Page 64 of Hot & Heavy

Madrene awakened at dawn as she always did, but she was alone in the big bed.

In the darkened room, she had heard her seal bed-mate tossing and turning throughout the night before he finally fell asleep.

Finally she'd turned his way in the dark and advised him, "Why don't you pleasure yourself to gain release? 'Tis the best thing to do when sleep eludes you and coupling is not a possibility. Leastways, that's what Karl used to do."

From across the bed, she'd heard a choking sound, then laughter. "You are a piece of work, Maddie.

Why don't you say what you really think sometime?"

Now she heard water running and concluded that Ian must be in the showering room. Again. He had showered the night before. What need was there for another showering? She sat up at the side of the bed and shook her head with wonder. Vikings were known for their cleanliness, but this was excessive.

He came into the room with a towel wrapped around his middle. And stopped abruptly at the sight of her. His eyes, before he turned away, surveyed her body and liked what they saw. She was wearing a long white tea shert of his over a pair of tight braies, made of a fabric called lay-tax. She knew that because Ian had told her yesterday when she'd seen some girls running down the street wearing similar garments.

He opened some drawers and pulled out dark hose and a white undergarment similar to her panties, but different. Before he returned to the bathing chamber to put them on—though she suspected he would normally do it here—he remarked, "I've got to go in to the base for several hours this morning and probably part of the afternoon. Maybe we can go buy you some clothes after that… and stop somewhere for dinner."

She nodded. "What am I to do all day? I would like to be useful, but your house is so clean and organized, there is no work for me. That was what I did all my life… until I was sold to the harems, of course."

"You cleaned and organized for a living? Like Molly Maids?"

Her brow furrowed, as had become her habit around him, and she continued, "Before I was sold to the harems, I ran a vast estate."

"How vast?"

"One hundred hectares of land. Two hundred fighting men, fifty cotter families, twenty-five house carls and maids, ten thralls, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You sure do know how to tell a whopper, lady."

"I do not even see any gardens for food." She ignored his words because, frankly, she did not understand what a whop-her was. It sounded painful. "And there is not a cow for milk. Nor chickens for eggs. I could weave a tapestry if there is a loom about. Or polish swords. Or…" She let her words fade out as she noticed his gaping jaw. "I have never relished idleness."

"Idle hands are the devil's work."

"For a certainty. That is one of your lackwit sayings I can agree with."

He shook his head as if to clear it and said, "Just stay here till I get back. Watch TV. Take a bubble bath.

Do your nails. I don't care. Just don't leave."

"I will do as you command," she said to him, but inside she said, I must needs explore this new land to find out how to return to Norseland. I wonder where I could find a horse.

I smell a rat…

Ian started to feel suspicious the moment he entered the Naval Amphibious base at Coronado. Everyone was rushing him through to headquarters.

Within a half hour he knew why, and he was not a happy camper.

Commander George Harding was there, along with his XO Jack Bell; Lawrence Sanders, a high mucky-muck in the CIA; a representative of the Pentagon; and—the biggest surprise of all—his father.

Commander Harding told him to sit down when he threatened to leave the room. Good thing it wasn't his father who gave that order. The mood he was in, he would probably have told him to go screw himself.

He inhaled and exhaled to calm his temper, but it did no good. A short time later, he said, "Let me get this straight. You know that Maddie isn't a terrorist. You don't know who she is, but that doesn't matter … not for the sake of whatever goal you have for this half-assed brainstorm that can probably be traced to Dan the Prick Sullivan. You expedited my marriage to her and made her departure from Iraq a piece of cake. From the minute I got off that chopper and brought Jamal in, this plot was being brewed.

Sonofabitch!"

"Watch your tone," his father advised.

Ian ignored the bastard. How could he do this to his own son?

"Let me reiterate," the commander said. "This woman can lead us to a whole network of Jamal's operatives."