by Day Leclaire
Jordan drummed her fingers against the wooden counter, her eyes narrowed. That golden-haired, smooth-talking, devil incarnate wanted something, and if she was wise, she’d find out what. Pronto.
Before she could act, Uncle Cletus tapped her on the shoulder and gestured toward Rainer. “Who is that?” he asked, intrigued.
“Trouble, with a capital T.”
Her uncle shook his head. “Impossible. A man with such an instinctive understanding of the basic nature of eggplant can’t be all bad.”
“Trust me on this,” she said dryly. “Bad doesn’t begin to describe the man.”
Determined to find out why he’d come, she followed Rainer. She didn’t buy two coincidences in a row, especially when the first wasn’t one. So, what did he want? Not the bananas, that didn’t make sense. Or did it? She paused in midstride, her right hand straying to her pocket. Maybe he’d found out about the coin trick and had come to reclaim what he deemed his property. Jordan smiled coolly. If so, she’d soon disabuse him of the notion.
By the time she caught up with Rainer and Mrs. Swenson, they were examining the tomatoes. Her gaze snagged on Rainer’s lean fingers stroking a plump red tomato. He was right about one thing. Tomatoes were sensuous, at least the way he touched them. Suddenly she knew she’d never be able to think about them the same way again.
She swallowed.
The man had an exquisite touch. What a shame to waste it on an inanimate vegetable. Not that she’d care to experience his caresses personally. But, to give such loving attention to a tomato?
He bent down and whispered something in Mrs. Swenson’s ear. To Jordan’s astonishment, the woman turned as red as the vegetable he held and let out a snort of laughter.
“It’s the truth,” he insisted. “If you don’t believe me, ask Jordan.”
“Ask me what?” she asked, not certain she wanted to know.
Rainer held up the tomato, turning it. “That one of the names for this vegetable is the love apple.’”
As much as it went against the grain, she forced herself to agree with him. “It’s one name for them, among others.”
“Quite right. Also the wolf peach—”
“The mad apple—”
“And the rage apple.” He offered the tomato to Mrs. Swenson. “But to me, it will always be . . . the love apple.”
So he liked to play games, did he? Well, she played games and quite ably, too. “Tomatoes,” Jordan stated with determination. “Low in calories, high in nutrition. They contain vitamins A, B1, B2, and C—”
“Once considered poisonous,” he broke in, shooting her a wicked look, “they were later believed harmful only to the chaste. All proper maidens who guarded their virtue avoided what many considered an aphrodisiac.” He selected another tomato and offered it to Jordan, along with a mocking grin. “Shall I tempt your virtue?”
She took the proffered fruit. “Lycopersicon esculentum , literally ‘juicy wolf peach.’ A member of the nightshade family, the fruit is the only edible portion. In actuality a berry, it is legally a vegetable.”
Rainer stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “There are literally thousands of varieties, such as the Bonny Best, the Atom, the Droplet—”
“The Cannibal, the Jetfire, the Dutchman—”
He interrupted, his voice low and intimate. “The Moon Glow, the Perfecta, the Terrific . . .” He paused, his gaze unbearably seductive, and suddenly Mrs. Swenson ceased to exist. “The Crimson Cushion, the White Beauty, the Red Glow.” His voice lowered still further, caressing every syllable. “And the Venus.”
She spoke crisply. It was a struggle, but she did it, emphasizing each chilly word. “The Subarctic, the Snowball, the Toy Boy, the Crackproof—”
“You forgot the Superman.”
She raised her chin and stared him straight in the eye. “And the When-Hell-Freezes-Over.”
A delighted grin crossed Rainer’s face. “I must have missed that one. I’ll have to get out my Burpee catalogue and look it up.”
“Well, which kind of tomatoes are these?” Mrs. Swenson wanted to know, peering from one to the other in bewilderment.
Jordan didn’t miss a beat. “They’re the When-H—”
“Behave-yer-selves,” he inserted smoothly, quelling her with a glance. “Behave-yer-selves Beefsteaks.”
“That’s . . . different,” Mrs. Swenson said. “Where do they come up with such peculiar names?”
“From peculiar people with strange senses of humor,” Jordan couldn’t resist saying.
Rainer inclined his head. “Thank you, sweetheart, though I prefer eccentric to peculiar.”
“We can’t have everything we want.”
He gave a little sigh. “You weren’t listening this morning at the wholesale market, were you?” His relentless gaze intimidated her, made threats she knew he’d keep. “You’ll find I always get what I want.”
“Not always, Mr. Thorsen,” she dared to remind him. “You lost the bananas.”
He didn’t immediately respond, instead placing half a dozen tomatoes into Mrs. Swenson’s basket. Then he said gently, “I only lost if the bananas were my ultimate objective. They weren’t.” He allowed Jordan to mull that over, before adding, “I always get what I’m after. Some things take a little time, but in the end, I get them just the same. I always do. I suggest you remember that.” He smiled down at Mrs. Swenson. “Shall we move on to the roots?”
I always do. His threat hung in the air. Jordan couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. For the first time she knew fear, honest to goodness, belly-deep, stomach-curdling fear. What did he want? It was imperative she find out. Think, darn it, think!
Unfortunately, her instinctive ability to grasp a situation chose that moment to desert her. Normally she could size up an individual with no problem, sensing his or her strengths and weaknesses. But this man was all strengths and no weaknesses. And without a weakness, how was she expected to decide on an angle of approach?
Should she force the issue? Should she charm him? Should she toss him out on his lightning bolt earring? What angle would work best? Well, even without an angle doing something was better than doing nothing at all. She started after him.
“Jordan?”
Michelle caught her a few feet short of her goal. Rainer glanced over at them as though aware of her frustration at the interruption and winked.
She dragged her attention from Rainer to the petite blond standing at her elbow. “Yes, what is it?”
“That student you talk to all the time, Seth what’s-his-name, is here. He wants to run a tab on his order again.”
“Do it.”
The younger girl hesitated. “Uh, you see, his purchases are sort of high this time—twenty dollars and fifty-four cents—and that tab of his hasn’t gotten any smaller.”
Jordan chuckled. “Sure it has. It’s easy. Just take the old tab, wad it up in a little ball and stick it in that round metal barrel beneath the register.”
“The trash can?” Michelle’s voice squeaked in disbelief.
“You got it. Then get out a new piece of paper and write twenty fifty-four on it. Voila. Small tab again.”
“But . . .”
Jordan smiled gently. “Honey, Seth’s struggling to work his way through school. Look at this as our contribution to higher education.”
“You mean our contribution to a smooth-talking con artist,” Michelle muttered.
Jordan lifted an eyebrow, the tiny signal of disapproval enough to silence the girl. “Don’t be so suspicious. Try thinking of him the way you would the electric company. You pay the bill and end up with a brighter day.”
“Yeah, well you must have a lot of bright days, since Seth isn’t the only customer whose tab gets filed away under the register.” She held up her hands in surrender. “But you’re the boss. I hear and obey.”
“Smart move.” Jordan glanced toward Michelle’s register. “And be nice to Seth. He’s looking a little worried over there.”
“Yeah, I can guess why.”
“Michelle,” Jordan warned, “I mean it. He has a lot of pride. Don’t dent it.”
That said, she looked at Rainer. To her surprise a frown creased his face and she realized he’d overheard her conversation with Michelle. Heard, and disapproved. She couldn’t hide her indignation. Really! It was her store. It was her produce. And it was her customer. All of which made it none of his business.
Before she could say as much, he returned his attention to Mrs. Swenson. With a friendly smile, he shifted her basket to his arm, leaning close to discuss the merits of sweet potatoes. As though unable to resist, he reached out and rearranged the display in front of him.
Uncle Cletus approached her next. “What’s that fellow doing?” he muttered in her ear.
“He’s—”
“I’ll tell you what he’s doing. He’s touching my produce. He’s changing things around. Look, look! He moved that yam. I wanted that yam there. That yam wanted to stay there. And he moved it.”
Jordan swallowed a smile. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand yams quite as well as eggplant.”
Her uncle snorted. “I’m beginning to think he doesn’t understand eggplants, either. He probably made a lucky guess.”
“He can’t help sorting the produce. It’s not meant as an insult. It’s . . . it’s habit,” she said, and realized the truth of her comment. His restless movements—the scanning, shifting and arranging—were as natural to him as to her. As natural to them both as breathing. She could choose to resent his presumptuousness, but why bother? It came unconsciously, with no offense intended.
“Habit?” Cletus said in a querulous tone. “Is he in produce, too? What’s his name?”
“Rainer Thorsen.”
Her uncle froze, then used a word she’d never heard him say before. She stared at him, his panicked expression turning her astonishment to concern.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“What does he want?” he fired at her. “What’s he doing here?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” And that was it in a nutshell. Rainer Thorsen. A Viking. A man of action. A conqueror. What had he chosen to conquer this time?
Or should she be asking who?
“Get him out!” her uncle demanded. “He’s trouble.”
“I already told you that. Remember? Trouble with a capital T. But you were sure that a man with . . .” She groped for an exact quote. “A man with such an instinctive understanding of the basic nature of eggplant can’t be all that bad.”
“You were right. I was wrong. He is trouble. Now, get rid of him.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” she asked, attempting to be reasonable. “Go up to the man and say, this store ain’t big enough for the two of us? You and your lightning bolt get outta town?”
“This is no time to joke!”
For some unknown reason, Jordan found herself taking Rainer’s side. Clearly, the man was a bad influence. “What’s the worst he can do? Look at him. He’s sold more to Mrs. Swenson in one day than we have in a month of Sundays.”
“I can survive without Mrs. Swenson’s business.”
“What about Edie and Mrs. Lawsen? They’ve been shopping for over half an hour and they’ve filled up two baskets each. Why? Because they can’t take their eyes off our friend. It’s a wonder they haven’t tripped over each other’s tongues, though I do live in hope.”
“That’s disgraceful!”
She didn’t understand what had gotten into her, but she couldn’t resist adding, “Mmm. It’s also good for business. Maybe I can hire him to come in once a week and flex his biceps. I could even put up a sign—one basket of produce for fifteen minutes’ viewing time.”
Uncle Cletus glared at her. “You going to kick that man out or not?” he demanded.
“Not.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Muttering furiously beneath his breath, he stomped off in a huff.
Jordan felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t needle Uncle Cletus that way, not when he only had their best interests at heart. She’d apologize to him. Their relationship was too precious to risk. Which meant she should confront Rainer and find out what he wanted, then see if she couldn’t—politely—usher him out the door.
Squaring her shoulders, she joined him at the berry counter. Mrs. Swenson clutched a second basket in her hand, this one overflowing with nectarines, grapes, and raspberries. “Thank you, Mr. Thorsen . . . Rainer.” The older woman dimpled at him. “You’ve been such a help. I can’t wait to tell Ivar all about the tomatoes.”
“Love apples,” he corrected.
She blushed. “Love apples.” With that, she trotted toward the checkout stand.
Jordan waited for Mrs. Swenson to wander out of hearing range. “You two certainly got on like a house on fire. I don’t suppose you want a full-time job? You have quite a way with my customers, particularly those of the female persuasion.”
“Don’t be snide,” he admonished. “You should be grateful. I even managed to sell her some bananas.”
“How did you pull that off?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “Not more love potions or cute legends, I hope.”
He grinned. “No sex, no politics, just plain, old dry-as-dust fact. I told her bananas were like people. They improved with age.”
Jordan nodded, secretly impressed. “I like it.”
“I’m glad. Because if you continue to give the produce away, you’re going to need every extra sale I can drum up.”
“Try minding your own business.” She smiled sweetly. “It’ll save your poor nose another crook.”
He didn’t look at all intimidated. “So. Come to give me my marching orders, have you?”
She chuckled. “How did you guess?”
“It wasn’t difficult.” He glanced toward the curtained-off section at the back of the store. “You shouldn’t have told your uncle my identity. You scared him.”
She wouldn’t ask how he knew Cletus was her uncle, or what she and Uncle Cletus had discussed. Clairvoyance, telepathy, omniscience, nothing seemed beyond him. “Does he have reason to be scared?” she asked instead.
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Darn! Every time she got within arm’s length of the man, she somehow forgot he meant trouble. Well, she wouldn’t forget again. She’d engrave it on her forehead, if necessary, but she wouldn’t forget.
Jordan lifted her chin. Game over. It was time to get serious. She’d thought of exactly three angles of approach to use in her dealings with him, admittedly all less than brilliant. She could charm him. She could physically eject him. Or she could force him to admit what he wanted.
She’d already tried charm, it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. But then, she’d never been very good at charm. Tossing him out, presuming she could, would only bring a temporary end to their conversation. That narrowed her choices a whole heck of a lot. Like down to one. Somehow, forcing this man into a confession seemed the poorest and most ludicrous choice of all.
Maybe she could beg.
“Would you care to tell me what you want before you leave?” She almost sighed aloud. She never was much good at begging.
He smiled then, his ruthless, Viking I’m-going-to-win-no-matter-what smile. “I don’t want much,” he said gently. “Just your store.”
Chapter 3
R ainer reached out, his finger nearly brushing her cheek. “Your eyes have gone from blue to gray,” he commented conversationally. “Does that mean something?”
Jordan jerked her head back. “Consider it a storm warning and stand clear.”
“Really?” He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s typhoons I need to watch for, not volcanoes?”
&
nbsp; “What the hell does the weather have to do with this discussion?” She reacted like a tigress defending her young. “Are you crazy or something? You come into my store, bother my customers, rearrange our displays, throw out blatant threats and warnings, and then have the unmitigated gall to say you want my store?”
“Your uncle’s,” he interrupted softly.
“What?”
“Your uncle’s store,” he repeated.
He took a step closer and she fell back. How ridiculous to feel such instinctive fear when people hemmed them in on all sides. Yet she did. Something about his determined gaze and purposeful stride reminded her of a stalking predator. He cornered her against a huge bin of watermelons.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Clarifying a few things. For your information, I did not bother your customers, I showed you the appropriate way to handle a troublemaker.”
“Gee, thanks. I’ll try romancing Mrs. Swenson next time she comes in, though I doubt I’ll get the same results.”
He grinned. “I’d worry if you did. Moving right along, if I rearranged any displays, put it down to an irresistible compulsion to touch things I like. There’s a lot in this store I feel an irresistible compulsion to touch.” His gaze swept over her. “But lucky for you I’ve limited myself to the produce.”
“Congratulations. Have a raspberry.”
His look hinted at retribution. “Next point. I never make threats or warnings, blatant or otherwise. I make promises. And I always keep my promises.”
“Like you always get what you want?” she taunted. What had gotten into her? Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? She must have some fatalistic death wish that caused her to spout words guaranteed to bring a fast end to a short life.
He moved even closer, edging her up against the bin. “I’m so glad we understand each other.”
She wiggled away from him in the only direction available, up and onto the watermelons. Not only did she feel ridiculous, she undoubtedly looked ridiculous, too. The crowning glory would be for him to say so.