Now that she had a clear view, Stacy recognized a ship’s ribs and prow. It wasn’t an actual ship, but a sculpture of a wreck, what would have been left of an ancient vessel ravaged by time and the elements.
“This land was first discovered and settled by Vikings—Naddod, from Norway, and later Gardar Svavarsson from Sweden, who lived for a time in my part of the country, Húsavik. Another Viking, Raven-Floki from Norway, gave the country its name, Iceland.”
Vikings again. Explorers. Conquerors. Adventurers. How did that kind of bloodline produce a man who didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life? Maybe Jóna was wrong about her brother.
Or maybe Stacy only wanted her to be wrong.
As they made their way around the massive sculpture of the Viking ship, two little girls rushed forward, talking rapidly in Icelandic. Kristján smiled, and obligingly signed the notebook they handed him. He was still smiling as they skipped away and Stacy joined him.
“More adoring fans?” she asked.
His smile faded and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “When I was training for the Olympics, I thought only of winning a medal,” he said. “I didn’t think of what my life would be like after I won. I couldn’t have imagined this.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asked. “You’re a national hero. Didn’t you win some kind of big award?”
“The Order of the Falcon. Iceland’s highest honor.” His voice grew rough. “It is true that at the Olympics, I represented my country. But I don’t think any person thinks of himself as a national symbol. I won the medal for Iceland, but when I was competing in that race, I was competing for myself and my family. I wasn’t thinking of my countrymen—these strangers—who felt a part of the race, too.”
“And overnight you went from being a private citizen to a national symbol. I suppose that does feel strange.” Disorienting. She’d only been thinking of the glamour of celebrity, not the difficulties like loss of privacy, or even loss of self.
“In a few months, most people will have forgotten,” he said. “I will go back to being anonymous.”
“Then what will you do?” she asked. “Will you start training for the next Olympics?”
He shook his head. “I am tired of that life. I don’t know what I’ll do.” He smiled, the self-deprecating charm of a boy in the body of a handsome man. She felt the attraction of such a man even as she fought to resist. “Maybe I’ll become a ski bum,” he said. “I’d be good at it, don’t you think?”
Wrong answer. Stacy’s stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a rock. The last thing she wanted in her life was another ski bum. Growing up with one had been enough.
CHAPTER THREE
STACY TOLD HERSELF a good night’s sleep would restore her to the practical, sensible woman she was. She dealt with good-looking, athletic men every day of her life and none of them made her all dreamy-eyed the way Kristján had. The strain of travel must have something to do with her reaction to him—though this was one symptom of jet lag she’d never encountered before.
She didn’t see Kristján the next morning as she boarded the van for the trip to Haukadalur, which both relieved and worried her. She was grateful she didn’t have to spend several hours in close quarters with him, yet she was worried his absence meant he wasn’t going to show up at all.
“Kristján said he’s taking his own car and he’ll meet us there,” Jakob said, sliding into a seat across from Stacy.
“Let’s hope he’s on time today.”
“If he’s not, we’ll have more time to enjoy the scenery.”
Stacy refrained from reminding Jakob that they weren’t here to enjoy the scenery. She knew how uptight that sounded. And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t enjoy the beauty of the country; she simply knew her priorities. Get the work out of the way and there’d be plenty of time for pleasure later.
For the moment, however, she had little else to do but enjoy the passing countryside. As soon as they left Reykjavik they entered an otherworldly landscape of towering cliffs, ice-blue lakes and jagged lava fields, a world of water, ice and rock that resembled a lunar landscape. Stacy recalled reading that the astronauts who had landed on the moon had trained here; now she could see why. The terrain was cold and forbidding, yet fascinating and romantic, also, with a wild beauty unlike any she’d ever known.
Their schedule called for filming first at Geysir, the hot water spout from which all others derived their name, then moving on to nearby Gullfoss, the Golden Falls.
As the crew unloaded their equipment, a red Porsche slid into the parking space next to the van. Stacy’s heart sped up as Kristján emerged from the driver’s side. She couldn’t help it; he was so perfectly tall, blond and tan, designer shades shielding his sea-blue eyes. He scanned the crowd until he found her, and smiled. She smiled back, her insides as warm and goopy as hot fudge.
Not good. Not good.
He strode toward her, long legs quickly covering the distance between them. “Did you enjoy your trip along the Golden Circle?” he asked.
“Yes. It was beautiful.” She turned away from him; it was either that or get caught staring into his eyes, as mesmerized as a mouse by a cat. Get a grip, she told herself. He’s just a guy, and definitely not one you want to be involved with.
“Let’s set up in front of the Geysir,” she said. “Are the models ready?”
Kristján fell into step beside her as she started across the parking lot. “You’ll get better pictures if you photograph by Strokkur, the Churn,” he said. “It’s more spectacular than Geysir, and more predictable, erupting approximately every five minutes.”
She was tempted to remind him that she was in charge and she’d decide where to film, but really, there was no point in being stubborn for the sake of misplaced pride. And she could see no reason for Kristján to mislead her. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”
She directed the crew to relocate to Strokkur. They were breaking down the equipment when a battered Mercedes sped into the lot and a short man in a red down coat tumbled out of the driver’s seat. He aimed a camera at them and began clicking away as he hurried toward them.
Stacy stared, sure the man would collide with a car or fall into a hole, but he sidestepped every obstacle, taking picture after picture as he drew closer.
“Hello, ma’am.” He offered Stacy a gap-toothed smile. “What is your name?”
“She isn’t going to tell you.” Kristján stepped between Stacy and the photographer. “I told you to leave me alone.”
The photographer’s grin didn’t waver. “It’s a public place. You’re a public figure. A man has a right to make a living, and the tabloids will pay good money for shots of you and your new girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Stacy peered from around Kristján’s broad back. “I am not his girlfriend.”
“The tabloids don’t care about that.” He snapped another photograph.
“You’d better leave. Now.” Kristján took a step toward the photographer, his expression grim.
“I was just leaving.” The man sprinted to his car, pausing to snap one more picture before he climbed inside and roared away.
“Who was that?” Stacy asked as she stared at the fading exhaust plume left by the rattletrap car.
“His name is Lang Kerr. He makes his living photographing celebrities and selling the pictures to Web sites and tabloids.”
“A paparazzo.” She laughed. “I never knew anyone who was pursued by paparazzi before.”
He put a hand to her back and steered her down the path toward Strokkur. “You won’t think it’s so amusing when you see a picture of yourself identified as the newest mystery woman in my life.”
Stacy sobered. “No, that wouldn’t be funny.”
“I’m sorry,” Kristján said. “One day interest in me will die down and there will no longer be a market for the photos, but for now, I can’t do much to stop him.”
His concern for her was touching. “It’s all right,�
�� she said. “No wonder you were reluctant to take this job—to willingly be photographed.”
His smile was rueful. “I have a hard time saying no to Jóna. Besides, if I hadn’t agreed to do this, I wouldn’t have met you, and that would be a shame.”
They reached the end of the path just as the waterspout shot into the air in a jet of steam and hot water. But the spectacle was dulled for Stacy by the impact of Kristján’s last words. Was he flirting with her? Or was the sentiment more serious?
“The eruptions vary in size,” Kristján continued, as if nothing of particular importance had passed between them. He was flirting, then. She suppressed her disappointment.
“Some are much more forceful,” he continued, “so don’t stand too close.”
Unlike in the United States, there were few warning signs and no roped-off areas keeping visitors away from the steaming geysers, bubbling hot pots and other dangers.
Stefan, mindful of his cameras, set up well away from the water and arranged Kristján and the female models for the first shoot.
The scenery was truly spectacular, and the people in it were equally awe-inspiring. The three female models were Scandinavian Graces, long-legged and blonde, with perfect cheekbones. Kristján stood among them like a conquering warrior, all broad shoulders, narrow hips and masculine beauty. There was nothing androgynous or effeminate in his good looks and as usual a crowd of women had gathered to watch.
But as Stacy observed his staged interaction with the models, she remembered how he’d looked in the Reyjavik nightclub, with Jóna and her baby. The Warrior at Home, she might have labeled the picture. Was it only wishful thinking that made her believe that was a truer picture of Kristján than this fantasy among the geysers?
“I suppose that will have to do,” Stefan said at last, with his usual coolness, as if expressing enthusiasm to his subjects might spoil them. “Let’s break down the equipment and move on to the waterfall.”
While the crew was reloading the van, Kristján approached Stacy. “Let me take you to Gullfoss in my car,” he said.
“All right.” She saw no reason to refuse. Besides, there was no reason she and Kristján couldn’t be friends. He was a nice guy, just not her type. He probably felt the same way about her. For all she knew, he was dating a fellow Olympian, or had a girlfriend back home in Husavik. After all, how likely was it that a man as gorgeous as this one would be unattached? The thought did little to cheer her.
“Nice car,” she said as he held the passenger door open for her.
“A gift from an admirer,” he said.
“What does your girlfriend think of all this public adulation?” she asked. Not the most subtle question, but she’d never been much for coyness.
The engine roared to life. Kristján glanced at her. “No girlfriend,” he said.
“No?” Her heart refused to settle into a steady rhythm. “Does this mean all the pictures I’ve seen of you with other women are like the ones Lang Kerr took of me today? Misrepresentations?”
“My lifestyle these past few years has made relationships difficult,” he said. “Too much traveling, long hours training.” He shook his head. “I thought it was better to focus all my energy on skiing.”
“What about now?” She remembered him cuddling the baby and her heart did a crazy tap dance. At that moment he’d been the picture of a man who was ready to settle down.
“Maybe.” He shifted gears. “If I find the right woman. What about you? Do you have some rich American lover?”
She wondered at his choice of words—lover instead of boyfriend. Was he being deliberately provocative? “I’m not dating anyone in particular,” she said. Not dating anyone at all, actually. Her friends said she was too picky. She saw it as simply not wanting to waste her time on someone unsuitable.
“I am surprised,” Kristján said. “You are a beautiful woman. The kind many men would be attracted to.”
It was definitely too warm in this car; she resisted the urge to roll down a window. “I guess I just haven’t found the right man,” she said.
“You believe there is only one?”
The question startled her into looking directly at him again. “I…I don’t know. Isn’t that what everyone thinks? I mean, except for polygamists.”
He laughed. “I think one wife would be enough. I wouldn’t want to be at the mercy of two or more.”
She had a hard time picturing him at the mercy of any woman, but then again, under the right circumstances…. She forced her mind away from that particular fantasy. “Maybe there is more than one right person,” she said. “But I’d be happy to find just one.”
“I imagine your parents’ divorce has made you cautious about relationships,” he said.
“Not any more cautious than anyone else,” she said. “I mean, I would like to avoid making a mistake, if I could.” She’d always thought if she was careful enough, if she took her time and chose wisely, she could have a real “happily ever after.” But here she was, almost thirty, and she hadn’t even come close to finding “the one.” Maybe her friends were right and her standards were impossibly high.
She was surprised to find the van waiting for them in the parking lot at Gullfoss. For a man with a fancy sports car, Kristján didn’t drive very fast. Or had he prolonged the trip on purpose? Could it be she wasn’t the only one who felt the attraction between them?
KRISTJÁN COULD THINK of worse jobs than posing with a trio of beautiful women, but it wasn’t how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Balancing on jagged rocks in the icy mist from the waterfall that roared behind them wasn’t very comfortable or exciting. And the arrogant photographer, Stefan, annoyed him with his constant instructions to “move there, stand there, raise your arm there, look there.” If not for Jóna, Kristján would have walked off the set long ago.
And Stacy. He stayed because of her, also. Because she intrigued him. And because the thought of disappointing her made him feel small and ugly.
So he tuned out Stefan’s badgering and thought of Stacy. Surely she was aware of the attraction between them. Alone in his car, the air had simmered. She’d definitely warmed to him, but he’d sensed she was holding back.
As if she was deliberately erecting a barrier between them. Why was she trying to keep him away? Or maybe she was only protecting herself. If she didn’t let him close, she didn’t have to worry about the consequences.
He recognized the tactic. It was one he’d used himself, not to keep away women, but to keep out fear and anxiety before a race. He refused to think or talk about the possibility of injury. He avoided passing by the first aid station or medical tent. If another skier was injured he refused to look, and pretended it had never happened. Such indifference, and at times even delusional thinking, had been a matter of survival.
In denying her attraction to him, was Stacy doing the same thing? Or was he the one who was arrogant now, in thinking that after a few hours’ acquaintance, he could be such a threat to her peace of mind?
“All right. We’re done here.” Stefan clapped his hands, dismissing them. The female models hurried away, muttering complaints about the damp and cold and what the weather was doing to their hair. Kristján headed toward Stacy.
“Ride back to Reykjavik with me,” he said.
She zipped her leather coat, then shoved her hands deep into the pockets. “I should go back in the van with the others,” she said. “Stefan and I need to discuss tomorrow’s shoot.”
“You will talk, but will he listen? He strikes me as the type who most enjoys the sound of his own voice.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but she suppressed it. “I also need to make some calls to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow.”
“You can telephone from my car.” He put his arm around her. “Come on. It is too cold to stand out here arguing. You should have a warmer coat.”
His solicitude threw her further off guard. “I really don’t think—”
“What is it
about me that makes you so nervous?” he asked.
She met his gaze, her eyes sparking with anger. He almost smiled, pleased to have aroused any emotion in her. “I’m not nervous,” she said. “But I do have a job to do.”
“I won’t stop you from doing your job. I only want to know why you are friendly to me one moment and freeze me out the next.”
She looked away again. “You’re imagining things.”
He leaned closer, his voice low, his lips almost brushing her ear. “I wasn’t imagining the heat between us in my car before. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too.”
Her lips parted, and he steeled himself for her denial. He was aware of her shallow breathing, and of his own pounding heart.
“I…There may be some…some physical attraction between us,” she said. “But there’s no point in taking things further. I’m only going to be in Iceland another week or so and as I said, I have work to do, so a relationship would really be impossible….”
Her feeble protests told him all he needed to know. He touched her cheek, and when she tilted her head slightly in response, he covered her lips with his own.
CHAPTER FOUR
STACY HADN’T LET HERSELF acknowledge how much she’d wanted Kristján to kiss her until his lips touched hers. She’d tried to dismiss her attraction to him as a normal appreciation of his good looks, or the influence of their exotic and romantic surroundings.
But he proved what a poor liar she was when his mouth slanted over hers and she leaned into him without even a token protest.
Kristján, too, gave no indication that he had ever doubted her response to him. He claimed her lips with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his boldness fueling her ardor. Her life offered few opportunities to surrender control; the sensation was as intoxicating as expensive champagne.
She arched her body to his and parted her lips, inviting him in. He deepened the kiss, arms encircling her, tongue caressing, leaving her dizzy and breathless and thoroughly delighted.
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