Page 25 of Viking Unchained

Her head shot up and immediately she saw the tall . . . very tall . . . man approaching her from the far side of the tavern. Why he should have caught her attention, she wasn’t sure. He wore jeans and a black Aerosmith T-shirt, both of which showcased a very fine body. Other than his height, he was not her type at all. With gold bracelets on his upper arms—probably brass—he had long, black Fabio hair, and, good Lord, were those beads in the braids framing his face, which was dark and brooding. He’s probably gay.

My luck.

Noticing her stare, Kirstin said, “Oh, look, it’s my cousin Finn. He’s new in town. That must mean . . .

yep, there’s Torolf and his buddies.” She waved at her brother, seated at a round table with a group of men and women. “Should we join them?”

“Sure,” Lydia said, “but first I’m going to the ladies’ room. You go ahead.” She gave one last glance at the tall man who was now stalled in the middle of the dance floor, where he was shoving people aside in his haste to get . . . somewhere. Torolf, no longer seated, was trying to tug him back to their table.

This stranger scared her, she realized, and she couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the liquor. She’d had two glasses of wine during dinner, and she was halfway through her second screwdriver. Time to slow down before she did something she might regret, like pole dance in public. Like that would ever happen, drunk or sober!

She went into the ladies’ room, and after having peed and repaired some straying strands of hair from her top-knot, she pressed a wet paper towel to her heated face. Her heart was racing, and her skin felt both clammy with coolness and hot with dryness. Was she getting sick? Or was she having a delayed reaction to the alcohol? Hands trembling, she reapplied her lip gloss and left.

Only to see the tall man with the Fabio hair leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, waiting for her. None of his separate parts registered with her . . . not the long hair, height, muscles, somber, almost angry expression. It was his eyes.

Silver gray.

Dave’s eyes.

Could it be . . . was I right all along? Dave isn’t dead?

No, it can’t be. It’s just wishful thinking on my part, she argued with herself.

But he looks so much like Dave, she thought— and not just his eyes. His height. Body build. Even the way he leans against the wall. It was all so . . . Dave.

Only his face was a little different.

That was when a crazy thought took hold of her. If he was hurt in the explosion, he could have had plastic surgery. And maybe . . . maybe he’d been a POW or covert operator all these years.

The fantasy of it was so sweet that it hurt.

“Are you . . . my husband?” she asked softly.

He recoiled, as if she’d struck him. “I do not know . . . I might be.”

That was all she needed to hear.

“Oh, my God! What have they done to you?” she murmured, then threw herself into the man’s arms, kissing his neck and face and lips. “I have missed you so much, baby. So much!”

He didn’t respond, at first. In fact, he acted as if he was in shock.

Well, she was, too.

Looping her arms around his neck, she leaned back to stare into his face. Not Dave’s face, but that didn’t matter. Not too much, anyway.

“Dave?” she said at the same time he said, “Luta?”

Both of them shook their heads.

“I am Thorfinn . . . or Finn.”

“I’m Lydia.”

Lydia was confused, but she didn’t want to dwell on her confusion. She wanted to bask in the joy of being with Dave again, even if it was this weird reincarnation of Dave.

“Kiss me,” she urged in a raw voice.

“You do not like kisses,” he remarked, cocking his head to the side. Then, tentatively, as if unsure now, he added, “Luta does not like kisses.”