Page 78 of The Last Viking

She shuddered with distaste. Home Improvement was coming on the television.

When the show was finally over and one of those exercise infomercials came on, Rolf watched with a concentration he usually reserved only for his favorite toolman. “Could it be?” he murmured and turned on her as if enlightened. “Could it be that the reason you resist me so much is because I have a—” he hesitated, grimacing with horror—“a physical defect? Something women of your time favor, but men don’t develop in my world?”

Rolf defective physically? I…don’t…think…so. “Well, now that you mention it…” she teased, tapping a forefinger thoughtfully on her chin.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me from the start?” he said grumpily. “I could have ordered one of those machines from the come-her-shall and been working all this time to correct my flaw. Bloody hell, my brothers would make great jest of this if they knew a woman had spurned my favors because of some ill appeal. You may not have noticed, but I have a certain arrogance about the way I look.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Then she took pity on him. “Rolf, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

He jerked his head toward the television where some fitness expert was spouting off about how to firm up the gluteus maximus muscles. Her eyes shot to Rolf with sudden understanding.

“You have resisted me mightily because I do not have…buns of steel.”

She burst out laughing and couldn’t stop even when he stood and glowered at her. Finally, she was able to choke out, “Rolf, I have no idea whether you have buns of steel or not.”

Which was a big mistake.

Pivoting 180 degrees, he dropped his sweatpants to the floor and asked over his shoulder, “What do you think?”

He wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“And Nordic Trak—did you see that? They have a machine for Norsemen alone. We must have some special deficiency.”

Once she pushed her eyeballs back in their sockets, she sputtered, “I think you have nothing to worry about in that department.”

But what she really thought was, I am going to have some very strange and very vivid dreams tonight.

Chapter Fourteen

“Aaaccckkk!” Meredith screamed when she opened her front door the next morning to get the newspaper. Parked in her driveway, tied with a huge ribbon, was her latest bride gift, one of those 1950s classic convertibles with winglike back fenders. It was as big as a Viking longboat—probably got about one mile per gallon—and it was (Meredith shuddered) pink.

Rolf came rushing from the side of the house, hair all disheveled, bed furs thrown over his bare shoulders. He wielded one of the long wooden “spears” he’d improvised the other day. And he couldn’t have looked fiercer if he were a true Viking warrior about to do battle.

“What’s amiss, my lady?” he said, pivoting his head this way and that, scanning the area. “Where’s the enemy?”

Once she snapped her gaping mouth shut, she pointed to the left. “What is that?”

“Do you say your keep is safe from attack?” His body relaxed when he comprehended that no imminent danger loomed, but he cast her a disapproving scowl. “Have I mentioned afore, you have a shriek that would drive a sane man mad? You would do well, my lady, to hear the saga that skalds tell in our lands about a boy who cried dragon once too often.”

“Don’t you mean the boy who cried wolf?”

“What wolf?” Once again, he was surveying the yard, this time ridiculously searching for a wolf.

“Never mind.” She tapped her foot impatiently and indicated with a motion of her head that he hadn’t answered her question about the pink monstrosity in her driveway. It was probably a vintage Mary Kay car.

“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t find a suitable horse for you on such short notice.”

“A horse?” she squealed.

“Besides,” he said with an open-mouthed yawn, “did you know they have zone laws that prohibit you from building a barn on your property? I am planning to appeal to a higher authority…mayhap even the king. Is King Clinton the only sovereign you have in your land?”

“A barn? A barn? Don’t you even think of building a barn! That longhouse is bad enough. And if you dare to phone the White House, I’m going to disconnect our telephone service.”

“Whate’er you say, dearling.” His mouth turned down in one of those sad-sack moues, and he said with boyish hurt, “Methought you favored the longhouse now ’tis nigh complete.”

She snarled and Rolf dropped an arm heavily around her shoulder, drawing her back into the house. Once he realized that the pout wasn’t going to cut it, he advised, “Settle down, Merry-Death. You need to relax more. ’Tis good you’re taking the day off from working. You’ve been much too high-strung of late.” His seeming consideration flew out the window when he added, “No doubt it stems from sexual frustration—I learned that word on Sesame Street.”

“You…never…did.”