Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace

  When the two left, Stacy turned on Kristján. “That was very rude,” she said.

  “I only told the truth. I didn’t ask them to leave.”

  “No, but you were sending that message, in that way guys do.”

  “In what way guys do?”

  “You were sending signals. Like…like a bull moose claiming a female for his harem.” And she had no desire to be compared to a cow, even if only subconsciously.

  He laughed. “Didn’t we already discuss this? One woman at a time is fine with me.” He leaned toward her. “And speaking of signals, the ones you’re sending me are definitely mixed.”

  “We’ve definitely discussed this already.”

  “Then let’s try a new topic of conversation. The night is young. It’s raining outside and we have a late start in the morning, so we have plenty of time to talk.” He made the possibility sound so inviting, as if nothing could be better than learning more about each other. And here, with him close enough for her to see the golden glint of stubble along his jaw, she could think of nothing she would like better than to sit into the waning hours, the velvet murmur of his voice wrapping around her like a caress.

  She swallowed and steeled herself against that seductive image. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “Whatever you like. You may have your way with me.”

  She knew he was being deliberately provocative, but still she couldn’t keep the heat from rising to her cheeks. She sipped her wine and quickly regained her composure. “All right,” she said. “Tell me about yourself. Did you grow up wanting to be an Olympic skier?”

  “Surely you read all that in my press kit. Or saw one of my interviews.”

  She’d read the press kit, and seen some of the interviews. In them he was charming, witty and suitably modest. But she always felt his story was a tad too well rehearsed. As if he was deliberately leaving out certain details. She leaned forward, chin in hand. “I want to hear it from you. The real version.”

  He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You think the press kit and interviews are lies?”

  “Not lies. But they’re only part of the story—the pretty, concise one that sells well to the media. There’s always more.”

  The official story was that he’d skied as a child, joined the Junior Olympics team at fourteen and steadily climbed through the ranks, failing to qualify for the Olympics in 1998, qualifying but placing out of medal contention in 2002 and 2006, and finally triumphing this year at thirty-four, when many had thought him past his prime.

  Stacy continued to hold his gaze, waiting for him to elaborate on these basic and well-known facts. “My brother was the one who was supposed to go to the Olympics,” he said after a moment. “I skied to be with him, but he was always the star.”

  “Did the two of you compete against each other?” she asked. “A friendly rivalry?”

  He nodded. “Though not so friendly at times. We were close in most ways, but when it came to skiing, Arni showed no mercy. He would berate me whenever I lost a race, and brag about his own growing collection of medals and trophies.” He fell silent, as if remembering that painful rivalry.

  “What happened?” Stacy asked. “Why didn’t he go to the Olympics?”

  “He quit racing in high school. I continued and I began to think that I would be the one to win a medal.”

  “Your brother must be very proud of you,” she said.

  He hesitated. “He has never said so, and I would never ask.”

  And didn’t that say a lot about the family dynamic? Jóna certainly wasn’t shy about singing her brother’s praises—though she, too, had never mentioned her other brother, Arni. Such family dynamics fascinated Stacy, an only child.

  “Now you have your medal—what next?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Pursuing a goal like the Olympics is very single-minded,” he said. “It doesn’t leave room in life for anything else. And once that goal is reached…” He held out his hands, palms up. “I won’t miss the grueling schedule of training, traveling and competition, but it frustrates me to no longer have a goal and purpose.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “You could live off your celebrity for some time to come.”

  He shook his head. “That is not for me.”

  Then what was for him? At thirty-four, shouldn’t he know by now? He must have given the future some consideration. Or was this an Icelandic trait to which her Puritan-work-ethic-indoctrinated self couldn’t relate? “Have you spent much time in the United States?” she asked. “Besides the visit to Utah in 2002?”

  “The World Cup races are at Vail each year, but other than that, I haven’t seen much of your country.”

  “My father worked at Vail for a while when I was growing up,” she said. “I remember watching the World Cup races with him when I was a teenager.” She’d been staying with her father for a week over a school break; it had been a good visit, one in which he’d kept all his promises, including taking her to see the World Cup races. She’d been among the hundreds of people, many of them teenagers like herself, who had stood on the sidelines to cheer the men who flew down the treacherous Birds of Prey course. Had she watched Kristján race without even realizing it? She was so aware of him now it was hard to imagine a time when she would have been indifferent.

  “You said your father is a ski instructor?” he asked.

  “He works for the Adaptive Sports Center in Crested Butte, Colorado.”

  “What is the Adaptive Sports Center?”

  “It’s a nationally recognized program that teaches people with all kinds of disabilities to ski. My dad has worked with veterans who lost limbs in the war, blind children, people in wheelchairs—all kinds of people.” She said the words with some pride. After so many years of aimlessness her father finally seemed to be settling down and doing something useful.

  “And they are all able to ski?”

  She nodded. “Some of them skied before an injury or illness and want to get back to it, while others have never skied before. But with the help of adaptive equipment, they’re all able to get back on the snow.”

  “I’ve met some of the Paralympic skiers,” he said. “They amaze me. It’s difficult enough to race down a course on two legs, yet they compete with only one leg, or none.”

  “My dad has trained some Paralympians. But mostly he’s just helping regular people get out and enjoy themselves.” She smiled. “For a long time I thought my dad had wasted his life skiing, but now I’m proud that he’s making a difference in people’s lives.” It had taken her a long time to get to the point where she could say that and mean it.

  “I suppose some people, like your father, take more time searching for the work they are meant to do,” he said.

  “I don’t know how hard my dad was searching all those years of bumming around to different ski resorts,” she said. “I think he was just having a good time and stumbled into this.”

  “Is something less worthy because one ‘stumbles into it,’ as you say? Is it so horrible to think one might find the right job—or the right romantic partner—by chance?”

  Why was he bringing romance into a discussion about jobs and work? “I didn’t say he wasn’t doing good work,” she said. “But it would have been easier on me and my mom if he’d become responsible and settled down earlier.” Those first few years after her parents split had been bleak ones. Stacy had waited months, hoping her dad would come back—that he would love her more than he loved skiing.

  “So you learned from him and became responsible and settled very early.”

  “You make me sound boring and…and uptight,” she said.

  “I would never call you boring.” He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur only she could hear. “And when you kissed me the other day you definitely weren’t uptight.”

  Heat curled through her abdomen at his words. “You’re never going to let me forget that kiss, are you?”

  He touched a finger
to her lips and felt them tremble. “Do you want to forget it?”

  She leaned back, away from him, refusing to look him in the eye. She couldn’t think clearly when she stared into that stormy blue. “What I want and what’s right and smart aren’t always the same thing,” she said.

  “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I think we don’t often go wrong when we follow our instincts. And my instincts tell me we should explore this attraction between us.”

  She laughed, hoping to sound scornful. But the sound came out high and pinched. “Now that’s a line I haven’t heard before,” she said. “I give you points for originality.”

  “It’s not a line. Look at me, Stacy.”

  Reluctantly, she met his gaze.

  “Not every man is out to take advantage of you,” he said. “All I want is for you to stop running from me and pushing me away. I won’t take anything you don’t want to give.”

  What would he say if she told him he’d already taken a little piece of her heart? If she’d believed theirs would be nothing more than an amusing, shallow fling between two people who were unlikely to see each other again after this week, she wouldn’t have hesitated to throw her arms around him right now, kiss him soundly and drag him off to her room at the hotel.

  But her feelings for Kristján were anything but shallow. Being with him stirred her deep inside in a way that no other man had—a way that made her feel too uncertain and out of control. So why couldn’t she be honest and tell him that? “I really do like you,” she said. “And I’m sure we’d have a wonderful time together. But I’m not good at casual relationships. And I don’t like being hurt, even if the damage is unintentional.”

  Something flared in his eyes, some passion or depth of feeling she was unable to read before he smothered it. “I understand,” he said. “I, too, am afraid that with you I might not guard my feelings as carefully as I should. But I can’t help but regret what might have been.”

  They might have been a wonderful couple for the few weeks or months romance and passion outweighed more practical concerns. But real life and practicality always intruded eventually and, just as her parents had discovered they could not live on love alone, she and Kristján would learn the same thing.

  She blinked. What was she doing, thinking about love with Kristján? She hardly knew him. Oh shaking legs, she stood. Time to put some physical distance between the two of them, before the lateness of the hour and the wine she’d drunk and the pull of desire got the better of her. “Good night,” she said. “I’m glad we cleared the air between us. We can be friends now.”

  “Friends.” His smile was forced, and he leaned toward her. At first she feared a repeat of the scene in the Gullfoss parking lot, but instead of her mouth, his lips brushed her cheek with a feather-touch that nevertheless sent warmth pooling between her legs.

  “Good night,” she said again, and turned and fled the room, before lust and longing trampled what remained of her better judgment.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE TOURIST BOARD had convinced Stacy that she owed it to herself and her crew to spend two full days at Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon. They would shoot the final series of ads at the spa and hot springs and enjoy some well-deserved rest and relaxation before Stacy returned to the States.

  The thought of leaving Iceland so soon—of leaving Kristján—set up a dull pain in Stacy’s gut. The pain further annoyed her because she did not see herself as the type of woman who would moon over a man.

  But for some reason this man—this handsome, witty, surprising, impossible athlete—got to her. With a look or a touch or a word he laid bare her every insecurity, probed every secret and made her question so much of what she thought she knew about herself.

  When she was with him she felt too vulnerable and uncertain—yet also more feminine and desirable and cherished—than she had in all her adult life. Kristján wanted to take care of her—and the fact that she wanted to let him do so frightened her enough to convince her she should get on the next plane back to Colorado.

  But first she had to finish the shoot. And hope that the healing waters of the Blue Lagoon would help clear her confused thoughts and snap her out of the lust-induced haze that was the only explanation she could come up with for her strange behavior around Kristján.

  A van transported the crew to the Blue Lagoon the next morning, though their photography session would not begin until late afternoon, when Stefan hoped to take advantage of the sunset for some dramatic photos. Stacy checked into the hotel, then changed into a bikini, grabbed a towel and headed for the pools.

  Like almost everything else in Iceland, the Blue Lagoon seemed transported from another planet or a prehistoric landscape. Milky-blue water lapped at obsidian lava formations, steam rising gently from the water’s surface or shooting from vents in the rock. Bathers floated in the salty water, or smeared themselves with the white mineral-rich mud that could be scooped from the bottom of the pools, or from buckets that attendants filled daily and placed around the pool.

  As Stacy stood on the boardwalk taking in this surreal scene, she heard someone shout her name, and turned to see Jóna waving from the water. The designer wore a frilly pink swim cap and held her laughing, naked little boy as he dangled his feet in the water.

  Stacy waded to them. “Nice cap,” she said, eyeing the headgear, which up close resembled something out of Swan Lake—the psychedelic version.

  Jóna laughed. “The minerals in the water are very hard on the hair,” she explained. “Some women use conditioner to protect their hair, but I prefer to keep mine covered.”

  “The baby is enjoying himself.” Stacy smiled at the little boy, who grinned back at her, and she felt the familiar tug at her heart that happened more and more these days around small children.

  “He loves the warm water.” Jóna settled the boy into an infant’s swim ring. “There. He can float safely and you and I can visit.” She scooped a handful of mud from a pail and began slathering it on her arms. “Would you like some? It’s very good for your skin.”

  When in Rome…“Sure.” Stacy accepted a handful of mud and copied Jóna, covering her arms, shoulders and face with the warm, gritty substance. It felt surprisingly soothing, though she was sure she looked as ridiculous as she felt.

  “How is the shooting going?” Jóna asked.

  “It’s going well,” Stacy said. “I think the ads will be beautiful and hopefully effective.”

  “Kristján seems to be enjoying himself more than he thought he would.”

  Stacy’s heart beat faster at the mention of Kristján, and she looked around them, as if expecting him to rise from the water like Poseidon.

  “He’s in the sauna, I think,” Jóna said, answering the question Stacy hadn’t asked. “Hiding out from that photographer.”

  “Lang Kerr? Is he here?” Stacy searched the area, half expecting to see a short man in a down coat, camera in hand.

  “Kristján thought he saw him earlier, so he persuaded Arni to go to the sauna with him.”

  “Arni? Your other brother is here?”

  “Yes. He loves the Blue Lagoon, so we decided to make a family reunion of this trip.”

  “Where does Arni live?”

  “In Husavik, with our parents.”

  Arni was even older than Kristján and he still lived at home? But maybe he took care of his parents. “What kind of work does Arni do?”

  “Computer drafting. He’s very good at it, though I’ll admit I don’t understand it. He’s always trying to convince me to draw my sweater designs on the computer, but I prefer pen and paper.” She gave her son’s floaty a little shove and he drifted to Stacy, who clasped his little hands in hers and grinned.

  “You should consider extending your visit,” Jóna said. “You could come to Husavik and meet my parents. The scenery on the coast is magnificent—we’re known for the whales that gather there. You can even take a tour out to see them. And we have interesting museums, including th
e World Phallology Exhibit.”

  Stacy looked up from her game of peekaboo with the baby. “The what?”

  Jóna laughed. “The world’s largest collection of penises. There’s one from a whale that’s four and a half feet long.”

  “That sounds like it would give me nightmares. I think I’ll pass.”

  “I’m only trying to point out all the reasons Husavik should not be missed.”

  “Maybe some other time,” Stacy said. “I should be going home.”

  “Don’t you have vacation you could use?” Jóna asked.

  Stacy did have several weeks of accumulated vacation time. She seldom bothered to use it all. “Why are you so interested in having me stay?” she asked.

  “I like you and I want to show off my country.” She hesitated, then added, “And Kristján likes you.”

  “He said that?” Stacy was grateful for the mud mask that hid much of her expression.

  “He didn’t have to. I hear it in his voice when he talks about you. He hasn’t been this happy since winning the Olympics.”

  “I can’t take credit for that,” she protested.

  “I think you can. Before he met you, whenever we talked on the phone Kristján was so focused on himself—how hard it was to know what to do with his life, how tired he was of traveling, how he had nothing to look forward to. You’ve got him thinking outside of himself, taking an interest in other people, talking about the future as something positive, something he looks forward to.”

  “You’re the one responsible for that. You persuaded him to take this job. Maybe all he needed was work and being around new people.”

  “That might be part of it, but I think most of it is due to you. You’ve sparked something in him I don’t think he’d even try to explain, but I see it.”

  Stacy looked away. She couldn’t very well deny that Kristján had sparked something in her as well.

  “Don’t tell him I said anything. He’d be furious with me for meddling,” Jóna said. “And you’re both certainly old enough to manage your affairs without my input. I just wanted you to know that you are welcome to stay if you like and…and I think my brother could make you happy, though I might be a little bit prejudiced.”