Sandra Hill (9 page)

She flopped down to the beach for the exercise called “sugar cookies” and rolled over so that the sand clung to her skin, her clothing, her hair, and in fact some unmentionable places that sand should never be. The other women followed her example.

“No, no, no, sweetheart. Put your face in it.” Chieftain F.U. placed a boot on the back of her neck so that sand went into her mouth, her nose, and her eyes. Then he used the same boot to tip her over to her back. “Now wiggle your hips a little, like a worm. That’s it. Pretend you’re getting nailed, and you like it a lot. Oh, yeah, baby. Now you look just like a sugar cookie. Good enough to eat.”

Britta did not see the humor in his joke, but several of the men laughed.

“That’ll be enough for now,” she heard someone say behind her.

“Says who?” Chieftain F.U. asked.

“Says me, maggot. Pick up your gear and meet me and the commander in his office at eleven hundred. And, ladies, at ease. You can go to your rooms to shower before lunch, then report back to the grinder at oh two hundred.” Under his breath, the same man murmured something about “inappropriate conduct for an officer.”

It sounded like Zack-hairy coming to their defense, but it was hard to tell with all the sand clogging her ears.

Moving clumsily to a sitting position, she blinked repeatedly, trying to get the sand out of her eyes. Unable to see, she took hold of the hand stretched out to her. When she was standing, she saw that it was indeed Zack-hairy, and for once he was not grinning.

“You exceed yourself, lout, coming to my defense. I can protect myself.”

“Bullshit!”

“Crude oaf!”

“Come on,” he said, still holding on to her hand and leading her back into the water.

“No,” she squealed, trying to pull out of his grasp, to no avail. “No more salt water.”

“It’s the best way, honey.”

Still, she resisted.

But then he lifted her in his arms, something the brute persisted in doing, though Britta could not recall any man but him being able to do it since she’d gained her full height at sixteen winters. “Here we go,” he said, tossing her into an enormous oncoming wave, which hit her like a stone wall, knocking her over, then tumbling her head over heels, repeatedly.

Britta was not sure how much more punishment she could take, especially from this man. Now she had salt water in her mouth and nose and ears and throat, in addition to the sand. She was on her hands and knees crawling toward the beach minutes later, coughing, too tired to raise herself to a standing position.

Zack-hairy sat on the beach, arms resting on raised knees, watching her. If he dared to laugh,
she
might very well pick him up and dump
him
in the ocean. And she could do it, too, in the mood she was in.

When she got close to him, she managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position. And, actually, Zack-hairy’s maneuver
had
helped remove the sand from her eyes and some of it from her other body cavities.

She was too exhausted to chastise him, like she usually did, but she could look. The man was too pretty for words. He matched her in height and then some. Wearing only running shorts—they had special garb for running in this country—he was slightly brown all over, except for his blond hair. His muscled chest. His long muscled legs. His perfectly sculpted face.

And I look like a drowned rat.

“Why don’t you just ring out, Britta?”

“I am not a person who quits.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t sign on for this, honey.”

“Do not call me honey or sweetling or dearling or any of your other slick words.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to go through all this,” he said, totally ignoring what she’d just said.

“Yea, I do. You have to understand, I have no skills in the womanly arts. I cannot do needlework or run a castle household. I can count the times I have been in a scullery. Herb gardens look like weeds to me. As for babies, they are stink-some, and their cries make me wince. But give me a bow and quiver, and I can shoot an arrow straight and true. Swordplay comes second nature to me.”

“Your point?”

“A warrior is all I am or can ever hope to be. I cannot fathom where I am or why, but I am where I should be. For now. Leastways I have work here.” Which she no longer had in the past.

“I could find you work.” He reached over to pick a bit of seaweed out of her hair, and she slapped his hand away.

“Hah! As a nursemaid for your bratling? I declined that offer afore.” She suspected the job would involve more than care for his child, more like care for the father…in the bedsport. And she was ill-trained for either job.

“I could take you to Madrene’s family.”

“You have told me there is danger in others knowing of my supposed time travel. Wouldst have me expose them to danger?”

He shrugged. “They’ve time-traveled, too. Yeah, the more people associated with them in this crazy business, whatever it is, the greater chance someone will find out. And, believe me, there is danger in that. Still…” He shrugged again. “There are Ericssons and Magnussons all over the place, but mostly at Blue Dragon Vineyard.”

“And what, pray tell, would I do at a vineyard? Watch the grapes grow? Methinks that would be nigh as bad as being in a nunnery.”

“You were in a nunnery?” The expression of incredulity on Zach’s face was a mite offensive.

“I told you that afore, half-wit. What? You think I have no godly traits?”

“I didn’t say that.” He laughed. “But, sweetie, a body like yours would be wasted in a convent.”

“Why dost say such things? I have long become resigned that I do not have the womanly traits that draw men. Frail, soft-shinned, sweet-tempered women are the ideal, and I am none of those.”

“Are you kidding? You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever met.”

Now it was Britta’s turn to stare at him with incredulity.

“Slick words! There has not been a woman I’ve met in the past four days who does not pant after your overly handsome form. And you well know of your allure.”

To his credit, he did not pretend false modesty. Just nodded, then replied, “That was not just a line, if that’s what you’re trying to say. When you were watching me being hit on by those women, did you see me show any interest in any of them? Except for you?”

“Please, do not insult me by claiming celibacy.”

His face flushed.

“You are renowned for your excesses, Zack-hairy.”

“My name is Zach or Zachary.”

“I prefer Zack-hairy. It has a crude sound to it.” She glared at him for changing the subject.

Laughing, he stood and pulled her up beside him. They started to walk across the training grounds.

“I’m not a saint, Britta. I like women. I like sex.” He smiled as if to include her in his likings. “I like the things I fantasize about doing to you.”

She shook her head at his persistence.

“So you like it here?” Another change of subject.

“I cannot say that I like this country. It is confusing, and nay, do not start telling me of time travel again.”

“What other explanation is there?”

“I do not know.”

“Me and the guys have decided it must be a miracle performed by God.”

“Your One-God. Hmmm. For what purpose?”

“We haven’t figured that out yet.” He laughed. “Is there nothing you like about this place and time?”

“Oh, there are many things I like. What woman wouldn’t like indoor water and privies that flush away wastes, or wonderful boxes that wash and dry clothing? And they do not even have to hunt for their game here. Didst know they have ointments in this country that control odor under the arms?” Before he could answer, she lifted an arm and said, “Smell me.”

He grinned like she’d made some great jest and leaned down, sniffing. “Yep, your pits smell just great.”

“Some of the women even take all the hair off their nether parts,” she confided to him. “Do men do that, too? Are you hairless
there
?”

“Some men might, but not me.” He was still grinning.

“If I do get sent back to the nunnery, there is one thing I would like to have experienced afore I go,” she said with a sigh.

“What’s that?”

“I do not want to be tupped, by you or any other man…”
Holy Thor! What a lamebrain way of starting! Mayhap I should tighten my loose tongue afore I embarrass myself.

“Okaaaay. Not that I asked to, uh, tup you…lately.”

It is in your eyes even when you do not say the words, rogue.
She disregarded his teasing words and continued, her flapping tongue out of control. “But…”

“But? Oooh,
but
is a very tantalizing word. I think I’m gonna like this. But?”

She hesitated. Now she was really regretting having brought up the subject.

“You don’t want to get laid, but?”

Too late now. Best to finish what I have started.
“But I want to have some of those…you know…things. And I thought mayhap you might recommend a man.”

“Why would I recommend a man for this, uh, thing? Why not me?”

“Oh, nay! Not you! Nay! I need a man with no feelings toward me. Not that you have feelings. I mean…oh, forget I brought up this subject.”

“Not on your life!”

Her face felt warm and not from the sun, especially since he stared at her with a mixture of confusion and anticipation.

“Okay, let’s back up this train, baby. You want me to recommend a man…for what
things
?”

“Multiple orgy-as-hims.”

“Do you mean orgasms?”

“’Tis what I said,” she snapped.

His grin turned into a full-blown, watch-yourself-wench smile.

Come, fly away with me…

Zach was cruising along in his mint-condition red Firebird convertible.

The car had been a gift from his dad seven years ago when he’d gotten the trident pin denoting his acceptance into the hallowed ranks of Navy SEALs. An expensive gift, yeah, but then his father had just renewed his contract with the soap opera
Light in the Storm
for big bucks. In fact, he’d bought his brother, Danny, a frickin’ plane and his then-girlfriend a diamond the size of a golf ball.

His dad had many faults, but stinginess was not one of them. When Zach had come in third in the first race of his short-lived NASCAR career, before becoming a SEAL, the old man had given him a custom motorcycle that once belonged to Evel Knievel. His grandfather, on the other hand, who preferred to be called General and not Grandfather, was not miserly, but he believed in a much more austere, military lifestyle. His gift had been an antique gun. Then there was his grandmother, who considered herself the D.C. military hostess equivalent of Martha Stewart. She’d once given him, when he was in college, a set of Egyptian cotton sheets that he was afraid to sleep on because they cost as much as all the secondhand furniture in his apartment. He still had the blasted things. His ever-stylish mother gave him silk underwear and designer T-shirts and gift certificates for facials and pedicures. He’d like to see the day he showed up for a live op smelling of a strawberry facial peel and wearing clear polish on his toenails. When he’d told his mother just that, she’d shot back, “Your pores need a good cleaning, son, and your toenails are disgusting.”

Okaaaay!
His mother never was one to be subtle.

But all that was beside the point.

He was driving in his spiffy Firebird over the Silver Strand that connected San Diego County, via Imperial Beach, with the Coronado peninsula. The weather was balmy on this early evening in September. The view was spectacular. It was Friday…enough said! Life should have been good.

But riding in back was a sulking He-Who-Thinks-He’s-Too-Big-for-a-Car-Seat, flanked by two laughing SEALs, Cage and JAM, who were egging the snot on. They were all packing heat, just in case Arsallah sent any goons their way.

“Why are you guys tagging along with me? Why aren’t you down at the Wet and Wild celebrating Wet T-shirt Friday?”

“We thought you’d get lonely without us,” JAM replied.

“I see you every day.”

“Besides, I’m lookin’ fer new blood to f—” Cage glanced at the kid and saved his butt by quickly amending, “flirt with.”

“Any more ‘blood’ and they’re gonna put your you-know-what in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

“You should talk!” JAM remarked.

“Do y’all have a girlfriend yet, Sammy boy?” This from Cage, of course.

“Girls suck,” Sammy snarled.

“Mais, oui,”
Cage drawled, “but thass the bes’ part.”

“Cage!” Zach cautioned. God, he hated that he had turned prig, but someone had to rein in the guys’ language. The kid already knew more blue words than any five-year-old should.

“Ya know what my maw maw allus says, Sammy.” Someday someone was going to clobber Cage over his cornball Cajun sayings. “Maybe the girls you’ve met so far ain’t spicy enough yet.”

“Cage, you are an idiot,” JAM said.

Great! Now the kid will be calling everyone an idiot.

“I’m jist sayin’.” Cage shrugged and winked at JAM. “A girl without spice is like a gator without a snout.”

“Does alligators have snot?” Sammy asked.

“Not snot, kid. Snout,” Cage explained, patting Sammy on the knees.

Sammy tried to kick his hand.

“Stop the car. I hafta poop,” Sammy announced.

At least he didn’t say shit this time. Maybe I’m actually making some progress.
“You do not,” Zach said, studying him in the rearview mirror. “You went to the bathroom before we left the house. Just cut it out, Sammy. You’ve gotta use a car seat; it’s the law. We’re not stopping again.”

“I don’t wanna go to any farty party.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “We’re going to Madrene’s damn—uh, I mean, darn—party whether you like it or not, big shot. And you better behave, or Madrene might just put you over her knee and spank you.” She’d threatened it enough times. “Or maybe she’ll hug you and kiss you.”

Sammy appeared horrified at the latter prospect. “Yeech!”

Another glance in the rearview mirror showed his buddies grinning from ear to ear. The guys were getting a huge kick over his being a father. Who knew he would ever be keeping track of a kid’s bathroom habits or watching his language?

He slowed down through the security gate, waiting for the signal to pass through onto the base. Soon he was in front of the women’s quarters. “I’ll be back in a sec with Britta.”

“Is she expecting you?” JAM asked.

“No, but she’ll come.”

JAM grinned.

“Man, I’m glad I came,” Cage remarked to JAM. “This oughta be good. Better even than oglin’ Bawdy Maudy in a wet T-shirt.”

Then they both grinned at him.

Pointing at Sammy, Zach ordered, “Don’t move.”

When he got inside the building, he told the woman sitting at a desk in the entryway, a chief warrant officer, “Can you give Petty Officer Britta Asado a buzz? Tell her Lieutenant Floyd is here to pick her up.”

At first, the woman was all afluster. He had that effect on women sometimes, and he wasn’t above bleeding it for all it was worth. With that in mind, he smiled.

The woman practically swooned and pressed the button on the intercom, relaying his message. Within seconds, her face turned red, and she told him, “Petty Officer Asado says…uh…begone.”

No way was she going to blow him off now. “Give me that phone.”

The woman tried to hold it out of his reach. “Hey, you can’t do that.”

“Wanna bet?” He took the phone, punched in the same number he’d seen the petty officer use, and said, “Britta, honey, we’re going to a party. Either you come down, or I come up.”

“Go away, lout. I am tired. I am sore. And I am not going anywhere—”

“You’re on liberty for a day and a half, honey. You don’t have to muster till Sunday morning.” This was the only liberty WEALS were going to have for three weeks. “C’mon, take advantage of the little free time you have.”

She said something nasty in Old Norse. He could tell it was nasty by the tone of her voice.

He was already going up the stairs, three steps at a time, with the officer screaming after him, and him yelling “Briiiiitta! Where are you?”

Doors were opening. Women half-dressed, many of whom knew him, called out greetings and hoots of encouragement. When he got to Britta’s room, he saw her three roommates—all hottied up for a night on the town, he would guess—but Britta was lying on her cot, propped up on her elbows.

She wore low-riding black jeans that covered about a mile of her legs and exposed a patch of skin around the cutest belly button God ever gifted a female. On top was a stretchy red tank top that matched her red sandals. She was wearing a bra—
Darn it!
—and, yeah, he could tell, even from across the room. He wondered irrelevantly where the modern clothes came from. She was taller than most of the women, which precluded borrowing. He shrugged, figuring they were either from the mysterious missing Norse officer, or God, who was surely responsible for this whole time-travel scenario. But, really, would God dress her in siren red?

Britta had probably intended to join her friends as they went clubbing…a prospect he did not like at all for what he considered
his
Viking babe. Despite he and the commander being relatively easy on the WEALS this week, compared to first week of BUD/S for regular SEALs, it must have seemed brutal to them. In fact, there were bruises galore up and down Britta’s arms and a half-healed cut on her chin, all of which went with hard PT. Five women had rung out already, and he guessed ten times that number would ring out eventually. The women trainees had no idea how much worse it was going to be next week when the program went into full gear. Yep, Britta had probably fallen to her bed with exhaustion and couldn’t get back up.

But hey, he was a SEAL, and a SEAL on a mission never failed…or hardly ever. He’d get her up, all right.

Her hair, damp from a shower, was twisted into a single braid that hung below her shoulder blades. Even though the women slathered on sunscreen all day long, they all sported suntans. That included Britta, whose healthy tan contrasted sharply with her pale blonde hair.

Man, she was so sexy she could jump-start a Taliban corpse. If he wasn’t already in full-blown, hot-tilt boogie lust with her, he would be now.

“Okay, sweetie,” he said, checking his wristwatch, “you’ve got exactly two minutes to get up and haul ass before the MPs get here.”

“Why me? There are women aplenty smitten with your charms. Ask them.”

“I think you’re smitten, too. You just don’t wanna admit it yet. Playing hard to get, that’s what you’re doing.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Methinks you need a good dose of meekness, you misguided clodpole.

He still stared at his watch. “One minute.”

“Desist!”

The three woman gawked at her as if she was crazy. Usually he didn’t have to coax women to come with him, let alone order them around.

He sighed dramatically. “Do I have to carry you again, Britta?”

“Oh, please,” Terri said, putting a hand dramatically over her heart, “let me watch you carry her.”

“You would not dare,” Britta seethed.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk! Haven’t you learned not to use that ‘dare’ word with me?”

“Not that it matters, but where do you want me to go?”

“A beach barbecue. Cage and JAM and my…uh, kid are going with us.”

“Bar-be-cue?” Britta frowned her confusion.

“An outdoor feast,” he explained.

“I am not dressed for a feast.”

“You’re dressed fine for this feast. Look at me.”

She did. “You look ridiculous.”

“What? You don’t like my shirt?” He wore khaki cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. He thought he looked pretty damn good.

Some of the other women agreed, even those peering into the room from the hallway. One of them said, “Be still, my heart.”

Britta rolled her eyes. Then she let out a whooshy exhale of surrender and rose to her feet. “I give my free consent. You may take me to the feast this one time, but you must promise not to touch me.”

Are you kidding me?
“Sure, baby, sure.”

“Let me help you put some makeup on, hon,” her swim partner, Terri, offered.

“She’s fine the way she is,” Zach said.

He took Britta’s hand and led her from the room, her three roommates gawking after them. Avoiding the front stairs, they went down the back way and around the building to the front. When they got to the car, he noticed Cage and JAM laughing wildly at something his son had said. There was a female MP leaning against the car, laughing, too.

“Hey, Georgine,” he called out.

Georgine shook her head at him, as if he was pushing the bounds of what she could overlook.

He winked his thank-you.

Britta snorted. “Yet another of your women?”

Opening the passenger door, he indicated that Britta should get in.

She balked. “What is this?”

“A Firebird.”

She dug in her heels even more. “You expect me to put myself inside a fiery bird and fly away? You really are barmy.”

“We won’t be flying. In the sky anyway.” He grinned.

“And do not try to seduce me with your charm, either. I am uncharmable today.”

He grinned some more and put a hand on her upper arm to guide her in.

“Unhand me, troll.” She slapped his arm.

“We don’t have time for this.” He picked her up, placed her on the seat, and buckled her in, all before she had a chance to whack him a good one.

Resigned, Britta turned and greeted JAM and Cage, then said, “And who is this princeling sitting on his very own throne?”

Zach buckled himself in and turned as well. Actually, Sammy did look like some kind of self-important royalty on a throne staring down at all his underlings.

Cage quickly put a hand over Sammy’s mouth before he could tell Britta what he thought of his “throne.”

“That’s my son, Sammy,” Zach told Britta.

Sammy, whose mouth was now free, corrected him, “Samir Abdul Hassim Arsallah.”

“You forgot the Floyd in there, big boy.” To Britta, Zach explained, “His last name is Floyd, same as mine.”

“He looks just like you,” Britta observed.

“Huh? He has different hair color,” he pointed out.

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s the spitting image of you. Pretty.”

So many people called him Pretty Boy, he no longer considered it a compliment. But he kinda liked Britta thinking he was pretty. Sammy, on the other hand, could be heard sputtering his outrage in the backseat. The last thing he wanted was to look like his father. Or pretty.