“No, no, no! I have clients who would run at the first hint that my family has any ties to terrorists. Even if it’s not true.”
“Definitely not! The publicity would kill your father.”
“Now, darling, you know it’s not about me,” her father had cooed to Darla.
“Of course it is, sugar doll. Kiss, kiss.”
Gag me with a pastry brush.
Andrea sighed deeply and turned back to the living room, tidying some gourmet cooking magazines on the Louis Seymour coffee table she’d found in a thrift shop. She loved this condo she’d purchased two years ago in the old Concorde building, and not just because of the twelfth-floor view from the floor-to-ceiling wall of arched windows on one side of the living room. She loved the open concept in which the living room, dining area, and kitchen were all one big room, with a comfortable separate bedroom and bathroom. She loved the vintage decorative elements the developers had managed to salvage, like crown molding and random plank, golden oak flooring and built-in cabinets. She loved each furnishing in the unit that she had picked out with care, usually from a flea market or used furniture store. The result was a comfortable, albeit small, living space that was all hers.
She decided to make herself a cup of decaffeinated ginger chai before calling it a day. A nook on the back side of the condo, overlooking a rather sad garden quad down below, contained a desk, her reading glasses, a laptop, and a stack of notes for Dessert on a Dime, a cookbook proposal Andrea should be working on, but not tonight with her lack of concentration. She couldn’t stay up all evening in hopes Mr. Sigurdsson would call, either. Once the tea steeped, she poured it with a dollop of honey into a Limoges china cup decorated with tiny roses, another thrift shop purchase. She added a few chocolate-dipped madeleines to the saucer and was about to go into her bedroom and watch an episode of Game of Thrones on Netflix when she saw that she had company.
“Eeeek!” With a shriek of alarm, she almost dropped the tea and cookies. Just in time, she caught herself, and set the cup and saucer on the granite bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the unit.
Cnut Sigurdsson was sitting on one of her low couches, his long legs propped on her precious coffee table, skimming one of the food mags.
“What are you doing here?” she yelled.
“Uh. You hired me.”
“I did? I mean, you couldn’t call?”
“When I decide to do something, I like to get it done. Right away.”
“How did you get in here?” she asked, now that her racing heart had slowed down to mere jogging speed.
“I knocked, but you didn’t answer. So I just came in.”
“The door was locked.”
“Was it?”
She knew it had been. Living single in a city, she was diligent about always locking the door after herself. In fact, glancing to the left, she saw that the dead bolt was still in place. She would definitely address this issue later. “Do you have news?”
“Mayhap.”
“Mayhap? What kind of word is mayhap?” she grumbled, her heart still racing from the shock of finding a stranger in her apartment.
“Old Norse. I did mention I’m a Viking, didn’t I?”
Definitely a Viking! He wore the same black jeans and athletic shoes as earlier today, but on top he’d changed from the dress shirt to a white, long-sleeved T-shirt with the logo “Crab Claw” down one sleeve. Despite the modern clothing, there was no downplaying his immense height, his killer body, his sharply defined Nordic features, or that disconcerting, hot-damn-I-am-a-Viking hairdo. He looked as if he’d be just as comfortable on a motorcycle, like the one that had been parked outside his agency, as he would on a longship. As if any of that matters! she chastised herself.
“Great view!” he said, motioning toward the windows. “I love boats.”
“No kidding!” At his arched brows, she added, “I am Viking, see me row.”
His brows arched even more, this time in confusion.
“Boats, Vikings, longships, rowing,” she explained.
Finally, his forehead unfurrowed and he nodded. “You were making a jest.”
She almost said, No kidding! again, but bit her tongue. She didn’t know why she was being so rude to the man, especially when she needed his help. He rattled her, that’s why, she decided. And she didn’t often get rattled by men.
She picked up her tea and cookies once again and walked toward him. She was decently covered, but the way Cnut stared at her exposed arms and shoulders and upper chest and waist, she felt naked. When he homed in on her leopard-print harem PJs and made a rumbling, big cat sound—a deep masculine purr that acted like a tuning fork to instantly humming hormones—she lifted her chin and tried for nonchalance. Sitting down carefully on the low matching couch that faced him, she set down her cup and saucer and said, “What? You have a thing against leopards?”