The Viking Wants Forever (29 page)

“Alex, please.”

Reese flipped open the front cover, and in quick order she signed her name.

“After that copy, we need to go,” Allen, best friend and her newly appointed and completely voluntary assistant, warned. “Your reader panel starts in twelve minutes. And with this crowd, we’ll be lucky to make it.”

Reese handed the copy back, then allowed Allen to take her by the elbow. “Cisco is already waiting for you,” he said, glancing down at his cell phone.

Allen hadn’t been kidding. The convention center barely contained the Space Coast MegaCon. Geeks, freaks and everything in between had turned out for the Southeast’s largest convention dedicated to comic books.

Her seventh con, this was the first year she attended as an artist. Reese resisted the urge to pinch herself. Only two years ago, she’d spent her days shelving other artists’ books, and now the eighth in her best-selling series would hit stores at the end of the month.

“Well...well...well if it isn’t Reese Johnson.” A portly man attired in full Viking garb stepped in front of them, blocking their progress. “I have a bone to pick with you. Why did you kill off Sigurt? Not only was he essential to the plot to overthrow the king, he served as Eirik’s moral compass.” With each subsequent word, the man’s tone became more irate. Reese eyed his costume, and she noted he’d copied his clothes after the recently deceased Sigurt.  

Familiar with this by now, Allen stepped into the man’s grill. “Look, buddy, Ms. Johnson would love to discuss the particulars of her series, but not right now. Her reader panel starts,” he checked his cell, “in seven minutes and we need to get there like pronto.”

“I-I’m sorry,” the man mumbled, then stepped aside.

Feeling sorry for him and appreciative of her fans, even when they raked her over the coals, Reese reached out and touched the man’s arm. “Our panel’s in Hall A. Come and I’ll answer your question the—”

Before she could finish, Allen dragged her away.

“Allen!” Reese struggled to keep up with him.

“Crime doesn’t pay and neither does tardiness,” he offered as an apology.

“But the readers pay the bills.”

Allen’s head whipped around. “Touché,” he softly whispered. “Drop the A-List celebrity bodyguard mentality?”

“Torch it.”

“Done,” he said squeezing her hand. “Come on we’re going to take a shortcut.” He navigated them through the main exhibit hall, circumvented the perimeter then slipped through a side door. They walked about fifty feet down a deserted service hallway before stopping at a set of double doors labeled Hall A. Despite the barrier, they could hear a muted litany of excited chatter on the other side.

Allen turned to her. “You ready for this, kiddo?”

Reese snorted. “You’re acting like I’m the headliner at a rock concert.” She pushed the doors inward and came to face with more than five hundred people. All of them waiting for her.

“Your audience awaits...rock star.” Allen whispered. Chuckling, he placed his hands on her back and pushed.

Someone must have noticed them in the corner. “It’s her!” they shouted. Like the wave in a football stadium, each row roared to their feet, vying to see the creator of the
Asgard Chronicles
. Applause and wolf whistles erupted around her, and then blended into a unified front.

“We fight to live. We love to fight,” they chanted her Viking’s infamous fight song.

As if in a daze, Reese slowly walked to center stage, where Cisco awaited her. Co-collaborator and illustrator extraordinaire, he’d come dressed like any other day in the office. His shoulder-length hair could use a brush and his soiled
Asgard Chronicles
t-shirt sported what was more than likely a green Slurpee stain.

“About freakin’ time,” he shouted above the den. He took her hand and helped her onto the dais. “I think if you would’ve made them wait any longer, there was going to be a riot.”

Reese believed him. The volume in the room was deafening.

Hand outstretched, a microphone in the other, the moderator had a body that wouldn’t quit and a triple-sized afro. “Hi, I’m Whitney.” She shook each of their hands in turn. “I’ll be your panel moderator. If you two would have a seat, I’ll get this party started.”

While they took their seats, Whitney launched into the rules of etiquette: keep it clean, absolutely no requests for autographs (that’s what the vendor hall is for), know what you’re going to say before you open your mouth, and last but not least respect your moderator.

“Now that I’ve gone over the laundry list, who has a question?” Almost a hundred hands shot in the air.

Whitney called on a guy in the second row.

“If you could be a superhero, what would your superhuman power be?” Half the audience groaned, the other half asked him to take a seat. Game, Reese adjusted her mike.

“If I could have any superhuman power, I would want the ability to travel in time.”

“You do love your history,” Cisco quipped. “Go with this one to the library, and you better bring a cot.” A ripple of laughter ran through the hall.

“What about you?” Whitney asked, not letting Cisco off the hook. “What’s your super human power?”

Cisco leaned toward his microphone. “Superhuman power...superhuman power,” Cisco peered up at the ceiling. “I guess I would—”

The hall’s main doors suddenly burst open. On the threshold, stood a man of NFL defensive lineman proportions. With the afternoon sun at his back, Reese couldn’t make out his face. Whether he was handsome or not was inconsequential since his other attributes outshined every man in attendance, even the stud in the front row dressed like Conan the Barbarian.

An immediate shock of a reaction hit Reese below the belt. He looked like he’d poured his tall, muscular frame into his graphite-colored costume. Resembling chain mail, the outfit contrasted beautifully with the blood-red cape trailing behind him as he stalked toward the stage.

The audience cheered him and cell phones recorded his every step. Halfway down the aisle he stopped. Even this close, Reese couldn’t make out his features. Other than a strong jawline and the pale blond hair steaming over his broad shoulders, he’d obscured his overall appearance with a metal helmet embellished with a nose guard and wings.

“I haven’t seen it all.” Amused, Cisco’s coffee brown eyes glittered with amusement.

Reese hadn’t seen enough. She couldn’t stop the need to see his face. That blasted helmet! Her fingers itched to rip it off. Frustrated, her gaze swept over the caped invader. With each pass, she felt a spark along every one of her nerve endings.

“Security! Security!” Looking somewhat harried, Whitney snapped her fingers at two yellow-shirted guys huddled in the back. Instead of doing their jobs, both men decided to hold up the walls.  

Exasperated, Whitney turned her attention to the party crasher. “Hey dude! Yeah you,” she said when he cocked his head at her. “Do you have a question for our panel?”

He looked at the panel and a smile quirked his lips. Nice, full lips, Reese noted.
I wonder if their soft?

“I have a question for Reese Johnson.” His diction was spiced with a slight accent. And to Reese’s surprise, her thighs clenched.

Throat suddenly parched, Reese reached for the complimentary bottle of water at her elbow and snapped the cap top.
Geesh! Who turned up the heat!

“I’m listening...Mr. ah...um...who are you?”

His smiled broadened. “I am Thor, the god of thunder,” he declared, raising his arm in the air. In his fist, he clutched a mighty hammer.

“Show-off,” Cisco drawled, and obviously in the minority. Appreciative of the man’s presentation, the audience went wild. Equally charmed, Reese decided to play along.

“Thor, god of thunder, what would you like to know?”

“
The Asgard Chronicles
is filled with bloodshed, war and hardship. Why haven’t I received homage?”

“Great question,” someone hollered. “Gods and their inflated egos,” another jeered.

“I purposely kept you and other deities out of the equation because I wanted to keep the AC storyline grounded in reality. Plus, humans can get into enough trouble without any meddling from self-absorbed immortals.”

“Self-absorbed?” Owning his character, he puffed out his chest.

“Very self-absorbed.”

He stepped closer to the stage. “You dare insult me?”

“I dare,” Reese retorted, not the least bit threatened.

Lips curled in a feral snarl, the Thor wannabe addressed the audience, “Who thinks she should be taught a lesson?”

While the crowd egged him on, Reese’s pulse quickened. Not from fear but from a sense of déjà vu. For some odd reason, having a Norse god intimating punishment felt awfully familiar. Akin to a trigger, his words and overall demeanor provoked images of longships, bodies entwined in passion, sleighs dashing over snow and fervent kisses. Reese reached up and touched her lips. For some reason, she knew his kisses would be anything but indifferent.

Growling and flexing his muscles, the Thor wannabe and the audience fed off each other’s energy in a free for all, bordering on pandemonium. In the resulting confusion, Reese she didn’t see him coming until it was too late. But ‘coming’ wasn’t
exactly
the word for it. More like ‘charging’ as he took the stairs two at a time. Cisco reached for her, and he grabbed air. 

“Put her down,” Whitney screeched. “Secuuuurittty!”

Upside down, flung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, Reese knew she should protest, scream her head off. Instead, she remained astonishingly calm as he bounded down the aisle, past hundreds of cheering spectators, and into the hotel atrium.

Not stopping, he picked his way through a mob of conventioneers and then barreled his way through the hotel lobby doors. Reese’s toes curled. The sun felt delicious after the exhibit hall’s sub-zero temperatures.

Her wild ride finally came to an end at a cropping of parked motorcycles. Reese’s eyes swung to the blue-on-chrome machine beside them. Despite her predicament, she smiled at the irony of the bike’s make and model —a Honda Valkyrie motorcycle. This guy was just too much!

He turned her upright and released her so her body slid down his — chest to chest, hip to hip—she felt him hard against her belly. Liquid heat flared through her senses and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so intensely attracted to a man. By the time her toes hit the ground, she was panting.

Slightly disoriented, Reese stumbled backward. Thank goodness he was there. He caught her around the waist, and pulled her back into his arms.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, her voice subdued by rampant desire.

“Want another?”

Lurid possibilities raced through her head—graphic, X-rated images—all as swiftly discarded because there was no way this sex on two legs was attracted to her.

“The Valkyrie’s fit for two.” As if sensing her thoughts, a teasing impudence gleamed in his eyes. He turned around, plucked a black motorcycle helmet off the bike’s handlebars. Without thinking, which was unusual for Ms. Think-It-Over-a-Dozen-Times-Before-You-Act, she grabbed for it. At the last second, he moved it out of reach.

“I warn you...this may become addictive.”

‘I’m sure,” she said, equally applying it to him. A body like his and one could easily become dependent. Still, she took the helmet. Before she could tighten the chin strap, he pushed her hands out of the way, and did it himself. His fingers brushed her jaw, and the skin-on-skin contact made her crave for more.

He swung his leg over the leather seat, and she did the same.

“Hold on tight,” he flung over his shoulder as he started the cycle’s engine. Reese obeyed, and they shot forward. In a matter of seconds, they were riding down A1A... where they were headed only the gods knew.

Reese wasn’t going to buy a motorcycle tomorrow, but she would never turn down a ride again. Ridin’ a hog proved to be liberating. She felt free of all personal obligations and self-imposed deadlines. All she had to focus on was the wind whipping in her ears and the heavy machine rumbling beneath her thighs. Lulled into a false sense of security, she rested her head against his back.

All too soon, he pulled into the parking lot of a three-story brick brownstone overlooking the Indian River Lagoon. Reese vaguely remembered the building being used as a restaurant over a decade ago, and then it sitting vacant for just as long. From all the parked cars, she surmised that was no longer the case.  

“This your place?” she asked, when he backed into a space marked OWNER.

He slid from the bike. “I have the majority stake,” he replied. Gently grasping her hand, he helped her off as well. His fingers lingered, and the pulsing in her vagina was spreading upward. She could feel her nipples harden, a slick moisture dampened her panties.

It took all her focus to whisper, “Thank you.”

“Are you parched?” he inquired.

“I could drink the entire lagoon.” She pointed behind her to the estuary running behind them. Home to a multitude of wildlife, and the economic source of thousands of fisherman, the Indian River Lagoon stretched through four Florida counties.

Chuckling at her joke, he finally removed his helmet. Of course, Reese expected the requisite helmet hair. She didn’t anticipate he would be the man of her dreams.

“I know you,” she gushed.

He gazed heavenward with what seemed like a sense of relief, his full lips moving, the words unclear. When he finally lowered his head, his blue eyes met hers through a lush fringe of lashes that looked suspiciously spiky and wet. “Yes. You know me.”

“So you remember me then?” Heart beating so hard she thought it would leap out of her chest when he nodded. “I’d assumed after the accident you wouldn’t.”

A shadow of disappointment darkened his expression. “The
accident
?”

“I held your hand when you were hit by the cottonhead on a Vespa. I came by the hospital to visit you. Bought you a ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon, but you’d already checked out. Quite a fan club you acquired.” Reese’s eyes widened. A couple of minutes in his company, and she’d morphed into Chatty Cathy.