Page 13 of The Very Virile Viking

"Five hundred thousand," she repeated.

"Honey, I could get the Taj Mahal for a half mil."

She shrugged and tried to appear unconcerned and not desperate, as she really was. At the same time, she gritted her teeth over the producer's use of the word honey . The aging Lothario with the thick, wavy white hair and George Hamilton tan was living in another era. He didn't understand how offensive the endearment was in today's work environment. Next he would be pinching her behind. Putting her irritation aside, she said, "My price is firm."

"So is your butt," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as he walked around his desk, and, yep, pinched her behind. He didn't even check to see what her reaction was. Instead, he strolled toward the set of windows that covered two walls of his posh office in the Universe Studios building. The man was a sexual-harassment suit waiting to happen… even here in Hollywood, casting couch of the theatrical world. On the other hand, he was a genius of a producer, highly regarded for his movie credits across the world.

"Look, Angie…" he began.

Angela hated that nickname—with a passion. If she didn't watch herself, she was going to grind her teeth down to the gums.

"… I already have money problems casting this production."

Angela had heard rumors that Angelina Jolie and Benjamin Bratt were to play the leads. So, yeah, big bucks were probably involved. Her five hundred thousand would be a pittance.

"I've got to cut costs somewhere."

That hangdog expression isn't winning me over, buster. "But time is money, Darrell. I have a

ready-made movie set for you… a spectacular working vineyard. Every week you spend searching for a cheaper site is going to cost you."

"You have a point there."

"Why don't we schedule a day when you can come to visit? Don't dig in your heels on the price till you've seen the place." Angela was confident that once he got a look at the Blue Dragon, money would be a moot point.

He conceded and told her that he and a crew would be there a week from Thursday. "Actually, I have bigger problems than the location for my next film. I've got to finish my current project, a remake of that old Kirk Douglas classic, The Vikings , and Dirk Johansson has walked off the set… again. God, what a prick he is! First he didn't like his costar…"

Angela frowned. "I thought I heard that Pamela Templeton was starring in this movie."

"She is… she is," Darrell said, nodding. "And, hot damn, what red-blooded male wouldn't want that blond goddess as a costar? Only the world's biggest egotist, that's who."

Angela had to smile. She'd read enough Variety magazine articles to know that Johansson was renowned for his high opinion of himself. Supposedly there were so many mirrors in his Beverly Hills mansion that it resembled a brothel. Pamela Templeton was outrageously sexy and beautiful… the perfect match for a Norse warrior, you would think. But he must view her beauty as competition.

"If that wasn't bad enough," the producer was rambling on, "Dirk— the dick!—doesn't like the drab clothing that Vikings wear. Says he doesn't look good in brown. He does like the fur cloak, though. You should see the outfit he wants to wear. Pfff! Better suited to a gay pimp than a Viking hunk."

Angela wanted to tell Darrell that none of this was her concern… that all she cared about was getting some cash for her grandmother to continue operating Blue Dragon… but, of course, she didn't. Some of her most important house sales were made by employing a little diplomacy.

"The latest foolishness on Dirk's part is that he gets seasick… on a fake longship, for chrissake! On an artificial ocean. He made us turn off the wave-making machine. What does he think… that longships sailed in calm seas. That Norsemen rowed halfway across the freakin' world?"

"I saw the longship as I drove up, sitting in that fake lake. It was beautiful… a wonderful reproduction. I understand how frustrating it must be for you," she commented, just to make conversation. Now that Darrell had agreed to visit the Blue Dragon, she just wanted to escape. She stood and gathered her briefcase and purse, easing her way toward the door. "Well, I've got to be going."

"Oh… my… God!" Darrell exclaimed.

Now what? Angela turned slowly to see the producer staring out the window, slack-jawed with disbelief.

"Who is that guy, and what the hell does he think he's doing on my ship? Where's security? And who the hell turned that wave machine back on?"

This was the perfect opportunity for Angela to escape, but she couldn't help herself. Curiosity compelled her to turn around and walk over to the window.

"What?" she asked, standing next to Darrell.

"Look… look…" he sputtered, pointing down two stories to the lot that she had passed earlier… the one with the longship floating on a man-made lake.

Now it was her turn to exclaim, "Oh… my… God!"

Standing with legs widespread on the prow of the longship was a man who could only be described as… well… a Viking. He was six-foot-five, at least, with long, light brown hair streaked with blond highlights— probably from riding a surfboard and not because he'd been riding the ocean waves on some ancient dragonship. He was over thirty years old, but, hey, there were lots of overage surfers in California, living the perpetual quest for the perfect wave.

This Viking, who must be part of some publicity stunt, was wearing a thigh-length leather tunic over wide, muscled shoulders. The outfit was accented by a thick belt around a sinfully narrow waist. His sinewy legs were bare, except for cross-gartered boots. His arms, also roped with muscles, were bare, too, except for etched silver bracelets on his biceps. In one hand he held a huge sword. In the other arm he held a little blond-haired girl dressed in an old-fashioned pinafore-style gown. The most amazing thing of all was the group with this… this… Viking on a longship. Not just the toddler in his arm but a bunch of other kids as well. She quickly counted. Nine in all, each dressed in ancient attire that she surmised was the way the old Norse would have been garbed.