by Sandra Hill
“Close your teeth, halfbrain,” he said. Lest you want a fistful of sand clogging your throat.
“Listen, Finnster, when I was a kid down on the bayou, my brother said he didn’t like catfish. He always tossed back every catfish he ever caught. So, my MawMaw tol’ Phillipe, be careful, ’cause if he didn’t eat the catfish, someone else would. One day Phillipe decided he had a taste for catfish, and lo and behold, the catfish was gone. Moral of the story: Eat yer catfish when ya can, or someone else’ll snatch it off yer plate, guar-an-teed.”
Thorfinn snapped out his favorite Old Norse expletive.
“That means Bite me,” Torolf told Cage.
“It does not!”
Torolf shrugged. “A rough translation.”
“If I e’er meet that MawMaw of yours, if she even exists, I plan to throttle her.”
“You could try. My MawMaw is one tough broad. Arnold Schwarzenegger with dentures. Talk about!”
“If you have no feelings for Lydia, would you mind if I asked her out on a date?” Slick asked. Women were drawn to this dark SEAL with his unsmiling demeanor.
I will be bloody hell damned if I just hand Lydia over to him. “Yea, I would mind. Do, and you die. And I ne’er said I had no feelings for Lydia. I merely said she does not want to wed with me ’til I am able to say I love her.”
“Then say it, dammit,” Torolf advised.
“I cannot lie.”
“Millions of men lie about that. Besides, if you aren’t already in love with her, you’ll probably grow to love her,” Torolf told him.
“Maybe you oughtta talk with a therapist,” JAM suggested.
“A head doctor? There is naught wrong with my head.” Except it is a thousand years old.
“Your cock, then?” Sly suggested.
“Lackwits! All of you! There is naught wrong with that body part either.” A thousand-year-old cock . . . amazing, when you think about it. “It’s my heart she wants.”
They were all getting great pleasure out of his misery.
As they began running at a slow trot back to the compound, Thorfinn said, speaking to no one in particular, “What is love, anyway?”
“Wanna know what I think?” Geek asked Thorfinn.
“No.”
“I think all this protesting that you’re not in love with Lydia is just an excuse to cover the fact that you’re scared. One woman left you high and dry, and you’re afraid to give your heart to another.”
“I ne’er gave my heart to Luta.” Or much else, and she gave even less in return. Pitiful, really.
“Well, then, see,” Cage drawled, “all the more reason to let the love bug into your heart.”
“Love bug?” he scoffed. “If there was a love bug around me, it would probably bite me in the arse.”
“Got it in one,” Cage said, chuckling.
“You know, it would help if even one of you had a bit of constructive advice.”
“Well, cher, since you asked. There’s a famous Louisiana saying: Shuck Me, Suck Me, Eat Me Raw,” Cage told him.
“I thought that referred to crawfish, or oysters, or somethin’,” Sly said.
“Same thing,” Cage countered.
Their risqué banter was giving him a headache . . . that and the sap that ran in his body without release.
“Where do I find this head doctor? I think you all need him more than I do.”
If all else failed, she could become a porn star . . .
“This is fun,” Alison said. “Can you do me when you’re done doing Lydia?”
Four women giggled at her wording.
Using a rented video camera, Kirstin was filming Lydia in a flesh-colored leotard and in stilettos made up of two thin bands of black leather . . . one across her toes and the other around her ankles. When she stood, her body was forced into a porn-star posture, pelvis thrust forward and butt arched back. Her hair had been curled and teased into one of those big bimbo “I Just Got Out of Bed” looks, and she wore enough lip gloss to lube a truck. She was doing some of the sexiest pole-dancing moves this side of a strip joint to the beat of “Wild Thing.”
Amongst all the laughter and advice and praise, there was narration, as if Lydia were teaching moves to a class. When the video was “accidentally” shown to Finn, he would be told that it was a demo that Lydia had made for an instructional video company that might buy it.
Mike had joined Finn, Torolf, and Ian, with their kids, at some youth arcade place. Lydia had been there before and practically had to wear earplugs by the end of the evening. She hoped Finn suffered, just as he was making her suffer.
Later, up in her kitchen, where they were eating take-out Chinese, Lydia told Hilda, “Make sure no one but Finn sees this video.”
“Why?” Hilda was licking soy sauce off her thumb.
“Because I would be embarrassed.”
“Maybe you really should market the thing,” Kirstin offered.
“Not on your life. As it is, I have fears the thing may end up on the Internet.”
“Men!” Madrene said. “They do not know what they want. We have to lead them by their ears.” She grinned. “Or their manparts.”
“Truth to tell, I do not see what you want with the loathsome lout,” Hilda remarked. “Dost know what he calls me? Hilda the Hun. I had to have Torolf explain it to me. It was not a compliment.”
“I like him,” Alison said. “Any man who shows such caring for a child is to be commended.” When everyone turned to Alison, she blushed.
“Alison,” Madrene said tentatively, “since when are you such an advocate for fatherhood? Could it be . . . ?”
“Yes!” Kirstin jumped up to kiss her sister-in-law. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
Alison nodded, happy tears streaming down her face. Lydia knew that Alison had been pregnant before she’d married Ragnor six years or so ago, but she lost the baby. She suspected it had taken her all this time to get pregnant again.
Once all the congratulations and hugs were over, they sat down to resume eating.
“Would you like to have more children?” Lydia asked Hilda. She already knew Madrene had had a tubal ligation, and Kirstin wasn’t married.
“Mayhap one more. And you?”
“I didn’t think so. But now . . . I think I would. Yes, definitely.”
“What I don’t understand,” Kirstin said, “is what caused your abrupt reversal about not being with a military man.”
“Love,” Madrene, Hilda, and Alison answered for her.
“Love does make a difference,” Lydia conceded. Now, if only Finn could realize that.
“Well, let us hope that the idiot Viking takes the bait from your pole-dancing seduction,” Hilda said. “I mean, lust is a given with Viking men, but that’s not what you want to accomplish with this video . . . or at least not everything. Love is what you are aiming for, right? Love induced by jealousy.”
Twist and shout: she twisted, he shouted . . .
Torolf was putting his bratling to bed, and Thorfinn had just showered. It had been a hard day of physical exercise, but satisfying. When he was panting for breath and his muscles screaming, he could forget about Lydia.
Liar! Lydia was on his mind, even then.
Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity these past few busy weeks for them to be alone. What little time he had was consumed with Miklof. Of course Lydia was usually there, too, but it was not the same.
Truth to tell, he had come to a surprising conclusion, especially after that talk he had had with Torolf and his comrades on the beach. He was in love with Lydia, if this constant ache in the region of his heart was an indication. Or the way he thought of nothing but her night and day. Or the way he walked about with a half-thickening at the most inappropriate times. Yea, he must be in love.
Lydia would be so happy. He could not wait to tell her. He called her number, but there was no answer, just her voice telling him to leave a message. Even he knew it would not be romantic to tell a woman f
or the first time that you loved her over a telephone. Mayhap on the morrow if he was able to get away from the SEAL command center.
So, it was with a smile of anticipation on his face that he walked into the solar to hear Lydia’s voice. He stopped short, not having heard her arrive. But no one was there, except the shrew.
“Go away, Finn,” Hilda ordered.
That of course meant he had to enter the room.
“What are you doing?” he inquired lazily as he plopped down into a soft chair. Hilda hated it when he used that lazy tone, or when he plopped onto her furniture.
“Watching an instructional video Lydia made. She’s going to sell it to an Internet company.”
He turned his attention to the TV box, and there Lydia was, stark naked. Nay, not naked. Wearing that skin-tight, flesh-colored garment. Not to mention tup-me-quick shoes that made a woman’s body arch with the pelvis thrust forward. An invitation for sex play, if there ever was one. But, whoa, what was that dance move? It was as if she were making love to the pole. And the dreamy expression on her face! Save me, Odin!
As aroused as he was, instantly, he was also horrified. “Who will see this?”
“Everyone who buys it.” Hilda did not even have the grace to look his way, so intent was she on watching the video.
“Men?”
“And women.”
“Are you saying that strangers will pay to watch Lydia bend her . . . oh, my gods . . . did you see what she just did?”
“Yes. She is good, isn’t she? Thousands of people will buy this video.”
“Over my dead body!”
“You have no say over Lydia.”
“Dost think so?”
Hilda did look at him then. “You do not love her, Finn. Why would you care?”
“I ne’er said I did not care.” He could tell Hilda of his newly discovered love for Lydia and mayhap reduce her contempt, but why should he? And, really, Lydia should be the first to know. “I care too much.”
“Bullshit!” Hilda was way too frank of manner and had taken on too many modern expressions, if you asked him, which nobody did.
“Coarse talk ill suits you, wench.”
“Call me wench again, and I’ll castrate you with that bloody sword of yours, which, incidentally, I want out of the linen closet.”
Keep it up, shrew, and I will use said sword to slit your irksome tongue. “Mind your own business, Hilda.” He was watching the video with his head cocked to the side. Who knew a woman could twist her body like that? He wondered what it would be like to have sex in that position. Nay, nay, nay! I did not just think that. Disgusted with himself, he walked up to the TV box and pressed the eject button.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “I need to watch that video. Lydia wants my advice on some of the moves that need work.”
“I will give Lydia all the advice she needs about this wanton display.” Over my knees with her arse in the air. Betimes a good spanking is all that will do. With that he stomped out of the room.
Smiling, Hilda listened as Thorfinn stormed up to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Then she called Lydia.
“It worked.”
The things a woman will do for love . . .
Lydia was prepared for Finn when the doorbell rang the next night.
Mike was sleeping over at his friend’s.
She was wearing a red camisole with matching tap pants, and nothing else.
Nail polish was on the coffee table, where she had presumably been painting her toenails, listening to soft rock music.
The lights were dim.
Aromatherapy candles burned on the mantel.
“Finn!” she exclaimed on opening the door. “What a surprise! But Mike isn’t here.”
Finn just stood frozen in place, surveying her from head to toe. She thought he murmured, “Gods help me!” before he shook his head as if to clear it and asked, “Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone.” She was insulted that he would think she walked around like this with some man in the place. But wait . . . maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. “For now.”
“Can I come in?”
Of course, said the spider to the fly. She nodded and opened the door wider for him to pass through.
“Why is it so dark in here?”
Atmosphere, honey. Atmosphere. “It’s not dark. There are candles.”
“Is your electricity broken?”
“No.”
He went over to one of the candles and sniffed. “It smells. Like peaches. Why does your candle smell like peaches? And that one smells like lavender.”
Oh, crap! Now he’s obsessed with candles. “Forget the candles. Dammit.”
He arched his eyebrows at her, then waved the video in front of her face. “What in bloody hell are you thinking?”
That’s right, Mr. Gullible. Take the bait. “Oh, that! It’s just a little enterprise on the side to earn some extra money.”
“Are you short of coin?”
“No.” She sat down on the couch, put one foot on the coffee table, and began to give her toenails a second coat. He could probably see up her pant leg from where he stood. I must have an inner bimbo gene.
“Have you gone demented?”
“Why? Because I’m painting my toenails?” Or because I’m chasing you like a lovesick teenager?
“Nay, not because you are painting your toenails, though I see no sense in painting a part of the body that is covered most of the time.”
“Some men think it’s sexy.” She looked up at him through half-mast lashes to gauge his reaction.
He thought it was sexy, all right.
“Why are you wearing such scant attire?”
To turn you on, Dunce of the Month. “It’s what I sleep in.”
“Not when I was here.”
All these irrelevancies. Let’s get on to the good stuff. “Finn, I don’t sleep in the nude when I’m alone. I have a four-year-old son, after all.”
“And don’t you forget it, either.” The lust in his eyes turned to anger as he put the tape on the floor and stomped on it. “I forbid you to sell yourself like this.”
Don’t hit him, Lydia. Do. Not. Hit. Him. “I beg your pardon. You’re not even my . . . lover.”
“I am so. I just have not had time to be with you that way these past two sennights.”
“You had time to come and castigate me over a simple video.”
“I was going to come tonight anyway. I have something important to—”
“Hah! It would have been nice if you had called ahead of time.”
“I did, but I kept getting your bloody voice message. What I have to say to you had to be said in person.”
“What? You couldn’t leave a voice mail telling me you don’t like my video?”
“That is not what I want to say, but since you mentioned it, let me be perfectly clear. You are the mother of my son, and for that reason, if no other, I will not allow you to entice men with your sex dancing.”
“Entice? That’s aerobic exercise. What century are you living in? Oops, I forgot. You are from a different century.”
“’Tis sex and do not dare be at crosswills with me on this.”
“Enough is enough!” If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, she would go to him. She went over to him, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him hungrily ’til his stiff body went limp with surrender . . . except for one part that went stiffer. Then he put one hand at her nape and the other around her waist and took over the kiss, groaning into her mouth.
Her camisole was shoved to her waist and they were half on and half off the couch when he seemed to come to his senses. To her shock, he pulled her camisole back up, then shoved her away and stood. “Will you just slow down, Lydia? There is something I need to tell you first.”
She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. He didn’t want her anymore. Not even for sex. That’s what he had come to tell her. He was using the video as an excuse to dump her.
That was it, then.
It was over.
But she was mistaken, she realized, as she soon heard a loud pounding on her bedroom door.
Chapter 20
The best-laid plans . . .
Thorfinn was ready. All day he had been making preparations for what he was about to do, and he was not going to let Lydia change his game plan.
“Open the door, Lydia.”
“Go away.”
“Not ’til I tell you something.”
“I’ve already got the message.”
“I do not think so. Open the damn door, or I will break it down.”
She yanked the door open and snarled, “What?”
“Ah, dearling, you have been crying.” He reached for her, but she slapped his hands away.
“Don’t you dare pity me, you Norse jackass.”
“Pity is the last thing I feel for you.” His eyes roamed her body in the scandalous red garment, which was hardly a garment at all.
“Oh, I get it.” She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “You want one last pity fuck, right?”
“Lydia! Such language!”
“Yeah, well, who needs you? I can get a vibrator. In fact I bought one yesterday.”
“You did?” He was not sure what she had intended with a vibrator but he would surely find out later. “That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean? That you wanted a little more sex before you sashayed back to the Norselands or the SEAL compound or wherever the hell you intend to go next.”
The only thing he could say to all she had thrown at him was, “Huh?”
“Listen, you . . . you Viking nitwit! If it’s one for the road you’re looking for here, forget it. No sex!”
If you think that, I have a bit of the Northlands to sell you.
“Let’s get one thing straight. You made your feelings perfectly clear when you pushed me away out there in the living room. So don’t think I’m going to hop in the sack with you now.”
