Viking

by Fabio

  His suddenly ferocious expression promised revenge. "Get your smart ass into this tub and I'll show you what too much is, woman."

  She could no longer resist his charm, or the sexy things his words, his eyes, were doing to her. "I'll go change into my bikini."

  His gaze smoldered and his voice came out very husky. "No, don't change. Just take it off."

  That invitation proved irresistible. Monica's fingers trembled as she began stripping off her clothes. Marc's gaze never left her, and the heat reflected there scorched her senses. Wearing just her panties and bra, she dangled a toe into the tub.

  Marc eyed her sleek body greedily. Monica was five ten, strongly built and beautiful, with long, shapely legs that felt heavenly wrapped around his waist—as they soon would be, he promised himself. It was so odd, he mused. After almost three years of intimacy with her, he wanted her more than ever. He often wondered if her elusive qualities only increased his hunger for her. He did so long for a child to bind their lives together and bring them closer. Indeed, the image of the beautiful baby they could have together made him impatient to get started.

  Monica stepped down into the tub, shrieking with laughter as Marc grabbed her, pulled her in with a splash, settled her on his lap, and kissed her. A moment later, she kneaded his tense shoulder muscles with skillful fingers.

  His eyes shut, Marc groaned his delight. "Ah, baby, that feels so good. Your touch is heaven."

  "I aim to please," she whispered.

  After several exquisite moments, Marc opened his eyes, smiled tenderly, and caressed her soft cheek. "Where have you been, angel?"

  Stiffening slightly in his arms, she glanced away. "I had drinks with Wally."

  Marc's content expression faded to a scowl, and his large hand cupped her chin, turning her face toward his. "Wally again? And you were gone so long. I'm starting to get jealous."

  "Marc, he's my agent." Tentatively, she added, "And he had news."

  "Oh?"

  She ran her fingertips over his muscled chest and smiled. "Why don't we save it for later?"

  Marc undid her bra. "Fine," he said with an urgency that both thrilled and unsettled her, especially as she glimpsed the darkly passionate expression on his face.

  He leaned over and took her nipple between his teeth. She moaned. He worried the turgid peak and held her close. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and panted with pleasure. He nibbled at her shapely throat and began sliding off her panties. Eagerly she straddled him. His fingers began working their magic between her thighs, caressing and probing. She gasped sharply and chewed her bottom lip. He kissed her hungrily, drowning her moans with his hot, demanding tongue.

  "I've missed you today, darling," he said huskily, running his hands over her back and bottom. "Even though we're together on the set, it's not the same, you know. Sometimes I can barely keep my hands off you. I miss having you close like this."

  "Me, too," she murmured, panting, her mouth on his smooth shoulder.

  "What are you thinking, Monica?"

  Meeting his searching gaze, she ran her fingertips over his face and powerful shoulders. "Of how beautiful you look, all wet, muscled, and hard. All mine."

  "Anything else?" he whispered, pulling her fingers to his erection.

  She caressed him, enjoying his ragged moan, her own body throbbing at the very thought of his hardness inside her. "Of the way you make me feel."

  "Yes?"

  Though her expression mirrored regret, she spoke honestly. "As if you want things I'm not quite ready to give."

  "You're right. I want it all, angel."

  'That's what I'm afraid of," she said ruefully.

  Marc thrust into Monica with a powerful stroke. She cried out and frantically sought his lips. Her hands coiled into fists on his shoulders, then uncoiled. Her hips rode his, taking all the passion he could give, and giving back in full measure.

  A moment later, he pulled his lips from hers and gazed into her eyes, feeling obsessed to see just what he was doing to her. Her fevered gasps and the desperate desire etched on her beautiful face excited him beyond reason. He continued to observe her enraptured response and listen to her ragged cries, until both succumbed to another drowning kiss.

  "You're right, it is too much," she panted against his mouth. "And I want it all, too."

  Marc tightened his arms around Monica's waist and gave her everything.

  TWO

  After they made love, Marc slipped on his jeans, and Monica went off to change into shorts and a tank top. They puttered around the kitchen, Marc preparing angel hair pasta with scampi, Monica throwing together a Caesar salad. They opened a bottle of white wine, heated up some French bread, and ate heartily at the kitchen table, sharing anecdotes about their day on the set and discussing tomorrow's final shoot.

  "Are you going to be ready to leave with me for Big Bear Lake on Saturday?" Marc asked her.

  All at once she appeared wary, and set down her fork. "I'm not sure, Marc. Can I let you know for certain after the cast party?"

  He scowled. "Monica, we've been planning this vacation for months. The contractor called yesterday, and the cabin is ready."

  She reached out to touch his hand. "I know you're excited, sweetie, after you designed it yourself and all."

  "We both need a break," he argued. "You promised me we could have two weeks completely alone together."

  She flashed him a guilty smile. "I know I did, and I hate to renege—"

  "You never have enjoyed the country as much as I do," he accused.

  "Can I help it if I'm a city girl? Still, I was so looking forward to our trip, but—"

  "Does this have to do with your news?"

  She sighed. "Marc, why don't we wait until shooting is finished?"

  "Meaning that when you tell me, we're going to have a fight?" he demanded.

  They were staring at each other tensely when the phone rang. Monica jumped up and grabbed it, as if supremely grateful for the intrusion. Marc heard her say hello to her best friend, Lisa. She took the phone into the den and spoke in hushed tones.

  Gathering up the dishes and stacking them in the sink, Marc wondered what the two friends were gabbing about. He couldn't hear the words, but Monica's tone sounded urgent and excited.

  He felt intensely disappointed that she was hedging on the trip to the mountains. He loved the outdoors and nature, and it was there he often found his peace. Spending time together in the cabin he had designed himself was important from another perspective, too. Marc's father had been a renowned architect in Venice, and Marc had gotten his degree in architecture before he had turned to acting as a career. The cabin at Big Bear Lake was the first design of his that had actually been constructed, and he had supervised the project closely from start to finish. Although Marc enjoyed L.A., the mountain retreat was where his heart truly lay. To him, the cabin would be his and Monica's true home, the place where they would start their family.

  Why was she trying to back out of going there with him?

  While Monica completed her conversation and went to take a shower, Marc finished tidying up the kitchen. He wandered into the bedroom, heard the shower still running, and considered joining her, then vetoed his own impulse. They would have their talk first. He was through waiting, and they really needed to clear the air.

  He heard the shower stop, and a moment later, he wandered into the dressing area. Monica was sitting at the dressing table, wrapped in a thick white towel, her damp hair hanging down her back. The glow of her skin and the delectable, fresh-washed scent of her enticed him, and normally, he would have ripped off her towel and carried her to bed.

  But not now. Her gaze met his in the mirror, and he watched her quickly, nervously, shut a drawer.

  Marc leaned over and opened the drawer—

  "Marc, no!" she cried angrily.

  But it was too late, as he was already staring at the half-used packet of birth-control pills. His gaze flashed back up to meet hers in the mirror
, and her guilty eyes darted away. He slammed the drawer shut and left the dressing area.

  "Marc!"

  She followed him into the bedroom, and he turned to regard her with hurt and anger. "Do you know what today is, Monica?"

  "May eighteenth?" she replied in a small voice.

  He stared her straight in the eye. "Do you remember what you promised me, a year ago in early May?"

  "That I would marry you?" she whispered miserably.

  'That we would marry and start a baby," he finished meaningfully. "How can I get you pregnant if you're still taking those damn pills?"

  She offered a contrite smile. "Marc, I'm sorry."

  Unmoved, he crossed his muscled arms over his chest. "I had intended to wait to discuss this until filming was complete." He smiled tightly. "Actually, I wanted to make it very romantic—I've already made reservations at Spago—"

  "How sweet," she put in.

  "But now I think we cannot wait to address this." He jerked his head toward the night table. "Why don't you see what I've left for you in the drawer?"

  Sighing, she went over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Pulling out a velvet-covered jeweler's box, she bit her lip. "I think I'm afraid to open it."

  "Open it."

  With trembling fingers, Monica flipped open the small black box, then gasped as she stared at the dazzling diamond solitaire ring. She blinked back tears, shut the box, and set it down.

  Her expression was fraught with ambivalence as she turned to him. "Marc, the ring is gorgeous, but I can't accept it right now. I think we need to talk."

  "Si, we do."

  Watching Monica go to the closet, drop her towel, and put on a teal-blue silk caftan, Marc straggled to rein in his roiling emotions. They went out onto the patio adjoining their bedroom and reclined on chaise longues—sitting widely apart, as wary as strangers. The view of the lights of L.A. was dazzling, the night filled with romantic scents and sounds. Yet both Marc and Monica wore morose, abstracted expressions.

  "I didn't want to tell you this until after we'd wrapped up tomorrow," she began hesitantly. "I was afraid my news might spoil your concentration."

  "Believe it or not, Monica," he remarked cynically, "there are more important things in life than this damned movie. Have you found someone else?"

  "No! No, of course not!" she denied, appearing crestfallen.

  "Then don't you love me anymore?" he asked in pained tones.

  Her beseeching countenance met his. "Of course I love you. I think now more than ever."

  "Then what? You promised me a year ago that if I would just wait, you would marry me—"

  "I know, but that was before—"

  "Before what?"

  She drew a convulsive breath. "Before I had drinks with Wally today."

  "Go on."

  "There are still a few details for Wally to settle, but—"

  "Yes?"

  She broke into a smile. "Marc, I got the part."

  "You mean the role of Stephanie in Winds of Destiny?"

  "Yes." Earnestly, she whispered, "It's my big break."

  "Congratulations," he said rightly.

  "You don't sound very sincere," she accused.

  He gestured in exasperation. "Well, what do you expect me to say? You know my next project is filming in Wyoming, and you'll have to be in Monte Carlo for six months! What about our plans—our family?"

  "Your plans," she corrected him heatedly.

  "Oh, so now they're my plans?" he shot back.

  "More yours than mine."

  "Explain that."

  She was silent for a moment, her face mirroring her inner struggle. "You have never really listened to what I wanted, or taken our differences into account."

  "Then what has our time together been about? Just sex?"

  Her anguished gaze m& his. "You know it's much more than that."

  His eyes were bright with emotion. "Monica, you promised me over a year ago that you would marry me and take enough time off for us to have our first child."

  "I know I did, but things have changed," she argued passionately. "Your career is firmly established, but mine still isn't. This opportunity won't wait."

  "Nonsense. You are talented enough to always have a career. You just don't want to put us first."

  Monica made a frustrated sound and rose. Crossing her arms over her bosom, she muttered, "You mean I won't put what you want first. I don't hear you offering to give up your next project. Why is it your desires and your career must always take precedence over mine?"

  He stood, strode over to her, and touched her arm. "Every relationship demands compromises—"

  She turned toward him angrily. "What have you given up, Marc?"

  "I've waited for almost three years for you to be ready to marry me and start our family," he responded fervently.

  She shook her head. "My God, you're so retrograde," she said with irony.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "You think your life will be perfect if you just have a faithful little wife and a family."

  "Oh, so now I must listen to this women's-liberation crap?"

  "Crap!" she repeated, outraged.

  Marc was not deterred. "Family is very important to me, Monica. I will not apologize for feeling as I do. And if that is being retrograde, then I'm proud of it."

  She flung her hands outward. "But don't you understand that you can't replace your parents and sister, or assuage your guilt over losing them, through having a baby with T

  That remark touched a raw nerve. Furious, Marc muttered a curse and stalked off toward the pool.

  Monica followed, reaching up to lay a hand on his rigid shoulder. "I'm sorry."

  After a moment spent struggling with himself, Marc turned to her and spoke vehemently. "I'm not just trying to replace my family or lessen the guilt. Of course I felt terrible pain when my parents and sister died in the plane crash, but no one can ever replace them. The truth is, I'm thirty-two now, ready to settle down and have my own family—just as I know my parents would have wanted for me."

  "Why can't you understand that I'm not at that settled stage yet?" she demanded. "Why can't you wait for me?"

  His expression was poignant as he reached out to stroke her cheek. "Monica, I've waited too long already." He smiled wistfully. "Do you remember when we met?"

  'Oh, yes," she whispered.

  "The minute I laid eyes on you at the premiere, wearing that sexy black dress, I knew you were the one for me. I knew I wanted us to marry."

  In a low voice, she pleaded, "Marc, it's only six more months—"

  "Then what? Won't there always be another opportunity, another excuse to keep us apart? Can you deny it?"

  Regretfully, she shook her head. "No. But is it fair that I'm the one who has to sacrifice, to take time off to have our child? To have my career disrupted and possibly derailed at this critical stage?"

  "You don't want my children?" he asked, his expression wounded.

  "No—I mean, yes, of course I do," she replied with obvious turmoil. "But not now. It would mean, giving up too much."

  He stroked her cheek. "Unfortunately, darling, I can't have our baby for you. And if you see our future together as such a burden, then obviously you don't want it as much as I do."

  She was silent, blinking at tears in her eyes.

  Quietly, he asked, "How long will it take, Monica?"

  "I don't know," she said.

  "What we have is so good, babe," he whispered intensely.

  "I know. Before we met, I dated a lot of guys, but I've never known anyone like you." Her voice broke as she whispered, "I really do love you, Marc—"

  "But evidently, not enough," he cut in bitterly.

  "Perhaps not," she conceded. "Though I do want to build a future with you. Only right now I can't make you any promises."

  "And I have to have a commitment—now."

  "Then we're at an impasse, aren't we?"

  "Si."

  S
he brushed away a tear. "Aren't you even going to say you're happy for me?"

  His smile was sad. "You got your big break, darling. I hope it will be worth it to you."

  Marc went inside and checked with his answering service, then returned some of his phone calls. He and Monica didn't speak for the balance of the evening, both silently reviewing their scripts for tomorrow's shoot—albeit each had much difficulty concentrating. Although on one level Marc could understand Monica's point of view and the ambitions driving her, he still felt very hurt and betrayed that she had refused to honor the commitment between them. How could they ever hope for a future together if her promise to him had meant so little?

  When they finally went to bed, they lay back-to-back, not touching. Several times during the night, Marc ached to pull Monica into his arms, especially when he felt her shuddering and feared she might be crying. But when he finally turned and touched her arm, she stiffened, and he realized that for her, surrendering right now would indeed be giving up too much.

  Could he compromise further? The tight emotion welling in his chest said otherwise. He simply loved Monica too much to accept being less than number one in her life. The alternative—living with her while they both led separate lives—was unbearable.

  Marc remembered the glorious dream of him and Monica together, of him holding their firstborn—the dream that seemed to mock him now. His eyes stung with tears as sleep eluded him.

  THREE

  Dressed as Ivar the Invincible, with the wind billowing about his tall, muscled body, Marcello stood next to his director on the shores of an isolated beach in Malibu. Around them, technicians and production assistants rushed about, preparing equipment for the day's shoot, while the second assistant director tried to line up a group of extras in the background.

  In less than ten minutes, director and crew would begin filming the movie's final scene. Although the blazing boat sequence was supposed to be shot at night, the brooding morning skies—along with some post-production assistance from optical effects—would suffice to lend an illusion of darkness. The overcast heavens were a definite stroke of fortune, yet a brisk wind blowing in off the Pacific threatened havoc with the entire production, and especially with the lighting equipment. Off to one side, Harold Schindle was all but tearing his hair as he instructed a group of grips and gaffers on the placement of delicate lighting grids and the positioning of the reflectors and screens that were continuously battered by gusts.