by Donna Fasano
Her fingers stopped in midair, poised over the keyboard. "Since when do you have to ask?" The corner of her mouth lifted as she finished typing and hit the enter key.
"Thanks," he said absently, looking back up at the ceiling.
She followed his gaze, no doubt searching the ceiling for some previously undetected blemish, then looked back at him and studied him consideringly. "You know,” she said, “Kejsa outdid herself putting together the smorgasbord tonight. The dining room will be open in fifteen minutes. Why don't you stay and have supper?”
"Hmm?" He lowered his gaze to hers and tried to piece together what she'd just said. Stay for supper. Right. "Sure. Sounds great. Come on, I'll buy you a beer before we go in.”
She raised a brow. "You know perfectly well I don’t drink beer. "Besides, my inbox has been piling up and I really have to get through it tonight." She straightened the keyboard in front of her. "But I think I saw Joanne out by the fireplace earlier. Maybe she'd keep you company.”
Leif speared his cousin with a scowl, but she was busy opening the next email she had to answer, a guileless expression on her conniving face.
He rose and stretched, striving for a look of indifference. What the hell. "Yeah, I suppose I could ask her. There’s something I need to talk to her about, anyway.”
Shooting a glare at the unrepentant grin that popped onto Vanja’s face, he ambled out of her office. Smart aleck. She'd definitely set him up.
Surprisingly, he felt no resentment.
In fact, he felt pretty damned good.
Chapter 14
Joanne had kept her eye on Vanja's office since seeing Leif saunter into it a few minutes earlier. She raised the newspaper she was holding high enough to block most of her face when she saw him stand and come out again. Turning the page, she watched from behind it as he strolled past her and through the door of the dining room without a glance in her direction.
Well. Be that way!
No, she certainly didn't have any reason to think he might want to come over and talk with her. Or just say hi, for crying out loud.
She huffed, and snapped her paper open with a loud crack.
Or even wave, for Pete's sake.
It wasn’t like they were friends, or anything. And Leif Adel was undoubtedly a very busy man.
Extremely busy.
She pressed her lips together and re-read the lead-in to the article about the most recent train crash in Italy for the fourth time.
Lord knew, he probably had a mere five minutes to spare in his hectic schedule. Just enough time to drop in on his cousin and then run into the pub for a quick—
"Sherry?”
"What?" She dropped the paper and glowered at the rude person who had interrupted her pleasant thoughts.
"Sherry." It was Leif. He held up two sparkling glasses of amber-red liquid. "Thought you might care to join me in an aperitif before dinner.”
Astonished, she looked from him to the glasses and back, unable to formulate a single thought. She nodded, snapping her jaw shut with a quick, unsettled smile. "That—" An aperitif? She struggled to remember if anyone had ever offered her one of those before. Highly unlikely. "That would be lovely. Thank you. Please, have a seat.”
He handed her one of the glasses, and sank into the overstuffed easy chair closest to hers. Their eyes met and he raised his glass to her. "Welcome to Sweden, Joanne.”
She smiled uncertainly. "Thanks.”
As they clicked glasses and drank, his eyes never left hers. He tossed his back. She lowered her gaze and sipped delicately.
"Oh, Joanne." He clucked his tongue. "I can see I'll have to teach you the proper way to skål—to toast.”
She looked into his amused face and blinked. "I did it wrong?”
"Wrong for Sweden." He lifted one of those broad shoulders. "It's okay. I'm not offended." Then he grinned. "Now, if I had been a real Viking, that little error might have cost you.”
She frowned. "I didn't realize there was anything else to it but clicking your glasses together.”
"The ritual of social drinking is taken very seriously over here. Lots of etiquette involved." He looked over as the waitress, Gunilla, opened the doors to the dining room, allowing the small waiting crowd of locals and hotel guests to enter. "I hear the smorgasbord's particularly good tonight. I can teach you the ins and outs over dinner." He rose. "Shall we?”
She couldn't believe her ears. He was asking her to dinner? She gazed up at him, her good sense temporarily overwhelmed by the sensual curve of his lips and the bad boy twinkle in his eyes.
"I'd like that," she managed. She rose and, without thinking, looped her hand through the crook of his arm. When he immediately stiffened, she glanced up questioningly. "What?" He was staring at her hand. She snatched it away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I—”
Letting out a breath, he reached over and replaced it on his arm. "No, I'm sorry. It's been a while since…well, since a woman has touched me, that's all.”
Too shocked to reply, she let him guide her toward the dining room. At the door, he paused and seemed to gather himself, then gave her a wink. She should have been prepared for that wink, but, oh, mercy, it hit her just as hard as the first one had.
She was suddenly oblivious to everything but her pounding heart as they threaded their way, arm in arm, between tables of villagers gaping at them from behind their menus.
Holy cow. There must be something seriously wrong with the women of Karesuomi if they had left this drop-dead sexy man untouched for even a week, let alone “quite a while.”
She, at least, had a good excuse.
He led her to a corner table at the end of a long wall of mullioned windows that overlooked a grove of ancient woods right out of a Nordic fairy tale. After pulling out a chair for her, he slid into the corner seat, from which he could survey—and scowl at, it appeared—the whole dining room.
Gunilla came with a broad smile and their menus. “Good evening. So nice to see you both.”
Before Joanne could open her mouth to speak, Leif waved off the menus. "Hej, Gunilla. I think we'll have the smorgasbord tonight. I hear it’s great.”
Gunilla regarded him with amusement. "Kejsa must have heard you were coming, Leif. What's—”
Joanne was disappointed when he interrupted Gunilla's teasing to say a few sentences in Swedish to her. The waitress’s brows flickered as she wrote on her order pad. "Okay, Leif. No problem. Be right back.”
Joanne couldn't control her curiosity. "What did you say to her?”
"Just giving our drink order." The corners of his mouth lifted. "I'm not forgetting my promise.”
She blinked.
“To teach you how to drink like a Swede,” he reminded her.
“Ah.” Truth be told, she was beginning to feel the slightest bit uneasy about that.
Gunilla returned several minutes later, and efficiently rearranged their table. Between them she placed a large basket of flat, hard knäckebrod, and in front of each of them she placed a small plate with thinly shaved, dark red meat...along with a very impressive array of stemware.
"So. Anything interesting happen this afternoon?" Leif asked when the waitress had hurried off again.
Joanne barely heard him. She was awed—and not a little intimidated— eyeing the glassware. Surely, he didn't intend to fill each of those glasses with wine or liquor? They'd have to carry her out.
“What? Oh. Yes, as a matter of fact. I met a very nice man.” She looked at Leif with trepidation. “What on earth are all these glasses for?" She couldn't tear her eyes away from the sparkling crystal.
His gaze flicked down to the table and up again, a frown flitting across his face. "They're for drinking. What nice man?”
She counted the glasses arranged around her thick linen placemat. "Down in the Lower Village. In the cemetery." Eight. There were eight freaking glasses. "Holy crap. Do you know how many there are?”
He scowled. "Men?”
She looked up, exasperated. "No. Glasses. D
o you know how many glasses we each have?”
For a second he looked nonplussed, then waved a hand dismissively. "Seven or eight, I should imagine. You being American, and all. What the hell were you doing talking to strange men in the cemetery?"
She shot him a frown. "What does being American have to do with how many glasses we have?”
He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. "Who was this man you spent the afternoon with, Joanne?”
She refocused on Leif. Why the hell was he grilling her about a harmless old man? "I didn't spend the afternoon with him, we talked for about an hour. And he wasn't strange. Okay, maybe just a little. But in a good way. He really was very nice. I liked him a lot, and—”
"Joanne," Leif cut her off. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "His name. I want the man’s name.”
She hiked a brow. "Well, there's no need to get all huffy about it. I—”
"Joanne. The. Name.”
She crossed her arms and regarded Leif. "What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
His eyes narrowed. "I'm getting damn close to looking for a handy rack.”
She felt a tingle of heat as she let her gaze wander across his broad shoulders and down his six-pack abs. "I believe you'd look quite tasty in a nice red uniform.”
Just then, Gunilla came up to their table with an ice bucket holding a small bottle of clear aquavit. She took one look at Joanne’s mischievous grin and the muscle ticking in Leif’s cheek, and wordlessly opened the bottle. She filled a small, conical glass in front of Leif, all the way up to the brim, then started to pour Joanne’s.
Leif's eyes never left hers. "This is Joanne’s first time, Gunilla, so I think I should be gentle with her. Only half.”
She felt her grin slowly dissolve and somehow transfer itself across the table to him. Gunilla giggled as she replaced the bottle in the ice and walked away.
Ho-boy.
"Why do we have eight glasses, Leif? And why does it matter that I'm American?”
His smile turned devilish. "You Yanks aren't known for your drinking ability. I'm going easy on you." Then the devil sparked angrily in his eyes, and he demanded softly, "Now, tell me who the man was.”
Lord have mercy. If this was going easy on her, she'd hate to see a challenge. "It was Reverend Sigurdsson. But I don’t see why you’re getting all weird about it.”
Leif squeezed his eyes shut for a solid ten seconds as he muttered what sounded like a string of curses in Swedish. Then he leveled her a gaze. "Did you find your grandfather in the cemetery?”
She was so confused. "No.”
"Too bad. Shall we eat?"
She decided this whole conversation must have lost something in translation, and gave up trying to follow it. “Sure. I’m starving.”
He picked up his knife and fork and took a bite of the thinly shaved meat, savoring it. "Mmm. Delicious.”
She looked at the small plate in front of her for the first time, then followed suit and took an uncertain bite. He was right. It really was delicious. "This is great. What did you say it was?" She took another bite.
"Reindeer.”
She stopped chewing and peered down at the remaining curl of meat on her plate. “No.”
He chuckled. "Dried reindeer, sliced paper-thin.”
"You mean...like Rudolf?”
"I doubt if it had a red nose." He was openly grinning.
She swallowed her bite. And told herself it was no different than eating any other kind of meat.
"I think it might be the right time to start our lesson,” Leif said. “What do you think?”
She looked nervously from her plate to the glass of aquavit. “Um...”
"This is how it works." He lifted his glass carefully and nodded for her to do the same. "First, hold the glass between your thumb and forefinger, arm parallel to the table, elbow out. That's right. Now, look serious. This is a very serious thing, taking our first drink together.”
She tried for serious, but found it hard to mask her apprehension. He’d never really answered her about the eight glasses.
The corners of his mouth curved up. "Trust me, this isn't going to kill you. Hell, it probably won't even hurt. Much.”
His joke worked. She was being ridiculous. “Very funny.”
"That's better. Now, be as intimidating as you can. Look me directly in the eyes. Like you could lay me flat with no problem.”
She swallowed a choke. She was pretty sure her mental image of laying him flat wasn’t at all the way he’d intended. She banished it, and tried for serious. And failed with a giggle.
She didn't feel intimidating, she felt silly. "I can't.”
"Concentrate." He exaggerated his somber expression. "It's not hard, once you get the hang of it.”
She exhaled and cleared her mind, and tried again.
“Better. No matter what happens, you are not to break eye contact. If you do, you've lost.”
She raised a brow, while still attempting to look serious. "Lost what?”
"The battle, of course.”
Her concentration shattered, and she frowned. "Wait. This is a battle?”
He nodded. "Sweden still hangs onto its Viking heritage. In a warrior culture, everything you did determined your status. The ritual of out-staring your opponent probably started way back with the cavemen. The weapons have just gotten a bit more civilized nowadays. We do it over drinks instead of swords.”
She thought about that. "But...I'm not your opponent, am I?”
He looked long and hard at her, then sighed and shook his head. "No, of course not.” He seemed to regroup. “Okay, you have to drink the whole thing in one swallow, or you lose, too.”
Fine. She could be Lagertha Lodbrok. She looked deep into Leif’s eyes. Suddenly, she didn't feel silly any more. Her arm wavered, but her determination steeled. Instinctively, she knew there was something else going on here besides just downing a shot. Whatever it was, no way was she going to lose this battle.
Staring into Leif’s penetrating blue eyes, she felt herself flush, a whipcord of arousal lashing through her body. Damn the man. He was just too sexy for his schnapps.
She swallowed hard. "Okay. I’m ready.”
The question was, for what?
Chapter 15
Watching a rosy blush wash over Joanne's cheeks and down her throat, sweeping dangerously low into the neckline of her pretty summer dress, Leif nearly lost his concentration.
He drew in a stiff breath and shook his head to clear it of rising hormones. "Say it with me now. Skål.”
"Skoal.”
From the look on her face, the aquavit must have burned like hell going down, but she managed to swallow it without choking. Her eyes watered, but they never left his.
He was impressed.
"Very good. You must have some Viking in you.” He gave her an appreciative smile.
"A former life, no doubt,” she rasped over her glass, still recovering.
"And now, I think some nice dried reindeer meat would hit the spot." He polished his off in a few bites.
"I believe you're right." She did likewise, and set her fork down with flourish. "Okay. What's next, Adel?”
He grinned. No doubt about it, Viking blood.
He went around to pull out her chair, and led her to the smorgasbord, guiding her through the awesome selection of pickled herring, reindeer sausage, various potato dishes, fish stew, brown beans, and chops.
"Too bad it's not August," he lamented. "Then there would be crayfish, too.”
She groaned at her plate when they reached the end of the long table. "So much for my diet.”
He chuckled. “This is just the first course.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“Not to mention the desserts.”
An hour and a half later, they had worked themselves through the first course...and four glasses—aquavit, seltzer, a blond beer to chase the shots of aquavit, and an amber beer to sip with the food—and he�
��d carefully instructed her on which glass to use for what. In-between, they’d talked about everything from Swedish history to social media.
When their plates were finally empty, he signaled Gunilla, who brought two bottles of wine—one white and one red.
Joanne took a healthy swallow of the light beer after their end-of-the-course shot. "I see now why there's so much to drink with dinner.”
He glanced up from the corkscrew he’d just inserted in the white wine bottle. "Oh?”
She blew out a breath, waving a hand in front of her mouth. "To kill the taste of all the herring and onions. Yikes, what a combination.”
He laughed. "You catch on quickly. Don’t worry. Here comes Gunilla with the sorbet.”
The waitress spooned lemon sorbet into the wide-bowled fifth glass, and they dug in.
“Did that help?” he asked when they’d enjoyed the icy, palate-cleansing treat.
“I’m not sure,” Joanne admitted, licking her spoon, “but it was really yummy.”
“This should kill the curse.” He pulled the cork from the white wine with a soft thunk.
She tapped the edge of her empty wine glass, making the crystal softly ring. "Are you, by any chance, trying to get me drunk, Mr. Adel?”
The subtly sexual tone of her question would normally have put him on edge and made him head straight for the door. But he was feeling warm and mellow, and he’d enjoyed her company so much tonight that he played right along without thinking. "Me? Now why would I do that, Miss Fager?”
She rested her elbows on the table and laid her chin on her fingers. "Oh, I could think of a few reasons.”
"Really?" He wrapped the wine bottle in a linen cloth. "I can't think of a single one. Please, enlighten me." He gave her an innocent look, but apparently sucked at hiding his badly straying thoughts. The woman was smart, funny, personable, and gorgeous. He’d have to be blind and deaf—or gay—not to want to get closer to her.
She emitted an unladylike snort. "No sense putting ideas in your head. Wouldn't work anyway.”
He felt strangely challenged. He should feel relieved. She was saving him from himself. He didn’t want to get tangled up with a woman, remember?
