by Day Leclaire
She balled her hands into fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “The cukes live to be pickled. They want it with every fiber of their runted, gnarly little bodies.”
Her uncle’s grip tightened on the box. “If Rainer were here, he’d understand.”
“Well, he’s not, I am, and you’re out of luck,” she snarled. “Now hand ’em over.”
A deep voice intruded on their conversation. “Problem?”
Jordan and Cletus turned. Cletus beamed at Rainer. She scowled.
“Rainer, my boy. Just the one I wished to see.” He shot his niece a reproachful look. “It’s about these cukes . . . .”
Rainer touched her arm. “It’s past nine and customers are waiting. Why don’t you open up,” he suggested. “I’ll take care of this.”
Barely able to contain her fury, she stomped to the door and swung it open. “I hope you don’t want pickles,” she snapped at the first little old lady in line. “Because you’re not likely to get any.”
“No, no,” the woman assured her in a timid voice. “I don’t want pickles. In fact, I don’t think I want anything at all.”
Before the poor old soul could scurry away, Jordan ushered her into the store, feeling lower than a snake’s belly. “Sure you do,” she soothed. “Have a spaghetti squash. On the house.”
The woman hesitated. “Well . . . I suppose I could choke one down.”
“And I’d be delighted to help you.” Her arm was grasped from behind and before she could draw breath, Rainer hustled her away from the front door. “Hey, what—”
“Back,” he said.
“Forget it!”
“Public.”
Jordan sighed, giving up. “Lunchroom.”
“Now that’s truly unique,” he bit out, the instant they hit the lunchroom. “Of all the unique things I’ve seen in my life, that one tops them all.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m a total louse. I can’t believe I did that. My only excuse is that it’s been a rotten morning.” She shoved a tumble of dark curls from her face. “Nothing around here is done, everyone is fighting, and I’ve been reduced to yelling at the customers.” Her lower lip inched out. “And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault? How the hell do you figure?”
“Because you weren’t here . . .” She closed her eyes and groaned, unable to believe what she’d just said.
She opened her eyes to his kiss. It was gentle and loving and warmed her from top to bottom. He held her lightly, his touch one of comfort instead of passion, and gratitude filled her at his insight. She needed his comfort right now.
Her hands crept up his chest, clinging to the hard muscles of his shoulders. Never before had she felt so vulnerable or taken such delight in his strength. His lips moved slowly over hers and the urge to fight faded away. She settled deeper into his protective embrace.
“Jordan, someone might walk in,” he murmured, fitting her hips more firmly into the cradle of his.
Her breath caught in her throat at the intimate contact. “When you hold me like this, I almost don’t care.” She glanced up, gripped by uncertainty. “I guess I shouldn’t admit that.”
A smile eased his features. “I’m glad you did.”
She ran her fingers down the side of his face, her hand striking the tiny gold earring he wore. She pulled back a little, studying it, touching it gently.
“I’ve always wondered about this,” she admitted. “Thorsen. Son of Thor. Is that why you have a lightning bolt, because it’s one of Thor’s symbols?”
“Yes. Though it’s more than that.” He hesitated. “It’s a reminder.”
Her curiosity grew. “Of what?”
He didn’t immediately respond. She waited, and at last he said, “Of heritage. Of family. Of what it takes to succeed.”
All the things that stood between them, in fact. No wonder he’d been reluctant to answer. She grimaced. “I wish I hadn’t asked.”
“Thor has one, too,” he told her. “It’s a tiny hammer.”
The better to clobber her with? The better to bring down Cornucopia? She refused to consider the possibility. Not now. Not here. Not when she felt so safe and secure within the circle of Rainer’s arms. A tiny sigh escaped her. “I think I prefer the lightning bolt,” she told him shyly.
If he knew how much the confession cost her, he didn’t let on. “I’m glad to hear it.” He touched her mouth with a callused fingertip. “I have a favor to ask.”
She shivered in apprehension. “What?”
“Don’t look so worried.” He smiled, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I’d like to stay on an extra week. That’s what made me late today, arranging for Thor to take over a little longer in case you agree.”
She wanted to agree. She wanted to agree more than anything in the world. “Why?” she asked instead. “Why stay on?”
“Several reasons. You must know I haven’t learned everything necessary about Cornucopia and the north end market. We’re also no closer to settling our disagreement over the store’s future. And . . .”
“And?” Her voice held a breathless quality she despised.
“We have other matters left to settle,” he confessed gruffly. “Private matters.”
Jordan lowered her eyes, delighted by his admission, though she hoped Rainer hadn’t noticed. He held enough power over her. Any more wouldn’t be good for him—or her.
“I think I can talk Uncle Cletus into letting you stay on,” she agreed. “And I’ll make it a bargain. You’ll only have to pay us five hundred to work this week.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She offered a cheeky grin. “Anytime.”
He bent his head and gave her a final, lingering kiss. “Ready to face the riots and hysteria?”
“Let me at ’em!” She paused, a sudden thought occurring. “By the way, did you convince Uncle Cletus to put out the pickling cukes?”
“Of course.”
“How?” she asked suspiciously.
“Simple,” he retorted with a bland smile. “I asked him.”
To her amazement everything fell right into place. Though why it would amaze her, she didn’t know. Rainer’s special brand of charm seemed guaranteed to work miracles. He could accomplish more with a lifted eyebrow than she could with an hour of exhaustive argument. And he had a knack for keeping everyone pleasant and cheerful, including her.
The day flew by, each moment precious and each moment fleeting. How had she managed to handle this for so long without him. Not that she’d been entirely on her own, she hastened to remind herself. She mustn’t forget Uncle Cletus. Thinking of him made her smile. The man was unquestionably a darling, but he knew as much about the business end of things as she knew about . . . about the political affiliation of cabbage.
A continuous stream of shoppers kept them so busy Rainer didn’t even comment when Jordan slipped a bedraggled looking Seth some free produce. Finally, the last customer left. Cleaning the store and putting away the stock, usually a chore, seemed pleasurable with Rainer there. Within thirty minutes they’d completed the last task. The employees dashed off for their Saturday evening activities, and Walker and Cletus headed to the house for a quiet game of checkers.
Rainer flipped off the overhead lights except one row. Fading sunshine lit the exterior, while the interior appeared dim and quiet.
“Do you have time to talk?” he asked, watching her count the change from the till.
“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”
“Cornucopia.” She lifted her head in alarm, relieved by his reassuring smile. “Not that,” he dismissed. “I mean about the things you do here. The things you do differently from Thorsen’s.”
“Ah, our uniqueness again. You’ve been here a whole week and you haven’t gotten a handle on it, yet?” she dared to tease.
“There’re a lot of things I haven’t
gotten a handle on. But we’ll stick with Cornucopia for the time being.” He approached the checkout stand, and edged his hip onto a corner. “I think I understand why you have the children’s table. It takes up valuable selling space, and it probably wouldn’t work in all of our stores. But here—” He shrugged. “It fits. It feels right.”
“That’s because it is right.” She began recording the checks on the deposit slip. “What else bothers you?”
“I won’t mention your various charity cases, like that Seth character.”
Her lips tightened. “I appreciate your restraint.”
“But I do question the free samples you offer. I know in theory customers supposedly buy more if they try it first. But in actuality, it costs you about what you make in profits.”
Jordan chuckled. “Let’s just say it’s my way of expanding our customers’ horizons a little. Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t buy a mango if it sat up and begged. It’s too exotic. But she gets an illicit thrill sneaking a sample here.”
He seemed to accept her explanation. “And the organic produce?”
“Carry the five, and six is eleven.” She jotted down the number and stuck the deposit slip into the bank bag before continuing, “I have a select clientele who only buy organically grown produce. It constitutes thirty percent of my business at a nice comfortable profit.”
“That’s much higher than we’re seeing at Thorsens.” She could see she’d intrigued him. “If they like that, have you thought about carrying cheese and tofu?”
“Huh. That’s an interesting idea. Where would we put it?”
He scrutinized the store. “Over there.” He pointed toward the organic section of the market. “Against that wall. You’d have to move those pictures, but you could put in a big refrigerated case with a variety of specialty cheeses. Tofu, bean curd, sprouts, that sort of thing.”
“Move my family pictures?” She dismissed the idea without further consideration. “Forget it.”
“Why?”
“Because those pictures represent the history of this store. Some of them have hung there so long they’ve probably grown roots. I wouldn’t move them for all the bananas in Costa Rica.”
Rainer crossed to examine the pictures and Jordan followed. “I’ve never really looked at them before,” he said, studying each with interest. He pointed to the first. “Is this your grandfather?”
“Yes, that’s Grandpa Joe,” she said proudly. She indicated the storefront in the photograph and the sign hanging above her grandfather’s head. “Back then we were called Roberts’ Food and Froth.”
“Froth?”
She chuckled. “As in soft drinks. When Dad and Uncle Cletus took over, they changed the name to Cornucopia and decided to specialize in just produce and dairy products.”
“What happened to the dairy part?”
Jordan shrugged. “We let it go after Dad died. Actually, I’ve been tempted to give it another try. I like your suggestion about the cheeses, but they can’t go here.” She touched another picture. “That’s my mother right after I was born. It’s the only photo with all the Roberts.”
Rainer put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently in sympathy for all she’d lost. She leaned against him, the heat from his body warming her, chasing away the chill. Awareness crept over her and she struggled to breathe normally, to speak as though she wasn’t conscious of every movement he made, every sound he uttered, and every breath he took.
“This last picture is of Uncle Cletus and me. If you check carefully, you can see Walker peering through the front store window. He didn’t want to be left out, poor guy.”
Obediently Rainer leaned closer to get a better look. “Why didn’t he join you and Cletus outside?”
“Uncle Cletus wouldn’t let him. He said Walker wasn’t officially family.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t agree. When you have so few in your family, you’re always on the lookout for more members.”
“And the few you have become very important to you,” he added in complete understanding.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Especially when they’ve loved and cared for and raised you. Especially when they’ve never asked for anything, but instead given everything.”
“And Cornucopia?”
“It’s also family, though in a different way.” Filled with an urgent need to explain, she faced him. “This store is my connection to the past. It’s all I have left of my parents, of my heritage. You wear an earring as a reminder. Yet all you have to do is go home and you have it all—your parents, your brother and sister, more aunts and uncles and cousins than you can count. I have Uncle Cletus . . . and Cornucopia.”
“Still, I understand what you’re saying.” He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “Cornucopia is no substitute for family. Nor is it a substitute for a social life.”
She turned from him, wrapping her arms around herself. How could she explain the loyalty she owed her parents’ memory? “Your brother thinks I should take the money and run. But where would I go? To Arizona and Uncle Cletus’s chicken ranch?” She gave an ironic laugh. “This is all I have. Cornucopia is family, no matter what you say. I’ll never abandon it. And despite his talk about chicken ranches, neither will Uncle Cletus.”
“Jordan—”
She turned again, the words exploding from her. “Give it up, Rainer. Leave us alone. Leave me alone. Go back to your life and allow us to return to ours. You don’t need Cornucopia. You have dozens of other markets.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “That’s not my decision to make. I wish it were, but I have other considerations.”
“What else is there to consider? You understand the importance of family. I know you do. Don’t take mine away!”
“I don’t want to!” He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I can’t resolve this based solely on my own preferences.”
“Why not?”
He gripped her shoulders, speaking earnestly. “Listen to me, Jordan. There are a lot of people who depend on me and my decisions. No store in the Thorsen chain stands alone. Each is a vital link in the corporation. The family as a whole is dependent on the chain as a whole. I have a responsibility to them and to their employees. They all have a stake in our business.”
“You don’t need us,” she pleaded. “You can go around us.”
He shook his head. “Not successfully. Not the way things are now. Honey, Cornucopia stands in a prime location between a juncture of several communities. We could go around you, go farther north, but it would severely hurt our ability to expand. It’s essential we acquire Cornucopia. And I can’t arbitrarily decide not to take you on, not for personal reasons.”
“So what are you going to do?” She could barely get the words out.
“I’m going to work here another week. I’m going to talk some more to Cletus. And then we’re all going to sit down and see if we can’t reach an amicable solution.”
Jordan crossed her arms. “An amicable solution isn’t possible. There’s nothing we can even compromise over. One of us wins. And one of us loses.”
Rainer cocked an eyebrow. “This from the woman who has more angles than a spiral staircase?”
Her eyes widened. “Uncle Cletus told you that?”
“I think it was in the nature of a warning.” He began to chuckle. Unable to resist, she joined in. He caught her hands in his. “Give it another week and let’s see what happens. Then we’ll talk again. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with something.”
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “One more week.”
“Good. Now I have another favor to ask you, Valkyrie.”
She licked her lips. Lord, this man expected a lot. Sometimes she didn’t think he’d be satisfied with less than all sixty-five inches of her, with her heart thrown in on top.
“Huh! Fat chance,” she told him, though what she really meant was . .
. Ask me for the earth and I’ll give it to you, along with the sun and the moon and planets, too.
Not that she’d tell him that.
He smiled at her, his eyes warm and a brilliant blue. “I want you tonight,” he said. “May I have you?”
Chapter 8
Y es, yes, yes! Jordan almost screamed. “You, what?” she said instead.
“I heard that yes.” Rainer grinned. “Shall I ignore it, or give you a hard time?”
“Ah . . . the ignore choice.”
A teasing gleam sparkled in his eyes. “No way. I want you and you want me. I heard a yes. End of story. Let’s go.”
She swallowed. “Where?”
His laughter died, an intent awareness taking its place. “Anywhere,” he said, his words taut and urgent. “Name it.”
Jordan shook her head, unable to speak, aching for him with a passion so great she practically shook with it. But she couldn’t give in to the urge. She shut her eyes, attempting to block the need mirrored so clearly in his face. “Don’t, Rainer. We can’t.” She looked at him again, watching him struggle between desire and common sense.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll let it go this time. I have an alternative. It won’t be as much fun.” He shrugged “But we’ll be together.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me to my father’s birthday party tonight.”
Of all the possible suggestions, this placed last on the list. In fact, it didn’t even make her list. “Why? More business discussions?”
His eyes darkened and his voice held a rough edge. “No. Personal reasons. Very personal.”
“I can’t go.”
“Go where?” Cletus called, and Jordan took a hasty step away from Rainer. Her uncle peered at them from the back doorway, his expression vaguely puzzled. “You two still here? Where are you going?”
Jordan glanced at Rainer. “Nowhere,” she said firmly.
“To my father’s sixtieth birthday party.” He glared at her. “Why won’t you come?”
“It’s not that I won’t,” she hastened to assure him. “I can’t. There’s this week’s ad I should finish. I’d like to join you, but—”
