“Especially with those cute little pointy teeth.” She frowned then. “Which don’t seem to be pointy at all today.”
Cute? That is a not a word a Viking likes to hear. “The points come and go.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“Like magic?”
He shrugged. “I am a Viking. We are known for extraordinary . . . things.” He was the one waggling his eyebrows now.
“A doctor with a sense of humor. Amazing!”
He laughed. It had been a long time since he’d flirted with a woman. A looooong time. He concentrated on tamping down his pleasure, before someone else did it for him, someone up there . “What I was trying to say was, there are evil men on this island. You could be in danger.” Really, he was saying more than he should. He forced himself to scowl, instead of grinning like a loopy lackwit.
“Listen, Sigurd—” she started, pronouncing his name like cigar .
“Call me Sig,” he said.
“Listen, Sig. I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I don’t need your advice. Or whatever else you’re offering.”
He bristled. “I was not offering that .” Yet. Or never. Or probably never.
They’d been walking while they talked, each with a carry bag in hand, his in his left hand, hers in her right, but just then a man stepped in front of them as they approached the crushed shell clearing in front of the hotel, a massive white, colonial island plantation–type structure with pillars and wide covered verandahs. “Dr. Sigurdsson! How nice to meet you again! And who is this lovely lady?”
Harry Goldman was wearing a pale green Palm Beach Golf Club shirt tucked into a pair of white shorts, leaving his hairy legs bare down to leather sandals. His clearly dyed, evenly brown hair was slicked wetly off his face, as if he’d just come from the pool. He sucked in his stomach, but the paunch was still prominent. When he smiled, his capped teeth gleamed against his ruddy complexion. He had either bathed in some citrusy cologne, or the man’s pores were oozing lemon scent. Sigurd was betting on the latter.
Without thinking, Sigurd yanked Marisa to his side with an arm over her shoulder and said, “Marisa, this is Harry Goldman, the man I told you about. He invests heavily in certain, uh, movies. Mr. Goldman, this is my betrothed, Marisa Lopez.”
“Mar-is-a. What a beautiful name!” Then understanding hit, and Mr. Goldman sputtered, “Be-betrothed?”
“Fiancée,” Sigurd elaborated.
“What?” Marisa squeaked.
Goldman gave Sigurd an evil look. “You didn’t mention she was your fiancée last week when I pointed her out.” He glanced at Marisa’s ringless left hand.
Marisa, still in his tight embrace, turned her head to Sigurd, her eyebrows arched. “You talked about me with another man? Last week?” The silent message was, You didn’t even know me last week. Or hardly.
“We just made it official last night. Didn’t we, sweetling?” He kissed her lightly on the lips. Only lightly, for fear she might bite him. But even that little kiss sent a zing through his body so powerful he would be thinking about it later. A lot. “Won’t you congratulate us on our engagement, Mr. Goldman?”
“You’re overdoing it,” Marisa warned in a whisper that tickled his ear, deliciously. And more zinging.
Goldman said something under his breath that sounded like “Fuck you, Sigurdsson. Engagements can be broken.” Then the little guy spun on his small feet and turned to Martin Vanderfelt, who had just stepped up and had nervously witnessed the exchange. “In my suite, Vanderfelt. Now!”
“Was that necessary?” Marisa sniped at Sigurd then, shrugging out of his embrace.
That was all the thanks he got! “Only if you want to avoid lecherous old billionaires with evil intents.”
She cocked her head to the side and homed in on the most irrelevant thing he’d said, “Billionaire? As in ten-figures billionaire?”
He made a spectacle of counting on his fingers, then nodded. Something else
Cute? That is a not a word a Viking likes to hear. “The points come and go.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“Like magic?”
He shrugged. “I am a Viking. We are known for extraordinary . . . things.” He was the one waggling his eyebrows now.
“A doctor with a sense of humor. Amazing!”
He laughed. It had been a long time since he’d flirted with a woman. A looooong time. He concentrated on tamping down his pleasure, before someone else did it for him, someone up there . “What I was trying to say was, there are evil men on this island. You could be in danger.” Really, he was saying more than he should. He forced himself to scowl, instead of grinning like a loopy lackwit.
“Listen, Sigurd—” she started, pronouncing his name like cigar .
“Call me Sig,” he said.
“Listen, Sig. I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I don’t need your advice. Or whatever else you’re offering.”
He bristled. “I was not offering that .” Yet. Or never. Or probably never.
They’d been walking while they talked, each with a carry bag in hand, his in his left hand, hers in her right, but just then a man stepped in front of them as they approached the crushed shell clearing in front of the hotel, a massive white, colonial island plantation–type structure with pillars and wide covered verandahs. “Dr. Sigurdsson! How nice to meet you again! And who is this lovely lady?”
Harry Goldman was wearing a pale green Palm Beach Golf Club shirt tucked into a pair of white shorts, leaving his hairy legs bare down to leather sandals. His clearly dyed, evenly brown hair was slicked wetly off his face, as if he’d just come from the pool. He sucked in his stomach, but the paunch was still prominent. When he smiled, his capped teeth gleamed against his ruddy complexion. He had either bathed in some citrusy cologne, or the man’s pores were oozing lemon scent. Sigurd was betting on the latter.
Without thinking, Sigurd yanked Marisa to his side with an arm over her shoulder and said, “Marisa, this is Harry Goldman, the man I told you about. He invests heavily in certain, uh, movies. Mr. Goldman, this is my betrothed, Marisa Lopez.”
“Mar-is-a. What a beautiful name!” Then understanding hit, and Mr. Goldman sputtered, “Be-betrothed?”
“Fiancée,” Sigurd elaborated.
“What?” Marisa squeaked.
Goldman gave Sigurd an evil look. “You didn’t mention she was your fiancée last week when I pointed her out.” He glanced at Marisa’s ringless left hand.
Marisa, still in his tight embrace, turned her head to Sigurd, her eyebrows arched. “You talked about me with another man? Last week?” The silent message was, You didn’t even know me last week. Or hardly.
“We just made it official last night. Didn’t we, sweetling?” He kissed her lightly on the lips. Only lightly, for fear she might bite him. But even that little kiss sent a zing through his body so powerful he would be thinking about it later. A lot. “Won’t you congratulate us on our engagement, Mr. Goldman?”
“You’re overdoing it,” Marisa warned in a whisper that tickled his ear, deliciously. And more zinging.
Goldman said something under his breath that sounded like “Fuck you, Sigurdsson. Engagements can be broken.” Then the little guy spun on his small feet and turned to Martin Vanderfelt, who had just stepped up and had nervously witnessed the exchange. “In my suite, Vanderfelt. Now!”
“Was that necessary?” Marisa sniped at Sigurd then, shrugging out of his embrace.
That was all the thanks he got! “Only if you want to avoid lecherous old billionaires with evil intents.”
She cocked her head to the side and homed in on the most irrelevant thing he’d said, “Billionaire? As in ten-figures billionaire?”
He made a spectacle of counting on his fingers, then nodded. Something else
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