by Day Leclaire
Jordan pushed her unease to one side and concentrated on the job at hand. If the prickles on the back of her neck were anything to go by, the newcomer hadn’t budged an inch. She had plenty of time to sort him out once she’d taken care of business.
“Since you forgot to mention the cost went up, you’ll have to sell them to me at the old price,” Jordan insisted, bartering in the expected manner. “They’re not worth a dollar more. Look at the poor things.” She selected a mushroom, upending it so he could see where the stem joined the cap. “They’ve already started to open. And the color—you call this white?”
“Okay. Okay. Old price.” He shook his head in disgust. “Boss will fire me for sure over this one.”
Jordan smiled at his typical response. “Right. Sure he will. When pigs fly.” Nick Constantine would never fire Terry, not when he was the best salesman and haggler on the docks.
She swiftly scanned the long line of stacked boxes left to be loaded, comparing it to the receipt. Oranges vied with kiwi, cucumbers with green peppers, the staggering number of fresh sharp odors a source of unending delight.
She checked the order again, her smile fading to a frown. “Wait a minute, Terry. I don’t see the bananas. What’s happened to them?”
“What bananas?”
She shot him a sharp look. “Don’t hand me that. The super deal on the overripes. You were all over me about them when I first walked in.”
“Oh. Those bananas.”
“Yeah. Those bananas.”
He yanked the brim of his cap low over his eyes, ruddy color creeping along his jawline. “You see, they . . . ah . . . sort of got sold.”
“Sort of got sold?” she snapped. “Sort of—”
Jordan bit off the rest of her sentence, checking her anger. Ranting and raving wouldn’t help her case. It was difficult enough working in a male-dominated business without getting a reputation as a shrew. She’d worked too long and hard to risk losing ground now. Fast thinking and finding the right angle had won many a battle for her—as they would today.
Jordan spoke again, her voice low and even. “The bananas were sold? As in, sold out from under me? I arrived at five-thirty, Terry, which gave me first refusal. You’ll remember I didn’t do any refusing.”
“I remember,” Terry agreed, looking everywhere but at her. “How about if next time I—”
She shook her head, not allowing him to finish his offer. “Not next time, Terry. Distress sales are jam on bread in this business. You know that. That’s why I come so early. How am I supposed to make a decent living if I can’t get my hands on the deals? The competition’s death out there.”
“Maybe I could squeeze you out a box or two.”
“I’m sorry, Terry. A box or two won’t do, and I can’t afford to shrug this one off.” She couldn’t afford to shrug any of them off. Not if she hoped to get her fair share of the bargains.
Terry nodded miserably. “Yeah, I know.” He kicked aside the small pile of rotting orange peels and discarded lettuce leaves strewn at his feet that had yet to be swept up. “Give me a few minutes. I—I’ll get them back for you.”
In all the years she’d dealt with him, she’d never seen Terry so nervous. There shouldn’t be such difficulty in sorting out a simple misunderstanding. Jordan frowned.
She’d obviously missed something and she had a pretty good idea what—or who—that something might be.
“Who has my bananas?” she asked.
Terry gave a slight shrug. “Does it matter? I said I’d get them for you.”
“Who?” she repeated.
The salesman glanced quickly over her shoulder, speaking in a low rushed voice. “You don’t want to start anything, Jordan. Not with that particular customer. You’d be better off just letting it go.”
“He has them?”
Terry nodded. “Every last one. Why don’t I speak to Marco? I’m sure he’ll straighten everything out.”
Jordan thought quickly, then shook her head. “No. Don’t bother. I told you our friend was after something. And I very much doubt it’s a pallet load of bananas. This is as good a time as any to find out what he really wants.”
“You think he did it so he could meet you?” Terry brightened, the idea clearly appealing to him. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Imagine, stealing your bananas just to get your attention. You’ve got to admit it’s a novel approach.”
“Yes, imagine resorting to theft,” Jordan mocked dryly, “when all he had to do was walk over and introduce himself.”
Despite Terry’s romantic view of the incident, Jordan suspected the lifting of her bananas had nothing whatsoever to do with romance, or even bananas. The man wanted to instigate a meeting and this was his clever way of going about it. It also forced her to approach him—giving him the advantage. Shrewd, very shrewd.
Jordan appraised the situation. As far as she could tell, she had two choices. She could stand up to him and demand the return of her bananas, or she could shrug it off and walk away. She struggled with her conscience, resisting the part of her urging a hasty retreat. Why for once couldn’t she simply turn tail and run? Dogs did it all the time. She liked dogs. They were insightful, intelligent creatures.
Of course, a dog didn’t have the responsibility of a business. If she didn’t keep Cornucopia a successful money-making operation, no one else would. She suspected if Terry’s high roller didn’t succeed in forcing a confrontation this time, he’d dream up another scheme tomorrow. Better to find out what he wanted now and end it.
If only she didn’t have this overwhelming urge to roll over and play dead.
She handed Terry his receipt book. “Write up the bananas. I’ll be back in a minute. Probably headless, but I’ll be back—and with the bananas.”
The distance to traverse never looked so long. Jordan blew out a slow breath. No matter how appealing the idea of doing nothing, she couldn’t stand around all day like a coward. She gazed at her adversary, refusing to be intimidated. It was now or never. Head high, she crossed the cement loading dock. Perhaps it was sheer imagination, but it seemed as though every last man jack at the market stopped working to watch.
Stay calm. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for what the banana snatcher has done.
Or maybe she’d found a modern-day Viking with plunder and pillage bred into his blood and bones.
She skirted a pile of ice chips, a container of green onions, and an unhappy-looking Marco. She stopped directly in front of the stranger.
He dwarfed her with his impressive size, not that his height bothered her. Working on the docks for so long, she’d learned to handle the occasional disparity her five foot five frame caused. It was the rest of him that proved so disturbing.
His chiseled face, tanned a deep golden brown, sported a squared-off jawline, a determined chin creased by a slight cleft and high, prominent cheekbones. Thick blond brows, several shades darker than his hair, set off the pale ice-blue of his deep-set eyes—eyes, she fancifully imagined, filled with the aggressive spirit of his ancestors.
A bright glitter caught her attention and she glanced at his left ear, astonished and intrigued by the tiny gold lightning bolt earring he wore. The symbol of Thor, she realized with a momentary qualm. A Viking in fact, as well as in appearance.
Her gaze skittered lower. She took in the broad well-muscled shoulders and chest, the lean waist and hips, and finally the thick powerful thighs encased in form-fitting jeans. She swallowed and her gaze flew back to his face. It took every ounce of self-possession to meet those cool mocking eyes with anything approaching equanimity. She braced herself for a similar visual examination, an examination that never came.
Instead he fingered the bridge of his nose, which had obviously been broken at some point in his life, undoubtedly in a brawl, and grinned knowingly. “I see you got my message and decided to come over,” he murmured. “Very wise
.”
Jordan balled her hands into fists, suppressing the temptation to add another crook to his nose, and feigned surprise. “Was that what it was, a message? I thought it was your peculiar idea of a joke.”
“Oh, it’s no joke, Ms. Roberts. I’m very serious.”
He knew her name, which meant she was right. He’d deliberately taken her bananas in order to bring about this confrontation. No matter what Terry thought, this man wasn’t interested in her, at least, not as a woman.
She found herself thoroughly annoyed with him because his interest was purely a business one. And she was thoroughly annoyed with herself for even caring. Jordan pulled herself up short. No need to get a dented ego, she silently scolded. He was enough of a threat without that sort of complication.
She glanced at Marco, who stood gazing in fascination at a crushed box of tomatoes tossed to one side of the dock. The poor man couldn’t have shown his discomfort any clearer if he’d jumped up and down and screamed it for the world to hear.
“Why don’t we dispense with the games and get down to business?” she suggested. “You have my bananas and I’d appreciate their return.”
“My bananas,” he corrected softly, staring down at her.
How could a single glance from those ice-blue eyes burn so? She crossed to the pallet holding her bananas, her back defiantly stiff. Lifting off a cardboard lid, she flicked the thin plastic cover out of the way and, with a quick twist of her wrist, broke off a banana. After peeling the yellow skin she took a bite, then faced him again. Claim staked, she announced silently.
“What do you want, Mr. . . .”
“Thorsen. Rainer Thorsen.”
Jordan inhaled sharply, choking on the banana. The Thorsen name and reputation was well known in the Seattle produce community—as well known as their Viking-like appearance and Viking-like ruthlessness. Also well known were the dozens of markets they owned and operated, each one at least as large and profitable as Cornucopia. She should have guessed his identity sooner. Her gaze strayed back to the lightning bolt earring he wore. She should have guessed from that telltale symbol alone.
“My banana too strong for you?” he inquired with mock solicitude.
Jordan lifted her chin. “My banana is just fine, thanks.”
“Then you must be choking on the Thorsen name. I’ve found it does tend to intimidate people.”
“I’ll struggle to keep that from happening,” she informed him, surprised by his levity. “As for the bananas . . .”
“I suppose, since both of us claim ownership, we’ll have to split them.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, waiting until she caught his pun.
Jordan’s lips twitched. Impossible, contradictory man! Didn’t he realize what a serious issue this was? “That’s one solution, though quite unfair. We both know they’re really mine. Unfortunately splitting them won’t do me any good. I need the full pallet. I don’t suppose you’re willing to acknowledge prior ownership?”
His teasing facade vanished, exposing the merciless businessman lurking beneath. So the lighthearted charmer was just for show, she realized, filing the information away for future reference.
Rainer shook his head emphatically. “No, I’m not willing to acknowledge any ownership but my own.”
Jordan lowered her eyes and thought fast. “I suspected as much.” She sighed. “I guess we’ll have to settle it in the only reasonable way I know.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll flip you for them.”
He looked down at himself, then at her, his expression doubtful. “Won’t be easy. I’m a big guy.”
It took her a second, but then she broke down and laughed. “A coin, Mr. Thorsen. We’ll flip a coin. Heads or tails?”
“Er, Rainer . . .” Marco began. He was waved silent.
“Tails,” Rainer said and reached into his pocket.
Jordan forestalled him. “Please. Allow me.”
If she’d suspected the buyers and workers along the dock were staring before, she was certain of it now. The shouts and occasional curses that usually rang out over the constant noise of the busy marketplace faded away. Men in jeans and flannel shirts who normally bustled around the loading area stood in small knots, their attention on the players. Silence reigned.
Steeling her nerves, Jordan stuck a hand into her right pocket and pulled out a nickel. In a practiced move, she flicked it high into the air. All eyes watched the silver coin spinning in the early morning light. It tumbled to earth and landed with a ping. After two bounces, the coin lay flat on the cement dock.
“Heads,” she announced, not displaying the least bit of surprise at the outcome.
Rainer lifted an eyebrow. “Congratulations. I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever been beaten.” He frowned. “In fact, I’m certain it’s the first time I’ve ever been beaten.” His frown deepened. “I’m not sure I like it.”
Jordan smiled. “Get used to it, Mr. Thorsen. I can be pretty resourceful when necessary.” She bent down with studied indifference, picked up the coin, and pocketed it. Curling her pinkie fingers into her mouth, she gave a high shrill whistle. As though by magic, Terry appeared at her side.
“Please put my bananas on the truck, Terry,” Jordan instructed briskly. She glanced up at Rainer and smiled again. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Thorsen.” She hesitated. “Our business is completed, isn’t it?”
He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Not quite. But it’ll keep, Ms. Roberts. It’ll keep.” He offered a large callused hand. “Until next time.”
Faltering, but only for a moment, she slipped her hand into his. The man’s handshake was as strong and firm as the man. He tightened his grip, refusing to release her. Her gaze flashed to his and she nearly flinched. She couldn’t mistake the fierce determination in his expression.
“I’m accustomed to getting what I want, Ms. Roberts. You’d do well to remember that.”
Not trusting her voice, she nodded. Carefully, she tugged her hand away and retreated across the loading dock. The distance seemed even longer than before, especially with every eye on her. She touched the double-headed coin in her right pocket. How long would it take for Thorsen to learn how she’d tricked him?
She reached her end of the dock and Terry scurried over to her. “You know who that is?” he demanded in a nervous whisper.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And still you pulled that little stunt with one of your double-sided coins?”
She turned on him. “They were my bananas. I told you I’d get them back one way or the other. Unfortunately it had to be the other.” She glanced at the salesman, not hiding her concern. “Do you think Marco will tell him what I did?”
Terry shook his head. “Not likely. He used to work for the Thorsens a few years back, so he has a certain loyalty to them. But he’s crazy about you. We all are. If anyone tells Thorsen, it’ll be Mr. Constantine. Once he gets wind of it he’ll spill the beans, if only because he thinks it’s such a huge joke.”
“Nuts.”
“You got that right.” Terry leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I’d hoped to avoid a confrontation with him, get you to forget about those bananas. It’s too late for that now. You’d better know, Jordan, the Thorsens have always bought their produce from houses closer to Boeing Field. I hear Marco convinced them to try us. You realize what that means, don’t you?”
“Another showdown tomorrow?”
“That and more.” Terry’s expression turned unusually serious. “Thorsen buys big, real big, and he always, always gets what he wants. If he decides to buy from Constantine, he’ll keep two of our salesmen hustling and more importantly, he’ll pay same as everyone but you, cash on the barrelhead. None of this line-of-credit stuff the boss gives Cornucopia. And that’s a lot of bucks.”
“Nick must be jumping through hoo
ps,” she muttered.
“He ain’t crying in his beer, that’s for sure. Mr. Constantine may think your little stunt funny now. But if he loses any business because of it, you’ll find yourself out on your pretty little keister, no matter how close you are to the boss’s daughter.”
“That’s not fair!” she protested. “Andrea and I have always kept our friendship separate from our business relationship. Cornucopia has a line of credit because we’re a safe risk, not because of Andrea.”
Even so, her concern deepened. She didn’t like the sound of this. Nick Constantine was a hardheaded businessman. If Thorsen decided to make life uncomfortable, Nick might choose to go with the money and to hell with ten years’ worth of loyalty.
Her mouth firmed. She wasn’t beaten yet. In fact, she hadn’t even begun to fight. “I may not be in the same league as the Thorsens, but Cornucopia is nothing to sneeze at.”
Terry sighed, shaking his head. “It is compared to the Thorsens. If it meant getting their business, the old man would sell his own daughter. Hell, he’d give her away. So, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Jordan stirred uneasily. “I’ll consider myself duly warned.”
She glanced over her shoulder and down the long length of the dock. The Viking still stood there, staring once again, his brawny arms folded across his chest. As clearly as though he’d shouted the words at her, she knew their business—whatever that might be—was far from completed.
R ainer watched Jordan climb into the cab of her truck and start the engine. He’d been impressed by her. Very impressed. He hadn’t seen any volcanic activity during their confrontation, but that didn’t bother him. Once she found out what he really wanted, he bet he’d see a major eruption.
A damned shame, really. Jordan Roberts fascinated him. He sensed a shrewdness behind those cool direct eyes, eyes an intriguing shade between blue and gray. He’d discovered her face held more than beauty, it contained a wealth of character. The rounded chin and dark angled eyebrows suggested determination. The high cheekbones and firm set of lips and jaw hinted at an inner strength lacking in most women he knew. Even the way she’d subdued that mane of curly black hair warned of her need for control.
