Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (8 page)

“Ian,” Alison said to her brother, “lighten up.”

“You are out of line, sis. You may outrank me, but this man is under my command.” His eyes flashed angrily at her, which Ragnor did not like … not one bit.

“Do not take out your fury with me on a woman,” he cautioned the chieftain. Standing to his full height, he glared at the man, who was clearly taken by surprise by his defense of Alison. “I have decided to take Milady Alison under my shield. That means any insult to her is an insult to me.”

Alison and her brother gaped at him as if he’d grown another head. “How dare you?” both of them yelled at the same time.

“I dare much because I am a man of honor. A Viking.”

The chieftain made a low growling sound deep in his throat, and Ragnor took the battle stance—legs widespread, hands on hips—prepared to fight. By the gods, he missed his sword.

Alison stepped between the two of them and put a hand on each of their chests. “Enough! No one is going to fight here.” Addressing her brother, she said, “Ian, this man is in perfect physical condition. I don’t understand how, but he is. On the other hand, it’s obvious that he’s suffering some delusions. So he has agreed to meet with Dr. Feingold.”

“Can he return to training?” the chieftain asked with a snarl.

She nodded. “For now. His continuance will be conditional on Dr. Feingold’s report.”

The chieftain smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. “Come with me, then, Ensign Magnusson. You want to play games, do you? Well, I’m going to show you some Navy SEAL games, guaranteed.”

“Well, thank you very much,” he told the chieftain as they walked off. “Mayhap I will show you a few Viking games, as well.” Over his shoulder, he winked at Alison.

She almost smiled.

Only the lonely …

Alison arrived home at seven that evening.

She pulled into the driveway, but then just sat there for a few minutes, motor running, while an old Hank Williams ballad played out, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” Yep, that about said it all. Tears misted her eyes as a crushing sense of loneliness overwhelmed her with surprisingly sudden force. She had a job she loved, a good family, the dream of one day becoming a SEAL, and an apartment she took great pleasure in decorating bit by bit.

It was that damn Viking, she concluded, swiping at her eyes. Ever since she’d met Ensign Magnusson this afternoon, she’d felt alternately exhilarated, then depressed. And so lonely she could die. Why? What was it about the SEAL trainee with the overblown ego and warped sense of humor and, okay, a body to
die for that pulled at her heartstrings … and other strings, as well. Like maybe lust strings.

She smiled at her musings, turned off the motor as ol’ Hank crooned off into the sunset airwaves, and got out of the car, briefcase in hand. She had a ton of paperwork to do tonight.

“Hi, Lillian,” she called out to her landlady, who stood amidst her rose bushes in the front yard, watering them with the soft spray nozzle of a hose. Lillian Kelly had to be over fifty years old, but she wore tight blue jeans, a halter top, and sneakers. She’d recently dyed her waist-long gray hair a soft blond; it was pulled back now into a high ponytail. Lillian was the hottest middle-aged woman Alison had ever met.

The dozens of magnificent species that adorned the flower beds were a testament to Lillian’s thirty-some years of precious care. Well, care by her
and
her longtime husband, Al. Al had taken off last year with his thirty-year-old dental assistant. To everyone’s surprise, Mrs. K. hadn’t been all that broken up over the philanderer’s departure. “The old fart has been boring me silly for twenty years now, and he wasn’t all that hot the first ten, either,” she’d told Alison when she’d attempted to sympathize with her. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Hi, sweetie,” Lillian replied now. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it? Not too hot. Your mail is on the hall table. Come down for some lemonade and chocolate cake later, okay?”

Alison smiled widely. She had a sweet tooth that could not be denied. “You bet.”

After stepping up to the wraparound porch of the old Victorian house—painted yellow with blue shutters—and going through the ornate double doors
with their side panels of stained glass, she gathered her mail, then went up the wide staircase. She unlocked the door to the second-floor apartment and went in, checking over the mail, mostly bills, as she entered.

Almost immediately, her body went on high alert.

Someone had been in her apartment. She could tell by the altered position of the cushions on the sofa—she was anal about positioning Grandma MacLean’s needlepoint pillows on her antique camelback sofa. The wrapped birthday gift for Ian on the kitchen counter seemed a bit wrinkled, as if it had been opened and rewrapped—though she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t done that herself when she’d put some personal photos inside the wallet she planned to give him. There was definitely the faint scent of cologne … male cologne … that very intense Drakkar, she was pretty sure.

Quickly she opened the top drawer of her desk, situated by the door, and took out her pistol. She already knew it was loaded, but she checked anyway. Only then did she move slowly about the two-bedroom apartment, checking every space, every window. There was a half-open window in the kitchen, overlooking the backyard. Had she left it open this morning? Probably. Who would ever expect someone to enter a second-floor apartment by way of a wobbly rose trellis? Mrs. K. was here most of the time, but not always.

Once she returned to the living room, she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. Five messages. She knew before she even turned them on who it would be. The Breather. No words, just the loud sound of heavy breathing. The creep was probably
jerking off while she listened. But wait, he had said something on the last message: “Bitch!” There was an odd accent to the voice, noticeable even with only one word … possibly Middle Eastern.

Alison felt like freaking out, but she couldn’t afford that luxury.

What should she do?

Call her brother?
No!

Talk to Mrs. K. to alert her to the possible danger and urge her to keep her own doors and windows locked?
Yes.

Call the police and have them dust for fingerprints? Alison was reluctant to call the cops. She was a strong woman who could take care of herself. But that was being foolish. Phone calls were one thing; breaking and entering was quite another. With a long sigh, she decided that she had to make the call. It was the right thing to do.

She would not tell her brother, though. Not yet, anyhow. Ian would have her moved out and into his house before she could say, “Oh, brother!” How could she ever expect to be considered suitable SEAL material if she was unable to protect herself?

Thus it was that two hours later, she, Lillian and Detective “Call me John” Phillips from the local police sat at her kitchen table drinking lemonade and eating chocolate cake. The other cops had already left after dusting for fingerprints, to no avail, and taking the tape from her answering machine back for the file they were starting on her case.

“Be careful, both of you,” John said. “Two women living alone today. Pfff! You’ve got to be more careful about keeping doors and windows locked, even
when you’re only outside in the yard, or making a quick run to the grocery store.”

“I don’t like having to change my life for some pervert,” Lillian said. For they were assuming that the person who’d invaded Alison’s apartment was the same person who made the Breather phone calls. “Besides, no one entered
my
apartment.”

You tell ’im, Lillian, baby!

“Hey, the first access to the second floor is through your front door. If you don’t care about yourself, you have to be protective of your tenant,” he pointed out.

Lillian ducked her head sheepishly at the reprimand.

You tell ’er, Mr. Law & Order!

John winked at Alison, to show he was being tough to be kind. And for personal reasons, as well, she suspected. She could tell he was attracted to her, though he was being subtle about his interest and entirely professional in his words. He wore no wedding band. A definite plus. In fact, single status was an essential in her dating requirements.

Alison leaned back, studying the detective. He was about thirty-five, over six feet tall, had a slight receding hairline but was not unattractive. Unfortunately, Alison felt zilch when she looked at him. And wasn’t it a sad reflection on her life of late that she’d been turned on today by a crude goofball who talked like an eleventh-century Viking, but turned off by a perfectly nice, college-educated officer of the law?

“I would suggest some other things … like maybe a dog.” John was talking to both of them.

“Not for me. I love animals,” Alison said, “but I’m gone too much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.” And if she ever did make the SEALs, an animal would be
totally out of the question. She would be gone for days, even weeks at a time.

“Hmmm,” Lillian said. “I always wanted a pet, but Al was allergic to pet dander. Yes, a dog would be a good idea.”

“Let’s go to the animal shelter tomorrow,” Alison suggested, giving Lillian’s hand a quick squeeze.

“Do they have pit bulls there?” Lillian asked. And she was serious.

“Uh, I don’t think a pit bull is necessary,” John quickly inserted, barely stifling a grin. “What you want is a dog that will bark when a stranger enters your property, not an attack dog. Small breeds can be just as effective”

“Okay,” Lillian agreed. “But not too small. I don’t want a tiny wussy dog that resembles a skinned rat.”

Alison exchanged a smile with the detective, who was rather good-looking when he smiled. Maybe she shouldn’t be striking him out before she gave him a chance. Not that he’d really asked.

But then he did, just before he left. “Can I call you?” he asked.

She hesitated only a blink of a second before nodding.

“What we really need is a man,” Lillian said when Alison returned to the table.

“Was that a
we
in there?”

Lillian shrugged. “Maybe. Though in my case I’m not interested in marriage again. A little sex wouldn’t be unwelcome, though.” She tossed her head as if daring Alison to make fun of her for such an idea, which Alison would never do.

“And what makes you think I need a man?” Alison inquired.

“Oh, honey, you need a man more than anyone I know,” Lillian said with a laugh.

“Should I be insulted by that observation?” Alison asked, laughing as well.

“Not at all. You’ve just been too long without, honey, and I don’t just mean sex.”

You got that right. How about five freakin’ years?
For some reason, the image of a six-foot-four Viking in shorts flashed through her mind. He was sex, and then some.

“Why are you smiling?” Lillian asked.

Because my brain has become lodged in my crotch.
“Nothing,” she said, trying to make her face expressionless. But it was too late.

“You met a man!” Lillian accused with a whoop of delight.

You could say that.
At first Alison was going to deny it, but then she conceded, “I met a man.”

But that was all she would say.

Whoever said “No Pain, No Gain” wasn’t a Viking …

Ragnor had been in this strange new land, which he’d discovered was called Ah-mar-ee-ca, less than a full day, and every bone and muscle in his body hurt, while his brain roiled with confusion. He had been in deep trouble before—
I am a Norseman, after all … trouble finds us even when we are not looking
—but never anything like this.

He reclined on a pallet in the sleeping quarters where the SEAL trainees were housed—
That’s what I am, apparently … a SEAL trainee … may the gods be laughing behind their hands!
—having just completed
what should have been a sybaritic hot showering. But he was not happy. In fact, he was sorely tired of people either gaping at him or laughing at him or saying things he could not understand. Like that little stick with a brush on the end. How was he to know it was a tooth-cleaning brush, and the sweet mint paste in the tube was not for eating, but polishing? Even worse, when he’d pulled those silver packets from his metal lock-her, everyone—
everyone
—had burst out laughing just because he did not know what a cone-dome was. And wasn’t it a marvel—a liberation for men and women alike—that conception could be controlled in this land?

For some reason, when he’d learned the purpose of the cone-domes, immediately an image of Alison had come to his mind … and what he would like to do to her with those protective coverings. He also thought momentarily of his father, Magnus Ericsson, and how he could have used about a hundred of those cone-domes over the years. The last he’d seen his father, Magnus had taken a vow of celibacy for this very reason … not wanting any more than thirteen children.

Ragnor planned on taking about a thousand of those little marvels with him when he returned to the Norselands …
if
he ever returned to the Norselands.

And that was another thing that troubled him. He had always been considered an exceedingly intelligent man. He could recite sagas after hearing them only once. He learned languages of other countries so amazingly fast that some called it magical. He had a brain for strategy in battles, for puzzling out mysteries, for tabulating the direction of the sun in figuring time, for adding figures. He had even studied the
stars and sun and moon under Arab astronomers. He could read and write. But in this country, he felt nigh dumb under the weight of all the complex marvels that the people of this place accepted as everyday happenstances.

But that was neither here nor there. He saw from the corner of his eye that his fellow SEAL team trainees were approaching his bed … with some ill intent, he would warrant by their expressions. All of them, himself included, wore nothing more than drab
sherts
and short underpants.

He had been lying on the pallet with his arms folded behind his head. Sitting up cautiously, he prepared himself to bolt if they attacked … though why they would do that, he had no idea. They had all suffered equally that day under the punishing hands of Chieftain MacLean. Climbing a rope wall as high as a mountain, up and down and up and down like a bunch of bloody squirrels. Running incessantly, often with the yellow boat on their heads. Ducking bullets in “evade and escape” escapades; bullets were this land’s version of arrows shot out of special weapons called guns. What fun that had been, just barely escaping death! And all the while the chieftain had been yelling out his usual pithy sayings, like, “Most wars are lost, not won!” Ha, ha, ha! Always he and his comrades had been wet and sandy. And sore.