by Day Leclaire
Without further discussion, they hurried to the car. In no time, they’d returned to the Thorsens’, changed, and were driving south through Seattle’s dark, deserted streets. Andrea stared fixedly out the window. How ironic to have their wedding day interrupted by business. Poetic justice, considering they’d married for that very reason.
She glanced at Thor, saddened by his cool, remote expression. He was no longer the man who’d held her so lovingly, who’d encouraged her to pretend, if only for the length of a dance, their marriage could be real. Business first, she reminded herself. Business first.
They arrived ten minutes later. Police cars, lights still flashing, parked outside Constantine’s loading bay. Andrea jumped from the car. Not waiting for Thor, she ran for the steps. He caught her arm before she reached the dock.
“You stay with me or you stay in the car,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Your choice.”
She kept her voice low. “This is my business, which means my responsibility.”
“I don’t give a double damn about your responsibilities. Now that we’re married, your safety is my chief concern. I won’t have you taking unnecessary risks. What’s the decision, wife? Me or the car?”
He had a point. Running around half-cocked wouldn’t accomplish anything. Nor would ticking him off. “Okay. I’ll stay with you.”
“Good choice,” he muttered.
Marco came hurrying over just then. “It’s all right,” he claimed, relief lessening the lines that marked his aging face. “Nothing to get worked up about. Turned out to be a bit of vandalism. Must have been a couple of kids.”
Thor’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
“They broke in and upset a few boxes is all. Scattered some produce around. Willie heard noises and investigated. Didn’t see them, though.”
“He’s not hurt?” Andrea asked anxiously.
Marco addressed her for the first time. “He’s fine, Ms. Const—er, Thorsen. I’m really sorry to spoil your wedding night like this.”
“You were right to call us,” Thor assured him. “I’d like to see the damage.” He glanced at Andrea. “Would you rather wait here with Marco?”
She didn’t say a word, letting the fire in her eyes speak for her. Banishing her to the car wasn’t enough, now he hoped to keep her on the loading dock? He could forget that idea.
He didn’t bother debating the issue. “Fine. Come on.”
Together they entered the warehouse. Inside, the police were taking Willie’s statement. In short order, Andrea answered the necessary questions, Thor acting as a protective buffer. Satisfied, the officers instructed her to file a report if she discovered any further damage.
After the police left, Thor turned to Willie and Marco. “Okay. Let’s see what they did. Should we get cleaning crews in?”
“I can handle it,” Marco assured him.
Thor smiled. “Thanks. But not tonight, okay?”
Andrea let him take charge, her earlier anger dying. If anything, she experienced a vague sense of relief. After expending so much excitement and nervous energy on her wedding, she had little left for this latest crisis. As though he sensed her sudden fatigue, Thor clamped an arm around her waist, keeping her close to his side.
Willie showed them the “wet room,” the huge cooler filled with iced crates of broccoli, corn, and lettuce. Several of the boxes were knocked off their pallet boards, the contents spilling across the floor.
“Is this all?”
Marco stirred uneasily. “Not quite,” he muttered. He shot a quick meaningful glance at Andrea. “Maybe you’d like to stay here with Willie while I take Mr. Thorsen.”
She resisted the temptation to remain behind, certain Marco had an excellent reason for his reluctance to show her the rest. Her lips firmed. As owner of Constantine’s she couldn’t afford to relinquish that much control, especially since Thor’s advent in her life was temporary. No, she corrected herself firmly, she wouldn’t give up control even if it was permanent.
“I appreciate your concern, Marco, but I’d rather get it over with.” She smiled. “I won’t fold at the sight of a little waste and ruin, I promise.”
He nodded unhappily. “Upstairs.”
She knew what to expect even before he opened the door to her office. Still, a shock of fury rushed through her at the sight of rotted corn and melting ice dumped over every inch of the room. She retreated, exhaustion following swift on the heels of her anger, and stepped directly into Thor’s arms. This wasn’t a couple of schoolboys bent on malicious mischief. This was deliberate. And aimed at her.
So much for not folding.
“Come on,” Thor said, his voice ragged with suppressed emotion, his arms tight around her. “We’re out of here. Marco, could you arrange to have this cleaned up by Monday?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Thorsen.”
Thor led her down the steps and onto the loading dock. She took deep gulps of air, tears beginning to choke her. Without a word, he swept all sixty-eight inches of her into his arms and carried her to the car.
“Don’t, sweetheart,” he muttered close to her ear. “They’re not worth it.” He tucked her into the passenger seat and climbed in behind the steering wheel.
“How could anyone do such a despicable thing?” she demanded through her tears. “And why? Revenge?”
A muscle moved in his jaw. “I don’t know. But I swear to you, I’ll find out. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” He started the car and threw it into reverse.
She stared at the night through unseeing eyes. Thor would take care of everything. That’s what he’d promised and that’s why she’d married him, right? She needed to rebuild Constantine’s and earn a decent profit. She had obligations to meet and debts to pay off while keeping both the Thorsens and the Milanos happy. The only way she could do all that was to marry Thor.
Now they’d hit the first little snag, a minor bump in the road. Thor’s job required him to mend the snags and smooth the bumps. She shouldn’t mistake his concern for anything other than a businesslike expedience. She certainly shouldn’t mistake it for actual caring—or love.
So why did she have this urge to shunt the whole sorry situation off on the first willing party? Jack Maxwell would buy Constantine’s. His offer might be just shy of an insult, but she’d been insulted before and lived to tell of it. Of course if she sold, Thorsen’s would lose the Milano account, and she’d lose the Thorsens. More specifically, she’d lose Thor. Which put her on the losing end of the stick no matter which choice she made.
The car pulled to a stop and Thor switched off the engine. Awakening to her surroundings, Andrea looked around. They weren’t at his parents’, nor at the hotel. In fact, she didn’t recognize this place at all. “Where are we?” she asked suspiciously.
He exited, not answering. Walking to her side of the car, he opened the door. “Welcome home.”
Welcome home? As in, his home? Turning her head, she stared through the front windshield, refusing to budge. She wouldn’t go in. The temptation was too great and her resistance too low. “Forget it.”
“You can’t stay there all night,” he said in mild tones.
“Sure I can.”
“It’s starting to rain.”
“I like rain.”
“I do, too. But I like it better from the inside looking out.”
Her smile turned smug. “I am inside.”
His brows lowered. “Not for long.”
He reached past her and unbuckled the seat belt. One strong jerk sent her tumbling from the car and into his waiting embrace.
“I can’t stay here!” she wailed. “This is your place. Besides, we have an agreement.”
His voice held patience. “You’re in shock, sweetheart—the wedding, the reception, the break in at Constantine’s. You’ll feel better once we’re inside.” He tugged gently at her hand.
“Come on.”
“No.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him with mulish obstinacy. She would not go into his house. Not that she preferred the loft at Constantine’s. Not after what happened there tonight. She shivered. A hotel would do nicely. “A hotel will do nicely,” she informed him.
He tried reason. “It’s late. We have no luggage. We’re tired and getting wet.”
“Hotels are used to late, luggage-less, tired and wet patrons.” She sniffed. “I’ll bet it’s their specialty.”
A muscle leapt in his jaw. She doubted he’d try patience or reason again. Which, if the expression in his eyes was anything to go by, left murder. “Sometimes action accomplishes far more than words,” he muttered. “And with you I believe that’s a fact.”
Obviously deciding on an alternative just shy of mayhem, he leaned down, thrust his shoulder against her hips and lifted. Clamping an arm around the back of her knees, he carried her—protesting all the way—into the sprawling ranch-style bungalow.
“We are now out of the rain, away from nosy neighbors, and more comfortable,” he said, dropping her to her feet. “You have my permission to argue all you like.”
She took a deep breath. “My pleasure! You—”
“I’m going to shower, have a drink, make a few phone calls, and go to bed.” He turned and disappeared down the hallway.
She stared after him in disbelief. “A fine way to treat your wife on her wedding night!” she shouted without thought.
He reappeared, stripped of his shirt. “It would be my pleasure to treat you like a wife on her wedding night.” He pointed to a door. “That’s my bedroom. I’ll be with you soon.”
Andrea shook her head. “Our agreement,” she croaked.
He walked toward her and she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to watch. Oh, Lord, she shouldn’t have riled the man. Now he’d want to kiss her and touch her and do wild and wonderful things to her.
He cupped her chin, lifting her face. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he ordered in a quiet voice.
Nervously, she pried open an eyelid and peeked at him. He didn’t seem furious. He didn’t even appear mildly upset. He appeared . . . Darn it all, he appeared downright sympathetic. “Yes?”
“There’s nothing to fear. I haven’t forgotten our agreement. Bringing you home seemed the best option. You shouldn’t be alone, and I don’t think it’s appropriate to return to my parents’. If you’d rather, we could go to your place.”
Her eyes widened. To the loft? He’d kill her for sure if he ever found out about that. “No, no. I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Fine. I have a spare bedroom. You can sleep there. As to my intentions, I’ll say it again. I’d like to shower. I have to call Rainer and sort through a few problems. I could use a drink, preferably something strong. After that I’m going to bed and to sleep.” His fingers lingered on her cheek for a second longer before his hand fell away. “That’s it. I suggest you do the same.”
So much for his being consumed with mindless, uncontrollable lust. Her energy level ebbed to a new low. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I’m sorry I overreacted.”
“Forget it. It’s been a long and trying day.” She winced and he sighed, rubbing a hand over his hair-matted chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. Why don’t you shower first? I’ll call Rainer. Okay?”
She nodded, furious with herself for being so sensitive, more furious, though, for not being able to drag her gaze from the hypnotic play of his hand on his chest. It must be sleep deprivation. She’d heard very strange stories about people who’d gone long periods without sleep. She considered. It must be well after one in the morning, and she’d been up since six. Did nineteen hours qualify? Reluctantly she decided not.
“Andrea?” Was that a hint of exasperation she heard?
“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “I’m not sleep deprived. I’ll go have my shower now.”
If he felt confused, he didn’t show it. “Right,” he agreed, his expression carefully serious. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She took a deep breath and moved toward the bedroom he’d indicated. She opened the door and looked in. Nice. Compact and attractive, the room boasted a decor in bold blues and golds. The perfect room for her nonexistent wedding night. Blinking away tears, she crossed to the adjoining bathroom. She stripped off her jeans and shirt, and stepped beneath the hot shower spray.
It felt wonderful to wash away all the stress and strain of the past several hours. If only she could wash away her heartache, as well. But heartache, she’d learned, was inscribed with an indelible marker.
She dried herself with a big fluffy towel and glanced at her heap of discarded clothing. It would be nice to wear pajamas, or at least a nightshirt, but hesitated to ask anything more of Thor. Dismissing the problem, she gathered her clothes and carried them into the room.
To her delight, she found a simple white shirt spread across the bed. She dropped her clothes and held the fine silk to her body, her flushed skin showing through the translucent material. Unquestionably Thor’s shirt. It was so large she couldn’t mistake it for anyone else’s. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and smiled. What a thoughtful gesture.
Engulfed by the excess material, she rolled up the cuffs. Not that the size really mattered, she decided, too exhausted to care, too exhausted to think straight. With a wide yawn she tumbled into bed and dragged the covers up to her ears.
Her wedding day was officially over. Too bad business spoiled it. Her eyes shot open in sudden realization. Too bad her business spoiled it. She sat up, a frown creasing her brow. Here she’d accused Thor of putting business first, and all along it had been her fault and her business. How appalling. She burrowed beneath the blankets, unsettled and more than a little guilty. How very appalling.
A ndrea stirred and peered around the darkened room, not quite certain what had awakened her. A strange noise perhaps, but once awake, she found sleep elusive. She heard the noise again, identifying it this time as the muted clink of glasses. Throwing aside the covers, she padded from the room. Farther down the hallway, a lone light gleamed from an open doorway and she moved toward it.
“Thor?” she called, shading her eyes against the brightness.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His tired voice came from the depths of the living room couch. “I couldn’t, either. Why don’t you join me?” He shifted to one side, and after a momentary hesitation, she curled up next to him, using his shoulder for a pillow.
She glanced at the glass he held. “What are you drinking?”
“Orange juice. Like some?”
“Thanks.” She took a healthy sip. “Why couldn’t you sleep? Because of Constantine’s—” She hesitated, wondering if she should be pursuing this conversation. “Or because of our marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” That about covered it.
He took the glass from her hand and finished it off, setting it on the table behind them. At the same time, he snapped off the lamp, plunging the room into a comfortable darkness.
“I could have killed Hartsworth for trying to harm you,” he commented in conversational tones.
She stirred uneasily. “You’re sure he’s behind it?”
“Aren’t you?”
There wasn’t any doubt in her mind. “Yes.”
“So am I.” She could feel his tension. “He won’t do it again. I’ve seen to that.”
She swallowed. “How?”
“It’s probably best you don’t know. Suffice to say I’ve sent a clear message to all comers. They’ll keep their hands off you.”
“You mean Constantine’s.”
He shrugged. “It’s all the same.”
“No. It’s not. Constantine’s is a business, I’m—”
“My wife,” he interrupted, his voice rising a notch. “I stood before a minister a
nd promised to protect you today, and that’s precisely what I intend to do.”
“I remember the love and honor part.” She frowned, struggling to recall all the minister had said. “When did anyone mention protect?”
A long moment of silence followed her question. “It was in Norwegian,” he said tightly. “Protect and, uh, take care of. Something like that.”
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “Right. You must have forgotten to translate that bit.”
“Must have.” He shifted, tucking her more firmly against his hip. “I’ve been thinking about our living arrangements. I want you to move in here.”
What should she say to that? Something casual. Keep her answer nice and amusing and safe. “Forget it.”
He wasn’t amused and she wasn’t nice and safe. “I won’t forget it! You stood before that minister and made a few vows, yourself.”
“I never promised to—”
“Live with me. Yes. You did.”
Yeah right. “Yeah, right. When?”
“Sometime after the beginning and before the end.”
“That’s an expedient answer, if I ever heard one. Let me guess. It was in Norwegian and another part you neglected to translate.”
“You got it. Love and honor, be protected and live with until death, et cetera, et cetera. That’s how it went.”
Of all the lying, conniving, rotten . . . “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“You should have warned me beforehand. You see, I already made a vow, which precludes your vow.”
He stilled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“A vow to my dead Aunt, er, Matilda. I promised never to live with a man in a temporary relationship. Ours is a temporary relationship. Therefore, I can’t live with you. Sorry, but a vow is a vow.”
“You’re making that up.” He rolled on top of her, crushing her into the cushions. “It’s too dark. I can’t see your eyes. But if I could, they’d tell me you’re lying.”
She didn’t dare say a word, not with every inch of her in a stage-one red alert.
