by Sandra Hill
The children’s backs were to her; so, for the moment, they were unaware of her presence. Which gave Mordr a chance to study her. She wore a seemingly modest dress today. Green silk, ending at the knees. But it seemed to wrap around, one side, then the other, with a bow tied on the left at her small waist. He wondered idly—or not so idly—if that bow was the only thing holding the garment together. What would happen if he walked over and leaned down to her neck to see if the floral scent was truly her skin’s natural odor or some artificial perfume and at the same time, slipped the knot on the bow, then stepped back to see what treasures lay hidden under—
“Aunt Mir!”
“You’re home!”
The children jumped up and ran to Miranda, giving her a group hug, even the older boys. She smiled down at them, kissing the tops of their unruly heads. She couldn’t appear more maternal if she was their real mother.
They were all talking at once then, telling her about their day. The night crawler incident was noticeably absent. She listened intently to each of them, then ruffled the hair on Ben and Sam and told them all, “Take your school things up to your rooms and you can play out back until dinner. Maybe you could set up that new croquet set and . . .”
Her words trailed off as the kids grabbed their books and notebooks and rushed for the stairs.
“I call dibs on the red ball.”
“I get yellow.”
“You always get yellow.”
“Stop shoving.”
“Bite me!”
Larry was scratching his butt, which prompted Ben to walk over and give him a wedgie, which caused Larry to head-butt Ben in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.
Leaning against the door frame, she shrugged with seeming apology for the children’s behavior, as if she were personally responsible, then smiled at him.
Oh no! No smiles. Please, God, no smiles. Her smiles make me feel like . . . they make me feel!
“You did great today,” she said. “The house looks clean. The dinner smells delicious. And the children are somewhat behaving themselves. Thank you.”
“Mrs. Delgado helped.”
“That’s another thing. Mrs. Delgado refuses to do any more than basic cleaning for me. I noticed folded clothes in the laundry, and you mentioned grocery shopping. A miracle!”
“She is a lonely woman since her son died in the war. And bitter, truth to tell. His ex-wife doesn’t let her see her granddaughter very often. That is why she is so quiet and irksome, I suspect.”
“I knew Mrs. Delgado had a son who’d died in Afghanistan. A Marine. But that’s all she’d ever disclosed to me. How did you get her to talk to you?”
Mordr rose from the chair and walked toward her. “Me? I did nothing to encourage talking. I do not talk much myself. Mayhap she recognized a kindred spirit. A shared pain.”
He could tell she wanted to ask more—and since when did he mention his painful past, even in such a general way?—but he was close to her now, and his proximity made her nervous. And, yes, he leaned down to smell her scent. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Like an aphrodisiac, it was, entering his nostrils, streaming through his bloodstream, turning him warm and—
“Are you smelling me?” she accused, although he noticed that she was sniffing, too. She’d mentioned yesterday that he had a particular scent.
He stepped back, reluctantly, and nodded. “I was wondering . . .”
“Wondering what?” she prodded when he didn’t finish his thought.
I was wondering what would happen if I untied that bow and looked at your body. “I was wondering if men stop and gape when you walk down the street.”
“Why would they do that?”
Would your skin be creamy soft with delicious curves? Would your breasts be small with oversensitive nipples, as I suspect? Would your nether hair glimmer in the sunlight like reddish gold fleece? “Because of your scant attire. I know it is not considered scandalous today, but where I come from, women do not expose their legs or arms.”
“What?” She flinched. “Are you a Muslim? That sounds a lot like purdah to me.”
“Have I not said it enough? I am a Viking.”
“Religious fanatic, then?”
“This compelling attraction I have for you has naught to do with religion, believe you me. Unless lust is no longer one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”
“I don’t understand. You condemn me for my attire, then claim you are attracted to me.”
“Of course I am attracted to you. Is that not what I have said?”
“Actually, no.”
“Then, let me say it plain. I like your attire and how you look in it. Too much! I just wonder if I will be able to resist your temptation?”
“This is the craziest conversation I’ve ever had. Temptation? I don’t dress to tempt anyone. Good Lord!”
He thought about warning her not to swear, but decided to save that admonition for later. “Do not be alarmed.”
“Alarmed? You practically accuse me of dressing provocatively to turn men on.”
“Not men. Me. I mean, I am not saying you deliberately entice. Just that I am.”
She crossed her eyes with frustration. “Am what?”
“Tempted.”
“You are crossing a line with these inappropriate words.”
“I don’t see why my remarks would be deemed inappropriate. I am just stating a fact. ’Tis amazing, but it is what it is. I am attracted to you.”
“That is the most lame compliment I have ever heard.”
“I have not felt such instant . . . uh, attraction in such a long time that I am amazed. I am not saying this right.”
She tilted her head to the side. “I should be alarmed by that statement, but, as a psychologist, I know that it is mere testosterone speaking. A natural attraction based on scientific principles of . . . what? Why are you shaking your head?”
“Because it is more than that. By the by, if it is mere science, are you feeling the same . . . arousal?”
“I am not!” she said, but her denial was belied by a blush that covered her face and crept down her neck to parts unknown but tempting as water to a thirsty man.
Her hair was upswept, exposing small shell ears pierced with dangling jade earrings and also highlighting the graceful line of her neck. He ran a forefinger along her jaw from ear to ear.
“Amazing!” he repeated in a sex-husky voice.
“You keep saying that. Why is it so amazing?”
“Because I have not had such thoughts in three hundred years.”
“Oddly, it seems like three hundred years for me, too,” she confessed.
And then he kissed her.
Nine
Trouble comes in big packages . . .
Mordr kissed her.
Three hundred years since he last had a woman? Hah! Talk about exaggeration! If it truly had been a long time (she suspected something more like three days) since he’d last had a woman, he hadn’t forgotten a thing. Kind of like riding a bicycle, except better. Way better!
Maybe it was a Viking thing. A mere kiss from him was about a seventeen on the Richter scale. The man had hidden skills. He certainly made her quake in certain places.
He was a big man. Tall, hard-muscled shoulders and chest with big workman’s hands and long, tree-trunk legs, evident in a blue Minnesota Vikings T-shirt that matched his pale blue eyes, tucked into well-worn denim jeans and sockless athletic shoes. He had to bend his knees slightly to put himself on eye level with her, rather lip level. With ease he extended both arms and braced his hands on the upper curves of the archway leading from the family room to the hallway. His lips pressed to hers were soft and entreating.
She sensed that he was giving her the opportunity to resist, to shove him away and tell him he was being a jerk. That his behavior could be interpreted as sexual harassment on the job site. Instead, contrary to her usual cautious personality, she raised her hands to his shoulders and moaned.
That moan repre
sented assent to him, she could tell.
Before she realized what he was about, he yanked her into the room and pressed her up against the side wall, raising her so that only the tips of her high heels touched the floor, the whole time devouring her with a deep kiss that went on forever. He moved his head from side to side ’til he got the perfect fit. Then he nipped at her lower lip and plunged his tongue into her open mouth. His mouth moved on hers, a constant demand that she respond. And she did.
The low growl of appreciation in his throat triggered arousal deep in her body. His hands were everywhere, making wide swaths of her back, caressing her buttocks, cupping her breasts, and strumming the nipples with his calloused thumbs.
“Oh Lord! I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” She tilted her head to the side, giving him better access to that sensuous spot at the curve of her neck.
“How good it feels to hold a woman,” he husked out, nibbling at her skin. “I am in so much trouble. So.” Nibble. “Much.” Nibble. “Trouble.” He ended his nibbles with a quick bite.
Places long neglected in Miranda came alive. This was insanity, allowing a near stranger such intimate access to her body. And it was not enough. Not nearly enough.
Thus, she didn’t protest when he released the bow at her side and separated her dress. In a sex-thickened voice, he murmured, “You should be careful where you wear a dress like this.”
“Why?”
“It gives a man sinful thoughts.”
“Are you having sinful thoughts?”
“You have no idea.” His blue eyes turned silvery and his lips parted, staring down at her in nothing but a nude-colored lace bra and bikini panties. She didn’t have a great body. Too slim. Breasts too small. But that didn’t seem to matter to him.
“Do you know how good you look to me?”
Maybe her body wasn’t so bad, after all. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”
He angled his head and settled his mouth on hers again. Long, lazy, but nonetheless hungry kisses ensued. She’d never been kissed so thoroughly or with such finesse. His taste was headier than champagne on an empty stomach.
Raising his head, but at the same time still holding her, he said, “For my sins, you are forbidden to me.”
“Forbidden fruit?” she teased.
“Of the worst kind. Or best kind. And I am a hungry man.” He looked so miserable when he spoke those words.
She raised a hand to his nape and pulled him down for a soft kiss to his lips, which were parted and moist.
“I want you,” he said in a voice raw with emotion.
“No kidding!” A hardened part of his body was pressing against her belly, giving proof to his statement that he wasn’t impotent. Not by a Vegas long shot.
He pinched her butt in reprimand.
She pinched his back.
He almost smiled.
“When was the last time you smiled?”
“I cannot recall.”
“Really?” She cocked her head to the side. “Why? A sense of humor makes the world go round.”
“Pfff! Not my world.”
“You are a puzzle to me. There has to be some reason that you are always so grim. Nothing is so bad it can’t be overcome.”
It was as if a shadow passed over Mordr’s face. He went suddenly rigid, then stepped back from her. “This was not a good idea. Sorry I am if I offended you.”
“Huh? What just happened? What did I do?”
A loud ringing jarred them both, and precluded his answering her questions. The doorbell.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He helped adjust her dress and pointed toward the back of the house with a silent order that she check on the children. She quickly ran to the kitchen and looked out the window. The kids were safe. For once, they had listened and were in the process of setting up the croquet course, with Maggie giving her sage advice on how it should be done, the boys arguing, and Linda just holding on to the yellow ball tightly.
She rushed back to find Mordr looking through the peephole, then undoing the various locks on the doors and clicking in the security code. “Dumb lackwits!” he muttered.
Hmm. That didn’t sound dangerous.
Mordr tried to block the open doorway, but she scooted under his arm and was dumbfounded at what stood on her doorstep. Two big men wearing long cloaks with angel wing epaulets on the shoulders, over black jeans and T-shirts. Motorcycle-style boots completed the picture. One wore his long black hair with thin braids on either side of his very handsome face, similar to Mordr. The other’s hair was short brown in designer disarray. Different from Mordr, but still there was a resemblance. More Vikings?
Seeing her ducking around to stand beside Mordr, they smiled. And exposed long incisors on either side of their mouths. Like wolves or vampires.
She gasped.
“Watch yourselves,” Mordr hissed.
Miranda shook her head to clear it, and when she looked again, their teeth were perfectly straight, except for slightly longer incisors. She must be in a hormone-induced haze.
“Miranda, these are my lackwit brothers, Cnut and Harek. Lackwit brothers, this is Miranda Hart . . . my, uh, client.”
Client? Me? She nodded at them, acknowledging the introduction, such as it was. She was still stunned by their appearance. “Cloaks? Really? In Vegas heat?” she whispered to Mordr.
“What is wrong with cloaks?” Mordr asked her, not in a whisper. “I wear an identical one betimes. ’Tis a trait of our family.”
“Cloaks have many inside pockets for carrying . . . um, certain things,” the one named Harek explained.
She could only imagine.
“What are you doing here?’ Mordr demanded of both brothers.
Now that was just rude.
“What are you doing here is the better question,” Harek said. “By the looks of your lips and that bite mark on your neck, I’d say something fun.”
Oh my God! What do I look like? She put a hand to her hair and groaned. It had come loose from its clip atop her head and was hanging in ridiculous curls down to her shoulders. She didn’t need to wonder if she had whisker burns on her cheeks and neck, or kiss-swollen lips, like Mordr’s. She probably looked like a slut.
Mordr bared his teeth at Harek, and Miranda noticed that he had slightly longer incisors, too. Since he never smiled, she hadn’t been aware of that fact. She looked again. Yep, definitely a little longer than the rest of his teeth. Cute. She almost laughed when she imagined his reaction if she called him cute.
“I repeat,” Mordr said icily to his brothers. “Why are you here?”
“There is trouble,” Cnut told him. “Big trouble.”
Guess who’s coming, uh, came, to dinner . . .
“Can we come in?” Harek asked with a crooked grin at Miranda that some women might find attractive, but Mordr considered halfbrained. And Harek was the one who was supposed to have the biggest, sharpest brain of them all.
Cnut winked at her—probably to annoy me—and said in a raspy voice, the result of being nigh garroted by a slimy Saxon one time, “Pleased am I to meet you, Lady Miranda.” His gravelly voice appealed to some women, or so Cnut always bragged.
“She’s no lady,” Mordr said.
Mordr hadn’t meant that as an insult, but she chose to take it that way as evidenced by her hip bumping his side. He was momentarily shocked by her action, which bespoke familiarity, and was definitely un-lady-like. Trying for a bit of damage control, he added, “I meant, they do not use titles of nobility in this time . . . uh, country.”
“Is that an apology?” she asked.
“No. Why should I apologize?”
“Still the same suave oaf,” Harek remarked. “Mr. No-Personality!”
“Remember the time he asked Queen Edwina if she ever considered slicing off that mole on her nose?” Cnut said to Harek with a grin.
“Would you two Viking pain-in-the-arses care to s
tep into the yard with me?” Mordr gritted out, and he didn’t intend to show them the sprinkler-fed grass, which was lush here in the front where the children didn’t trample. In fact, he warned them, “Spew out more of those jests at my expense, and we shall see how many eyes I can blacken in two minutes.”
“Aren’t you worried that I might bloody those kiss-swollen lips of yours, brother?” Cnut asked with more grinning.
“Time for an intervention,” Miranda declared with a scowl at him, even though he wasn’t the one who started the sniping. To his brothers, she said, “You can call me Miranda. Please, come in.” She stepped back to motion them in. To him, in an undertone, she whispered, “Stop behaving like a child. You’re worse than Ben and Sam.”
“I resent that.” By the runes, her lips look kiss-some.
“Big deal!”
“Do not try my temper, or you may taste the flavor of my wrath.” Is there anything more sex-worthy than a woman with spirit?
“Get over yourself!”
I would like to get over something, or on, or in. Whoo! I hope my fangs aren’t showing, or another body part. All I have to do is look at her and my arousal goes up a notch or twenty.
Meanwhile, the two idiots strolled in, and, yes, it was idiotic to wear a cape in ninety-degree temperature, even though he understood why; the capes hid large amounts of weaponry. Just then, he detected a slight sulfur scent on Harek and a lemon scent on Cnut. They’d been killing Lucies and saving sinners, that would be Mordr’s conclusion. And it wasn’t just the odor that clung to their garments, their skin tones were healthy and tanned-looking, not the usual paleness when they’d been away too long from feeding.
And Miranda noticed, too, he could tell. When Harek passed by into the house, her nose wrinkled reflexively, as if he might have a bad case of wind in the bowels. She probably thought Cnut had been sucking on lemons, or sucking up vast amounts of lemonade.
“Miranda, why don’t you go check on the children whilst I talk with my brothers?” Is that her nipples showing as tiny, twin peaks on the bodice of her dress? Mayhap it is just a wrinkle in her undergarment. But her nipples are big, like ripe currants, or cherry pits, or . . . For the love of dirt! I cannot be thinking about nipples or that scandalous lace concoction that covers them.