by Sandra Hill
"Touch me, Magnus. Touch… me," she said, and further arched her chest at him. The action caused her crotch to move against him, and Magnus saw stars before his open eyes. By all the gods and goddesses, was he that randy, or was it this woman who brought such an instant reaction from him? He was usually able to pace himself better than this.
But she had asked, and he was willing… more than willing.
He molded her breasts in his hands then, taking all of each in his big palms… pushing up, rubbing in a circular fashion, then lifting them again so that his thumbs could strum the pebbled nipples into hard peaks… then harder still and longer.
"Ride me," he encouraged.
And she did.
Magnus had not expected her to comply so readily. Therefore he was unprepared for the immediate assault on his senses. Holy Thor, forget about senses! Every male part of his body came to immediate attention, and that included his thick male brain, not to mention his thick male… nether part.
Magnus had not tupped a girl fully clothed since he was a boy, and, oh, the sheer joy of it was beyond description.
While she undulated her hips against him, he slid his hands under her shert and shoved her lacy undergarment aside. Taking her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, he tweaked and strummed; he pinched and soothed. She was nigh wailing her pleasure as her woman's cleft slid back and forth along the ridge of his erection.
Gasping for air, he directed her, "Harder. Ride me harder, sweet angel. Bring me to heaven."
He knew Angela did not like to be called angel. The word had slipped out. And luckily she did not seem to mind at this moment, for she began to pound against him now, belly against belly.
"It's been too long for me. A year. I'm so embarrassed," she confessed.
"You are embarrassed! Ha! It has been nearly a year for me, as well. And I am a man," he confided.
"That is such a sexist thing to say."
"I am a sexy man," he replied, assuming sexist meant the same as sexy.
She tried to laugh but it came out as a gurgle. Then she was unable even to gurgle. "Oh, oh, oh, oh…" she moaned as her peak came.
He let out a roar of triumph at his own climax. Holding both her buttocks in his hands, he pressed her hard against him and let his man part jerk against her woman place… once, twice, numerous times… till he was depleted.
Her head was resting in the crook of his neck. His hands were wrapped about her waist, softly caressing her back. They were both panting to regain their breath.
"You certainly know how to say thank-you," she finally said with a soft laugh.
"Wait till you see how I say, 'Thank you very much,' " he answered, also with a soft laugh.
She pulled her head back to look at him. "I came here to talk with you."
"I like the way you talk."
"That's not what I meant," she said, and swatted his shoulder playfully. "Magnus, you have to stop telling people that I'm your destiny."
"Why?"
"Why? Because I'm not your destiny."
He was nibbling at her neck now, and she squirmed on his lap, which caused a part of his body that had gone dormant to come to life again. Really, this was beyond belief. He was not going to come in his braies twice. He was not, not, not. With determination bred of some iron will he had not known he possessed, Magnus lifted the squirming wench off his lap and set her next to him on the bench.
Only then did he consider her words. Not his destiny? Ha! "What do you call my being called halfway 'round the world to your country, if not destiny? What do you call my seeing your grandmother in my dreams, if not destiny? What do you call the breathlessness I experience whene'er I see you, if not destiny? What do you call the unplanned happenstance that just occurred betwixt us, if not destiny?"
"You get breathless whenever you see me?" she asked, homing in on what was surely the most irrelevant part of all he had said.
Women ever do want to know that they can weaken a man. She must see my breathlessness as a weakness. "Why does that surprise you?"
"Because I get a teeny, tiny bit breathless myself," she admitted.
On the other hand… Thank you, God! Magnus could not see in the dim light, but he was betting her face was flushed at the admission. "A teeny, tiny bit, eh?" he teased. "Sounds like destiny to me."
"Whether you get breathless or I get breathless is beside the point," she said huffily. Then she seemed to think of something else. "What about your celibacy vow?"
Oh, so that is what my conscience was trying to call to mind when my sap was rising. The damned vow. Nay, the necessary vow. I cannot have any more children... not even with this comely lady. "I forgot, but not to worry. This kind of lovemaking does not count."
"Oh, really?" She twisted sideways on the bench so she was facing him. "There are rules for celibacy vows, are there?"
He knew she was teasing him, but he was a Viking, and Vikings took their vows seriously. "No rules. Just common sense."
"I mean, a man could still be called celibate if there is no completion… that is, if there is no satisfaction…" Any more satisfaction and my eyes will be permanently crossed. He stopped himself and exhaled with frustration at his difficulty explaining himself. "Oh, hell, what I mean to say is that the vow is still intact if there is no insertion of a male part into a female part. What we did is called a dry tup in my country, and, for a certainty, it does not count."
He would have been patting himself on the back with congratulations at his final response if she were not laughing so hard.
When her laughter died down and she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes, she informed him, "I do not blame you for what happened here tonight, Magnus, but it cannot happen again."
"Definitely not," he agreed.
They stood then and began to walk back toward the house.
And both of them thought, Ha!
When all else fails, pray…
Rose Abruzzi stood at her bedroom window, staring out at the vineyards she loved so well.
In one hand was the rosary she used for her nightly novena. In the other hand was a cigarette—the first Rose had had since the children had arrived early this afternoon. She was going to try not to smoke in front of them.
For the past fifteen minutes or so, she had been unabashedly watching her granddaughter and the handsome Norseman. Tears misted her eyes. She remembered too well how first love felt… though it had been fifty years and more for her. And it was first love for Angela—Rose was convinced of that, despite her granddaughter's failed marriage.
Already her brain was rushing forward, making plans. A wedding at the Blue Dragon… wouldn't that be a wondrous event? And more children… even with all the Viking already had. Baptisms, birthday parties, family holidays. Most of all, dare she hope that someday the winery would reopen and flourish? But first there would have to be a wedding. That was the first step… well, no, love was the first step, but she could already see that the two of them were starting along that road, even if they did not know it yet.
Rose watched the couple a little bit longer and saw how he kept reaching for her hand, and she kept swatting him away. He was laughing at something she said. She was raising her chin haughtily. Not exactly lover-like.
Rose decided then and there that she'd better say two rosaries tonight.
Chapter Seven
The roar of silence…
Angela overslept the next morning.
When she finally awakened at nine a.m., two hours past her usual rising, she realized that what had penetrated her deep sleep was the silence. No automobile traffic outside her apartment building. No musical wakeup from her bedside radio alarm. No children shrieking and squabbling.
Just birdsong outside her windows.
And a herd of mice running back and forth along the corridor outside her bedroom, then up and down the stairs… over and over… back and forth… up and down… usually accompanied by a "shhh" from one or another of them. The mice were, of course, the children�
��at least four of them, would be her guess. They must be running about on tiptoe, trying their best not to awaken her, no doubt at her grandmother's and Juanita's orders. Instead their very silence had penetrated her sleep, along with the incessant tiptoeing, which probably meant they were up to some mischief.
Angela stretched and yawned openmouthed at the satisfaction she'd gained from her long, deep sleep—something she rarely indulged in. Only then, midyawn and midstretch, did she remember another satisfaction that had come her way recently.
Magnus, she thought, and groaned with dismay as images flashed before her eyes of the kiss he had used to thank her, for God only knew what. The kiss was not just a kiss. No, it was much more than that. And she, who was usually so careful, had participated fully.
She disliked men like Magnus. He was totally irresponsible to have brought thirteen children into the world. Forget about celibacy vows; he should have had a vasectomy ten children ago.
And this continual acting gig of his! Really, enough was enough! She had heard way too many " 'tis"es and " 'twas"es and mispronunciations of common words.
And those swords of his and Torolf's that were parked in the Weller pottery umbrella stand in the front hall! Do I need a daily reminder of the violence that is a part of society today? Did 9/11 teach me anything?
Despite all that, she had let him kiss her. Worse, she had kissed him back.
What could I have been thinking?
I wasn't thinking. That's the problem.
Maybe it's a good thing to toss logic to the wind sometimes. To listen to my heart, instead of my brain.
Maybe I'm engaged in a little morning-after rationalization.
I don't even know the man.
I knew the Creep for two years before we got married; so that shoots that argument full of holes.
Why am I arguing with myself?
Angela ran her hands over the front of her cotton sleep shirt and stopped at her breasts. They felt full and achy, and the nipples were still tender from Magnus's fondling. Oh, the things he had done! Whether he was a farmer or a Viking or a movie actor, one thing was certain: the man was a supreme lover. He knew things about pleasing a woman. If he could bring her such pleasure fully clothed, imagine what he might do if they really made love.
Moving her hands lower, she put a palm over her lower belly, where an unfulfilled emptiness existed that hadn't been there twenty-four hours ago. Last night was not nearly enough, she realized.
So much for good intentions. So much for her and Magnus agreeing that there could be no repeat of that kind of sex play between them. The bottom line was, she wanted him—more today than she had last night… and that had been a lot. How could she have been so blind to what was happening?
With crystal clarity, she admitted to herself, I am attracted to a man who claims to be a Viking, and a farmer. And he has eleven children.
Criminy! Could her life get any worse than this?
La vida loca, for sure…
The house was empty by the time Angela had showered and dressed in her usual Blue Dragon attire—jeans, athletic shoes, and a T-shirt… a stretchy one that read, Wine Away!
She heard soft singing coming from the kitchen. It was Juanita, and she was singing, of all things, "La Vida Loca." So the house wasn't totally empty after all.
The Blue Dragon kitchen was huge, with commercial appliances and a ten-foot oak pedestal table in the center to accommodate all the entertaining that had been done here at one time.
She did a double take as she entered the kitchen. Juanita—the short, elderly, plump cook—was doing a cha-cha from the stove to the sink and back again, all the time singing that old Ricky Martin song.
Juanita's audience was a laughing Lida, who was perched happily in a wooden high chair, which Grandma must have brought down from the attic. The baby was keeping time with Juanita's singing and dancing by banging a spoon on the wooden tray, where a dish of mashed bananas sat, half-eaten. The other half was on Lida's drool-covered chin.
"Goo," Lida said, noticing her arrival.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She leaned down to kiss Lida on the top of her head. Angela went immediately to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. "Good morning to you, too, Juanita."
"Good morning," Juanita answered cheerily, and stopped cha-chaing… for the moment, anyway. "I will make you a big breakfast… just like when you were a little girl. Ho-kay?"
"Not too big," she protested.
"Okey-dokey!"
Okey-dokey? Jeesh!
"A little breakfast then," Juanita said, and managed to whip up within minutes a Spanish omelette with whole-wheat toast, home fries, fresh sliced tomatoes, and orange juice. Angela ate every bit of it.
In between bites, some of which managed to get in Lida's mouth, too, Angela asked, "Where is everyone?"
"Well, Magnus was up at four—"
"Four! Are you kidding me?" The men whom Angela knew—especially the Hollywood types—slept till noon and partied or business-schmoozed all night.
"I am not kidding. He was up at four and was out weeding and hoeing your grandma's vegetable garden when me and Miguel got up at five. Jow was there with him. That man sure does know a lot about growing things. Didn't know what a tomato was, which is strange. Or a potato. Everyone knows tomatoes and potatoes. But he knew to pull the suckers off some plants, leave them on others. Which plants need transplanting to get more sun or shade. Which plants got too much fertilizer. That kind of thing. Have some more coffee, honey."
Angela held out her cup to be replenished, which prompted Lida to hold up her sippy cup to be refilled, too.
"Where is he now?"
"Everyone had breakfast at seven—not a puny little breakfast like you had, but sausages and bacon and scrambled eggs and corned-beef hash and blueberry waffles. And sides of oatmeal and Frosted Flakes. Lordy, Lordy, I used three loaves of my homemade bread. Guess I'll have to bake another batch this afternoon—a double batch." Juanita beamed, obviously in cook heaven over all these appreciative mouths at her table. "Anyhow, after they all ate, the older boy, Torolf, and the boy with the limp, Jogeir, went with their father and Miguel to work in the fields. Been gone 'bout two hours now."
"And the rest of them?"
"The two girls and one of the boys went to the mall with your grandma—the boy who was squinting at the food on his plate last night. Grandma thinks he needs glasses. The boy didn't even know what glasses were. Can you imagine that? Magnus gave your grandma a pile of money and told her to buy clothing for him and all his kids. Betcha it was three thousand dollars. Jeans, T-shirts, sneakers… that kind of stuff. And deodorant. He sure does have a thing about deodorant. Your grandma measured everyone first… even traced their feet on pieces of paper. I'm surprised you didn't hear ail the giggling down here."
Angela blinked with astonishment at the rambling Juanita.
Juanita took a deep breath, then continued: "The rest of the kids are over by the pond, fishin' and playin' on that ol' swing. Guess I'll hafta be makin' lunch soon."
Angela couldn't remember seeing Juanita this happy. All because extra work had landed in her lap, and children filled the house. She suspected her grandmother was feeling the same way.
The problem was that they might be getting too accustomed to all this company. She would have to remind them both that Magnus and his children were just visitors. They would be leaving soon.
She would have to remind herself of that fact, too.
Lida smiled up at her and said, "Goo."
It was probably baby talk for "Who are you kidding?"
Juanita was back to shimmying across the kitchen floor while singing "La Vida Loca."
The crazy life, Angela translated mentally. For sure!
The Farmer and the dell…uh, vineyard
The sun was shining brightly overhead when Angela walked the half mile or so to the south fields, where she hoped to find her missing Viking. It was a pleasant stroll through aisle after aisle of "little men
with outstretched arms." That was how she'd always viewed the vines when she was a little girl, and the image had stayed with her.
There were two hundred acres on the Blue Dragon's gently rolling hills—a modest size by most vintners' standards—and a dozen different grapes were planted. When they had been making their own wine, the grapes would have gone into highly prized blends of chardonnays, cabernet sauvignons, sauvignon blancs, pinot noirs, and zinfandels. Now they were sold to another vintner.
The south field was where they grew their sangiovese grapes, an Italian import that could trace its roots all the way back to the Etruscans. Her grandfather had loved this particular grape, though it did not produce their most popular wine. He probably had an affection for it because it originated in his homeland. Or maybe because this grape carried a "fingerprint," which usually meant a hint of cherry or cranberry flavor in its various blends.
"Hi, everyone," she called out when she saw Magnus, Miguel, and the two boys.
Torolf and Jogeir were on their knees in the next aisle, along with several of the dozen full-time workers from the Blue Dragon. They were cluster-thinning the grapes with small curved knives to prevent overcropping. This process would hasten the ripening process and would also prevent a weakening of the vines.
Magnus had been listening intently to something Miguel was explaining to him. His knees were bent so he could be at the manager's level and look through the magnifying glass Miguel was holding up to one of the vines. They were probably searching for any sign of mold or pests. Inspection of the vines was a daily task in any good vineyard.
Magnus looked up at her greeting and straightened to his full, impressive, treelike height. Then he smiled.
And, oh, what a smile it was! There was welcome in it. There was pure male self-confidence. There was innate sensuality. And, more than anything, there was an awareness of the intimacy they had shared the night before. It was a bone-melting, sexy smile, and it was directed right at her.
What woman wouldn't be flattered by that?
He did the most outrageous thing then. He walked up, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on the lips before saying softly, "Good morning to you, m'lady slugabed."
