Sandra Hill (12 page)

She went over to kneel beside Sammy. The little sand crabs were fascinating. So engrossed were the two of them in watching the creatures scurry away that she was unprepared for the wave that came up and covered them both. She was laughing as she righted herself and combed her hair off her face. But then she realized that Sammy had been caught in a riptide.

Slipping off her shoes, she dove under an oncoming wave and began to swim vigorously in a diagonal fashion till she was deliberately caught in the same riptide. It was best not to fight a riptide but let it carry you out to its end. Leastways, that’s what she had always been taught.

Everything had happened so quickly. How could they be out so far already?

She soon caught up to Sammy, whose eyes were wide and terrified as he choked and spat out salt water, fighting to stay afloat. “Shh, shh, you will be safe now,” she said, putting an arm across his front and swimming backward till they were in calmer water. Then he twisted in her grasp and wrapped his two little arms around her neck, hugging tightly.

Zachary was soon beside them in the water.

Sammy clutched her even tighter.

Other members of the party lined the shore, watching, in the event they were needed. Several had taken off shoes and even braies and
sherts
.

“Come on, little guy,” Zachary said, trying to take Sammy from her. He was bare-chested, having no doubt shed his
shert
and weapon on the beach afore entering the water.

“Nooooo,” he wailed. To Britta, he whined, “My father will beat me.”

Britta glanced at Zachary, who seemed both angry and hurt by his son’s remark.

“I have never beat you,” Zachary said.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sammy,” she consoled him.

“Now, c’mon. You’re too heavy for Britta,” his father urged.

“Nooooo.”

“He is not too heavy for me,” Britta said…to Zachary’s chagrin, she could tell.

“Okay, let’s go back in together then,” he conceded through gritted teeth.

As they swam side by side, Sammy told his father, “I was only catchin’ sand crabs.”

“I’m not blaming you, Sammy.”

“You will.”

Zachary’s eyes connected with hers for a second, and she saw his misery.

“Go on ahead,” she told Zachary. “And tell the others to go back to the keep. Let me get him settled down a bit first.”

Before he left, Zachary mouthed to her, “Thank you.”

Sometimes love comes not with a bang but a whimper…

Fifteen minutes later, Zach was walking barefooted across the beach, a towel in one hand and a blanket in the other. He was wearing a pair of the commander’s jeans and one of his old T-shirts, his own clothing being soaked.

His hands were still shaking, and that was a shocker to him. He’d engaged in some of the most dangerous black ops in the history of special forces and couldn’t recall ever having been this scared.

He saw that Britta had Sammy on her lap now, arms wrapped around him to ward off the chill, and was talking softly to him. He wrapped the blanket around both of them before dropping down beside them. She glanced his way and nodded her thanks. Sammy was facing the other direction, probably not even aware of Zach’s presence.

If Britta could only see herself holding his son! The reflexive kiss to the top of his head. The soft caress of his back. She would make a wonderful mother. And wife.
Oh, man, where did that thought come from?

While his mind had been wandering in that forbidden arena, Zach realized that Britta had encouraged Sammy to talk about himself and how he liked living here in this country.

“I don’t have no friends,” he was telling her. “Other kids don’t wanna play with me.”

“Oh, Sammy, that is not true.”

“Uh-huh. I look different and I talk different. Nobody wants to play with me.”

“Being different is not so bad. I am different.”

He twisted his head to look at her. “Yeah, you are,” he said with a child’s bluntness. “Do you have anyone to play with?”

Britta turned slightly, her eyes connecting with Zach’s for a brief second.

He winked at her.
You can play with me anytime you want, baby.
He hoped she got that message.

She blushed.
Yep, she got the message.

“You and I must work to fit in better in this country,” she told Sammy, meanwhile brushing his hair back off his face in a maternal fashion. “We need to learn to speak better, to write in this language, to adapt to the way of living here. Because, like it or not, this is where we are both going to stay.”

“My father will send me away,” Sammy said in a small voice, but Zach heard it.

“No, he will not,” she told him.

“He’ll whip me like Grandfather did.”

Zach’s hands fisted, and his eyes watered.

“My father beat me, too,” she confided in a voice so low he barely heard her.

Now, not only were Zach’s hands fisted and his eyes watering, but he felt a tightening in his chest.

“But
your
father, he will
never
do that,” she assured the boy.

“Good,” Sammy said sleepily and snuggled up against her chest.

For a few moments, he and Britta sat in silence.

Her blonde hair, which had been wildly sexy with curls a short time ago, now hung in lanky hunks. Her sexy red lip gloss was gone; in fact, her lips were kind of blue. Mascara had run down her cheeks, making black tracks.

Still, she looked gorgeous to him.

This woman was like no other. Instead of screaming for help, like many females would have, this Amazon had not hesitated to dive into the ocean to save his son. Now, she sat Madonna-like, holding the boy, the antithesis of the GI Jane she tried to portray.

He had no idea how it had crept up on him. Somehow, he had always imagined he’d hear bells and see stars. But, quietly and with no fanfare, a remarkable fact hit him square in the face…rather, heart.

He was in love with her.

No, no, no,
he immediately corrected himself.
I am in like, not love. She saved my son. What’s not to like?

The best laid plans…

Zach was going to get laid tonight or die trying.

Note to self: That was a bit crude. Try again.

Okay, Zach had a plan to seduce Britta into his bed. And it all depended, number one, on his persuading Britta to come in his town house. No pun intended. And, number two, it depended on his talking Britta into an overnight—hell, a weekend—stay with him. And, number three, it depended on Sammy being cooperative for once, willing to fall asleep. And, number four, it depended on his SEAL buddies not showing up to chat, which they’d threatened to do; yeah, like he was up for a frickin’ chat. He’d told them they could go to a chat room if they wanted to chat. And, number five, it depended on Britta being in the mood.

So many “depends”! You’d think he was a bleepin’ ad for incontinence.

Yeah, he had allowed the “love” card to enter his brain for a blip of a second back there on the beach, but he was past that now. He wasn’t in love. Uh-uh. Nope, lust was the name of the game. Good ol’ healthy lust. And it would be healthy for Britta, too, he told himself.

After this weekend, WEALS training would be racheted up. More intense physical evolutions. Less liberties. Focus to the max. This might be his last big chance, and he wasn’t about to blow it.

Seduction was a breeze for Zach. Lack of confidence wasn’t even in his vocabulary. But this time…with Britta…he just wasn’t sure he could pull it off.

Thus far he’d only succeeded with number one, maybe two if he was lucky, and that was thanks to his son who had wheedled and whined till Britta agreed to tuck him in, telling her some outrageous lie about how his father, meaning him, told scary ghost tales that gave him nightmares. It probably hadn’t occurred to her yet that he wouldn’t be able to drive her back to the base and leave Sammy alone.

Britta was upstairs now telling Sammy some bedtime story about a young Viking boy named Svein the Short who wanted to go a-Viking but was considered too little. Not a single ghost in her tale, she promised. Sammy probably empathized with Short Svein since everyone was always telling him he was too little.

There was a knock at the front door. Peering through the peephole, he saw Wilson. Beside him stood a guy flashing a Vortex Security badge; he looked as if he could bench-press a bus. Zach opened the door and invited them both in.

“Care for a beer?” he offered.
Please say no.

“Nah. I’m gonna take off.” Scary Larry was already halfway down the steps. “Just wanted to introduce you to one of the guys who’ll be taking over for me. This is Jim Butler.”

“I owe you for all your help, Larry.”

Wilson, as usual, didn’t crack a smile, just nodded.

Once inside, Butler shook his hand. “Your dad hired a team of us. We’ll rotate shifts, but there will always be a Vortex guard protecting your perimeter. You might not always see us, but we’ll be here.”

“Appreciate it. Do I need to fill you in on any details?”

“Not now. I got the file you e-mailed me. If there’s anything new, though, be sure to let me know ASAP. Here’s my beeper number. It’ll go to whoever is on duty, as well as headquarters.” He took out a business card, which Zach put in his pocket.

Afterward, Zach checked the locks on all the doors and windows, set the outside motion detector and the inside keypad, put some wine in the fridge and two stemmed glasses in the freezer, laid out some gourmet cheese and crackers that his mother had bought last time she was here, made a mental count of how many condoms he had in his bedside table, and sniffed his underarms to see if he was okay in that department. He was.

After waiting another five minutes, he tiptoed up the stairs, not wanting to set off any alarm bells in the kid if he was still awake, and certainly not wanting to awaken him if he was catching some z’s.

First he went into his bedroom at the far end of the hall and put his KA-BAR under his pillow and his Glock on the bedside table. Since Sammy’s arrival, he’d put most of his weapons under lock and key. Those that he needed at the ready had childproof safety locks on them, which meant he would need an extra second to be in a firing position in the event of an emergency. But it was the price he had to pay with a kid in the house.

He double-checked his beeper as well. All SEALs were required to have their direct-line-to-command beepers near them at all times, and even though he wasn’t technically on active duty, he could be called up in an instant, like anyone else.

Next, he went back to the first bedroom and, peeking in, saw that Sammy was sleeping. Bless you, Britta! God, the little snot looked like an angel when he was asleep. Britta must have scrubbed his face and washed his arms, because he smelled of Oil of Olay soap, another left-behind of his mother’s.

But then—whoo-boy!—he noticed something else.

Britta’s sandals were on the floor on the other side of Sammy’s bed, but no Britta. That wasn’t where the “whooboy” came in, though. Like Hansel trailing Gretel, he followed her clothes to the bathroom. First her red tank top next to Sammy’s door. He must have stepped over it, thinking it was Sammy’s. Then her jeans out in the hall. Her bra hung over the doorknob of the bathroom which was, thank you, God, open, where her panties lay in the middle of the floor.

“Britta!” he called out, not daring to step inside.

No answer, but he heard the shower running.
Forget that “not daring” crap.
He walked right in. Then. Stopped. Dead.

Through the sliding glass doors of the shower, he saw Britta, her arms raised, combing her hair back off her face, which was raised under the showerhead, eyes closed. She was a big woman, no denying that. At least six feet tall…and athletically muscled. But, man, a lot of that size went into mile-long, shapely legs, high curved buttocks, and breasts that were full and just the right size for her body. The pink nipples were the…uh, cherries on the cake.

If ever he doubted a man could get an instant, full-blown, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am hard-on, he was a believer now. Testosterone blasted through his body, setting afire every erotic spot along the way, and there were a whole hell of a lot of them. He leaned on the doorjamb when his knees turned to butter and almost buckled on him.

Hesitating for a nanosecond, he shucked his clothes so fast they were strewn all over the place, even his briefs, which landed on the toilet seat, which was closed for once. Probably Britta’s doing. One of his flip-flops slam-dunked into the wastebasket.

Whispering a silent prayer that Britta wouldn’t whack him on the head with the long-handled loofah brush, he opened the shower door and stepped inside.

Britta stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise, and backed against the tile wall. She didn’t try to cover her breasts or pubic hair, like lots of women would. Nudity probably hadn’t been that big a deal in her time, certainly not among warriors. But she did say, “Begone, knave!”

Knave? I’ve been called a lot of things, but knave? Stop grinning. Stop wasting time on irrelevancies. Think quick, cowboy.
“Uh, I thought maybe we ought to conserve on water and take one shower together.”

“Oh. We do the same in the Norselands, except we reuse the bathwater, over and over.”

Okay, score one for me. But, yeech!

“The dirtier ones go last,” she elaborated, as if that made it all right.

Double yeech!
He reached for the Olay body wash—his mother again—and squirted a big dollop into one hand, then rubbed both palms together, creating foam. The scent of aloe permeated the cubicle. He sure as hell hoped it was an aphrodisiac.

“Is that soap?” she asked, fascinated by the foam and the scent. Still no false modesty about covering herself.

Good diversionary tactic…the body wash.
“Yep. Soft soap. And you know what they say? ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’”

“God? Did you say God? Oooh, I knew you were a god.”

Hey, if she wants to think I’m a god, who am I to complain?
“Turn around, baby, let me do your back.”
Then let me do you, period.
He bit his bottom lip to make sure he didn’t say that aloud.

Britta stared at him dubiously.

“It’ll help conserve on soap, too.”

“Ah, ’tis a luxury in your land, too?”

“Oh, yeah.”
I am so good.

She turned.

“Put your hands above your head and spread your legs a little,” he directed.
Please, please, please.

She snorted and started to turn around in protest.

Every man worth his salt knew there was not one, but several windows of opportunity in the art of seduction. The rule here was, never allow a woman time to think. So, cool guy that he was, he placed a palm against her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved, mashing her flat against the tiles.

“Ooomph!”

“It’s easier for me to wash your back and sides if you raise your arms and spread your legs.”
What a line! I should write that down. Later.

“Dost think I am a wanton?”

A guy can only hope.

Miracle of miracles, she put her hands above her head. That’s all. But, hey, that was enough of a start for a guy in lust mode.

“Stubborn wench,” he muttered.

“I heard that.”

“This will also massage your sore muscles.”

They were both silent then as he worked the soft soap into her shoulders, down her back and sides, where his fingertips barely skimmed the sides of her breasts, over her hips. Then he started all over at the bottom, her feet, ankles, calves, and thighs. He was working fast, knowing that any minute now Britta was going to change her mind.

“I should forewarn you,” Britta said. “I am no longer interested in any of those orgasms.”

“Is that a fact?” He smiled. “Why?”

“I saw one performed by those dwarves on Madrene’s black box. Six times, actually. And I am not impressed.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Much moaning and screaming and rocking up and down. It cannot be an exercise to be desired if it involves moaning and screaming. Right?”

“Wrong. There is good moaning and screaming and bad moaning and screaming.”

“What nonsense!” She gasped, then squealed, “Yikes!” as she peered over her shoulder and saw him kneeling with his face in front of her butt, soaping her up. She turned quickly and managed to knee him in the funny bone—not
that
funny bone, thank God!—the funny bone at his elbow.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he yelped, clutching his elbow.

“I am sorry, but it was a shock to see you kneeling there sniffing my bottom, like Hilda’s randy dog Stig.”

“I was
not
smelling your butt. I was lathering you with soft soap, which incidentally smells very nice, don’t you think?”

She sniffed several times. “Yea, ’tis nice, but move aside so I can leave this showering box. ’Tis crowded in here.”

Not crowded enough, baby.

“’Tis past time I returned to the base.”

Should I tell her now that she’s stuck here…at least overnight?

Nah!

“Let me shower real quick. Then I’ll finish you off.”

“I do not think…”

He managed to stand under the shower, blocking the door, and took the quickest shower in history. When he finished and used the heels of his hands to wipe the last of the water from his eyes, he saw that she was staring unabashedly at his body. “Do you like what you see?”
I sure as hell like what I see.

“What is not to like? You are a pretty man. But pretty is as pretty does. Now move aside.”

“Not yet, sweetie. I need to wash this side…of you.” He waved a hand to encompass the front of her body from neck to toes.

“I can wash myself.”

“I can do you better.” Already his soapy hands were rubbing across her breasts. The nipples were small and pink, and the sensation of them abrading the palms of his hands was beyond pleasurable. If her gasp was any indication, she was enjoying it, too.

Britta was shocked. Not by what the lout was doing to her but by her own reaction to it. And why was she standing here like a knight’s pike stuck in the ground, allowing him such liberties?

Gazing downward, she watched as he used his palms to lift and massage her breasts, the whole time his calloused palms abraded her nipples. Then she looked upward, and her eyes connected with his, a bright, stormy, very serious blue. He appeared to be waiting for some reaction from her.

“How does that feel, honey?”

Now he was using his fingertips to tap her nipples, then flick them up and down, side to side.

“Strange. It feels strange.”

“Strange how?”

“My breasts ache…nay, not ache. Yearn.”

“That’s nothing. Wait till we wash this soap off. Then I’m going to kiss your breasts and lick you all over. My mouth and your breasts are going to become very well acquainted.”