Page 72 of The Very Virile Viking

"Okay, big boy, exactly how long have you known you were a time traveler?"

"Since yestermorn. I was in the winery cellar with Miguel and noticed the date on the bottles from your last year of producing wines. It said 1997. That gave me my first clue."

She rubbed her forehead with one hand to erase the headache that was beginning to throb behind her eyelids. "There is no such thing as time travel, Magnus."

"That is what I would have thought… till yesterday. Now it is beginning to make sense."

"How could it possibly make sense? By the way, Flash Gordon, did you come by spaceship? Ha, ha, ha."

"I came by longship, not a spaceship. And what I meant by 'making sense' is that all the wonders that have stunned me and my children since our arrival make sense when you consider that we are of another time."

"I do not believe in time travel. I'm sorry, Magnus, but it just doesn't pass the giggle test."

"I do not believe in time travel, either, but…"

"But what?"

"I do believe in miracles."

"You're crazy."

Still crazy… the next morning…

They were in a nearby Barnes & Noble before noon the next day with books on Viking history spread out on the reading table before them. Angela was determined to prove to Magnus that he was not from the tenth century and therefore not a time traveler. In a way she felt foolish just making the effort.

"Before you start your proof-search, let me tell you some facts, and see if your books can back them up.

"I, Magnus Ericsson, am a Viking, born and bred. I lived in the Vestfold province of the Norselands…

from 963 till the year 1000, when I started on my voyage. My father, Eric Tryggvasson, was a Norse jarl… comparable to a Saxon atheling, or high nobleman. My uncle, Olaf Tryggvason, was high king of Norway."

In addition, Magnus took a pen from Angela's hand and drew a quick sketch on her notepad. "That is our family crest. See, it is similar to that which is etched on my armrings, and those of Torolf, as well."

Magnus's rough drawing showed writhing wolves intertwined with runic symbols, which meant "Honor before self," he explained. In addition, he gave her detailed information about his brother Geirolf, a famous shipbuilder, and the names of his ships, all of which began with the word fierce , as in Fierce Wolf, Fierce Dragon , and so on. He also told her of his other brother, Jorund, a warrior-for-hire who was known for his military prowess. His sister, Katla, was not famous, but she was married to a Viking of noble birth in Normandy. She had been married at the ungodly age of fourteen.

After an hour and a half of reading and note taking, Angela slammed the last book shut. Everything— everything—that Magnus had told her proved true, right down to the design of his family's crest, the wars in which his one brother had fought, and the ships his other brother had built. Had he somehow researched all this material ahead of time? If so, for what purpose? Just to get a part in a movie? To impress her?

None of it made sense, least of all Magnus's contention that he was a tenth-century Viking who had somehow shot through time to land in Hollywood.

She looked across the table at Magnus, who was leaning back in his chair, his ankles crossed and propped on another empty chair. He was flicking through the pages of two magazines— Cosmopolitan and Playboy —which he'd insisted she purchase for him after seeing the pictures and titles of articles on the front. There was a photograph of a nearly nude nubile young female on the one, which he'd proclaimed looked just like Girta the Great. She hadn't bothered to ask what Girta was so great at. The other magazine had articles such as, "The World's Greatest Sex Fantasy," "How to Get a Hard Butt in Half the Time," and "Best Methods of Oral Sex."

"Is oral sex like the pop-sigh-call game?" Magnus asked, putting his magazines aside.

"Shhh," she said, not wanting anyone to overhear. Her long, tall, way-too-handsome Viking was already garnering enough attention. Even in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, he was drop-dead gorgeous, with a butt that needed no hardening, thank you very much. Not that appearance mattered to her. Much.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Well?"

"Yes, it is." She felt her face heat up with embarrassment, though how she had a shred of modesty in her after the past twelve hours was beyond her.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk!" He flashed her a mischievous grin. "I was wondering about the Norse history books you have been buried in."

"Oh." Her face heated up some more. "Yes, I have to admit that everything you say is true, but that doesn't mean you are a time traveler."

"What does it mean then?"

"I don't know, but I'll think of something." She bent over to pick up her purse from the floor and gather her papers. When she straightened, she caught him in the act of doing the one major thing women hated— ogling her behind.

"I am hungry," he said.