“You’re just happy that I confessed I’m a crap dancer so we can avoid the dance floor.”
Walker nuzzled my neck, sending a tremor of desire through me. “We’ll dance to the slow songs, Trinity. Having your body plastered to mine as I put my hands all over you will be the highlight of the night.”
I wanted that with a near desperate ache. To be twined around this gorgeous man as our bodies learned to move together. “Okay.”
“Stay here.”
He cut through the crowd with grace that belied his size and people scooted out of his way, except for a few women who put themselves directly in his path. He sidestepped them in a way that indicated he wasn’t interested.
The bartenders were slammed; clubbers stood two deep waiting to get their orders taken. A few guys held up folded bills, as if that would get them immediate service. As soon as the buxom blond bartender noticed Walker, she ignored everyone else and took his order.
A tiny bit of jealousy surfaced and I felt ridiculous for it. Walker Lund defined rugged and sexy. Any woman would want a piece of him. I counted myself lucky that he wanted me, given my various traumas and dramas that caused any man to think twice about getting mixed up with me.
Was he frustrated with this slow pace? After three weeks we hadn’t gone beyond kissing and heavy petting—with that one very unexpected, incredibly hot exception. Through our conversations, I determined that Walker preferred hooking up between his brief relationships, so he likely wasn’t used to waiting this long to hit the sheets. Then again, he hadn’t gone the “Baby, get naked with me or we’re done” route either. Truthfully, I wasn’t used to waiting this long. I’d never put sex on a pedestal; it wasn’t a sacred act that had to follow certain parameters before it could happen. I opted for the “no harm, no foul, if it feels good do it” philosophy.
As Walker headed toward me with that purposeful stride, I let my eyes devour him.
He handed me the drink.
“Thank you. Where’s yours?”
“Wasn’t feeling it.”
“Lucky for you, I share.” I stirred the ice and raised the glass to lick the salt off the rim. Then I pursed my lips around the straw and sucked. “Want a taste?”
His eyes went molten. He leaned in, resting his forearm on the brick wall above my head. “No. I’m thinking I’ll get a little lust drunk just watching you.”
“Watching me what?”
“Lick. Suck. And swallow.”
That husky growl zipped straight to my core. My mouth had gone dry, requiring another sip.
Walker angled closer. “Maybe just a small taste of you to tide me over.”
His lips were so warm against the coolness of mine. His beard so downy soft brushing my chin. I’d parted my lips, wanting him to dive in and suck the salt off my tongue.
The buzzing from inside his shirt pocket broke the moment.
I gave him props for trying to ignore his phone.
He expelled an annoyed sigh. “Sorry.”
Maybe it was evil, but I took a long lick of salt from the rim of my glass, enjoying the heat flaring in his eyes as he answered the call.
“This had better be fucking good,” he barked into the phone. Then he froze. “Whoa, Betsy. Slow down. Say it again.”
Betsy. Why was his office manager calling him on a Saturday night?
“I don’t know. We haven’t had rain that would back up the sewage system.” A pause. “Which one? Yeah. There is a reset on it.” He looked at me. “No, I’m not coming over. Because I’m not a damn plumber. But I will look at it, okay? I’ll get to a quieter place where I can hear and I’ll FaceTime you.” He hung up.
I immediately asked, “What’s going on?”
“Betsy’s parents are out of town and when she checked their house she found water in the basement. The sump pump isn’t working. Since I have the same kind of pump, I might see a quick fix that’ll save her an emergency service call on the weekend.”
“Is this what you do, Walker Lund? Save women in distress? Your sister? Your cousin? And now your employee? Does everyone call you when they have a mechanical problem?”
“I’m the Lund with the practical experience and dirty hands. They call me when something breaks. I call them—” He scowled. “It doesn’t matter.” He ran the backs of his knuckles down the side of my face. “Give me five minutes and we’ll pick up where we left off?”
“What about your family? Aren’t they waiting for us?”
“They probably haven’t noticed I’m not there yet.”
He hadn’t said it in a self-pitying way, but it caused a sharp pang near my heart to think this vibrant, thoughtful man wouldn’t be missed by the people who mattered most to him.
“Don’t go anywhere.” He kissed me quickly. “I’ll be right back.”
After he disappeared, I dug out my phone. Better to appear antisocial than look like I felt: totally out of place.
Less than two minutes passed before I heard, “Trinity?”
I jumped and met Annika’s gaze. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Terrible. Where’s Walker?”
“He’s on the phone someplace dealing with some crisis Betsy called about.”
“You don’t have to wait for him here. Our table is just around the corner.”
“He asked me to hang tight for a bit, which is fine. It’ll give me a moment to prepare myself to meet more members of the Lund collective.”
“At least you didn’t call us the Notorious Lunds.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Everyone else does.” Annika scanned the bar patrons. “You don’t seem the type to believe everything you hear or read about us.”
What? “I don’t—”
“Good. I’m in PR, so I know everything can be spun. Everything.” Her entire body went rigid beside mine. “Stupid man, just had to test me, didn’t you? Now you’ll see how fast I’ll have you by your twig and lingonberries for disobeying me.”
Confused, I said, “Who are you talking about?”
“Santa.”
“Santa? As in . . . Claus?” Now I started scanning the crowd too.
“No, as in Klaus ‘Call Me Axl’ Hammerquist, who I’ve nicknamed Santa because it pisses him off.”
She’d pronounced his name Ka-louse. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”
“The Swedish hockey pucker I’d like to whap upside the dick with his stick.”
“What’s the story with him?”
“He got traded to the Wild from the Blackhawks because he performed like a Tier 3 amateur last year. A large part of his crappy rink skills was due to his inability to keep his tiny Swedish meatballs in his pants when he’s off the ice.”
I blinked. Had she even been speaking English?
“And because I’m cursed with the ability to communicate in his native tongue, I’ve been tasked with revamping his image from a brawling, vodka-swilling manwhore to . . . yeah, I’m still working on what’ll erase that impression.”
“Couldn’t you say no?”
Annika sighed. “Not to my mother.”
A dark-haired woman, compact in size and yet boasting an impressively muscled physique, stormed up, the fringe on her belly shirt bouncing angrily against her skintight sequined miniskirt. “What the hell, Annika? You told me I couldn’t bring Igor tonight but I see Axl is here.”
“First off, Axl is not supposed to be here and I haven’t had nearly enough to drink to deal with him. Secondly, this is why we’re here. This is Walker’s girlfriend. Trinity, this is our cousin Dallas.”
She scrutinized me thoroughly. Up and down, side to side. Then she announced, “Your aura is lavender.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your aura. It’s lavender.” She held up her hand. “No, it’s not an illusion from the neon lights. You’re highly creative, almost as if you function on another plane, which is totes awesome because this family needs diversity in the next generation’s bloodline. So I’m very happy t
o meet you, Trinity—totally rockin’ name BT-dubs. And no, I’m not the whack-a-doodle cousin. I just have an active vola.”
Did she say she had an active Volvo? Or an active vulva? God. What was I supposed to say to that? “Ah. Lucky you?”
Annika laughed. “Freaks people out when you do that, D.” Her smile dried. “Dammit. He followed you.”
“Of course he followed me to get a gander at you, because you’re smokin’ hot tonight.” Dallas held out her hand. “Ten bucks says Axl marches straight up to you with an ax to grind.”
“Huh-uh. Ten bucks says he ignores me, but he makes sure I see him breaking the rules and letting two chicks grind on him on the dance floor.”
They shook hands and leaned against the wall.
What was taking Walker so long?
“Shit. Here he comes.”
“You are so screwed. His aura is dark red. I am out of here.” Dallas hustled off.
An enormous guy, at least six foot six, with shoulders as wide as a pool table, planted himself in front of Annika and snarled, “Attila.”
“Santa.”
This magnificent creature was the guy Annika had been complaining about? I could totally see why he was a player. Golden blond hair that brushed the top of his shoulders. Cheekbones so sharply defined they cast the lower part of his face in shadow. A thin blade of a nose gave him an air of superiority. A wide-set jaw was marked by a divot in his chin. Even in the dark bar I noticed his eyes glowed the same pale silvery blue of a Siberian husky’s and were spiked with thick black eyelashes.
Then he ground out a spate of words that were indecipherable.
Annika ignored him.
I didn’t have to understand Swedish to figure out these two were oil and water.
Then Hot Swede’s voice turned silky and taunting. He invaded Annika’s space completely.
She seemed flustered for a moment; then her retort wiped the smug smile right off his remarkable face.
He stormed away.
“I have to deal with dick-for-brains. Tell Walker I’ll be back.”
I’d finished my drink and started to wonder if Walker was coming back when I saw him striding toward me, looking as agitated as his sister.
He said, “Don’t ask. Let’s get this over with.” He snagged my hand and towed me behind him until we reached the even more exclusive VIP section, a raised platform with a premium view of all sections of the club, blocked off by velvet ropes. Even before I saw the private security guard standing like a sentry, I felt that ripple of power coming from the four men sitting at the table.
I’d spent my life around powerful men, so I knew the difference between wannabe power brokers and the real deal.
These guys were the real deal.
Who the hell was the Lund family? More important, why didn’t I know who they were?
I tugged Walker off to the side before anyone saw us.
“You change your mind about being here? Because we can go—”
“No. What don’t I know about your family, Walker?”
Uneasiness passed over his face. “The Lund name is pretty well known around here.”
Then I remembered I’d seen Annika talking to Chris and Nate. The aloof director and his assistant had treated Annika with reverence—I’d assumed because she was a beautiful woman. But now I realized I’d misread the situation.
“Why didn’t I know that?”
He shrugged tightly. “It’s public knowledge. It’s not like I kept it a secret.”
It’s not like you asked was implied. “Okay. Let’s assume I don’t get out much—”
“No, if you want the truth, then at least be honest about why you don’t know what’s common knowledge among the three million other people who live in the Twin Cities.”
I didn’t have time to respond before he jumped back in.
“You do your own thing with your art and your group of artist friends. You don’t give much thought to the world outside your bubble—unless it directly affects you. But even when things do directly benefit you, you don’t pay attention to details. Painting sets for the community theater is a paying gig for you. What company name is on the front of the check?”
“I don’t see the relevance—”
“I’ll give you a hint. LCCO.”
I’d heard that name and was vaguely aware it was the charitable organization that funded several programs at the community center.
“Those initials stand for Lund Cares Community Outreach.”
“Lund? As in . . . ?” Holy shit. “That’s your family?”
“Yep.” Walker scrubbed his hands over his beard. “Christ. It’s so fucking loud in here I feel like I’m shouting at you. That’s not my intent. I just . . . should’ve explained before now.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“And I’m way too wound up to explain.” He pointed to my phone. “It’d be easiest if you did a Google search. While you’re doing that, I’ll get that drink because I sure could use it now.”
Unnerved by Walker’s uncharacteristically terse responses, I typed “Lund Minneapolis” into the search engine, my fingers shaking.
387,492 results popped up. The top one was a wiki page about Lund Industries.
The more I read, the more my stomach churned. Lund Industries was a multibillion-dollar company. Billion. For the last hundred years they’d had a hand in everything from flour mills to lumber to fishing to agriculture to real estate development. Over the course of its history the Lund family businesses had evolved and diversified, but Lund Industries was a big business that employed a lot of people. Not just in the Twin Cities, but all over Minnesota.
When I reached the list of corporate officers, I saw Lund names I recognized: Brady as CFO. Ash as COO. Nolan and Annika were listed as department heads. The only place Walker’s name appeared was on the board of directors. But that made sense since he’d told me he didn’t work for the family business.
I returned to the initial search and clicked on photos. The second picture that popped up was of a big blond guy wearing a white and purple jersey. I enlarged it. The caption read: Jensen “The Rocket” Lund, Minneapolis native, is picked up in the third round of the NFL draft by the Minnesota Vikings.
Walker’s younger brother was a big-deal football player. No wonder he’d gotten so defensive at the party when Ramon started ripping on sports.
But why hadn’t he told everyone—or at least me—about his personal family connection?
Because artists and academics are so smug and proud about not being part of the madding crowd that follows violent athletic contests where brawn is prized over brains. And would you have understood even if he had told you?
No.
Walker’s accusation, You don’t give much thought to the world outside your bubble, taunted me. Because it was embarrassingly true.
Two pictures down from Jensen’s was an image of a guy in a different sports uniform. The caption read: Jaxson “Stonewall” Lund, Chicago Blackhawks center, scores a hat trick to shut out the Pittsburgh Penguins, keeping the ’hawks’ play-off hopes alive.
After that, I couldn’t stop thumbing through pictures. Pages and pages of images were devoted to Jensen and Jaxson. Finally I reached other pictures of the Lund family at numerous charity events in the Twin Cities. Pages of fund-raisers and galas to bring awareness to various causes. It didn’t look to me like any generation of Lund heirs was exempt from volunteering time to LCCO and other family-run charities. In many of the photos the Lund heirs had banded together for group recognition instead of being singled out for individual achievement. I also noticed that there were less than a dozen pictures—total—of the eight Lund kids during their growing-up years. So the parents had ensured their children had some privacy—or the private schools they’d attended had added that extra layer of security.
While it appeared Brady and Walker stayed out of the limelight as much as possible, that wasn’t the case with Annika and Dallas. There were hundr
eds of pictures of each of them at college parties, at football and hockey games, at black-tie events. Although I
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