by Sandra Hill
It was surprising, really. Norse legend said that when a fighting man died, he went to Valhalla, hall of the gods in Asgard. Apparently there were many other worlds, and many gods he'd never heard of... like Victor New-man and Bill Clin-town.
Surprising, too, was the way in which the gods could view what was happening in other worlds. He had always pictured Odin or Thor—even the Christian One-God—gazing down from the heavens to observe what mortal beings were doing.
But apparently they must all have these magic boxes to do the job for them.
Amazing!
"Well, since you're not talking, I guess that ends our session for today." She stood and ran a palm swiftly over the front of her garment, presumably to smooth out the wrinkles, but what she accomplished instead was the jarring of another memory: a belly ring... that was it. Jorund suddenly recalled seeing a gold ornament piercing her navel the first day he'd encountered her at the whale place. With an inward groan, he amended her name list. So now she was the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, and naughty navel.
Releasing a long sigh presumably at his stubborn silence, she tossed her shoulders back, as if to show that two people could be stubborn. But her posture caused her breasts to jut out against the white silk of her shert, and they were magnificent, round and uplifted; he even imagined he saw the hard points of her nipples. Oh, it was too much! Soon her name list would require a skald of exceptional memory to recite, as in the wench of the man-hair, sex-voice, comely legs, kiss-some lips, naughty navel, and magnificent breasts. Mag-he Man-hair Dock-whore sex-voice. Mag-he of the kiss-some lips. The combinations were endless.
She noticed the direction of his gaze and tsked her disapproval as she folded her arms over her chest, hiding her breasts from his view. It was a useless exercise, really, because the image was already planted in his head. "I'm really disappointed in you...whoever you are," she informed him sadly.
He tried not to look guilty. Men throughout time had been viewing women's physical attributes with appreciation. Why should she make him feel as if he'd failed her in some way by noticing she was a voluptuous woman?
"My daughters are the ones who begged me to help you," she told him in that low, raspy sexvoice that he was growing overly fond of. "They still ask about you every day. You've touched them in some way." She sighed again. "I can't even tell them your name." Spinning on her high heels, she then proceeded toward the door.
A fierce constriction took place in the region of his heart. The twin girls, who resembled his own daughters, had interceded on his behalf. They had been touched by him just as he had been touched by them?
Finally, he was beginning to see some reason for his deliverance to this strange land.
Was it not possible that these girls had called to him... that they needed him for some reason? Mayhap—Oh, please!—he was being given a second chance to make up for failing his own twin girls. That prospect tantalized and terrified him. "Wait!" he called out suddenly.
She turned slowly, surprise showing on her face at his first word in a whole sennight.
"My name is"—his eyes darted between her and the black box in the corner, still distrustful of speaking and revealing too much—"Alan Spaulding."
"I see." She murmured something that sounded like "Celebrity delusions, too."
She quickly made some words on her parchment before addressing him again, this time with a smile. "And you come from Genoa City, right? How do you feel about that?" Despite her recognizing his lie, she sat back down and waited expectantly for him to talk.
"Mayhap that was a slight mistruth."
"You mean a lie?"
He shrugged with resignation. "My name is Jorund."
She smiled widely, and somewhere deep inside him, he felt a melting sensation.
"Well, it's so nice to meet you, Mr. Rand. Do you object if I call you Joe?"
Joe? He glanced back over his shoulder before he realized that, of course, there was no one else in the room. "Am I your prisoner?"
"Prisoner?" Her eyes went wide, but then she must have realized that it was a natural assumption on his part, considering he was in a torture shert with ankle restraints and bars on his windows. Possible bondage fantasies, she wrote on her parchment.
He raised his chin indignantly, though secretly he wondered exactly what a bondage fantasy was. It brought up mental images that were... well, fascinating.
"Of course you're not a prisoner, Joe. You'll be released once we're certain of your safety." Hah! "How do you feel about that?"
How do you feel? How do you feel? I feel rotten. "Il tell you how I feel. Captive I may be, for now, but I want you to know, I won't be a slave to any man... Or woman."
"A slave?" she sputtered. "What would I do with a slave?"
"Precisely," he answered. But then the mischievous god Loki whispered in his ear, and a tantalizing idea tugged at him. With as much casualness as he could garner, he remarked, "Except in your case I might consider being your..." He deliberately let his words trail off.
He wasn't really serious. Leastways, he did not think he was. Jorund was a man little bent toward humor. And the teasing taunt he'd thrown out to the wench was so out of character it fairly boggled his already boggled mind. It must be the confinement, and the shock of his death or whatever the hell had happened to him, even the influence of his frivolous brother or the damned orca. Or mayhap the blame could be laid on the first temptation he'd felt in a long, long while.
"What?" she prodded finally. "I want you to be free to speak your mind, Joe. Nothing is out of bounds in the psychologist/patient relationship. So tell me. You might consider being my... what?"
"Love slave."
"Love slave?" Maggie squeaked out.
As a professional, Maggie shouldn't have been shocked. Patients made outrageous suggestions to her all the time. But when the proposition came from a compellingly handsome man with pale blond hair, translucent gray eyes, and suntanned skin... well, Maggie had to admit to a teensy bit of temptation.
She would have to be extra careful not to cross that ethical line between patient and doctor... even if the patient was drop-dead gorgeous, despite the fact that he wore boring blue hospital issue pajama bottoms, ankle restraints, and a white straitjacket. Even his bare feet, which were huge—a narrow size thirteen, she would guess—were surprisingly sexy.
She had to smile at that latter whimsy. Yep, there were strange goings-on inside Maggie these days, if she was getting turned on by feet. Actually, the psychiatrist in her had a ready, logical explanation: on a big, strong man like Joe, his bare feet appeared vulnerable and open to... well, touch as other parts of his covered body were not.
Her face flushing with heat at the mere thought of touch, Maggie experienced a twinge of guilt as she glanced at the restraints that were put on him whenever she entered his room. They were necessary, though, even with a security guard posted outside the door, because he fought confinement. Fighting back was a natural reaction, of course, but it proved that he could be dangerous, until hospital experts could complete a diagnosis.
He was lounging on the bed now, his back propped up by two fluffy pillows and his long legs spread out on the narrow mattress, crossed at the ankles. His posture said he was relaxed, but the tension of the corded muscles in his neck said he was ready to pounce at the first opportunity.
He nodded in response to her question, which she'd already forgotten with all her musings. Oh, yes, she'd exclaimed at his ridiculous love-slave proposition.
"Yea, a love slave." He spoke slowly, with a strong foreign accent. Clearly English was not his first language. "Release me from these restraints, and we can negotiate an agreement."
She shook her head and pulled her chair closer to the bed, pencil and notepad at the ready. It was time she got a more complete background on this guy, now that he'd finally deigned to speak. "I can't release you till we're certain you won't harm others, or yourself."
"Why would I harm myself?" h
e scoffed.
She shrugged. "Lots of people do."
He looked skeptical at that statement.
She smiled as some of his words flitted through her brain. "You would actually negotiate a contract to be a... love slave?" Her face heated up over those last words.
To her dismay, his intelligent eyes registered her embarrassment, and he winked.
Oh, my God! He winked at me. Whoa! Since when is a wink an erotic signal? Maybe my girls are right. Maybe I really do need a man. No, no, no. That's the last thing I need.
Maggie also saw the way his eyes scanned her body, from the top of her short hairdo, over her silk blouse, short skirt, and sheer stockings, down to her high heels. The jacket that matched the skirt hung on a wall peg back in her office.
She was attending a seminar later today.
Joe liked what he saw—Maggie could tell by the brief flicker of his eyelids and the dilating of his pupils, especially as his gaze paused over her breasts—and she had to force herself not to react, either in anger or withdrawal.
It had taken Maggie years to become comfortable with her body. As a young girl who had developed much earlier than her friends, and as a young woman who had always had a curvy, voluptuous figure that made males think she was "easy," Maggie had gone out of her way to dress in a manner that would hide her figure, and to behave contrary to her sensual nature. But she was changing—her short, saucy hairdo and the belly-button ring being the most recent signs— and she no longer dressed repressively. If people wanted to form the wrong opinions of her, that was their problem, not hers. She didn't wear slut clothes, but then she didn't dress like a librarian, either.
That didn't mean she felt entirely comfortable under the carnal scrutiny of this handsome fellow. But she wasn't dying of mortification, either.
She held her chin high in defiance, and he chuckled, as if he understood... which was impossible, of course. She hoped.
"You would actually negotiate a contract to be a love slave?" Even as Maggie repeated her question, she wondered why she was pursuing this line of questioning. In her own defense, psychologists were taught to go with the flow of the patient's dialogue... to lead unobtrusively, when necessary, but mostly to follow, without censorship.
"Yea... if it would bring me closer to freedom."
"Have you ever been a love slave before?"
His eyes shot wide at her question. "Nay. Have you?"
"No," she answered with a nervous laugh. "And I'm not interested now.'"
His only answer was the disbelieving lift of his eyebrows. He flicked his tongue briefly over his full lips, as if to signal that, even if she wasn't interested, he definitely was.
Lordy, lordy!
This had to be a joke, but he displayed no sign of humor. In fact, the chiseled features of his fine face lacked the laugh lines that should have been etched about the mouth and eyes of a man his age—about mid-thirties. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, his bespoke grimness, not a life filled with smiles.
Who was this man? The Orcaland people claimed they'd never seen him before. A police search of his fingerprints had brought up nothing. No family or friends had shown up claiming a missing person. He seemed to be a man without a past.
Maggie shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to bring up the love-slave subject again. But then she chastised herself: no topic should be taboo in the therapy relationship. With that in mind she asked, "Exactly how would you negotiate a loveslave contract?"
She expected him to laugh, or at least grin, but his expression was somber. "On your side, there would be the promise of freedom. On my side would be the promise of bed pleasuring."
A ripple, like an erotic shock, rushed through Maggie with stunning force. And that was amazing, really, because, while she'd made great gains in her insecurities about her body, she still harbored strong inhibitions about her sexuality. Case in point, her girls' father, Judd Haskell, who'd once said she was "as exciting as nailing a bowl of mashed potatoes."
"I see." Maggie blinked several times to clear her head under the intense survey of the man half reclining on the bed before her. He saw way too much. "Define freedom," she encouraged.
"I'd rather define bed pleasuring." A slight grin tugged at his lips, and Maggie thought he might not be without a sense of humor, after all. Perhaps it was just buried beneath the surface... or whatever pain had caused his breakdown.
"You talk in such an odd way," she commented. "I can't quite place the dialect."
"Hah! You think I talk oddly? You should hear yourself... and I do not just mean that sex-voice."
Sex-voice? Oh, he must be referring to the huskiness. That was another part of her body makeup that had contributed to her early reputation as easy. Leave it to this fellow to home in on it, right off. "My voice has sounded raspy like this since I was a child. A severe throat infection," she said, more defensively than she'd intended. "But your dialect... where are you from?"
"Vestfold."
"Huh? Is that in Texas?"
"I have no idea where this Tax-us is. Vestfold is in Norway. I am a Norseman. A Viking."
"I see." Now they were getting somewhere. Among his other mental problems, this guy thought he was a Viking... although, come to think of it, he did resemble a Norse god. She made a few quick notes on her pad.
"We were negotiating our love-slave contract when—"
"I never agreed to negotiate any such thing," she interjected, perhaps too indignantly.
"I have much experience in bed sport, of course.
"Of course," she replied, and immediately regretted her sarcasm.
Either he failed to hear the sarcasm in her voice, or he chose to ignore it.
Good.
"Now, I cannot claim great finesse in more refined bed sport—no flowery words or hand holding or such—and, in truth, I do not favor kissing all that much, but I have been told my endurance is remarkable. That and my size."
Her only response was a gurgle, which he must have taken for a compliment because he continued, "And, of course, all Norsemen know the secret of a woman s S-spot."
"Don't you mean G-spot?" Criminy, was she the one going crazy here? What would prompt her to encourage him with questions like that?
"I know naught of a G-spot, but all Vikings know that the S-spot is far superior to any other sex spot." The lack of expression on his face gave her no clue as to whether he was serious or not.
"Well, this love-slave business would never work, I can tell you that right away," she informed him with a nervous laugh, "because most women like kissing."
"Do you?"
"Uh... well, yes. Of course." Oh, good heavens! My tongue has developed a mind of its own.
He seemed to consider her faltering words, the whole time staring at her with those luminous gray eyes. Finally he said, "Agreed."
"Agreed? What does that mean?" she practically shrieked.
He arched an eyebrow at the panic in her voice. "I agree to give kisses, and you agree to give... well, some things I want—nay, need."
Like what? she desperately wanted to ask. Luckily her good sense returned, and she bridled her tongue. Enough was enough on this dangerous subject. "I am not in need of a love slave, thank you very much. We should get back to the subject at hand the client interview."
"Is that what this is? An interview?" He frowned. "By the by, m'lady Muck-bride, are you married?"
She shook her head in confusion. What had her marital status to do with anything? Oh. He must be worried about potential conflicts with another man in the event she agreed to the love-slave business... which would be when hell froze oven. "No, I'm not married."
"I thought not. No offense, m'lady, but wedlock will not be part of our love-slave agreement."
It took a moment before her fuzzy brain absorbed the fact that he was declining a marriage proposal from her. "You... you..." she sputtered.
"Am I dead?" he asked suddenly.
"Wh-what?" Now that question really surprised her. "W
hy would you ask a question like that?"
"Well, the anchor of my longship got tangled in the seas somewhere beyond Iceland, and—"
"Iceland!" she exclaimed. "Joe, you are apparently lost."
He frowned. "Why do you address me as Joe?"
"Because you told me your name was Joe Rand. Oh... do you mean that I'm being too familiar? Do you prefer I call you Mr. Rand?"
"Nay, I prefer that you address me by my real name. Johr-rund," he sounded out for her "Jorund Ericsson."
She put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile at her mistake. "Jorund. What an unusual name! But nice... very nice! I think I'll just call you by your nickname, though Joe."
"Joe the Viking?" He pursed his lips pensively. "Somehow it does not have the same luster as Jorund the Viking, or Jorund the Warrior." Then he flashed her an irresistible grin.
She grinned back at him.
"I know I was—am—lost," he confessed. "But it was that damned Thora who caused me to end up here."
"Thora?" For some reason, the thought of Joe being with a woman caused her stomach to clench. No, no, no. She couldn't allow herself to become involved with a patient. Besides, for all she knew, he might be married. "Is Thora your wife?" she asked with as much nonchalance as she could muster.
"Do you make mock of me?"
She took that for a no. Whew! "Your lover?"
He snorted with disgust. "Thora is a killer whale."
"Thora... a killer whale? You named a killer whale?"
"I did. Well, actually, my bother Magnus and my sailors did. And, if you must know, Thora is the most irritating animal this side of the Baltic. And she has bad breath, too."
"I see."
"Why do you keep saying, 'I see,' when you clearly do not see?"
Maggie put her notebook aside and rubbed at the furrows in her forehead with the fingers of one hand. "A killer whale brought you here... from Iceland? A killer whale with bad breath?"
"Aha! Now you are beginning to understand."
