Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (15 page)

At first she was going to argue, but she was too disconcerted by his implication that Lillian might stay out all night. “What would make you think that Lillian would stay out all night with Abe Feingold?”

“Alison,” he said, his tone chiding her for even asking the question.

She felt herself blushing. “She’s older than he is.”

“That would signify how?” he asked with amusement, already picking at a piece of ham. “Some of my best coupling has been with older women. And you? Have you never lain with a younger man?”

He was stone-cold serious. “Actually, there haven’t
been that many men in my life. None since my fiancé died.”

He cocked his head with interest. “You are … were … betrothed?”

She nodded, wishing she hadn’t brought up the subject.

“What happened?”

“He was killed by a bunch of scumbag terrorists.”

“I have been hearing much about terrorists in the SEALs training. And, yea, they are scum, no matter what country they come from.” He continued to eat, then asked, “How long ago was that?”

“Five years.”

“Five years since you have made love with a man!” he exclaimed. Then he smiled … one of those horrible gloating male smiles.

She smacked him on the upper arm.

“Why did you do that? I was just smiling.”

“Yeah, but I could tell what you were thinking.”

“You could?” He smiled some more. “That with your prolonged celibacy and my renewed enthusiasm, we should be incredible together?” He waggled his eyebrows with exaggerated lasciviousness.

“We are not getting involved,” she asserted, although it already felt as if they were involved.

“What? You do not find me attractive?”

Hah! More like I find you too attractive!

“Wait till my hair grows out. Then you will see how handsome I can be. Before they cut my hair, it hung down to my shoulders. Black as ebony, it was. When I took extra care to make war braids on either side of my face, intertwined with amber beads, women fell at my feet.” He waggled his eyebrows some more.

She didn’t know whether the waggling eyebrows or his odd mention of war braids disconcerted her more. Deciding that a change of subject might be appropriate, she said, “I notice that you watch everything I do, then you do the same.”

“Like?”

“Like when we are eating. You watched me make a sandwich before making one of your own, then cut it in half exactly the same way. You waited to see which utensil I picked up to eat potato salad before you did the same, and you’re using your fork with some awkwardness.”

He nodded. “I never heard of a sand-witch afore. Nor did I ever use a fork. There are so many new things in this land that sometimes I feel dumb, but I assure you I am not. In fact, my brain is almost too sharp. I remember everything … which my father considered both a bane and a blessing. A bane because I was always reminding him of things he said years past, exactly how he said them. A blessing to him in that I could recall word for word any saga ever told round the hearths … any message ever given, even years later. And languages—I pick them up like that,” he said, snapping the fingers of one hand.

“A photographic memory?” she asked.

“I do not know about that. I just know that I learn quickly.”

“Hmmm, maybe not photographic, since that involves the written word. More like genius or Mensa level, which I highly doubt.” She rose from the table and went into the second bedroom, which she had converted into an office. She came back with a small book. “Have you ever read Dickens?” she asked. “Of
course you have. Every schoolkid has at one time or another.”

“Actually, I have only read three books. Two of those were in Latin and the other in Arabic. None of them was Dick-hands. It sounds rather perverted.” He grinned at the idea of her mentioning something perverted.

She blinked at him with confusion. Why did he continue to pretend ignorance of so many words? “Okay, this is
A Tale of Two Cities
. One of my favorites of Dickens. ‘It was the best of times. It was the worst of times,’ ” she began, and continued to read through two full pages.

When she stopped, he stared at her, fascinated. “That was very interesting,” he said. “Read more.”

“Maybe later. For now, let’s see whether you can recite back anything I said.”

He did. Perfectly.

“That was incredible. I don’t believe it.” She went into her office and came back with a small Bible, a Koran, and a collection of Emily Dickinson poetry. He passed every one of her tests. “What’s your I.Q.?”

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “What’s yours?”

“One hundred and forty-five, and that is very high. I graduated from high school at sixteen and med school at twenty-two.”

She could tell he weighed each of her words and, when he answered, “The same as yours,” she knew he lied. But why? Did he fear she would be intimidated by a smarter individual? Or had he never been tested? “Do you mind if I ask Dr. Feingold to give you an I.Q. test?”

He hesitated. “Will it hurt?”

She laughed. “No, it won’t hurt.” She looked around the table then and realized that all the food had disappeared. He must have been ravenous. “Are you still hungry?” she asked.

“No, my hunger is well satisfied,” he said. “The hunger for food, that is.”

She ignored his suggestive remark and said, “I have chocolate cake if you’d like dessert.”

He just stared at the cake she put on the table, then dipped a forefinger in the sinfully rich chocolate frosting. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Yep, Lillian’s cake always has that effect on me, too. I confess to having a sweet tooth.” She cut him a huge slice and put it on a plate, handing him a fork. “Would you like milk with that?”

“I much prefer mead … or beer.” He was testing the consistency of the cake with the tines of his fork.

“With chocolate cake? I don’t think so. I have a few cans in the back of the fridge, but believe me, milk goes better with cake.”

He settled for milk, and ate not one but three slices of the cake. She ate two small slivers herself.

They smiled at each other when they finished as only two chocoholics, or dessert lovers, could.

“The running will be extra hard for me tomorrow after all this food,” he proclaimed, rubbing his very flat, very hard stomach.

“But was it worth it?” she said.

“Ah, well worth it.”

In the silence that followed, Alison began to feel uncomfortable. It was past midnight and still Lillian hadn’t returned. They would surely hear the dog barking when the front door opened. And as the silence continued, he stared at her in an intense
manner that caused her to avert her head. To avoid looking at him, she made quick work of putting the dirty dishes in the sink. When she came back to wipe off the table, he was still staring at her.

“Is there something else you want?”

He nodded.

“What?”

“You.”

She who hesitates is laid … uh, lost … uh, same thing …

Me? He wants me?

Oh, my goodness! Oh, my goodness!

Are those butterflies in my stomach? Or bats in my belfry?

What do I care that he has the hots for me? Lots of men have the hots for me.

Hah!

Well, occasionally a man has the hots for me.

I shouldn’t even care. What would I want with a crude, ignorant guy like him? He’s not my type at all. Not that I have a type.

He sure knows how to kiss, though. Don’t I know that from personal, up-close experience!

Betcha the sex would be spectacular.

What is sex? It’s been so long since I’ve had it, I’m not
s
ure
I’d recognize it if it hit me in the face … or down lower.

What is wrong with me?

I should tell him to just get lost.

That was what Alison thought, but what did Alison do? She hesitated.

That was all she needed to do.

She hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t said no, either. To Max’s mind, it probably meant the same thing.

“You are considering it,” Max said, watching her closely. To his credit, he didn’t gloat as he confronted her with the fact. She probably would have had to kill him if he did.

“No, not really considering it.” Which was a lie. “That would be ludicrous.” Which wasn’t a lie. “I just hesitated, that’s all. A momentary blip in sanity.”

“Hah! Every Norseman worth his salt, whether he be soldiering or seducing, knows to take advantage of the tiniest chink in the enemy’s armor … not that a lady-love is the enemy. To the Viking man’s mind, hesitation on a lady’s part screams, ‘Take me!’ ”

“Lady-love? I am
not
your lady-love. Definitely not. Not even close.”
But, man oh man, that “take me” bit strikes an erotic nerve.

“Not yet, mayhap. But soon.” With a wild Viking whoop of joy, he lifted her in his arms, swung her around in a circle, then carried her down the hallway to her bedroom.

She was so surprised by his action that all she managed were a few gurgling sounds … which he probably took as sounds of appreciation for his ability to lift her so easily. Meanwhile, her feet dangled off the floor and she clutched his shoulders to keep from
falling. He probably considered it an embrace. She should lift one hand and smack him a good one.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. They were eye level with each other.

“Lost my mind over wanting you,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on her open mouth. It was just a kiss. A little kiss. But she felt it all the way to her toes. How pathetic was that?

Her eyes went wide. Her jaw hung open. She hoped she wasn’t drooling.

“Shhh,” he said, sensing that she was about to protest, finally. “Do not attempt to talk down my ardor, as women are wont to do, always talking everything to death. My enthusiasm is back, and that is cause for celebration.” He tossed her onto the bed, so expertly that her head landed on the pillows. It was a low bed, with no footboard. So, he immediately cat-walked on all fours up over her, spreading her thighs in the process. Then he settled himself on her.

She saw stars. Literally.

He groaned with pure male satisfaction.

Darn it!

She groaned, too.

Darn it!

Really, she couldn’t help herself. He felt so good pressed against her. If she let herself, she might very well have an orgasm just by lying under the handsome hunk. It gave a whole new meaning to “getting laid.”

But it was more than that. There was something elemental about the weight of a man’s body on a woman’s. She’d forgotten how that felt.
Oh, David! I miss you so much!
Tears misted her eyes in remembrance. For one brief moment, she considered arching
her back and offering herself to this man, just to forget what she had lost.

Enough! Get a grip, Alison. You cannot do this.
“Get off me, you big lug,” she gasped out, once a tiny smidgeon of sense entered her fuzzy brain. “And stop smirking.”

He laced his fingers with hers and braced himself on straightened arms. He kept her pinned to the bed with his lower body. “I was not smirking. I am just happy.”

“Stop being happy.”

He laughed. “You do not want me to be happy?”

“Not at my expense.” She would have wiped her wet eyelashes if her hands were free.

“You missay me, milady. We are
both
about to be happy.” He bucked his hips several times to show her how happy.

She pulled one of her hands free and swatted him on the shoulder. “Aaarrgh!”

“I love it when you growl, sweetling. It ripples through your body from your mouth to your toes and some important places in between, if you get my meaning.”

I get your meaning all right. I’m rippling there, too.

“Can you do it again?”

What? Ripple? Oh, God! Does he know I’m rippling?
“The Navy has rules against this,” she pointed out, which sounded lame, even to her.

He made a great show of looking from right to left. “I see no Navy here. Just a man. And a woman. The only rules are those we ourselves make … or break.”

“I can’t do this, Max.”

“Why? Do you abhor lovemaking, as some women do? Or is it just me?”

She shook her head. “To tell you the truth, you tempt me. For the first time in five years, I am tempted. So, no, it’s me, not you, that’s the problem.”

He cocked his head to the side.

“You scare me,” she said.

“Me? I have done naught to frighten you.” He stiffened with affront. “Do you regard me the same as your stocking man?”

Stocking man? Stocking man? Oh, he means stalker.
“No, not like my stalker. The very fact that I would be attracted to a man who is almost a perfect stranger is what’s scary. It is so out of character for me. I don’t do one-night stands. Usually there is love, or some type of commitment involved.” Not that there’s been either of those for five years. She shrugged. “I don’t understand. I guess I’m just particularly vulnerable tonight.”

“Destiny,” he said. “That is what this is all about. The first time I saw you I knew … I just knew. It sounds like something romantic the skalds would speak about in their sagas. But there is a bond betwixt us. Not love. Leastways not yet. Truth to tell, probably not ever.”

She had to smile at the horror that swept over his face at the L-word.

“And as for commitment … hah! I barely know what I am going to do a minute from now, let alone next sennight, or next year. I must needs take one day at a time.”

She didn’t understand half of what he said, but the gist of it was … a fling, that’s all he wanted. Was that so bad? Before she had a chance to voice that ill-advised notion, he said, “But there is no need to weep
over it.” He released her other hand, then rolled over onto his side.

She had to restrain herself from pulling him back, so empty did she feel without his weight.

Bracing an elbow on the bed, he rested his head on his hand, then used the thumb of his free hand to wipe the skin under one of her eyes, then the other. “Why do you weep, sweetling? And why are you vulnerable tonight?”