Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace

  “You have a dressing room!” she barked.

  A last tug on the sweater and his head emerged from the opening, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Why would I want to waste time with a dressing room?” All those mispronounced w’s made her breathless. Damn the man. And damn her own ill-timed lust. It was such a cliché for a woman to go gaga over a foreign accent. She hated to think of herself as a cliché.

  Thankfully, the photography crew moved in with lights and cables and tripods, momentarily screening a now-dressed Kristján from view and allowing Stacy to retreat to the bar with most of her dignity intact.

  “What did I tell you?” Jakob slid onto the bar stool next to her. “Isn’t he magnificent? Your customers will love him.”

  “Yes. Magnificent.” Kristján was posing now, hands on the hips of one of the perfect blonde females—who also wore one of the intricately patterned sweaters. But the model could have been wearing a potato sack for all any other woman viewing the ad would care. All female eyes would be fixed on Kristján, a Viking in Icelandic wool instead of a bear skin, or whatever it was Vikings wore.

  The image of Kristján, naked and reclining on a bearskin, flashed into her head. She pushed it away and reached for one of the bottles of water lined up along the bar. “He’ll sell sweaters,” she said.

  That was what was important. She needed this campaign to be a success. She’d lobbied Bryan to take this gamble, and if it failed he’d put the blame on her. She might even lose her job, and she’d for sure lose face.

  With so much at stake, she’d come to Iceland to personally oversee a series of photo shoots at iconic locations. This nightclub was the first, but they also planned to visit the Haukadalur geyser, a fjord she couldn’t begin to pronounce the name of and the Blue Lagoon hot springs. She’d personally recruited a flock of sheep and a shepherd for the session at the fjord, had negotiated a private shoot at the hot springs and had a schedule of the geyser’s eruptions so that photos could be timed for maximum affect. She was in charge of herding a photographer, videographer, three fashion models and a slew of assistants, wardrobe personnel, gophers, caterers and others all over this frozen island country. But she was smart, capable and determined, and she’d done this kind of thing before. So none of them worried her.

  Kristján Gunnarson, the beautiful blond national hero with a disdain for schedules and—if the gossip rags were to be believed—a love of all manner of personal pleasures, was the wild card in her game plan. He was the one who could make or break everything. The one Stacy would have to keep an eye on.

  But for today, all she had to worry about was completing this one photo shoot on time. Yes, they were running a little late, but now that everyone was here, things were progressing smoothly.

  Or not. The nightclub door flew open again and a short, round-faced woman carrying a baby rushed in. “So sorry I’m late,” Jóna Gunnarsdottir, owner, operator and chief designer for Troll’s Treasure Sweaters, said. “The baby had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “That’s all right,” Stacy said. “As you can see, we’re getting some great shots.” She motioned toward the raised dais where Kristján and the other models were set up.

  Except Kristján wasn’t there.

  “Excuse me?” The photographer, Stefan, stood in the middle of the dais, hands on hips. “We’re trying to conduct a photo shoot here.”

  “Time for a break,” Kristján, already halfway across the dance floor, called over his shoulder. “Is the baby ill?” he asked as he reached Jóna and Stacy.

  “He is fine,” Jóna said. “It was just a checkup.”

  “That’s good.” Without asking for permission or waiting for an invitation, he unbuckled the straps on the carrier and lifted the child into his arms. The baby giggled and blew bubbles as Kristján grinned at him.

  Stacy stared, goggle-eyed. She didn’t know which amazed her most—that Jóna was letting this guy manhandle her baby, or that Mr. Gorgeous seemed so comfortable with an infant.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Kristján’s question snapped Stacy back to reality, and the knowledge that he’d caught her staring. She struggled to look unconcerned. “He certainly seems to like you,” she said.

  “Babies like me,” he said, and bent to blow a loud raspberry against the infant’s round belly.

  “Of course,” Stacy said, her voice faint. She gripped the edge of the bar, just in case her weak knees decided to give out. Cute gurgling babies! Gorgeous men with sexy accents! Every female hormone in her body was on overdrive. Obviously, the universe had decided that this was the day to turn her into a walking, talking stereotype.

  But if she was melting at the sight of Kristján cuddling a baby, so would thousands of other women. And a good many of them would be likely to rush out and purchase a Troll’s Treasure sweater, in hopes of transforming the man in their life into something close to Kristján Gunnarson.

  “Stefan!” She waved at the photographer, who was deep in conversation with one of the female models. He looked up from his contemplation of the model’s chest, not bothering to mask his annoyed expression.

  “I want photos of this.” Stacy pointed at Kristján, who was still cooing over the baby.

  Stefan knew a good shot when he saw it. He focused the camera and began clicking away.

  When Kristján realized what was happening, he frowned, and handed the baby back to Jóna. “Did you ask my sister if she wants her baby used to advertise sweaters?” he asked.

  “Your sister?” Stacy blinked at Jóna. Was there a resemblance there? Maybe…“Why didn’t you tell me he was your brother?”

  Jóna flushed strawberry pink. “I didn’t think it mattered. When you asked if I could recommend a model for the ads, I knew he would be perfect.”

  “Do you think Mr. Perfect could get back over here so we can finish this shoot?” Stefan called.

  Kristján frowned, but made his way back to the stage. When Stacy and Jóna were alone once more, Jóna leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t tell you Kristján was my brother because I wasn’t sure I could convince him to take the job. He’s not a professional model, after all.”

  “I wasn’t looking for a professional model for this campaign,” Stacy said. “I wanted a real person others could relate to. An athlete who’s so associated with Iceland seemed ideal.”

  “I thought it would give him something to do,” Jóna said. “Maybe even get him started on a new career.”

  “Why does he need a new career?” Stacy asked.

  “He’s thirty-four years old. He can’t continue to compete forever. Already he is one of the oldest skiers.”

  “Then couldn’t he teach or coach?”

  Jóna sighed. “He doesn’t know what he wants to do. That’s the problem. It’s not good for a grown man to be so aimless.”

  Both women focused their attention on the stage, where the man in question stood, his arms around two comely female models, grinning at the camera. He might have just stepped into the club after a day on the slopes, ready for a little après-ski partying. No worries. No cares. No goals.

  Stacy had his number all right. She knew the type well, and she knew enough to steer clear of him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHILE THE ANNOYING STEFAN directed him to look that way or pose another way, Kristján distracted himself by focusing on Stacy. The petite, dark-haired American stood out in the room full of pale blondes and redheads. But it wasn’t merely looks that set her apart. She had an inner fire and intensity the statuesque beauties around him couldn’t hope to match.

  She moved around the nightclub, setting up the next series of photographs. She issued orders with the calm authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted—an assuredness he hadn’t felt in months.

  He’d spent more than twenty years working toward a single objective—winning Iceland’s first medal in a Winter Olympics. Standing on the podium, accepting the gold medal while the Icelandic national anthem played had b
een the greatest moment of his life.

  And then what? He’d been swept up in a wave of television appearances, newspaper and magazine interviews, and sponsorship contracts. But when the applause faded and the cameras were switched off, he was left with an aching emptiness and the burning question: what am I going to do with my life now?

  “All right everyone, I think we’re done here.” Stacy clapped her hands to capture their attention and strode to the middle of the dance floor. “Thank you all for your hard work. I’ll see you tomorrow in Haukadalur.”

  The models shrugged into jackets, the camera crew began disassembling their equipment, and with amazing speed everyone dispersed. Within a matter of minutes only Kristján, Stacy, Jóna and the baby were left.

  “I really have to go,” Jóna said, gathering her infant carrier, blankets, diaper bag and purse. “I have an appointment to go over some new designs.”

  “I’d better go, too,” Stacy said. “I need to review the proofs from today.”

  “Surely they will not be ready for a while,” Kristján said. He checked his watch and was surprised to discover it was nearly noon. “Let me buy you lunch.” He wanted the chance to get to know her better.

  “No, really, I’d better go.” Avoiding his eyes, she tried to duck past him, but he blocked her.

  “Please,” he said, offering his most winning smile. “I owe you for being late this morning. And I could show you Reykjavik. It’s a beautiful city.”

  “I don’t know…” She glanced at Jóna, who smiled approvingly at him.

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Jóna said. “I’d come with you, but as I said…” She hefted the baby carrier and moved past them to the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, at the Blue Lagoon. Call me if you need anything.” But her eyes telegraphed a clear message to Kristján—she would call him, and she’d want all the details.

  He turned to Stacy. “Shall we go?”

  She straightened her shoulders, as if steeling herself for an ordeal. Was he that repugnant to her? “Sure. Thank you for the offer.”

  They walked to a bistro a few blocks from the nightclub. For once it wasn’t raining in Reykjavik and temperatures were mild for March. “Have you visited Iceland before?” he asked.

  “No. This is my first time. I was expecting more, well, ice.”

  He laughed. “You will see plenty of ice in the countryside. We still get snow this time of year and, of course, the glaciers never melt.”

  They were shown to a table by a window in the nearly empty bistro. She started to shrug out of her jacket. “Allow me,” he said, and slid it from her shoulders. She seemed taken aback. Was she offended because he’d insulted her independence, or merely shocked at such gentlemanly behavior? “I apologize again for my tardiness this morning,” he said, when they’d ordered their food. “I overslept.”

  “That was obvious. Hard night partying?” The disdain in her voice was clear.

  He had, in fact, been at a party last night, a large affair given by one of his Olympic sponsors. He’d spent the evening avoiding the advances of a minor movie starlet and dodging questions from other guests about what he planned to do now that he’d won his gold medal. It had been a miserable night and the memory of it had kept him awake long after he’d arrived home. He’d tossed and turned for hours before finally falling asleep, only to awake to the realization that he was late for the modeling assignment he’d foolishly allowed Jóna to talk him into.

  “Or maybe you were late because you didn’t want to do this in the first place,” Stacy said.

  “I see you are a psychoanalyst as well as a marketing director,” he said.

  She flushed, an attractive pink staining her cheeks, but the wounded look in her eyes made him regret his sharp tongue.

  “You are right,” he said. “I did not want the job. I am an athlete, not a model.”

  “But you’re also a celebrity. The hero of the hour. You should enjoy it while you can. If you play your cards right, you won’t have to get a real job for months, even years.”

  It was his turn to flush. “Is that what you think? That I’m using my fame for my own gain?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The arrival of their food prevented him from answering immediately. Just as well, or he might have said something he’d regret.

  “What is this?” Stacy poked a fork at her plate.

  “Lamb sausage,” he said. “It’s very good. The pink sauce is remoulade.”

  “No mustard?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Try it. It is good.”

  “What are you having?” She peered at his plate.

  “Reindeer.” He cut into the steak. “Would you like to try some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  They began to eat, but the accusations she’d made earlier still hung between them. Kristján laid down his fork. “Obviously, I did not make a good first impression,” he said. “But I am not what you think I am. I agreed to this job as a favor to my sister. My other public appearances have been obligations to my sponsors or to my country. I am not a man who seeks the limelight.” Other than his brief time on World Cup and Olympic podiums, he preferred the anonymity of his sport. Unlike soccer or hockey, few people followed downhill skiing.

  “I’m sorry.” Stacy’s eyes met his, the soft brown of turned earth, full of contrition. “I have a nasty tongue when I’m stressed. But that’s no excuse. I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted.” He picked up his knife and fork and focused on his plate once more. Either that or continue to stare into her beautiful eyes and reveal his powerful and quite unexpected attraction to her. “What are you stressed about? Surely the shoot this morning went well.”

  “Yes, I think it did. But a lot depends on the success of this campaign. My boss thought adding this line was a risky move in this economy, but I persuaded him to take the chance. Now I want to prove to him I was right.”

  “And you think my picture will persuade people to buy my sister’s sweaters?” he asked.

  “I think any awake, breathing woman who sees you in one of those sweaters will want her man to have one—if only so she can indulge in fantasies of Vikings and Norse gods.”

  He laughed, out of surprise and embarrassment more than mirth, but Stacy didn’t join in his laughter. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you look like,” she said. “I imagine your looks have been getting you what you want all your life.”

  And what do you want, Stacy? he wondered. Did her fantasies have anything at all to do with Vikings or Norse gods—or Icelandic skiers? “My looks did not win me an Olympic medal,” he said.

  “Obviously, you’re talented and athletically gifted. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “I’m not insulted. And it would be foolish for me to pretend I’m not flattered that you think I’m good-looking.”

  She flushed and looked away. Ah! So Ms. Always-in-Charge could be shaken up a little. “Tell me about your job,” he said. Tell me about yourself. “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “Yes, I do.” She spoke briskly, back to business. “Our company, Eagle Mountain Sportswear, has shops in all the major ski resorts in the United States and Canada, so I get to travel to beautiful places and work with the store managers, as well as design national marketing campaigns.”

  “And do you ski?”

  “Oh, yes. I learned to ski almost as soon as I could walk.” Her expression sobered. “My father wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “Did you ever try ski racing?”

  She shook her head. “I was never that good or that brave.”

  “Some call it foolish, flying down an icy slope, always on the edge of hurtling out of control.”

  “Not as dangerous if you’re any good,” she said. “I’m purely a recreational skier. No daredevil stuff for me. A lot of times I’m so busy at the stores that I don’t even get out on the snow.”

  “How did you come to have this job?” he asked. “Does your father or mot
her also do this kind of work?”

  “Oh, no. My mother is a teacher.”

  “And your father?” he prompted, when she didn’t volunteer more.

  “He’s a ski instructor. My parents divorced when I was eleven.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “It was for the best, really. My dad wasn’t cut out to have responsibilities.” She gave him a forced smile and pointedly changed the subject. “So, have you ever been hurt skiing?” she asked.

  “Not too seriously.” He knocked on the table. “I have been lucky.” And who has hurt you? he wondered. There was a sadness about her that touched him and made him want to comfort her, though he had no right.

  Tell me your secrets, Stacy, he thought. And maybe I will tell you mine.

  WHETHER HIS MODESTY WAS genuine or merely practiced, Stacy had to admit she was charmed. Kristján was clearly not the dumb blond jock she had expected.

  After lunch, he suggested they walk to the waterfront and she agreed. If she was only going to be in the country two weeks, she should see as much of it as possible.

  Reykjavik might have been built in the past year, everything was so clean and modern; even obviously older buildings looked scrubbed and shiny. “Did you grow up here?” she asked as they waited to cross a busy street. “In Reykjavik?”

  “No. My family lives in Húsavik, on the Northern Coast. My father is a teacher of Icelandic history.” He slanted a look at her. “Vikings and Norse gods.”

  Touché. She suppressed the urge to giggle and hurried to keep up with his long strides as they crossed the street. She could smell the sea now, the salt and fish tang cutting through the odors of diesel and concrete. Ahead, in the middle of a large concrete plaza, rose what looked like giant…bones.

  “The Sólfar.” Kristján nodded toward the plaza. “It means Sun Voyager. The sculpture represents the skeleton of a Viking ship.”