"I'm tired, Margit,” he said. “It's been a long day.” He turned on his stomach, as if to protect himself from her advances.
That was a half-hour ago. Since then, Margit had been lying here, sleepless. Frustration boiled inside her like a volcano of molten lava. How much longer before she erupted into an explosion of hot fury? Uncaring if she disturbed Erik, she rolled over onto her side with a spasmodic jerk. In his sleep, he turned. She felt his hand slide onto her hip. What the hell? She turned to face him. He reached for her. Then, distinctly, he said one word. “Kayleigh..."
Margit stiffened. In the half-light from the bathroom, she saw the smile on his sleeping face, and in that moment, she hated him. So, it was still that American bitch. What was it about that woman that obsessed him so? Viciously, she threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. For months now, she'd been faithful to her husband. Even gave up Bjorn for him, and all the time, he was still hot for a middle-aged American whore.
Her face set grimly, Margit walked over to the desk and picked up the phone. “Room 326, please."
Bjorn answered on the first ring. “Yes?"
"It's me,” she said quietly. “Make an excuse not to go to the Nordic-Combined tomorrow. When everyone leaves, I'll meet you in your room.” Without waiting for an answer, she hung up.
Turning back toward the bed, she cast a scornful glance at her sleeping husband and muttered, “Fuck you, Erik."
* * * *
The next morning when Margit informed him she wasn't going to the Nordic-Combined, Erik barely reacted. “Okay,” he said and continued shaving. Through the long night, Margit's anger hadn't cooled, and now with his indifferent attitude, it blazed even more intensely.
"Surely there's something better to do than go watch that damn ski-jumping,” she snarled. “And there's nothing more boring on earth than watching cross-country skiing."
Erik pursed his lips as he stroked the razor under his chin in quick, practiced motions. His eyes didn't move from the mirror. “That's fine with me, Margit. Do what you want."
"Oh, I will,” Margit said, green eyes burning. “I'll find something to do.” Or someone.
Actually, Erik was relieved that she wasn't going today. After the morning ski-jumping, they would be leaving for the second half of the Nordic-Combined featuring the cross-country 10km relay. He didn't want to be burdened by Margit's presence ... because he intended to look for Kayleigh.
After he finished shaving, Erik got dressed and then glanced over at Margit. With a pair of burgundy glasses perched on her nose, she looked like an attractive, but haughty librarian as she sat at the table in front of the window, riffling through a fashion magazine. Erik wished he had something to say to her. Since yesterday, all the old feelings had returned to him. The ones of being trapped in a loveless marriage. How had he been able to deceive himself all these months ... actually believing he had fallen in love with his wife?
Since discovering Kayleigh was in Albertville, his thoughts and emotions were in turmoil, but he'd come to an obvious conclusion. One he didn't like. Kayleigh had changed hotels because she didn't want him to find her. Mags had told him how he'd met Knut Aabel at the medal ceremony, and Kayleigh hadn't been with him. Mags was sure his presence had been a shock to her at breakfast the next morning. When he'd described the way the color had drained from her face, Erik had felt a lurch in his chest. Without a doubt, he knew she'd reacted that way because she still loved him, and seeing Mags had been like confronting a ghost from the past. But then why, if she loved him, had she changed hotels, thereby erasing any hope of him finding her in a city full of sports spectators?
Yet, he would find her. He was determined to. And when he did? What then? Erik hadn't thought past that. He just knew one thing. When he finally did find Kayleigh again ... this time, he'd never let her go.
Chapter 33
Erik met Mags downstairs in the lobby. Except for the team competition in ski-jumping, the Olympics were over for Mags. After his initial disappointment at finishing fourth in the 90-meter jump, Mags had finally realized that winning only one gold medal was not a bad thing. Besides, there might yet be another medal in store for him in next week's team jump.
They'd been waiting for five minutes when Anne-Lise and Dordei arrived.
"Where's the men?” Erik asked.
Anne-Lise shrugged. “It seems both of them have better things to do today."
"What? Better than the Nordic-Combined?” Mags said. “Who is she?"
Anne-Lise smiled uneasily and Dordei rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I'm afraid Hakon has a frightful headache this morning,” she said. “He got looped in the bar last night. I guess he'll stay in bed all day."
"And Bjorn insists on going over to watch that afternoon hockey game between Norway and Canada,” Anne-Lise said.
Erik lifted an eyebrow. “I hadn't realized he was a hockey buff."
"Nor did I. But he seems to be throwing around surprises these days.” A stony glint blazed in her eyes. Erik wondered if they'd had a tiff.
"Well, shall we get going?” he said.
"What about Margit?” Dordei asked.
"It seems Margit is becoming bored with our national sport. She'll probably go out and do some shopping. Actually, I don't know what she's up to, but we're probably better off without her whining.” He threw an arm around Mags. “Come on. Let's go watch Norway win another medal today."
* * * *
"How does this feel?” Margit gazed into the dark pools of Bjorn's eyes and slowly lowered her nude body down onto his erect penis. “Ahhh...” Imperceptibly, she eased down, stopping tantalizingly before his full length was enveloped inside her. She smiled. “Mmmm? Do you like this?"
His answer was a tortured groan.
"Did you miss me, Bjorn? Did you miss fucking me?” She slid down another inch. He thrust upward and she drew away. “Uh uh. No cheating. Answer me, Bjorn. Did you miss it?"
"You know I did...” Bjorn said hoarsely.
"Say it. Say the words.” With her vaginal muscles, she tightened her hold.
"Christ, Margit. You're driving me crazy."
"Say it, Bjorn."
"I missed fucking you, damn it!” Reaching up, he clamped his hands upon her buttocks and pulled her down, ramming his engorged shaft into her. She bit her lip as she moved sensuously on top of him, her eyes closed. “Witch,” he whispered, his hands spreading out over her tempting pink-tinged nipples. In one swift movement, he rolled her over onto her back. “Now, my sweet, I'm going to fuck the living daylights out of you."
"Go for it,” she whispered.
* * * *
"We have a bottle of wine in my room.” Margit's toe moved slowly up Bjorn's hairy calf. She smiled and burrowed her face into the hollow of his throat, greedily licking up trails of salty sweat. “Shall I go get it?"
"Mmmm.... in a moment. I just want you here like this for a little while longer.” He lifted a strand of gold-red hair to his lips. “How did I do without you for so long?"
"I don't know. I was wondering that myself.” Margit looked up at him and giggled. “I mean, I don't know how I did without you."
Bjorn's mouth twitched. “Vixen! I know what you meant.” A finger trailed down her neck onto the swell of her breast. “So, what made you change your mind?"
Margit pulled away from him and sat up on the bed. Her tangled hair fell over her face, hiding her expression. “Your brother, the bastard!"
Amused, Bjorn propped himself up with an elbow. “What has he done now?"
"It's Kayleigh again. Last night, he called out her name in his sleep. And I'm sick of playing second string to her."
In a flash, Bjorn scrambled up and roughly drew her around to face him. “So, is that what I'm playing to you? Second string?"
She stared at him. “No! Of course not. Bjorn, you know how I've always felt about you. It's just that I'm his wife! And he shouldn't be longing for someone else."
Bjorn relaxed his hold on her shoulders. “That's my Mar
git. You can't stand it if you aren't number one with everyone.” He slid back down on the bed, pulling her with him. “Kiss me. Then I'll let you get that wine."
Her mouth opened pliantly beneath his and she felt her blood stir again. Why couldn't she get enough of this man? Would it be the same if she were married to him? Somehow, she didn't think so. Reluctantly, she pulled away. “Let me go. It won't take but a minute.” She sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. “Do you have something I can slip on to run across the hall?"
Bjorn grinned. “Sure. There's my shirt on the floor. Of course, the way you ripped it off me, it might not be in one piece."
Margit grabbed the pillow from the bed and tossed it at him. A moment later, she stood before him wearing his light blue broadcloth shirt. “How do I look?"
"Fetching. But if I were you, I'd button it up."
Margit laughed and quickly fastened the buttons. “I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.” She was still smiling when she opened his door and glanced into the empty hall. She scurried across the corridor and unlocked her door. It took only a moment to find the wine bottle in the bottom of her suitcase. She'd bought it for a romantic evening with Erik, but romance didn't seem to be on his mind these days. Not with her, at any rate.
She crossed the hall and reached Bjorn's door. But when her hand went to turn the knob, it refused to budge. “Damn!” she muttered. It must have locked automatically on the way out. Just as she started to knock, a door down the hall opened and Hakon stepped out from his room.
Margit froze. Hakon stared. A slow grin spread over his face, and he moved toward her. Margit's mind whirled as she tried to think of an innocent reason she'd be entering Bjorn's room, half-naked, with a bottle of wine in her hand. But the expression on Hakon's face told her there was no need for an explanation.
He moved up next to her. “Nice shirt,” he said softly, his blue eyes sweeping over her body insolently. “Bjorn has good taste, doesn't he?"
Margit didn't answer.
Hakon's smile widened. “Why, Margit, I don't believe I've ever seen you at such a loss for words. Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But you know, if I do keep quiet, I suppose I'll be doing a disservice to my wife. After all, she's quite fond of Erik. If she knew you were ... how shall I put it? Cuckolding her brother ... with her other brother ... well, you see what I'm getting at..."
Margit's eyes bored into the gold-plated number on Bjorn's door. “Hakon, just say whatever it is you're trying to say."
His hand reached out and a finger traced the deep vee opening of her shirt. Margit shuddered and pulled away. “Ah, don't be like that, Margit,” Hakon said. “Why should Bjorn be the only one to savor your charms? Surely you and I can make a little arrangement, and then perhaps I'll forget everything I've seen this afternoon."
Margit stared at him. He smiled lazily and his eyes moved to her lips. In repulsed fascination, she watched the tip of his tongue snake out to lick at his upper lip hungrily. A wave of sickness engulfed her. Quickly, she reached up and grabbed the hand that still stroked the skin above her shirt. She gave it a sharp twist. “You pig!” She threw his hand away from her as if it were contaminated. “I'd rather sleep with a cockroach! Now, why don't you get the hell away from me."
Hakon's face reddened and his mouth curled. “You're some snotty bitch! What makes you think I won't go to Erik and tell him his wife is screwing his brother?"
Margit looked him straight in the eye. “Because you're a cowardly prick, that's why. And as long as you think you're holding something over me, you'll keep trying to get me into your bed. But it's not going to work, Hakon. I may be an adulteress, but I'm not a whore. Now, if you'll excuse me...” She rapped sharply on Bjorn's door, and turned back to Hakon. “I'd get out of here if I were you. Unless you don't mind getting your ass kicked by Bjorn..."
Without another word, Hakon turned and walked away. Rubbing his eyes, Bjorn opened the door and Margit slipped inside, slamming it behind her. She looked up at Bjorn.
"Did you hear that?"
"What?” He shook his head groggily. “Sorry, love, I must've dropped off.” He looked at her closer. “Christ, Margit! You're white as snow! What is it?"
Margit took a deep tremulous breath. “Hakon knows about us."
* * * *
"He won't say anything,” Bjorn said firmly when Margit described what had happened out in the hall. “Not after I have a word with him. I feel like breaking his goddamn neck. Coming on to you like that."
"That's nothing new.” Margit took a sip of white wine. “He's been doing that ever since Dordei first brought him around. This is just the first time he's ever attempted blackmail."
"Don't waste your time worrying about him. He knows if he tells Erik, I'll come gunning for him.” Bjorn tossed off the last of his wine. “What time is it?"
Margit looked at her wristwatch. “Half two. Why? Do you have an appointment?"
"As a matter-of-fact...” He took the glass of wine from her hands and placed it on the bedside table. Grinning, he pushed her down onto the bed.
* * * *
"I got it!” Erik flashed a grin at Anne-Lise as he took his seat beside her. “It's going to be a great photo. I snapped it just as Svelland touched Jakobsen for the relay."
They were sitting in the stands just beyond the stone bridge that had been designated the mid-way point of the 10km race. Norway was in a close second to the Soviet Union but their strongest cross-country skier, Sigbjorn Syse, would take over for the last leg of the competition. Erik was convinced he'd be the key to a Norwegian victory.
He glanced around. “Where's Mags and Dordei?"
"They went over to the food stand for some hot chocolate,” Anne-Lise huddled in her fur coat against the brisk wind. She glanced over at Erik. Should she tell him her suspicions now that they were alone?
But how? How could she come right out and tell him she thought Margit was having an affair with Bjorn? Several times in the past year, that idea had crossed her mind. Usually at the Haukelands when she'd spied them laughing together over something silly, or exchanging a meaningful glance across the room. But she'd always dismissed it from her mind. It was just her imagination. After all, Margit was her sister-in-law. What kind of woman would betray her husband with his own brother? And yet, the thought kept returning.
Last night, there had been the phone call. It was late, sometime after midnight. She'd awakened to hear Bjorn answer it. It hadn't taken long and when he hung up, she'd sleepily asked about it. “Wrong number,” he'd replied and rolled over onto his side away from her. She'd thought no more about it until this morning when she'd discovered Margit wasn't going along to the Nordic-Combined. A cold chill had entered her heart when Erik made that announcement. Coincidental with Bjorn's sudden interest in hockey?
Again, she wrestled with the decision to tell Erik. But how could she? She had no proof, just her intuition. And that wasn't enough reason to ruin Erik's marriage. She glanced over at him. He was scanning the crowd with his binoculars.
"Who are you looking for?” she asked.
He dropped the binoculars and gave her an odd glance. “You wouldn't understand if I told you."
"What does that mean?"
He just shook his head. “Oh, here comes Mags and Dordei with your hot chocolate. Look, I'm going to take a walk. I'll be back in a while."
Erik made his way from the stands and milled through the spectators along the course. Surely Kayleigh was here somewhere. Even so, the chances of finding her were slim. Too many people and too large an area to search. Once, he thought he saw her. A slim ash-blond woman dressed in red ski-wear. But when he circled around to catch a glimpse of her face, he saw she was a college-aged girl. He walked for over an hour, just sweeping the faces of everyone around him. But it was no use. If she were here in this crowd somewhere, he wasn't going to find her.
When he returned to his seat in the stands, Anne-Lise saw t
he bleak look on his face, and she wondered what had happened. Had he somehow discovered about Margit and Bjorn? She wanted to ask, but fear of his answer kept her silent.
* * * *
Leigh tied the last of the string around a wrapped oil painting and smiled at the elderly blue-haired patron across from her desk. “I'm so glad you decided on the Hadley Adair,” she said. “He's going to be the talk of New York next season."
With a flourish, the woman signed her charge slip and pushed it back to Leigh. She smiled sweetly. “Yes, I do think you're right. He's a very talented young artist."
Leigh carried the painting to the front door of the gallery and handed it over to the woman with a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Carleton, you have a nice evening."
After she closed the door behind her, Leigh locked it and switched over the tiny gold plaque that read “Closed.” She breathed a sigh of relief and began to turn off the lights. Ward had left hours ago to attend a meeting in New York, and she'd been working alone in the gallery. As luck would have it, it had been a busy afternoon. She was anxious to get home to a quiet dinner with Knut.
Since their return from France, they'd grown even closer than before. The antibiotics had done the job and Knut had recovered quickly from the lung abscess. When he'd gone back to the doctor for a chest X-ray the end of March, the abscess had healed completely. The frightening episode was in the past, and now she and Knut were enjoying each other more than ever.
Sometimes, Leigh couldn't believe they had been together for over a year. For the first time in their relationship, she really began to think of it as permanent. The other night as she lay in bed next to him, she'd surprised herself by thinking of marriage. If he asked her again ... would she consider it? She thought perhaps she would. And strangely enough, Albertville would be the reason for it.
It was as if she'd closed an emotional door that day when she'd checked out of the Chamonde Hotel, having made the decision to walk away from Erik. Now, for the first time, she believed she was free of him. He no longer had the power to haunt her.
Leigh stepped into the back room to get her jacket. She was just about to get her purse from Ward's desk when she heard a knock at the front door. “Oh, hell.” She hated it when a patron insisted on coming in even though they knew the gallery was closed. It happened all the time. Just because they had money, they felt they were owed special privileges. Trouble was, usually, they got them.
East of the Sun, West of the Moon Page 35
