Too often she’d been disappointed by men who devoted little effort to the art of kissing. They approached this meeting of lips as a preliminary activity to be gotten out of the way quickly, or they stuck firmly to the approach of overeager adolescents, mashing too-moist lips to hers and trying to force their tongues down her throat.
Kristján was either naturally gifted, or he had devoted some time and effort to perfecting his technique. His mouth on hers was firm and coaxing, teasing her with butterfly kisses, moving on to more intimate caresses, exploring and exciting, letting the intensity build slowly, savoring the sensation of lips meeting lips.
Obviously, he had not concerned himself only with skiing. If a local charity ever wanted to raise money, they could do worse than an old-fashioned kissing booth with national hero Kristján Gunnarson doing the honors. Of course, Stacy would go broke trying to keep all other women away.
When at last he broke the kiss and raised his head, she bit back a sigh of regret. “That was very nice,” he said. “Do you still think a relationship between us is impossible?”
His words were like a slap, bringing her back to her senses. What was she thinking, standing here in a crowded parking lot, kissing a man who was so obviously wrong for her? Was she so starved for affection she’d allowed good looks and a talent for kissing to overrule her hard-won common sense?
She shoved out of his arms and took a step back, struggling to regain her composure. “Mr. Gunnarson, we work together,” she said. “There is no relationship.”
“That kiss proves there could be.” He looked amused, which only made her angrier.
“No, there could never be,” she said. “You may be accustomed to women swooning over you because you’re a handsome celebrity, but I could never be interested in a man who cares only about skiing and himself.”
She turned and hurried toward the waiting van, prepared to turn a deaf ear to his protests, but he made none. She was grateful, too, that he didn’t try to follow her. She boarded the bus and moved to a seat at the back, ignoring the questioning looks from her coworkers.
She settled into the last seat on the right side and stared out at the parking lot, the cars and people there blurring into a kaleidoscope of colored dots.
Was this her father’s legacy? Did her love for him doom her to always being attracted to irresponsible, unsuitable men? Yes, Kristján was handsome and kind and intelligent and charming—and a man who had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, as aimless as she was driven. The combination was a recipe for heartache, as she’d seen played out in her parents’ marriage and her own early relationships with similar charming and irresponsible men. It was so easy to like them, and then to fall in love with them. Her father had been the first hero in her life, and a part of her would always adore him. But his type couldn’t be depended upon; they always disappointed, and when they did, the hurt was that much harder to bear.
NOTHING LIKE BEING passionately kissed by a woman, then being made to feel as if you were the one out of line, Kristján thought as he watched the van, with Stacy on board, pull out of the Gullfoss parking lot. A stranger might have thought Kristján had said or done something terribly insulting, the way Stacy stalked away from him.
By the time he reached his car, both his anger and his libido had cooled enough to allow him to think more clearly. Stacy didn’t strike him as a tease, and she’d clearly enjoyed the kiss. So what was going on?
He had plenty of time to puzzle over this question on the drive back to Reykjavik. Time to remember and replay that amazing kiss.
Stacy kissed the way she did everything else, with fervor and determination and a clear idea of what she wanted. Hers was no passive surrender, but a passionate participation in which she gave as much pleasure as she received.
He smoothed his palms along the leather-wrapped steering wheel, wishing he was touching Stacy instead. So much for thinking he’d cooled down. That kiss—or more likely, their first exchange of glances in the Reykjavik nightclub—had started a fire in him no amount of snow and ice would put out.
Was it merely that after so many years of putting aside his desires in pursuit of his Olympic goals, he was primed to find an outlet for all those suppressed feelings? He shook his head. If that was the case, he’d had plenty of opportunities in the weeks before he walked into that nightclub. Something about Stacy herself drew him, as if he’d not only been waiting for the right time to begin a relationship, but he’d been waiting for her.
I could never be interested in a man who cares only about skiing and himself. The words stung. True, he’d been focused on training and racing for much of his life. But those days had passed. He was giving up competition so that he could devote his energy to other things. The fact that he didn’t yet know what those things would be didn’t mean he was lazy or aimless.
As for the other—where had she gotten the idea he thought only of himself? Hadn’t he won a medal for his country? And he’d taken this job as a favor to Jóna.
Or was she thinking of another man when she made those accusations? One whose actions had led her to believe another relationship was impossible?
THE NEXT DAY’S SHOOT WAS scheduled on the beach near the fishing village of Akranes. The beach fronted a fjord, the name of which Stacy could not begin to pronounce, much less spell. But it was convenient to Reykjavik and reputed to be a beautiful spot. Her plan was to arrive just as shooting was scheduled to begin, let Stefan and the models do their thing, then leave before there was an opportunity for any more awkward conversations—much less unforgettable kisses—between her and Kristján.
She blamed herself for handling things badly yesterday. She never should have let down her guard around him—and she really shouldn’t have said what she did when they parted. He wasn’t the kind of man she wanted to be with, but he probably didn’t deserve the accusation she’d hurled at him.
So the goal was to get through this day with as little friction as possible. To that end, she’d hired a driver to take her to Akranes a half hour behind the van that carried the rest of the crew. She expected everything would be set up by the time she arrived.
Instead, she found Stefan and the three women standing on the rocky beach, surrounded by a dozen or so bawling and butting sheep. Kristján was nowhere in sight.
“Tell me again why we have to have sheep.” Stefan scowled at the animals. These weren’t the fluffy white lambs Stacy had envisioned. They were big, gray, unruly creatures. And they smelled bad.
“The sweaters are made of one hundred percent Icelandic wool,” she said. “And I thought some shots with them would be pastoral and picturesque.”
“I suppose you think this freezing, desolate rock in the middle of nowhere is picturesque, too?” Stefan demanded.
“It’s a fjord. Iceland has dozens of them.” She looked out across the crashing waves to towering cliffs in the distance. From this vantage point no other person or sign of human habitation could be seen—only miles of foaming gray sea and rocky white cliffs, birds screaming and wheeling overhead. It was a setting that had changed little in thousands of years, and it stirred something primal in her. “It’s wild and rugged and—”
“It’s freezing cold!” Stefan pulled his coat tighter around him and stalked away. The models huddled together, looking frozen and miserable.
Stacy spotted an older man in rough trousers and a heavy coat, and picked her way across the rocks to him. “Are you the shepherd?” she asked.
He said something in a language she couldn’t understand. Icelandic, she supposed. “Do you speak English?” she asked. “Are you in charge of the sheep?” She gestured toward the milling animals.
“Neitun Englendingar.” He shook his head.
Stacy groaned. An icy wind whistled through her thin leather coat. This was not going well at all.
“What do you want to say to him? I’ll translate.”
Like a knight appearing out of the mist, Kristján strode toward her across the rocky beac
h. Dressed in a long shearling coat, blond hair tousled by the wind, he looked like the hero of some romantic movie, come to rescue the damsel in distress.
She refused to think of herself as a damsel, but she wouldn’t say no to a little help right now. “Ask him if he doesn’t have any pretty sheep,” she said. “Lambs, or some that aren’t so…so dirty.” She steeled herself for Kristján’s laughter. She wouldn’t blame him if he did laugh—the situation was ridiculous.
But he addressed the shepherd with a straight face. The man nodded and turned away, the sheep stumbling after him.
“Where is he going?” Stacy asked.
“To find pretty sheep.”
Was he making fun of her? She followed him across the beach, stumbling on the uneven ground. “How could anyone live in this frozen wilderness?” she asked. She pulled her coat tighter, trying to shut out the cutting wind.
“You grow accustomed to it. We pride ourselves on being immune to the weather.” He began picking up driftwood, piling it in his arms.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m building a fire.” Within a few minutes, he had a roaring bonfire going. The models, all smiles now, hurried over to huddle in the warmth of the blaze, though Stefan remained in the van, probably sulking.
“Thank you for the fire,” Stacy said. “And for your help with the shepherd. I…I’m sorry for what I said to you yesterday. That was uncalled-for.”
“There are many more things I care about outside of skiing,” he said. “And many more people I care about other than myself.”
For a brief moment, standing next to him on this wild beach in the warmth of the fire he had built, she wished more than anything that she was one of the people he cared about. “I know,” she said softly. “And I am sorry.”
“I am not sorry we kissed,” he said.
When she was truthful with herself, had she really regretted that kiss? She’d wished it never happened, but only because she hated that she’d been so weak, unable to resist an attraction that was wrong on several levels. But the kiss itself…how could she regret having experienced those wonderful few moments in Kristján’s arms? “It would be better if it didn’t happen again,” she said.
“As you wish. But if you change your mind…”
A loud whistle cut through the air and they looked up to see the shepherd striding toward them. He carried a trio of fluffy white lambs in his arms. Behind him trailed a single large, dirty ewe, who wore a crown of primroses on her wooly head. “See?” Kristján said. “Pretty sheep.”
Stacy tried to hold back her laughter, but it was impossible. Kristján joined in, then they went to meet the shepherd.
Stefan was persuaded to emerge from the van, and the female models cuddled the lambs while the ewe looked on unhappily. Kristján posed with the women, and by himself on the edge of the water, wind whipping through his hair as he gazed across the fjord, a solitary sailor thinking of his return to the sea.
Stacy watched him from a seat by the fire. He had surprised her today, with his willingness to help even after she’d insulted him. But then, he had defied her expectations from the very first, morphing from unkempt playboy to doting uncle right before her eyes.
She thought again of the kiss they’d shared, of the skill and passion and surprising tenderness of those moments in his arms. That unexpected sensitivity got to her the most. She prided herself on being an independent woman who was too smart to get involved with a man who didn’t have his life as together as she did her own.
Yet this kind, confusing man who seemed to want to take care of her wrecked that resolve with one glance, one touch, one kiss.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ICELAND TOURIST BOARD, which had helped Stacy arrange the various location shoots, hosted a dinner for her and her crew at a trendy Reykjavik restaurant that evening. From his seat at one end of the long table, Kristján smiled and joked and answered questions about his Olympic experience. But part of him was always aware of Stacy. She sat at the opposite end of the table, holding court with the Director of Tourism and a man from the Icelandic Film Commission. The day on the windswept beach had heightened the color in her cheeks and she wore her hair loose about her shoulders. She might have been an exotic Siren, emerged from the forest to taunt a group of sailors, her dark beauty in sharp contrast to the paleness of those around her.
What was it about her that made it impossible for him to turn away? Was it the age-old story of wanting what he couldn’t have? Did the same disdain for danger that made him want to hurtle down icy slopes at speeds in excess of sixty miles an hour compel him to seek out a woman who was determined to reject him?
Or was something else at work here, something more primal and important to his happiness? For longer than he cared to admit, he’d been searching for something to make him happier and more fulfilled. He’d thought the answer lay in winning the Olympic medal, but that momentary triumph had left him feeling emptier than ever.
Could it be that the answer lay not in something, but in someone?
Stacy laughed at something one of her admirers said, her head thrown back, the ivory column of her throat exposed. Kristján stared at that delicate skin, thinking of how it might feel to kiss her there. One of the men poured more wine into her glass and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. She laughed more and only sheer force of will kept Kristján from leaping from his seat and pulling her away.
“If you keep glaring down at the other end of the table, holding your knife like that, people are going to get the wrong idea.”
Kristján blinked and stared at Jakob, the young production assistant who sat on his right. “What did you say?”
“The knife.” Jakob nodded at the utensil, which Kristján had used earlier to slice into a reindeer steak, now clutched in his fist, as if he was ready to strike out at any moment.
Kristján opened his hand and let the knife fall to the table. It landed on the heavy linen cloth with a muffled thud.
“So, is it Stacy or the Director of Tourism you want to get rid of?” Jakob asked. “Or the other guy?”
He’d prefer both men leave the party now, and never come back. “I have nothing against any of them,” he said, forcing himself to relax and feign an interest in casual conversation. “Have you known Stacy long?” he asked.
“Stacy?” Jakob frowned. “I only met her when she came for this shoot. She hired me over the phone to work with her while she’s in Iceland.”
“What is she like to work with?”
“You’ve seen her. One of these hard-driving American women. Everything has to be done her way.” His lip curled in a sneer. “God forbid she surrender even a little bit of control to anyone else.”
Yes, Stacy wanted to remain in control—of her surroundings, of other people and maybe also of her emotions. Feelings were messy things when allowed to reign free. Racers were taught to control their excitement and fear before a race, to prevent adrenaline from taking over.
But Stacy wasn’t a racer, and allowing herself to admit she was attracted to him wouldn’t result in disaster—but maybe past experience told her it would.
“There you go again, spacing out on me,” Jakob chided.
Kristján shook his head. “I was thinking of something else.”
“Yeah, well, what man doesn’t think about that?” Jakob grinned and took a long drink of wine. He’d already had most of a bottle, and his eyes were beginning to lose their focus. “Nothing like a little unrequited love to fuel our fantasies,” he continued.
The way Jakob looked at him made Kristján uncomfortable. “Excuse me,” he said, and stood.
Stacy looked up at his approach. Her eyes brightened and she even started to smile, but the welcoming expression quickly vanished, replaced by studied indifference. Did she spend her whole life disguising her true feelings this way—or was it only her feelings for him she was reluctant to reveal?
“May I join you?” He indicated the chair the Director of Touri
sm had recently vacated.
“Jens is sitting there,” she said.
“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Kristján sat. And if Jens did mind, he was too much of a diplomat to make a fuss. There were advantages to being a national hero that Kristján usually ignored, but wasn’t there a saying about all being fair in love and war?
STACY HATED THAT KRISTJÁN had such a talent for unsettling her. All evening she’d successfully avoided staring at his end of the table, only occasionally glancing over at his handsome face as he laughed or talked with one of the other members of the crew or one of the government guests. Yes, he was a handsome man. And yes, he had a talent for kissing. But he didn’t really mean anything to her, and she was convinced that to the outside observer, the two of them were no more than casual acquaintances.
Her two dinner companions had certainly never suspected she was interested in anyone but them, and she tried now to regather the thread of conversation they’d been enjoying before Kristján interrupted. “Lars was telling me about the Clint Eastwood movie that was filmed here a few years ago,” she said. “I had no idea so many movies were shot in Iceland.”
“Directors like our dramatic scenery and unspoiled countryside,” Lars said.
“And our rocky shores and beautiful sheep,” Kristján said, his expression very solemn.
Lars looked puzzled, while Stacy bit her lip, trying not to laugh. She could resist good looks, macho posturing and even sexy flirtation—but a man who could make her laugh could also make her melt.
Jens returned, a fresh drink in hand. “Kristján,” he said. “So good of you to join us.” Though his expression said it was anything but.
“I wanted to talk to Stacy,” Kristján said, with the attitude of a king dismissing a subject.
The other two men exchanged looks. “I guess we’d better be going,” Jens said.
“You don’t need to do that,” Stacy protested.
“We really should go,” Lars said.
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