Is it a joke by that jester god, Loki?
Does it matter?
She was staring at him as if equally poleaxed by the intense emotions swirling between them. Everyone around them probably noticed, but he did not care. Something important was happening…what, he could not say for a certainty. He just knew his life was about to talk a major turn.
This woman was no longer young. She was at least thirty years old. But comely. Nay, more than comely. Beautiful. Masses of curly black hair surrounded a heart-shaped face. Her parted red lips were full and sensuous and immensely kiss-some. To the right of her mouth was a small black mole, which, rather than being repulsive, was sinfully tempting. Oh, the things that could be done to that very spot by the tongue of a man with expertise in the love arts…which he had in excess. Thick black lashes shadowed eyes of so dark a brown they appeared black.
She wore a two-piece garment of white silk, which left the creamy skin of her neck and part of her chest bare, where a small gold cross on a thin chain rested tantalizingly. She was tall for a woman, but curvy. The hem of her garment ended just above her knees. Her long legs were covered with transparent silk hose, and on her feet were black leather shoes with thin, high heels. If his hands were not occupied with the babe, he would be unable to restrain himself from touching that long, long stretch of winsome leg. Not just touching, either. Licking would be good, too.
His heart began to race madly against his chest walls as he gazed upon her. He could scarcely breathe. If he did not see her chest heaving with the effort to pant for air, he would have thought her a goddess, or one of the Valkyries, not a living, breathing woman.
“Faaa-ther!” Torolf groaned. “Do not appear too anxious. Your tongue is practically hanging out.”
He cast a quick glower at his son, whom he was beginning to think he should have left behind with Ragnor. Almost immediately he returned his attention to the woman. He was not going to let her out of his sight. Still, without looking at him directly, Magnus remarked to Torolf, “I have not yet seen the day when I will take advice from a pup such as you. I have bred thirteen children, for the love of Odin! Do you not think I have learned a thing or two?”
“Oh, God! I can see it all now. More children.”
“There will be no more children,” he declared. I hope. “Shut your teeth now. I need to concentrate.”
Torolf muttered some rude opinion about where his concentration was lodged.
“You know, Torolf, you could learn something from your elders. My mother, Lady Asgar—your grandmother—was always of a whimsical bent. She believed that for every man there was one special woman. A soul mate.”
“Faðir, you just met the woman.”
“It matters not. Mother always told me and your two uncles that we would recognize that person when she came. I suppose she told your Aunt Katla the same thing, in reverse, but I was never around for that discussion.”
Torolf grunted his opinion.
“‘Women may come and go in your lives, my sons, but there will be only one who will touch your heart to the quick, and change your world so that it will be forever empty without her.’ That is what my mother always said.”
Torolf grunted again.
“Geirolf and Jorund and I scoffed with disbelief behind Mother’s back, but now I know she was right. This is my woman…my destiny.”
“Destiny has boiled your brain,” Torolf grumbled.
“I think what Father said is beautiful,” Kirsten stated.
Dagny sighed deeply in agreement.
Hamr and Njal snorted.
Jogeir looked unimpressed.
Storvald was eyeing a nearby piece of what appeared to be fake driftwood, uncaring one way or another.
Kolbein clung tighter, probably fearful that Magnus was going to toss him aside in favor of some lady love.
Lida gooed.
Magnus did not care what any of them thought. The only thing that mattered in this moment was how she felt.
Even so, how would she fit in with his vow of celibacy?
And did she like children…like eleven of them? Well, nine only, if you counted those with him. Nine was not such a dreadful number. Was it?
What if she was already wed? Mayhap even to Dare-All the Laugher? Nay, he could not countenance even the remote possibility. It was such a mismatch.
Was it really possible that he had had to go through four wives, six concubines, and numerous passing fancies before finding “the one” for him?
Did she feel their instant connection, too?
Would she be willing to live on a farm…assuming there were farms somewhere in this crowded land?
Better yet, would she return with him to the Norselands, if that was what he was called to do?
In essence, what did fate have in store for him now?
Chapter Four
The man was a tree…
Angela tried to calm her erratic breathing…such an odd reaction to a man who should be unattractive to her. It must be the heat, worry over her deal with Darrell Nolan, and this bizarre scenario taking place on one of his sets. It was not that she was attracted to this man. Definitely not.
Such a blatant display of pushiness—bypassing the usual audition route to garner attention for himself. How arrogant! How egotistical! How like an actor!
He reminded her of her ex-husband. The Creep had always liked to be the center of attention, demanding a better table when they ate out, insisting on Rodeo Drive labels for his “Hollywood” wardrobe. Being naturally reticent, Angela cringed even now in memory.
This man was tall…at least six-foot-five. She was not short, being five-foot-seven, but standing before him was like standing before a tree. Even his arms and legs, which were exposed by the belted leather tunic he wore, resembled tree limbs. And he was a big man in bulk, too—probably two hundred and fifty pounds—with lean muscles everywhere.
Angela had never been a fan of muscle men…as evidenced by the fact that she’d donated the Creep’s Nautilus equipment to Goodwill the moment he moved out. The act had been symbolic of her disdain for the Creep’s obsession with physical fitness.
Back to the man before her. His light brown hair had sun-bleached streaks and thin, intricate braids hanging on either side of his face, which were intertwined with amber beads. Thick golden lashes framed whiskey-colored eyes. He wore ornately etched, wide silver bracelets on his upper arms. A gold brooch of writhing dragons was attached to a short shoulder mantle. God spare me from a man with a passion for jewelry. The only thing missing is the Las Vegas—style gold chains. Oops! There is a chain there…one holding a gold pendant. Jeesh!
And he carried a sword, for heaven’s sake. How juvenile! Or rather, how like a man with his macho toys! The Creep had insisted on a loaded revolver in their bedside nightstand…even though they lived on the fourteenth floor of a high-security apartment building.
Worst of all was the numbers of children surrounding him, ranging from age sixteen or so to a toddler of little more than a year. And one of the little boys appeared to be lame. If all of them were his children, as he had proclaimed in his strange accent, then shame on him. Angela was not a rabid feminist, like her cousin Carmen, but some people just overpopulated the planet like rabbits, uncaring of the children’s welfare or that of the environment. A man who felt the need to reproduce himself nine times over was a pig, pure and simple, in her opinion.
“Uh-oh, Father,” the teenage boy said with a hoot of laughter. “Methinks your destiny is frowning at you. Not a good sign. Best you pull out some of that far-famed expertise.”
“Leave off, son,” the big man replied in a deep, deep voice. The whole time he continued to stare at her in the most disarming manner. It was rude, actually.
Noticing the direction of the Viking’s gaze, Darrell motioned her forward. Reluctantly she stepped up to the tree. That was the only way she could describe how he looked and felt next to her.
“Angela, I’d like to introduce you to Magnus Erics
son.”
“Angel? You are an angel?” The tree asked with a mixture of horror and glee.
“No, I’m not an angel. And don’t you dare call me that. ‘Angel baby’ won’t work either. Believe me, ‘angel’ as a pickup line is not cool.”
“Huh?” the tree said.
“The name is Angela.”
“Oh.”
Oh, God! Dumb as a…a…tree.
“Magnus is going to be the new star of The Vikings. I hope,” Darrell interjected.
“She is an angel who does not want to be called an angel, and you want me to be a star. Are you sure I am not dead?”
Really, this language-miscommunication game of his was getting tired already.
“And Magnus, this is Angela Abruzzi, a Hollywood realtor and possible business partner of mine.”
Angela liked that last part, and she extended her hand toward the tree. No need to be impolite. “How do you do?”
At first he just stared at her hand. Then, seeming to come to some sudden comprehension, he took her hand in his huge one and squeezed tightly as if he would not ever let her go.
“How do you do?” she repeated.
“I do fine,” he answered in his gruff, accented voice. Then he smiled at her…a slow, purely male smile that was so sexy she felt her knees begin to buckle. Luckily he was still holding her hand, or she might have fallen. It must be hormones, she thought. How else to explain her lust-laden reaction to a man she didn’t even like? Maybe I’m turning into a bimbo…a desperate single woman dying for the first man I meet. “I do not suppose that you live on a farm, do you?”
A farm? Where did that come from? “No, I live in a condo in Century City. Do you live on a farm?”
He nodded. “Dost bother you?”
“Dost…does what bother me?”
“That I am a farmer. Well, betimes I am a warrior, too, but mostly I am a simple farmer.” The brute was still holding on to her hand.
I am beginning to think there is nothing simple about you, Mr. Tree. She was still fluttering inside at his mere touch. Bimbo, bimbo, bimbo. Next I’ll be humming the theme song of “Sex and the City.” Is there a theme song? Aaarrgh! She cocked her head in confusion. “Why should your being a farmer bother me?” She tugged on her hand, but he wouldn’t release it.
The little girl in his other arm reached out a hand to her, too, imitating her father’s action, and said cheerily, “Goo.” The tree finally released Angela’s hand.
Angela felt a peculiar distress at that loss of contact, but then she smiled at the sweet thing and shook her tiny hand. “How do you do, munchkin? Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”
“Goo!” the toddler said, flashing her a drooly grin.
“Her name is Lida,” Magnus pointed out. “Not Munch-Kin.”
Angela looked at the big man to see if he thought she had seriously believed the baby’s name was Munchkin. He had. Holy moley, he was a good actor.
“And these are my other children,” the tree said. Starting with the oldest, he pointed and called out their names: “Torolf, Kirsten, Dagny, Storvald, Njal, Jogeir, Hamr, and Kolbein.” The last one, about three years old, was holding on to the man’s thigh as if he would never let go.
“You have nine children?” she asked with amazement.
“Actually I have eleven living children. Two of them stayed behind in the Norselands. And two of them passed on at a young age…Ivan drowned and Ilsa died soon after birth.”
“Thirteen children!” She had to force her slack jaw shut. Is he for real? No, of course not. He is an actor. This is all a script to him…make-believe.
“I do not think she is impressed,” the teenage boy said to his father. “Mayhap you should tell her of your expertise.”
She had no idea what response the tree gave, be cause Darrell called her aside, telling the big guy that they would be right back and not to move.
“Angela, I need your help with The Viking,” Darrell said right off.
“Me?” she squeaked out.
He nodded quickly. “He’s perfect for the part, but I can’t let the press get a whiff of him till my lawyers release me from the contract with Dirk.”
And, in Angela’s opinion, to make sure that Magnus didn’t know how desperate Darrell was and demand more money for the part the tree so clearly wanted. “So? What has this to do with me?”
“Take him and his brood home with you,” he said bluntly.
At first she was shocked that he would suggest such a thing. Shock soon turned to indignation. “No! Absolutely not!”
“It would only be for a day or two. A week at the most.”
“Are you crazy? I live in a two-bedroom high-rise. That guy’s head would touch the ceiling in my place, and with eleven people we would be stepping on each other. No way!”
“How about the vineyard up in Sonoma? The Blue Dragon? You know, the one you think is worth five hundred thou for a one-week movie shoot?” He said the last in a subtly threatening tone.
“Are you suggesting that unless I help you out with this, the deal is off?” She had to fist her hands tightly to keep from socking the jerk a good one.
“No, what I’m suggesting is that, if you do this, I will be much more likely to agree to your terms.”
She folded her arms over her chest and tapped one high-heeled shoe with indignation. The nerve of the louse!
“Come on, Angela. You said your grandmother has a big old house at the Blue Dragon. Surely it’s big enough for all these kids. And it would only be for a few days.”
Her shoulders slumped in surrender. Really, she had no choice. Darrell might not know it, but the Blue Dragon was in dire straits, money-wise. Without his cash, there might not be a vineyard much longer.
She looked at Darrell; then she looked at the Viking, who still stared at her with an intensity bordering on hunger—Criminey, she couldn’t remember any man ever looking at her with hunger—then she looked back at Darrell again.
“My price just went up. Seven hundred thousand.”
“Agreed.”
His quick response made her think she should have asked for more. “My grandmother is going to kill me,” she said.
When they walked back to the group and informed Magnus of their decision, he just nodded, as if his going with her had been a given all along.
Soon after, they all moved toward a studio van that Angela was going to have to use. Her BMW would never hold the bunch of them, and Magnus claimed not to be able to drive a car.
“You remind me of someone,” he said.
“Oh, great! The oldest line in the book! Let’s get one thing straight from the get-go: no hanky-panky.”
“Hank-what?”
“Never mind.”
“Do you happen to know an old lady with white hair and prayer beads? And what is a no-veen-ah anyway?” the tree asked her all of a sudden.
Angela’s heart skipped a beat and she stumbled. When she righted herself, with his hand under her elbow, she examined him in a new light.
Something strange was going on here.
No place like home (wherever that is…)
They were all crammed into a very large horseless cart, known as a van, and were speeding down a free-road…or, rather, a free-way. Magnus assumed that was a thoroughfare with no toll. But he did not want to ask. His stomach was too queasy from the harrowing experience of traveling faster than a speeding arrow. Other horseless vehicles were driving by them at even more excessive speeds. Angela claimed to be going only forty miles per hour, as if he would be comforted by that fact.
As things turned out, they were not going to be able to go to the Blue Dragon place right away. That didn’t bother Magnus all that much. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of taking his children to a dragon’s lair anyhow…though Hamr had practically wept with disappointment. It was his lifelong wish, or so he had proclaimed loudly, to kill a dragon.
Storvald and Njal were sitting with their filthy hands folded in their laps, at his or
ders. The pair had crawled under the van while it was still standing still, looking for a hidden horse, before he’d been able to pull them out of harm’s way. They now resembled ragpicker’s children, not the sons of a Norse noble.
Angela had just stared with bewilderment at the lot of them. He was confused himself. How could he blame her?
When Angela had spoken to her work master a short time ago on a little black box called a tell-of-own, Master Blackman had reminded her that a big buyer coming in from some other country required her personal attention. This buyer, known as a custom-her, represented very large amounts of payment to her employer, who had to be out of town himself on a vay-kay-shun, which meant a time to have fun. How odd that people here had to schedule a special time just for having fun!
In any case, Angela continued to be distraught at the news that she could not take them away from the city immediately, but he assured her he could handle the close accommodations of her home. After all, he’d been living on a longship with all of his children, and more people besides, for weeks now. Surely it would be no tighter than that. “Besides, I need more time to hone my sword if I am going to have to kill a blue dragon,” he told her.
“Have you killed any dragons before, Rambo?” she’d asked him with one arched eyebrow.
“Nay, but how much harder can it be than killing a wild boar, or an angry polar bear? Some of the black bears in the Rus lands are as big as dragons, I warrant.”
She gave him another of her disbelieving looks, which he was becoming accustomed to.
“I am loath to remind you…my name is Magnus, not Ram-bow.” The wench might be a bit half-witted, he feared, to have such a poor memory for important matters…like the name of her destiny.
“Whatever.”
That was a favored word in this country, he noticed. People used it whenever they had lost an argument. It was a handy word he would have to recall when he got home to the Norselands. He knew just how the word would come in handy.
Like when one of his comrades taunted him, “That is the seventh game of hnefatafl you have lost, Magnus.”
Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 03] Page 6
