On the Tycoon's Terms Page 3

  Her fingers lay tense in his palm. The bandage was still in place. He said flatly, “The mark is gone where Guy grabbed you.”

  This time there was no mistaking the emotion in her voice: it was panic. “Let go…I’ll be late!”

  “Why do I scare you?” Luke said slowly.

  “I don’t know. You don’t! Why should you?”

  He watched her swallow, the tendons moving in her throat where sunlight gilded skin like satin. He wanted to rest his fingers there. Feel the pulse in that little hollow race to his touch. Then let them drift across the delicate arch of her collarbone to the soft swell of her breast…he felt his own body tighten, every nerve on high alert.

  He’d felt desire before. Many times. But never quite like this. So instinctual and imperative. So all-encompassing. He said with a deliberate lack of emphasis, “I think you’re by far the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  If he’d expected Katrin to be flustered by his remark, or pleased, he was soon disappointed. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing. “Do you?” she said. “Perhaps you’re beginning to understand why I wear those awful glasses in the dining room—to discourage cheap compliments from men like you.”

  “Every word I said was the literal truth.”

  “And the sails on my boat are purple,” she mocked.

  “It’s no crime to be beautiful, Katrin.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s sure a liability in a job like mine. This conversation proves my point.”

  “You’re stereotyping me!”

  “Deny that you gave me the once-over a moment ago.”

  He couldn’t. Trying to iron any emotion out of his voice, Luke said, “You’re a very desirable woman. You know it, and so do I.”

  She hugged herself tighter. “I hate flattery.”

  Suddenly it was blindingly obvious to Luke. He said with all the subtlety of a fourteen-year-old, “You want me just as much as I want you. That’s why you’re scared.”

  His words hung in the air; waves lapped the wharf, and overhead a gull wailed mournfully. Katrin whispered, “You’re out of your mind.”

  He was. No question of that. “But I’m right. Aren’t I?”

  “No! You’re the one who’s after me—not the other way around. And it’s because I’m just a waitress,” she added with a depth of bitterness that shocked him. She snatched her hand free. “I’m yours for the asking. Cheap. Available. It’s fine for you—you can jet in and jet out. But I’m stuck with—”

  “This has nothing to do with how you earn your living,” Luke said fiercely.

  “Yeah, right.” She pushed her hair back; in the sunlight, it gleamed like ripe prairie wheat. “You asked my name. It’s Katrin Sigurdson. My husband’s name is Erik Sigurdson. He’s a fisherman. He’s out there on the lake right now.”

  It was as though she’d punched Luke hard in the solar plexus. He rasped, “You don’t wear a ring.”

  “My wedding band’s antique gold, very finely engraved… I choose not to wear it at work. Or sailing.”

  Was she telling the truth? She was staring straight at him, conviction in every line of her body. Conviction, defiance, and something else: a trace of the panic he’d seen before? “Are you from here?” he asked, trying to gather his wits.

  “Yes. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “So I haven’t seen you anywhere else…”

  “Not unless you’ve been here before. How could you have?”

  How indeed? Baffled, frustrated and at some deep level frightened in a way he wasn’t about to admit to himself or her, Luke said bluntly, “Then I was wrong. You don’t remind me of anyone. If you don’t want to be late for work, you’d better go.”

  Her expression was guarded; certainly he could discern not the slightest trace of relief. She said, “One more thing. Leave me alone from now on. Strictly alone. That way maybe I’ll believe you’re not just another tourist on the make.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away from him.

  She moved with a lissome grace: something else her shapeless uniform had disguised. As she entered a grove of poplars, sunshine and shadow played in her hair, sprinkling the curves of her hips and slender lines of her thighs. Luke discovered his fists were clenched at his sides, his breathing trapped in his throat. What was wrong with him?

  She was married. Unavailable.

  Her ugly glasses and unflattering hairdo were to deflect unwanted male attention. She wasn’t in disguise. There was no mystery after all.

  Luke pulled first one heel then the other to his buttocks, stretching his quads. He never behaved like this around a woman. Pushing her for answers. Wanting to know everything about her. Pursuing her. For one thing, he never needed to: the women came to him. For another, his whole focus since he’d run away from Teal Lake at age fifteen had been work. Unrelenting work. Be it underground in mines in the north, then aboveground everywhere else. He’d spent years reading, making contacts, investing his carefully hoarded savings and traveling the world over. He’d endured late hours and setbacks. There’d been times when he thought he was going under, so close to it he could taste defeat, smell the sourness of failure. But he hadn’t gone under. He’d made it to the top, to the sweet smell of success.

  And all because he’d driven himself unmercifully. If his expectations for his staff were high, his expectations for himself were astronomical. Work was central to his life, its driving force. Women were peripheral. Decorative, pleasant, but definitely on the sidelines. And that’s where he intended to keep them.

  There’d been women during those years, of course. He was no monk. But they had to be the kind who’d accept his conditions. No commitment with nothing long-term.

  Although there hadn’t been nearly as many women as some of his colleagues might think.

  And now, for no reason that he could discern, a mysterious, argumentative, independent blonde had gotten through all his defenses. A married woman, no less.

  He never involved himself with anyone married. He abhorred infidelity. Besides, he thought meanly, his preference was for tall brunettes, and Katrin Sigurdson was of average height and blond into the bargain.

  Would he ever forget the way the sun had threaded her hair with gold? Or the delicate shadows under her cheekbones? And then there was her body, so graceful, so exquisitely curved. Calling to him in a way that made nonsense of all his self-imposed rules and defenses.

  Because defenses they were. His childhood and adolescence had killed something in him. The ability to love, to reach out to another human being and show his vulnerability. All the gentler emotions, like tenderness and protectiveness, had gone underground. He could add to the list, he thought savagely. But why bother? He was the way he was. And that was that.

  He wasn’t going to change now.

  Not for anyone. And certainly not for a married woman who didn’t even want to pass the time of day with him.

  Luke thudded his foot back on the wharf, stretching his calf. Enough, he thought. More than enough. Right now he was going back to his room to shower, then he was heading for breakfast. And not once at breakfast or dinner was he going to make as much as eye contact with Katrin Sigurdson.

  Luke made sure he walked into the dining room that morning accompanied by John, Akasaru and Rupert, who were engaged in an animated discussion about pollution control. Katrin was waiting on their table, wearing her plastic glasses. As if she weren’t there, Luke sat down and ordered his standard breakfast. “And coffee,” he finished with an edge of impatience. “Right away.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Certainly, sir. Luke gritted his teeth, and started discussing the effectiveness of the scrubbers a couple of refineries were using in Hamilton area. Gradually he became aware that Martin and Hans, across the table, were talking about a fishing expedition that had taken place that very morning, during which Martin had landed several pickerel. “We spoke to Katrin,” Hans said in his heavy German accent. “The chef, he will cook them for us
for supper. That is right, not so, Katrin?”

  “That’s right, sir. He does an excellent job with fresh fish.”

  “I’m planning to try the local goldeye this evening,” John intervened. “I hear it’s very tasty.”

  Olaf, the maître d’, was just arriving with a new pot of coffee. Luke said in a carrying voice, “I gather Katrin’s husband is a lake fisherman—perhaps we’ll be sampling his catch this evening.”

  Olaf stopped in midstride, giving Katrin a puzzled look. She glared at him, her cheeks pink, took the sterling silver pot from him, and said dismissively, “Thanks, Olaf.”

  “Married, eh?” Guy said, as she reached over to refill his cup. “Lucky fellow…so when did you tie the knot, Katrin?”

  Several drops of coffee spilled on the immaculate linen tablecloth. She said evenly, “I’m so sorry, sir…oh, it was quite a while ago.”

  “Like two years?” Guy persisted.

  She flinched, her fingers curled tightly around the handle of the coffeepot. “Several years ago, sir.”

  “And you did say he was a fisherman, didn’t you?” Luke asked with deliberate provocation, looking right at her even though he’d sworn he wasn’t going to.

  She held his gaze. “Yes, I did.”

  If she was lying, she was a pro. And if she wasn’t, he had to give her full marks for poise. For a wild moment Luke played with the idea of jumping up, pulling the glasses from her face and kissing her with all his pent-up frustration. Would that tell him the truth about Katrin Sigurdson?

  John said casually, “I hear the storms can be very dangerous on the lake.”

  “That’s correct, sir. It’s because the lake’s so large and the water’s shallow—consequently, big waves can arise very quickly. A south wind is particularly bad. But the fishermen know all the weather signals, and head for shore before they run into trouble.”

  Luke said nothing. He wasn’t going to kiss her in full view of a roomful of his peers. Of course he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to kiss her anywhere. He gulped down his excellent Colombian coffee, thinking very fast. Katrin’s husband had been news to Olaf, Luke would swear to that on a stack of Bibles. So had she produced an entirely fictional husband for Luke’s benefit down on the wharf? And was she now continuing that lie at the breakfast table?

  There were ways he could find out. Although asking Olaf wasn’t one of them. A guest asking questions about the marital status of a waitress would be a sure way to get that waitress in trouble. No, he wouldn’t ask Olaf. However, there was a two-hour break in the proceedings right after lunch. He’d planned to corner the delegates from Peru; but that could wait until this evening.

  He had to know if she was telling the truth. Because if she wasn’t, then it raised the very interesting question of why she’d bothered lying to him.

  Why would Katrin invent a husband who didn’t exist? Was she afraid of Luke? Or of herself?

  Either way, he wanted the answer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT TWO o’clock that afternoon Luke unlocked his rental car and got in, dropping his camera on the passenger seat. It was a perfect summer day, warm with a breeze from the lake, fluffy white clouds skudding across a sky as blue as Katrin’s eyes. He had no real plan in mind, other than driving to the nearby village and looking around, asking questions of anyone he happened to meet. The village of Askja was small. Everyone must know everyone else.

  Certainly he could find out if a fisherman called Erik Sigurdson existed; and whether he had a wife called Katrin.

  He’d played with the idea of asking the desk clerk where Katrin lived, and had abandoned it because he couldn’t think of a plausible reason why he should want such information. Whether she was married or not, he didn’t want to cause her any problems at work. She must have her reasons for taking a job that didn’t use her intelligence and caged her spirit; it wasn’t up to him to upset that particular apple cart.

  He left the grounds of the resort, taking the turnoff to the village. The road was narrow, following the lakeshore. Little whitecaps dotted the water like seabirds; a lighthouse, brightly striped in red and white, stood guard over a long, tree-clad promontory where gulls soared the air currents. It was a peaceful scene. But Luke had grown up at much the same latitude, and knew how long and brutal the winters could be; for the early Icelandic settlers, this must have been a cruel and unforgiving landscape.

  He took a couple of photos of a weathered gray barn, of sheep munching the grass in a fenced field and a solitary cow chewing her cud. A small stone church stood watch over lichen-coated gravestones and neatly mowed grass; along the village wharf, fishing boats were rocking at their moorings, their white flanks gleaming. He didn’t want to take a photo of the boats. What if he found out Katrin wasn’t lying? That one of those boats belonged to her husband Erik? What then?

  He’d turn around and go back to work. That’s what he’d do. And he’d forget her existence in three days’ time when the conference ended and he flew to New York for a series of meetings.

  The houses were small, set apart in a long curve that followed the shoreline, most with a fenced garden. He’d drive the length of the village first, then he’d turn around and go into the general store. Or into that tearoom.

  The last house was painted pale yellow, with a rhubarb patch, hills of potatoes, and neat rows of peas and beans. On the sand beach in front of the house, a woman and two children were playing with a Frisbee. Luke jammed on the brakes. He’d have known the woman anywhere, even though her hair was hidden under a baseball cap. She was wearing the same shorts and top that she’d had on this morning.

  She hadn’t said anything about children.

  His heart beating in thick, heavy strokes, Luke looped the camera around his neck, got out of his car and walked through the trees toward the sand. He felt overdressed in his lightweight slacks and cotton shirt; he felt like a kid on his first date.

  He stopped and, using his zoom lens, brought Katrin into focus, her legs a blur of movement, her teeth a dazzling white as she laughed. She was so intent on the game that she hadn’t seen him yet. In quick succession he took three photos of her, hating her for being so carefree when he felt anything but.

  As he lowered the camera, one of the children yelled something to her, and Katrin pivoted to face him. Her body went rigid. Then she tugged at the strap of her tank top and swiped at her forehead. “Are you looking for someone?” she called in a voice no one would have described as friendly.

  Okay, Luke. Go for it.

  He plastered a smile on his face, hung his camera over the branch of a small apple tree, and loped down to the beach. “Hi, Katrin,” he said. “I had a couple of hours off, so I decided to check out the village…it’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?” Without waiting for a reply, he grinned at the nearest child, a girl of about seven with pale blond hair in two long pigtails. “I’m staying at the resort. It’s been a long time since I’ve played with a Frisbee…do you mind if I join you?”

  She gave him a gap-toothed smile. “You can be on my team,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Luke. What’s yours?”

  “Lara,” she replied, and tossed him the plastic disc.

  Lara Sigurdson? Daughter of Katrin? Discovering he wasn’t ready for the answer to that question, Luke watched the Frisbee whirl toward him in a graceful arc. His muscles seemed to have seized up. Awkwardly he grabbed for it, then with a wicked twist of his wrist threw it toward Katrin. For a split second she stood stock still, glaring at him.

  “Get it!” the little boy shouted. He also was blond, about five, thin as whip.

  The same age Luke had been when his mother had left.

  Katrin leaped sideways, her arm upstretched, and caught the Frisbee. She tossed it to the boy. “Run, Tomas!”

  Tomas ran the wrong way, doubled back and clutched the Frisbee to his shirtfront. When he threw it toward Lara, it smacked into the sand. Lara said gleefully, “Our point.”

  She aimed i
t at Katrin, who then with the strength of fury whipped it through the air straight at Luke’s chest. He began to laugh, a helpless belly laugh, jumped to his right so it wouldn’t break his ribs, and snagged it from midair. His shoes weren’t intended for the beach; he skidded on the sand, saving himself at the last minute from falling to the ground. “Good shot,” he said appreciatively, and sent the Frisbee to Tomas with just enough spin to be a challenge, but not so much that the little boy couldn’t catch it. Tomas’s hand closed around it; this time his throw was to Luke, a wildly off-course throw that somehow Luke managed to land.

  He was enjoying himself, Luke realized, laughing at the little boy. How long since he’d done something like this?

  Not since he’d played with his friend Ramon’s children in the spring, back in San Francisco.

  In quick succession Katrin scored two points on Luke, who then proceeded to gain them back; she was playing in deadly earnest, he could tell, and laughed at her openly as she missed an underhanded shot he’d flashed her way. Then Tomas snaked a shot at him that he hadn’t been expecting; his eyes glued to the white disc, he ran for it, his hand outstretched. Lara shouted a warning. And Luke ran smack into Katrin.

  The two of them tumbled to the soft sand in a tangle of arms and legs. Somehow Luke ended up with his cheek jammed into her chest, one leg under her, his other thigh flung over her hip. She was breathing rapidly, her breasts enticingly soft. She smelled delicious, a dizzying combination of sunshine and that same delicate floral scent he remembered from the dining room.

  His body hardened. He shifted hastily, not wanting her to know how instantly and fiercely he wanted her; and felt, as he moved against her, the tightening of her nipples. With all his self-control he fought against the urge to take her in his arms and find her mouth with his. Kiss her so he could taste the sunshine on her skin, the heat of her flesh.

  Footsteps padded across the sand toward them. “Are you guys okay?” Tomas huffed. “You look kind of funny—all tangled up like an octopus.”