? Should she toss him out on his lightning bolt earring? What angle would work best? Well, even without an angle doing something was better than doing nothing at all. She started after him.

“Jordan?”

Michelle caught her a few feet short of her goal. Rainer glanced over at them as though aware of her frustration at the interruption and winked.

She dragged her attention from Rainer to the petite blond standing at her elbow. “Yes, what is it?”

“That student you talk to all the time, Seth what’s-his-name, is here. He wants to run a tab on his order again.”

“Do it.”

The younger girl hesitated. “Uh, you see, his purchases are sort of high this time—twenty dollars and fifty-four cents—and that tab of his hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

Jordan chuckled. “Sure it has. It’s easy. Just take the old tab, wad it up in a little ball and stick it in that round metal barrel beneath the register.”

“The trash can?” Michelle’s voice squeaked in disbelief.

“You got it. Then get out a new piece of paper and write twenty fifty-four on it. Voila. Small tab again.”

“But . . .”

Jordan smiled gently. “Honey, Seth’s struggling to work his way through school. Look at this as our contribution to higher education.”

“You mean our contribution to a smooth-talking con artist,” Michelle muttered.

Jordan lifted an eyebrow, the tiny signal of disapproval enough to silence the girl. “Don’t be so suspicious. Try thinking of him the way you would the electric company. You pay the bill and end up with a brighter day.”

“Yeah, well you must have a lot of bright days, since Seth isn’t the only customer whose tab gets filed away under the register.” She held up her hands in surrender. “But you’re the boss. I hear and obey.”

“Smart move.” Jordan glanced toward Michelle’s register. “And be nice to Seth. He’s looking a little worried over there.”

“Yeah, I can guess why.”

“Michelle,” Jordan warned, “I mean it. He has a lot of pride. Don’t dent it.”

That said, she looked at Rainer. To her surprise a frown creased his face and she realized he’d overheard her conversation with Michelle. Heard, and disapproved. She couldn’t hide her indignation. Really! It was her store. It was her produce. And it was her customer. All of which made it none of his business.

Before she could say as much, he returned his attention to Mrs. Swenson. With a friendly smile, he shifted her basket to his arm, leaning close to discuss the merits of sweet potatoes. As though unable to resist, he reached out and rearranged the display in front of him.

Uncle Cletus approached her next. “What’s that fellow doing?” he muttered in her ear.

“He’s—”

“I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s touching my produce. He’s changing things around. Look, look! He moved that yam. I wanted that yam there. That yam wanted to stay there. And he moved it.”

Jordan swallowed a smile. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand yams quite as well as eggplant.”

Her uncle snorted. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t understand eggplants, either. He probably made a lucky guess.”

“He can’t help sorting the produce. It’s not meant as an insult. It’s . . . it’s habit,” she said, and realized the truth of her comment. His restless movements—the scanning, shifting and arranging—were as natural to him as to her. As natural to them both as breathing. She could choose to resent his presumptuousness, but why bother? It came unconsciously, with no offense intended.

“Habit?” Cletus said in a querulous tone. “Is he in produce, too? What’s his name?”

“Rainer Thorsen.”

Her uncle froze, then used a word she’d never heard him say before. She stared at him, his panicked expression turning her astonishment to concern.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“What does he want?” he fired at her. “What’s he doing here?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” And that was it in a nutshell. Rainer Thorsen. A Viking. A man of action. A conqueror. What had he chosen to conquer this time?

Or should she be asking 
who?

“Get him out!” her uncle demanded. “He’s trouble.”

“I already told you that. Remember? Trouble with a capital T. But you were sure that a man with . . .” She groped for an exact quote. “A man with such an instinctive understanding of the basic nature of eggplant can’t be all that bad.”

“You were right. I was wrong. He is trouble. Now, get rid of him.”

“How do you suggest I do that?” she asked, attempting to be reasonable. “Go up to the man and say, this store ain’t big enough for the two of us? You and your lightning bolt get outta town?”

“This is no time to joke!”

For some unknown reason, Jordan found herself taking Rainer’s side. Clearly, the man was a bad influence. “What’s the worst he can do? Look at him. He’s sold more to Mrs. Swenson in one day than we have in a month of Sundays.”

“I can survive without Mrs. Swenson’s business.”

“What about Edie and Mrs. Lawsen? They’ve been shopping for over half an hour and they’ve filled up two baskets each. Why? Because they can’t take their eyes off our friend. It’s a wonder they haven’t tripped over each other’s tongues, though I do live in hope.”

“That’s disgraceful!”

She didn’t understand what had gotten into her, but she couldn’t resist adding, “Mmm. It’s also good for business. Maybe I can hire him to come in once a week and flex his biceps. I could even put up a sign—one basket of produce for fifteen minutes’ viewing time.”

Uncle Cletus glared at her. “You going to kick that man out or not?” he demanded.

“Not.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Muttering furiously beneath his breath, he stomped off in a huff.

Jordan felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t needle Uncle Cletus that way, not when he only had their best interests at heart. She’d apologize to him. Their relationship was too precious to risk. Which meant she should confront Rainer and find out what he wanted, then see if she couldn’t—politely—usher him out the door.

Squaring her shoulders, she joined him at the berry counter. Mrs. Swenson clutched a second basket in her hand, this one overflowing with nectarines, grapes, and raspberries. “Thank you, Mr. Thorsen . . . Rainer.” The older woman dimpled at him. “You’ve been such a help. I can’t wait to tell Ivar all about the tomatoes.”

“Love apples,” he corrected.

She blushed. “Love apples.” With that, she trotted toward the checkout stand.

Jordan waited for Mrs. Swenson to wander out of hearing range. “You two certainly got on like a house on fire. I don’t suppose you want a full-time job? You have quite a way with my customers, particularly those of the female persuasion.”