Jordan interrupted excitedly, “The Viking colony led by Leif the Lucky!"
Luke frowned at her. “Do you want to tell this story?"
"Sorry."
"You should be. Ow! Jordan, don't wiggle like that—our future children are at stake."
She giggled.
"Will you just get on with it?” Wendy demanded, mixing another color in the middle of her palette.
"Everyone's a critic. All right, where was I? Oh yes. The Algonquin people watched the strangers. The white sail and the white skins of the newcomers reminded them of their princess with her white hair. Perhaps, they said, it was an omen—new people were coming to their land and perhaps this was a sign that the two peoples should join together. Perhaps, they said, their princess with her white hair was born to bring this about. Perhaps they should give the princess to a man of the new tribe and it would bring luck to all the people."
"Right,” Jordan fumed. “I bet nobody asked the princess."
"Princesses have to do what their told. Noblesse oblige,” Luke reminded her. “So a great warrior of the Algonquin went to test the strength of the white people, and when he found the man he could not defeat in a wrestling match, he knew this was the man that the princess should marry. To be absolutely certain, they looked for the sign of the moon and found it in a crescent mark over the Viking's heart. So the princess and the Viking were married and the Vikings and the Algonquians were as one people. But trouble soon came."
"It always does,” Jordan sighed.
"You should know,” Luke snickered. “The princess and her husband loved each other deeply; but there were still many men of her tribe who were jealous and who secretly wished to have the beautiful princess as their own mate. One terrible night, a jealous rival came and killed the Viking man while he slept. In the morning the princess was found with the knife that killed him and his blood on her hands. Because she loved her own people too well, she wouldn't say who had done the terrible deed, and grief stole her voice and she never spoke again. But bad feelings on both sides grew until war broke out and the strangers fled in their boat."
Jordan waited impatiently, but he didn't continue. “What happened then? What about the princess?” she demanded, nudging Luke where it was most likely to prod him to action.
"Ah. The princess grieved, not only for her lost love but also for the jealous rage in the heart of one of her own people. She sat on a rock in the moonlight and wept white tears. In the morning, when the sun came up, she was gone and was never seen again. But her white tears seeped into the ground and became the marble you see in the valley."
Jordan sniffled. “Luke, that's terrible. It's so sad."
He moved a hand to brush her cheek at the risk of incurring Wendy's wrath. “Well, it took your mind off of being pinched and poked, didn't it?"
She considered that. “Well, yes. But still ... couldn't you have come up with a happy ending?"
He smiled at her. “Happy endings are for real life. But if it makes you feel better, after their deaths, they were reunited as stars in the sky,” he improvised.
Jordan sighed happily. “That's much better."
"I'm glad you approve,” he replied dryly.
"You're a really good storyteller, Luke. I can't believe you just made that up. Wendy, did he always tell stories?” Jordan asked.
Wendy tossed a long strand of hair back and eyed them both, considering the picture they made. “Only since he met you. You've made a romantic out of him. Something I would have said was impossible,” she added with a lift of her eyebrow.
Jordan leaned closer into Luke. “Well, it was wonderful, Luke. You should do it more often."
He smiled at her, then frowned when he saw her bite her lip. “That's enough for now,” he informed Wendy. Without waiting for permission, he swung down and lowered Jordan carefully to her feet. “Can you stand?” he asked, supporting her in case she couldn't.
She flexed and stretched her legs one at a time, and grimaced until the cramps slowly eased. “Ouch. Yes, I can now, thanks. I didn't know sitting still was so hard.” She sounded surprised and forlorn.
Luke couldn't help laughing. “That's because you've never done it before in your life."
She stuck her tongue out at him.
"All right, you two,” Wendy warned them both, “if you're going to start up again, leave. I don't want any brawls distracting me while I'm working."
"We don't brawl,” Jordan protested indignantly.
Luke laughed again and swung her off her feet and into his arms. “Of course we don't,” he agreed. “You just can't help starting trouble everywhere you go. That dress alone is enough to incite a riot."
Jordan looked both fascinated and ridiculously pleased. “Really?"
"No, not really."
"Oh.” She visibly drooped with disappointment.
"Just with you in it."
"Get out, now, while everything is still standing,” Wendy ordered them both sternly.
Jordan smiled sweetly at him. “We'd better run for it. Only I don't have my running shoes."
"I noticed."
"Carry me?” she requested unnecessarily, since he was holding her already.
"Certainly. I always carry off damsels in distress."
Jordan sighed happily and looped her arms around her hero's neck as he carried her off and silently vowed never again to wear running shoes when he was around. If she couldn't kiss him, at least she could enjoy being carried off by him.
"Thanks, Jordan,” Wendy added over her shoulder. “I won't need you in costume again, either of you. I got enough from today and from the snapshots for the composition. I will need your faces again, though, for the final details."
"Okay,” Jordan agreed. “Let us know when.” Then she heaved a dramatic sigh of relief and dropped her head on Luke's ample shoulder. “Take me away. Get me out of this iron maiden."
He slanted a wry look at her. “Iron maiden?"
"Well, what would you call it? I'm being stabbed from all directions.” She moaned in misery. “How did women survive this through the centuries? Thank God for lycra and spandex."
He laughed at her dramatics. “Come on, I'll get you out.” Luke set her down and tapped on the bathroom door. Empty. He swung it open and ushered an eager Jordan inside and closed it behind them.
She bounced up and down in eagerness. “Free at last! Free at last!"
"Stop that or some parts of you will be free before other parts,” Luke warned her, eyeing the strained bodice in trepidation. And maybe a little anticipation.
"Then undo me, please, Luke. Hurry.” Jordan turned and presented her row of miniature fastenings and tried to stand still so he could unfasten her.
He obligingly fumbled at the little hooks and wondered how he'd gotten himself into this. This was not the way he'd envisioned undressing Jordan. He was in fact undressing her for the second time, and neither one went remotely like the scenarios in his fantasies.
In his fantasies, she wasn't asleep. Well, maybe in one or two. But she woke up eagerly early on in the short drama instead of snoring peacefully through the whole thing. And in his fantasies involving Jordan and this dress, two small boys weren't running loose in the same house who might possibly burst in unexpectedly.
Jordan sighed in blessed relief as one by one the fastenings came open and relieved the vise-like pressure. “Oh, Luke, that feels so good,” she groaned, without realizing how it sounded.
The dress was open from neck to waist and his warm hands stroked her bared back soothingly. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the massage. Amazing. She hadn't even specifically requested a fantasy massage-giving fiancé and she got a bonus anyway.
Strong fingers kneaded aching muscles and rubbed away the irritation produced by confining whalebone, moving down her spine, then spreading out to move up her sides and continue the massage along her aching ribcage. Jordan sighed blissfully and leaned back against Luke, feeling her aches dissipate and evaporate under his han
ds. When they continued up and slid around to cup her abused cleavage, she was suddenly very glad he was holding her up.
"Luke.” His name burst from the depths of her soul at the intimate touch.
"Shh.” He released her breasts and slid one hand down to her waist to press her back against him, the other moving safely up to rest below her throat as he held her tightly.
Her bones were turning to water, but everything else had caught fire. Oh dear, Jordan thought weakly. This wasn't in the plan.
Neither was his jaw scraping against her cheek, or his warm breath feathering her bared neck and sending shivers down her spine. And when he turned her to him and kissed her fiercely, that was definitely not in the plan.
Luke released her lips and she stared stupidly at him. What had she just done? Ruined everything, of course. He'd hate her. He'd call off their phony engagement, leaving her to Seymour's tender mercies. Well, at least she'd get a good burial plot, she thought wildly.
Luke hugged her gently against his chest. “Don't look like that,” he murmured. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Great. She didn't know whether to protest or cheer. She wanted it to happen again. And again and again. No she didn't. Yes she did.
Confused, she settled for staying put and staying still and staying quiet for possibly the first and only time in her life.
"It's going to be all right, Jordan, I promise,” Luke said quietly.
Would John Wayne lie to her? He was the man in black, after all. Her hero. Steady. She could trust him. Jordan relaxed. “Okay."
"Okay."
They stayed together in a few minutes of silence. Then Luke loosed his hold and smiled down at her. “Get dressed, imp. I'll take you home."
Chapter Eight
"Earth to Jordan. Come in, Jordan."
Her head snapped up and she looked back and forth from Randall to Teresa. “Huh?"
Teresa shook her head. “She's been like that all day. This is what being engaged does to a person? I never thought I'd see Jordan like this—quiet and worried."
Randall looked suspiciously at Jordan. Jordan tried to look innocent and searched for the fork she'd either lost or forgotten she was holding ... she wasn't sure which. She was holding it. Good. She stabbed at a Brussels sprout and attempted to redirect the conversation.
"Great sprouts, Teresa. Did you cook these in garlic butter?"
Teresa just sighed. “Now she's showing an interest in cooking, for goodness sake. It's even worse than I thought."
Jordan couldn't spare any sympathy just then for Teresa's concern. She was worried enough herself. She'd spent a restless, emotional night—after being unexpectedly kissed and caressed by a dangerous gunslinger in his sister's bathroom. And so far, Sunday hadn't been much more peaceful. But she admitted to herself that she was being lousy company and she ought to at least contribute to the dinner conversation.
The reason for her distraction wasn't Randall's fault, or Teresa's, or either of their boys. She had nobody but herself to blame for her predicament.
As usual.
She had managed to get herself “engaged” to a man she ... there were no words to describe how she felt. Attraction fell short. Obession? Well, that was closer. No—how about deranged, delusional, lunatic and irrational?
That was better. She was insanely driven, compelled, coerced by her brute and base instincts and deeply depraved urges. She was lusting after Luke and fantasizing about him in his black hat and nothing else.
Well, maybe cowboy boots, too...
She was pining for his presence, which was equally disgusting. She hadn't seen him since he'd dropped her off the previous evening and she missed him all the way down to her toes.
Sad. Pathetic. Pitiful. Just thinking about Luke and the fact that he wasn't there had Jordan wilting and drooping over her Brussels sprouts again, her fork once more forgotten in her limp hand.
She missed him. She wanted to see him smile and hear him roar in outrage and feel him throw her up in the air as if she was Theodore's little toddler.
But—he was disgusted with her. She knew it. For the first time, he hadn't sent her flowers or anything remotely along the floral theme. Jordan realized in horror that she was inches away from weeping into Teresa's Sunday pot roast. She had to get a grip.
"Good sprouts,” she offered inanely with a weak smile in Teresa's direction.
Teresa shook her head. “You already said that."
"I did?"
"Randall, she's your sister. Do something,” his wife demanded.
"She's my fiancée. I'll do something."
At the sound of the familiar voice, Jordan snapped to attention again. Her eyes swung to his. A humiliatingly happy smile broke over her face, but she was too glad to see him to care how disgustingly besotted she was acting.
Besides, with any luck, that was exactly what he'd attribute it to—acting. Hadn't she already demonstrated considerable talent in that direction? Yes, she had. He'd buy it. She'd snowed him before.
"What has she done now?” Luke asked Randall in commiseration. “Burned something? Broken the dishes? Filled the dishwasher with liquid dish soap instead of automatic detergent?"
"I only did that once,” Jordan defended herself huffily. “It was an honest mistake. How was I supposed to know it was the wrong kind of soap?"
Randall cracked a smile at the memory. “We had soap suds all over the kitchen floor up to our knees. Gary wouldn't allow her in the kitchen again for a month."
Luke laughed, and Jordan was distracted by the sound. He sounded so good laughing. Almost as good as he did shouting. And he was here. That struck her as odd and she asked, “Why are you here?"
He whipped a bouquet of white carnations from behind his back and offered them to her. “To give you these."
"Oh!"
"Take them, Jordan, and say ‘thank you',” Teresa prompted her.
Jordan accepted the flowers with numb fingers and smiled her horribly besotted smile. “Thank you."
Luke smiled back. He didn't look disgusted, Jordan thought. He looked a little relieved, actually. “You're welcome."
She smiled some more.
"Go put them in water,” Teresa added as if to a child, trying very hard not to laugh.
"Oh. Water. Right.” Fork still in hand, Jordan abruptly rose from the table and headed for the kitchen with the flowers. Once there, she leaned against the counter and sniffed the spicy fragrance of the carnations and smiled dreamily.
He'd brought her flowers again. Himself. Personally, instead of through George the delivery man, who she was rapidly getting to know as well as she knew her mailman.
Luke wasn't disgusted with her after all. Maybe he planned to put the whole half-naked kissing thing behind him and forget about it. The fact that he'd shown up unannounced at Randall's to surprise her showed her that he was still planning on holding up his end of their bargain. If he wasn't, she reasoned, he wouldn't have bothered with flowers.
It was a subtle reminder of his first promise to her. He'd kept every one he'd made since then, too. Relief sang through her. He wouldn't leave her to the likes of Seymour and company.
Then, as swiftly as the relief came, it went, leaving her slumped and despondent. He would leave her, though ... January second. She looked down at the flowers and tried not to cry.
"You don't like carnations?” Luke asked.
She lifted wide eyes to his unreadable gaze.
"They didn't have any calla lilies,” he said apologetically. He took the flowers from her unresisting grasp and put them in a vase with water. “I took a chance."
Jordan didn't respond. For once she was without words.
Luke set the flowers aside and turned to pull her into his embrace. “I thought carnations would suit you. Spicy. Sweet. Colorful."
"Oh,” Jordan managed to say. “Thank you."
He might have been talking about fractions or demographics or tabulated statistics for all she knew. All she knew for s
ure was that it wasn't January yet, and Luke was holding her in his arms.
She never wanted it to end. She laid her cheek on his chest and breathed in his warm musky scent—the scent of a businessman who didn't quite manage to look like he belonged behind a desk—and felt sheer bliss from head to toe.
"It's snowing again, Jordan,” he continued. “Do you want to make a snowman?"
Hope ran through her and erased every trace of unhappiness. She lifted her head to smile at him and he smiled warmly back. “Yes. I do.” It was what she wanted to do more than anything at that moment. Well, almost anything. Some things were off limits. But not this. She wanted to play in the snow with Luke.
"Do you have mittens? A scarf? A coat?” He prodded.
With something like her old verve, Jordan gave him a deeply offended look. “I am a native of Vermont. Of course I do. I'm always prepared for snow from October to April."
"You don't know the meaning of prepared,” he snickered. “You run outside in your shirt and turn blue and have to be thawed out."
She grinned at him saucily. “So? I thaw well."
"Yes, you do,” he agreed. “But I'd rather not have a Popsicle to dance with on Friday, so why risk it? Get your coat and mittens on."
She shot him a questioning look. “Friday? I don't remember Friday. What are we doing?"
"A boring business cheese and cracker thing. If it's too hopelessly dreary, I'm counting on you to start another riot. Then in all the confusion, we'll make our escape unnoticed."
Jordan gave him an impish smile and her dimples deepened. “You can count on me. How about a code word for riot? I've got it—camisole. What do you think?"
He smiled at her and traced the dimples in her cheeks with a finger. “I think I can use that in a sentence."
"Then camisole it is,” She gave him a wicked look. “Dickens for escape, camisole for riot. What a code. We should be a spy team."
"Oh no.” Luke shook his head, horrified. “You'd start world war three within a week."
She frowned in offense. “I would not. I'd save the world!"
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