Page 69 of Hot & Heavy

"More or less."

He raised his eyes heavenward. "You're a freakin' millionaire."

"Is that good?"

"Very good."

"Then I will give you one of the jewels for the groceries you bought today. I do not like to be beholden to any man."

He started to laugh and couldn't stop. He could see that she was annoyed by his laughter. "A hundred thou for a bag of groceries?" he choked out through his continuing laughter. "What is that? Like a hundred dollars an orange? A hundred dollars a banana? A hundred dollars for a brush? A hundred dollars for a candy bar? Oh, geez. Oh, man. This is the funniest thing I've heard in a long time."

She looked downright cute glaring at him.

So, what could a red-blooded male—which he was—say but, "Baby, you can pay me in some other way"?

It was a Norse-Arab-Cajun-American Indian pasta dish…

Madrene was in the kitchen learning how to cook while the men were in the solar talking about some big secret mission, as men were wont to do. Every time she entered the room, they went silent. Men!

Blowhards, all of them.

One at a time, each of the men came into the kitchen, where she was watching the red spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove. Every one of them tasted the sauce and added some new spice or grated cheese.

They came to get a beer… which was similar to mead. She was drinking a glass herself.

They all commented on her new attire. Tight braies, called jeans. A sleeveless, hip-length shert, which tapered in at the waist, called a blouse. It had odd fasteners on the front called buttons, and was made of a light blue fabric. When he purchased it, Ian had said it matched her eyes, which pleased her; he did not toss many compliments in her direction. No doubt he wanted something from her.

Omar, who prided himself on his cooking skills, had spent some time with her in the beginning of the evening, teaching her how to use the kitchen implements. The stove. The can opener. The toaster. The microwave oven. Of course, he had to then explain to her what a can was, or why one would want to brown a slice of bread. He'd also had to explain all the different foods to her, since she could not read the labels. Tomato sauce. More spices than she ever thought existed. Rice. Pop-Tarts. Spa-get-he…

which was what they were making tonight.

In addition, he showed her the laundry room and demonstrated the two magic mash-sheens there. No wonder Ian had been embarrassed over his undergarments hanging outside. Apparently, people here hid their washing and drying efforts.

She saw Omar studying her at various times when he did not realize she was aware of his scrutiny. He also alternated his conversation between Arabic and Saxon English, as if trying to trick her up with some mistake.

"So, you live with your little girl?" she asked. "Five years old, did you say?"

"Uh-huh," Omar replied while he stirred the mary-nary sauce with a wooden spoon and added some Eastern spice. Every once in a while, he tested it by dipping out a little on the spoon. He made her do the same, though she had no idea how to determine when it was done. He took out a shiny paper with the image of a little girl on it. The red-haired child did not much resemble Omar. "Darla is going to start school in September. Early enrollment in kindergarten." Pride was evident in his voice.

That got her attention. "Girls go to school in this country?"

"Absolutely. It's required of both boys and girls."

"That is wonderful. I have always wanted to learn to read and write, as my brothers did. My father, unlike many, would have allowed it, I think, but there was no time. Running a vast estate, whether it be a farmstead or royal household, left no time for anything not strictly a necessity."

"A vast estate, huh? Tell me what kind of things you did."

Omar was a very interesting man. He had been a teacher at a large university before becoming a seal. He had regaled her with astonishing stories of his brave ancestors on his father's side. They had been red men, known as Indians.

Because he had shared some of his life story with her, she felt comfortable doing the same for him. " I will tell you of Norstead, the royal estate, because that is where I was at the last… not at the farmstead."

"Royal?"

"My father's family held a jarldom. We are related to the king's family, though not in line of succession, thank the gods. What a snake pit of greed and intrigue that is! I had been married to Karl Ivarsson for a few years, but he put me aside and—"

"Do you mean divorce?"

She shrugged. "I guess that is your word for it."