Authors: Sandra Hill
Viking Heat (40 page)
Which means yes.
“Why so shy? It was really impressive.”
“Why so shy? It was really impressive.”
“The Pentagon didn’t think so,” Lieutenant Mendozo explained with a wink . . . a wink his superior did not appreciate, if his glare was any indication.
“Heads rolled,” the commander agreed with a grimace. “With good reason. Necessity might be the mother of invention, but in the case of SEALs, they well better be private inventions.”
“What he’s trying to say is that a SEAL scalp is a coup for many tangos . . . uh, terrorists. It’s important that we stay covert. That episode in Afghanistan was a monumental brain fart.”
I’ll tell you what would be a brain fart . . . me considering joining up with these nutcakes. That would be right up there with mistake number one . . . marrying Scott
.
.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you. Maybe you can—” she started to say.
“We have a proposition for you,” Commander MacLean interrupted.
Gutter, here I come.
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself.
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself.
“Not that kind of proposition.”
Oh, heck!
“I’m a happily married man. In fact, my wife would whack me with the flat side of her broadsword if I even looked at another female.”
The lieutenant smiled in a way that indicated he wouldn’t mind that kind of proposition.
But wait a minute. Did he say broadsword?
“Can we go somewhere for a cup of coffee?” the commander suggested.
Or a cool drink to lower my temperature.
Soon they were seated at a table in the commissary.
“So, what’s this all about?” she asked, impatient to get home if she was going to make her “date.” Now that her initial testosterone buzz had tamed down to a hum, she accepted that these two were here on business of some sort, not to put the make on her.
“How would you like to become a female SEAL?”
She choked on her iced tea and had to dab at her mouth and shirt with the paper napkins the lieutenant handed her with a chuckle. “You mean, like GI Jane?” she finally sputtered out.
“Exactly,” Commander MacLean said. “It’s a grueling training program. Not many women . . . or men, for that matter . . . can handle the regimen.”
What a load of hooey! “Why me?”
“The WEALS program, Women on Earth, Air, Land and Sea, needs more good women who are physically fit to the extreme. With terrorism running rampant today, Uncle Sam needs more elite forces, and our current supply of seasoned SEALs is deploying on eight to ten combat tours. Way too many! So we’re recruiting special people under a mentoring program. Bottom line, we need a thousand more SEALs over the next few years, and a few hundred more WEALS.”
“I repeat, why me?”
The commander shrugged. “We want the best of the best. Men and women who are patriotic . . .”
I do get teary when the National Anthem plays.
“. . . adventuresome,”
Did they hear about my wrestling an alligator? Jeesh! Can’t anyone keep a secret? It was an accident, for heaven’s sake! I fell on the damn beast.
“. . . extreme athletes,”
You got me on that one.
“. . . controlled risk takers,”
That one, too. Stunt doubles take risks, but well-planned, safe-as-possible risks. But, boy, is he pouring it on!
“. . . intelligent,”
I barely passed calculus, and how intelligent had it been to marry a serial adulterer?
“. . . skilled competitors who enjoy challenges and games,”
Does he see “Sucker” tattooed on my forehead?
“. . . people who love to travel,”
Yeah, like downtown Kabul is my idea of a Club Med vacation.
“. . . men and women with a fire in the gut.”
The fire in my gut comes from the enchiladas I ate for lunch. And from my continuing fury over Scott’s adultery.
“Only one in a hundred applicants makes it through Hell Week, you know.”
And you think I want to put myself through that?
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
Both men shook their heads.
“And my mentor would be . . . ?”
The sexy lieutenant gave her a little wave.
Okay, I’m officially tempted.
But not enough. She’d read about Hell Week. She’d watched Demi Moore get creamed in
G.I. Jane.
Who needs that? No. Way. She started to rise from her seat. “I’m flattered that you would consider me, but—”
G.I. Jane.
Who needs that? No. Way. She started to rise from her seat. “I’m flattered that you would consider me, but—”
“Plus there’s a sizeable signing bonus,” Lieutenant Mendozo added.
Rita plopped back down into her chair. “Tell me more.” And she could swear she heard the cute lieutenant murmur “Hoo-yah!”
He was in the mood for . . .Steven of Norstead, proud son of a Viking prince, handsome as a god, far-famed in the bedsport, well-tested in battle, was bored. Actually, more than bored. In truth, he was in a black, nigh unbearable mood and had been for some time.
“Who ever heard of a depressed Viking?” Oslac, his friend and comrade-in-arms, inquired, followed by a loud belch.
Steven belched, too, just to be friendly.
They were both deep in the alehead following a full day and night of debauchery . . . or at least multiple partners in his bed furs, if he recalled correctly. Not all at once, praise the gods. Not this time, anyway. But that other time! Good gods! Father Christopher had suffered a foaming fit when he caught him in the bathing hut with . . . well, never mind.
Vikings often practiced both the Christian and Norse religions, but it was no great loss when Father Christopher left them for an extended monasterial retreat, leaving behind Father Peter, who was less inclined to foaming fits and leaned more toward foaming ale.
But that was neither here nor there.
“I am not depressed, precisely. More like I carry a huge weight on my shoulders. All the time.”
“Well, ’tis no small feat managing two vast estates—Norstead
and
Amberstead.”
and
Amberstead.”
“And a fine job you do for me at Amberstead. Nay, ’tis more than that. I am only eight and twenty, and yet I seem to have lost my zest for life. I can scarce get up in the morn, with naught to look forward to.”
“Mayhap you need to wed. Get yourself a wife and start breeding sons. King Olaf still claims you were betrothed at birth to his third daughter, Elsa.”
He shot a glower at Oslac.
“What? She is not so bad.”
“Oh, she is comely enough, but she talks constantly. About nothing. Blather, blather, blather. I would have to put a plug in her mouth afore tupping.”
Oslac suggested something about the plug, which Steven should have expected. He had stepped into that one like a boyling unused to male jests.
“Whether with Elsa or someone else, you must wed at some point. Heirs are needed for Norstead and Amberstead.”
He shrugged. “Time enough later.”
“It’s your brother,” Oslac guessed.
He nodded. “Yea, ever since Thorfinn disappeared a year past—”
“Disappeared?” Oslac scoffed.
“Ever since Finn died, then.” He cast a scowl at Oslac for the reminder. “We were in Baghdad. One moment he was laughing and telling me to meet him at the ship, warning me not to purchase any harem houris, whilst he conducted a final meeting with the horse breeder. The next he failed to appear, and all we found was a pool of blood and his short sword lying beside the road. Mayhap he is still—”
Oslac put up a halting hand. “Nay, Steven. You searched for sennights. A year has passed. He would have let you know.”
“But there was no body,” Steven insisted.
“The miscreants who took his life no doubt dumped his body elsewhere. Accept that he is gone and move on with your life. I know how close you were, but he is in Asgard now, my friend.”
Steven sighed and drew another long slurp of ale from his carved horn cup.
“I must say, though, that Finn was always the serious one, especially after his wife left him, taking their infant son. And you were the lighthearted one, always up for a good time.”
“Are you saying I have lost my sense of humor?” he inquired, not at all offended, though Viking men did prize their ability to laugh at themselves and all of life’s foibles.
“Hah! You have lost more than that. Remember the time you and I fought off a black bear with our bare hands? Remember the time you tripped Eric the Bold when he was being particularly arrogant, and he fell into Mathilde Wart-Nose’s big bosoms? Remember the time you brought that ivory phallus back from Hedeby and talked Seeba into inserting it whilst we watched? Remember the time we drank so much mead we decided we could jump off the roof of the keep into a hay wagon? Remember the time you tupped six women in a row and could still rise to the occasion?”
Steven just sighed deeply, again.
“Mayhap you should go a-Viking.”
“I did that last month. Brought two shiploads of plunder back from the Saxon lands.”
“Boar hunting.”
“Boring.”
“Amber trading.”
“I have too much amber already. Which reminds me . . . We must needs send several chests to Birka for trading afore the winter freeze over the fjords.”
“Visit King Olaf’s royal court.”
“I will be going there for the yule season. A man can stand only so much of Olaf’s bad breath.”
“What we need is a good battle. Why is everyone so bloody peaceable of late?”
“I know. My broadsword will get rusty from lack of use. I will have the armor boy oil it and my brynja on the morrow.”
Oslac poured them both more ale. “There are those pirates who are getting more daring of late.”
“Or desperate.”
“That, too.”
“We should post extra sentries lest they strike afore winter.”
Steven nodded. “’Twas a time when they only attacked longships that were poorly armed, and usually those farther south. Now they even stalk the inland fjords.”
“Ever since Eric the Black was outlawed, pirates have become more than a menace. And others are following suit.”
“Yea, ’tis is waste, too. Eric was a fine warrior ’til he and his men raped those girls at Sudeby and put a blood eagle on the mother for sport. Now he is a nithing, using his fighting skills to organize the pirates and train them to attack in fleets.”
“Ah, look. Here comes Lady Inga, Rolfgar’s widow. Mayhap she can lift your spirits . . . or leastways, your staff.”
“She already lifted my staff. Three times last night she let me swive her. Or rather, she swived me, to be more accurate.”
“Are you sure?
I
swived her three times last night.”
I
swived her three times last night.”
He and Oslac exchanged glances of incredulity, then burst out laughing.
“Dost think she would consider joining us in . . . ?” Oslac then suggested something so outrageous that Steven, who thought he had tried everything that involved his cock, solitary or otherwise, was shocked.
But only for a moment.
Suddenly, Steven’s enthusiasm seemed to be gurgling back to life. Not his mood though. But then, when had a good mood been required for a zesty bout of bedsport? A man’s enthusiasm for sex play was a constant, especially the perverted kind.
“Oh,
Innnnn-gaaaaa
,” Oslac called out.
Innnnn-gaaaaa
,” Oslac called out.
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