“A castle. A town fixated on vampires. Count Dracula. A natural conclusion.” Or not.
“Oh. I see. Well, hardly a royal. I am a Viking, as I already told you. A plain old Viking. Though I was a jarl in the Norselands at one time. That was comparable to a Saxon earl.”
She’d only been teasing. Jeesh! A jar-earl? In the Norselands? Where the hell was that? Somewhere in Pennsylvania, near Transylvania? She’d never heard of it, and she’d grown up here. She was about to ask, then caught herself. Enough of this skirting around the issue at hand.
“Do you have a contract for me to sign?”
“No. I’ll get your sister back to you, either willingly or unwillingly. Then it will be up to you to get her deprogrammed, if necessary. I can recommend some places.”
She nodded. That sounded good. “But shouldn’t we have a written agreement? Payment. Time limits. Terms and conditions.”
He cocked his head at her. “Terms and conditions?”
“For one thing, I am going with you to Montana.”
“You are not going with me.”
“I’ve already notified my employer that I might need to take vacation time soon.” Actually, she’d told Sonja nothing, but she wasn’t worried. There was an assistant pastry chef who could substitute for her for a few days.
“It should only take a few days, shouldn’t it?”
“I would hope so, but you’re not going with me.”
“When do you want to leave? Today is Wednesday. How about Friday? My parents will have left for their cruise that day. Good timing.” She walked to the kitchen while she was talking to him, over her shoulder.
“Good . . . good . . .” he sputtered, getting up and following after her to sit down at a stool in front of the counter. “Your parents are going on a cruise while their daughter is mixed up with a bunch of terrorist wannabes? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You are not going with me.”
She plunked the plate of Peking duck pancakes into the microwave, along with sides of candy-striped beet salad, artichokes with mustard aioli, and saffron-scented rice. Then she poured two cone-shaped beer glasses—more thrift shop bargains that she loved—with some cold boutique beers that had been sitting in her fridge since Christmas.
His eyes widened and he seemed to murmur, “Help me, Lord!” when she placed the plate in front of him, along with fresh fruit in an orange curd tart. In fact, he made the sign of the cross and said aloud, “Forgive me, Lord.” He closed his eyes, as if in ecstasy as he chewed. “Delicious. Sinfully delicious.”
She took that as a compliment, although the entrée wasn’t one of her creations. “So, what should I pack? Casual clothes, I would think. Jeans, boots, that kind of thing. Unless we’re going as city slicker guests. Even then, I think we would go casual, don’t you?”
“You are not going with me,” he said.
“Will you make the travel arrangements or should I? Do you need a retainer? My father will pay, but don’t go overboard. My stepmother, Darla, will have a fit.”
He crossed his eyes, then glared at her. “You are not going with me.”
Chapter 5
A MID-FLIGHT CARRY-ON SNACK
Chopped chicken breast salad with crisp green grapes, walnuts, and apples, topped with cranberry orange relish and arugula, served on a croissant
Penn State cheddar cheese with sesame crackers and Gala apple slices
Greek pomegranate yogurt
Easy-peel baby clementines
Apricot pecan nut rolls
The Lone Viking and his sidekick, to the rescue . . .
She was going with him.
Damn, damn, damn.
Shit, shit, shit.
Coconut. Vanilla. Coconut. Vanilla.
Madness, madness, madness.
Cnut wasn’t sure how it had happened. A combination of cajolery, threats, smiles, frowns, tears, swoon-worthy Peking duck, and general coconut-vanilla intoxication, he supposed. In other words, no excuse. It was a bad, bad idea to have a woman along on a vangel mission, a human woman, that was. Especially one who was so scared, she practically wet her pants every other minute, including now, as they waited for takeoff of their Delta flight to Bozeman from the Philadelphia International runway.
And it wasn’t just fear of flying that had the wench alternately wringing her hands and popping Dramamine tablets. She was belatedly realizing how dangerous this little adventure into ISIS Lackwit Land would be. “Maybe all those beheadings were just photoshopped,” she proffered hopefully.
Yeah, and the moon is made of white chocolate fudge and the stars are just sugar sprinkles.
Then, too, she was afraid of horses. “Do I really have to ride a horse? All that bouncing can’t be good for a person’s insides. Besides, I’ll probably be having my period.”