One word stood out in Andrea’s lengthy plea. Cult. Hadn’t Michael mentioned cults in connection with Cnut’s new mission?
Oh no! Oh no, no, no! Cnut couldn’t be involved, in any way, with this woman—this sweet-scented bit of tempting fluff—lest he start licking her up one side and down the other. Now that he thought about it . . . turn the woman upside down in a vat of pineapple juice with a splash or ten of rum, and she’d be a tempting piña colada. And, boy, was he getting a thirst on!
No, no, no! At the recent Reckoning, he had been as shocked as everyone else that for the first time ever, he’d had no new years added to his penance. In other words, he’d been a good boy, so to speak. And now this!
But “cult,” that was the key, wasn’t it?
“Did Michael send you?” he asked suddenly.
“Michael who?”
That answered that question. But not really. This was just the kind of trick the archangel was known to pull on the VIK. Give them a mission, but have it wrapped in something sorely tempting or contrary to their weaknesses. Vikar’s overblown pride was tried in a run-down castle. Trond’s laziness tested in grueling SEALs training. Ivak’s lust restrained in a male prison. And Cnut’s gluttony . . . ?
His stomach growled suddenly.
And with a sigh of resignation, he said, “Quack, quack.”
Chapter 4
A CHEF’S NIGHTTIME SNACK
(and not a Philly cheesesteak in sight)
Ginger chai tea with orange blossom honey
Belgian chocolate-dipped madeleines
Crisp-skin Peking duck slices topped with pomegranate hoisin sauce, wrapped in paper-thin mandarin pancakes
Warm candy-cane-striped beet salad
Artichokes with tart mustard aioli
Saffron-scented jasmine rice
Fresh fruit in orange curd tart
Boutique honey beer (i.e., mead for the Viking)
He was a jar. No kidding! A jar! . . .
Andrea was puttering about her apartment that evening. She’d already showered and put on her PJs, a pair of leopard-print, low-riding nylon harem pants with a matching cropped tank top. She was combing through the long, wet strands of her hair as she stood, barefooted, at the bank of windows giving her a bird’s-eye view of the sun setting over the Schuylkill River.
A rowing crew was making its way back to dock at one of the famous boathouses that lined the waterway. The long, narrow scull with its multiple oars extended resembled nothing more than a centipede from this distance. She had a pair of high-powered binoculars that she used on occasion to watch the rowing teams, especially during the annual regatta, but for now this long-distance view sufficed.
It was only eight-thirty, but she tried to go to bed by ten p.m. on those nights when she knew her alarm would go off at an all-too-early four a.m. Her work began in the La Chic Sardine kitchen by five, six at the latest. Usually, she had at least six new pastries ready before noon to be added to the menu. A killer schedule for any kind of social life, but essential for her career.
She doubted she’d be able to sleep tonight, though, with all that roiled in her brain. Mainly, worry over her sister. Her only hope at the moment was that Mr. Sigurdsson—the detective or security expert or whatever he was—had not given her a definite no. He’d told her that he would look into the matter and get back to her ASAP. If he couldn’t help her, he might be able to recommend someone who could. As a result, Andrea jumped every time her cell phone rang, but thus far, the only calls, which she’d diverted to her answering machine, had been from Darla and her father, who were equally concerned. Not enough to postpone their annual cruise to the Bahamas, though. Their boat departed from Florida on Friday, day after tomorrow.
“We trust you to take care of this, honey,” her father had told her.
Please don’t.
“Besides, it’s probably the same old crap from Celie,” Darla had proclaimed. “Nothing dangerous.”
ISIS not dangerous? Yeah, right!
“Let me know how much money you need for travel and expenses. Whatever you need!” her father offered.
Now there’s an idea. Open wallet, here I come.
“But not that fifty thousand dollars, for heaven’s sake!” Darla quickly amended.
Not so open, then.
“I still say you should go to the FBI about this, Daddy.” Andrea had told her father this earlier, although even Mr. Sigurdsson had been skeptical about involving the “feds.” Apparently, Americans sneaking off to join one terrorist group or another was becoming epidemic. Too much for Uncle Sam to handle individual cases. And many of the times the kids had second thoughts before they even got to Syria or whatever foreign country was being used as an ISIS conduit at the time.