Vampire in Paradise

  “Uh-oh,” Marisa murmured.

  “What?”

  Marisa was staring over Inga’s shoulder. “Don’t turn around. It’s Mr. Goldman, that billionaire I met earlier today.”

  Marisa had told Inga this morning on the way to their bungalow about the meeting with both the wealthy man and the Viking doctor. Inga had declared “no contest” over which one she’d choose.

  “I still say you should prime this rich guy’s pump.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “I don’t know. It could be like that movie Indecent Proposal, where Robert Redford offers Demi Moore a million dollars to sleep with him for one night only, even though she’s married to Woody Harrelson. Sort of a devil’s bargain, but, hell, it’s a million freakin’ dollars.”

  “Pfff! Believe me, this guy is no Robert Redford.”

  Although I have to admit, if it means Izzie having the operation or not, I would probably do it.

  No, I wouldn’t. No, no, no way! Disgust-ing!

  And immoral. What kind of message is that for my daughter?

  “He’s looking our way,” Marisa warned. “Behave yourself.”

  Marisa studied the man, dressed more sedately this afternoon, compared to the rest of the crowd, anyway, in a polo shirt, neatly pressed khaki slacks, and loafers. The bling was still there, though, in the flashy gold chains and Rolex (no knockoffs here, Marisa noted). He seemed to be making excuses to his entourage, which included a couple of security-type fellows and Mr. Vanderfelt. Then he headed her way.

  “Goldfinger, did you say?” Inga asked.

  “Tsk, tsk. Not Goldfinger. Goldman. Jeesh, Inga, first you mention Robert Redford, now Sean Connery, who next? George Clooney? Okay, that’s getting too tempting.”

  Marisa put a smile on her face as he approached. Really, she thought Sigurd’s warning about the old guy being evil was off-base. Mr. Goldman looked like a harmless, pudgy senior citizen, probably a grandfather. He was about the same age as her father.

  “Mar-is-a,” he drawled out. “It is so nice to see you again. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, sure, sit down. This is my friend Inga Johanssen. Inga, this is Henry Goldman.”

  “Harry,” he corrected with annoyance, which he immediately masked by smiling, displaying an impressive set of porcelain veneers. At least thirty thousand dollars’ worth of dental work. “An easy mistake.”

  “What do you do, Harry?” Inga asked. Blunt, as usual.

  “Do?”

  “For a living.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I like to say I flushed my first million down the toilet, ha, ha, ha. Before getting involved in other ventures. Gold and diamonds. The stock market. Cattle. A restaurant chain. Real estate development. And now, investing in films. Art films.”

  Yeah, there’s a lot of art in “Oooh, oooh, oooh, you are so big, Bruce. Can you do it harder? Maybe up my butt, please?”

  “Now I like to say that I deal in laying pipes, not cleaning them,” Harry continued, “ha, ha, ha.”

  When they didn’t laugh, not getting the joke, he explained, “I started a company that made brass balls . . . ha, ha, ha . . . for toilets.”

  Marisa smiled, though she didn’t think it was that funny. “My father is a plumber. I’ll bet he uses your balls.” Oh Lord! Did I really say something so crude? My mind is degenerating. Must be all the Speedos.

  Harry thought that was hilarious and laughed heartily, wiping his eyes with a pure white handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket.

  His laugh is starting to annoy me.

  “So where is your fiancé?” he asked suddenly, glancing at her ringless fingers, as he’d done earlier today.

  His too obvious interest is starting to annoy me.

  She thought about telling him that she had no fiancé, but for some reason she said, “Swimming.”

  Fiancé? Inga mouthed to Marisa.

  Marisa fluttered her fingertips to indicate she would explain later. In relating her meeting with Mr. Goldman and the doctor, Marisa might have forgotten to mention the fiancé part.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sophia Loren?” Harry asked suddenly. “When she was young.”

  Now I am really annoyed.

  “A few people.”

  “I met her one time in Italy.”

  Sure you did.

  “Must have been thirty years ago.”

  It would have to be.

  “A gorgeous woman! What a body!”

  I swear, if I’ve heard this line once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. Not original, Harry. Not at all.

  “I always wanted . . .”

  Here it comes.

  “. . . are you by any chance Italian, Mar-is-a?” He licked his lips and stared at her breasts for a brief moment before he caught himself. As in, Would you like to have sex with me, mi amore?

  She shook her head. “Cuban.”

  “I do love a good Cuban cigar.” He licked his lips.

  Un-be-freakin’-lievable! The things men say and think they’re being cool! At least he didn’t ask if I’d ever been Lewinskied, like that idiot in Starbucks did last month.

  “Did you ever meet that kid Elian Gonzalez?”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked that question. It was like asking an Australian if he’d ever met Crocodile Dundee.

  She shook her head. “I was born in Miami. Never been to Cuba. But both of my parents were born there.”

  “Ah. I keep one of my yachts in Miami.”

  One of his yachts!

  Okay, so he’s rich, I already knew that.

  Here’s my chance. Hook up with the rich guy. He pays for Izzie’s operation. I ride off into the sunset.

  I probably wouldn’t even have to do anything.

  Yeah, right.

  Inga kept nudging Marisa under the table, encouraging her to do just that. Make some kind of connection with this guy. But Marisa just couldn’t take that step. Not yet. Probably never. Even though he wasn’t any more lascivious than the next guy, he annoyed her. She found the idea of being close to him repulsive. No Robert Redford, young or old, that was for sure.

  “Listen, ladies, I’m holding a welcome party on my yacht tonight. I hope you’ll both come. Champagne, caviar, music, dancing. I promise you’ll have a good time.”

  “I don’t know—” Marisa started to say.

  “I’m in,” Inga said. This time her nudge was a full-fledged kick.

  Both Goldman and Inga looked at her. Finally, she gave in with a nod. “Oh, sure, thanks for inviting us. We’ll have to leave early, though, because—”

  “Wonderful!” Goldman didn’t even wait for her to finish. He smiled widely and squeezed her hand.

  His hand felt damp and soft. She cringed, trying to imagine that hand . . . No, she was not going to imagine any such thing.

  “Just come down to Dock B at seven, and there’ll be a boat to pick you up.” His attention was diverted for a moment by one of his security men who pulled him aside to talk to him about some supplies—caviar, to be specific—that hadn’t arrived.

  “Oh. My. God!” Inga said. “Be still my heart!”

  Marisa tilted her head in question, not understanding Inga’s exclamation. Was she referring to Harry’s offering a boat to pick them up? Or Harry having ordered caviar? But then Marisa realized that it was someone behind her that drew her friend’s comment.

  She turned and said the same thing, but to herself. Oh. My. God!

  Coming out of the hotel onto the terrace were five men. Five big, tall men. All wearing black swimming trunks with unbuttoned black shirts and black, oddly archaic, cross-gartered sandals. All Nordic in appearance, with high cheekbones and sharply sculpted features. Mostly blond, although one of them had black hair arranged Michael Jackson–style, and one of them had an old-fashioned crew cut. Even though the men wore sunglasses, Marisa would bet they all had clear blue eyes. Like the leader of this outrageous pack. Sigurd.

&nbs
p; Dr. Viking and his crew were headed her way, purpose in their wide strides, much like that movie clip for Men in Black. She almost giggled at the image. Marisa was pretty sure Sigurd was glaring at her, oblivious to the stares he was getting from practically everyone at the pool. Especially the women. Becky Bliss, for example, looked like she was having one of her famous Triple O’s.

  For one blip of an insane moment, Marisa admitted that she would probably succumb if Sigurd was the one offering an indecent proposal. She felt a lurch of excitement down yonder that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  What did it mean?

  Probably that I’m suffering from a bout of lust, and I need some special care from the love doctor. Oh, that was awful. Corny and crude.

  The closer they got, a strange scent permeated the area, swirling around Marisa like a fog.

  What did it mean?

  Does lust have an odor? If so, the lust seems to be coming off Sigurd, but he’s not looking lustful to me. In fact, just the opposite. The only place he wants to lay me down is in the deep end of that pool over there. “Can you smell that?” she whispered to Inga.

  “Smell what?”

  “That odor. Woodsy. Maybe evergreen mixed with oranges. But mostly evergreen.”

  “How can you smell anything over the pool chlorine and the saltwater sea scent?

  “It’s subtle.”

  “Maybe it’s Harry’s cologne, but that’s not subtle. More like overpowering.” Harry was still engaged in conversation with his employee.

  “No. Harry’s wearing Aramis. Can’t you tell?” Just as she’d become an expert on designer clothing and accessories, Marisa could recognize designer fragrances at twenty paces. A necessary talent when dealing with a larcenous brother who would knock off the pope’s shoes if there was a market for them.

  “I guess so.”

  “Then what is that scent? Where’s it coming from? It’s like a wispy cocoon of pines surrounding us.”

  “I don’t smell it, honey, and I doubt there are evergreen trees on a tropical island. Besides, who can think about smells when faced with five luscious men? And I didn’t think I could be attracted to any men in the porno industry.”

  “Huh? Oh, I don’t think they’re porno actors or anything. At least one of them is a doctor. I met him earlier. Remember, I told you about him.”

  Inga turned slowly to look at her. “You mentioned meeting a doctor, but you failed to mention that he looks like Eric Be-Still-My-Heart Northman.”

  “Who?”

  “That actor Alexander Skarsgård from True Blood. Girl, you must be missing a few hormones.”

  Actually, Marisa had made the same observation to Sigurd when she first met him. Her brain was just a bit fuzzy now with all that pine scent filling her nostrils.

  “Oh shit!” she heard Harry say after his employee left and he noticed Sigurd and his “posse” for the first time. “Ladies, I’ll see you this evening. I have a business meeting to attend.” He practically scurried away on his short legs.

  Sigurd glared after Harry as he stepped closer to the table, and the other four men moved to stand in line behind him. Pointing a forefinger at Marisa, he said, “Did I not warn you about that man? Did I not tell you he could be dangerous? Are you so lackwitted that you be must be at cross wills with me just for the sake of stubbornness?”

  “Why don’t you say what you really mean, See-gar?” she said. “And keep on pointing that finger at me and I’m going to take a bite out of it.”

  The pine scent was stronger now, and the orange undertones more pronounced, but it wasn’t overpowering like some men’s colognes, like Harry’s. More tempting than nauseating. How odd! She felt a strange compulsion to learn closer and sniff, maybe even lick his skin. Even odder.

  Sigurd straightened, taken aback at her retort, and withdrew his offending finger. Several of his men chuckled, though they maintained straight faces. Inga gave her a you-go-girl grin.

  But then Inga suggested to Sigurd, “Let’s start over again, Mr. Pointy Finger. Hi, I’m Inga Johanssen. It would appear we’re the same nationality. And you are . . . ?”

  Inhaling and exhaling several times for patience, Sigurd said, “I am Dr. Sigurd Sigurdsson, and—”

  “But you can call him Sig,” Marisa interrupted.

  “I thought you called him cigar.”

  “She thinks she is being cute,” Sigurd pointed out.

  “I am cute,” Marisa said.

  Sigurd ignored her flip remark and continued speaking to Inga, “And, for my sins, this irksome, half-witted, mulish, pain-in-the-arse woman”—he waved a hand toward Marisa with disgust—“is my betrothed . . . rather, my fiancée.”

  Inga was momentarily speechless.

  “You sweet talker, you,” Marisa said flippantly to Sigurd, but a strange voice said in her head, He could be the answer to your prayers.

  Not unless he’s rich, or a doctor who specializes in Izzie’s type of brain tumors who just happens to own a clinic where he could do the operation, for free. She realized with dismay that she was not only hearing voices in her head, but she was arguing with them. It must be the heat, or the evergreen aura, or testosterone overload flooding the area.

  Tiffany hobbled up then, wearing her itty-bitty thong bikini, high-heeled wedgie sandals, and a sheer cover-up that did little covering. “Hey, roomies,” she drawled to Marisa and Inga. Meanwhile, all the men appeared to be ogling her behind their shades. “Ah heah we’re all gonna party t’night on Harry’s yacht.”

  “Over my dead body,” Sigurd muttered.

  “Isn’t Harry just the sweetest man?” Tiffany continued.

  Sigurd didn’t even try to hide his snort.

  Tiffany suddenly seemed to notice Sigurd and his men. That’s how clueless the bimbo was. “Oh. Hi! Y’all mus’ be the actors in that new movie, Thor and His Really Big Sword. Mah name is Tiffany. Ah’m gonna audition for the part of Princess Solveig. Isn’t that cool?”

  Sigurd looked liked he just swallowed . . . a really big sword.

  Chapter 7

  A posse of Vikings? Yum! . . .

  Sigurd turned to Marisa, then did a double take. That is what modern folks called a physical reaction of great surprise to something one saw. For a long moment, he just stared at her, speechless.

  She wore a long white shirt with a silly cat on the front. Her black hair hung in a wet swath off her face. Her lashes were thick and uptilted slightly. As far as he could tell, there were no store-bought enhancements on her face. Or other even more important places, from a male point of view. And yet, he could say in all honesty, she was the most beautiful woman he’d encountered in centuries.

  Why was she having this effect on him now when he’d been in her presence on three other occasions with no great rise in his male appreciation, other than the usual “She’s comely. Ho-hum”?

  Mayhap it was the subtle odor that seemed to emanate from her. Magnolias or hibiscus. With something tart. Green apples? No, the island was abounding with flowers and fruit. That had to be it.

  To his embarrassment, he blurted out like an untried youthling, “You are so beautiful.”

  “Pfff! If you tell me I look like Sophia Loren, I’m going to double dunk you in that pool over there.”

  He glanced from her to the nearby pool and back again, giving her a “just-try!” look. He’d changed into dry clothing and was not inclined to get wet again. “Sophie who?”

  For some reason, his answer pleased her.

  Taking that as his cue, Sigurd sank down into the chair next to her.

  She arched her brows at him and said, “Why don’t you join us, Sigurd?” with her usual sarcasm, considering he’d already sat down. She shuffled her chair slightly away from him with obvious distaste.

  He didn’t usually have that effect on women.

  “I already have,” he pointed out, and moved his chair closer so they were practically rubbing shoulders, just to annoy her. Immature. He was behaving immaturely. She had
that effect on him.

  Tiffany, the lackwit Norse princess hopeful, shimmied her bare butt cheeks with exaggerated wiggles onto the chair next to Inga, who was a real Norsewoman if he ever saw one. Inga resembled Princess Solveig, whom he had met, more than the simpering maid. On the other hand, Solveig would fuck a goat if it gained her the ends she so ambitiously sought. Four husbands she had gone through at last count. Inga was seated on Marisa’s other side.

  Sigurd removed his sunglasses, not to get a better look, but just because it seemed the polite thing to do. To his chagrin, his fellow vangels followed suit and took chairs from the surrounding tables, pulling them up to complete a circle at Marisa’s table. He’d whispered to Karl a few moments ago, right after announcing that Marisa was his fiancée, “You and the men, sit over there.” He’d pointed to several nearby benches.

  “Not a chance, master!” Karl had replied in a whisper back at him. Karl knew how much he hated that name. Even though Sigurd was a member of the VIK, he in no way considered himself above others, except perhaps his medical colleagues. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “I knew it!” Marisa said. “You all have blue eyes.”

  Uh-oh! “And that is remarkable . . . why?”

  “No reason. Just an observation,” the sly woman told him. “Are you all related?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Brothers?”

  He shook his head. “I have six brothers, but they are not here.”

  She narrowed her eyes, studying them all. Thank the heavens, their fangs were all retracted or she would surely have something to say about that, too. He would have to be very careful around her. She was too observant by half.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends?” Marisa prodded, looking toward the other men.

  “If I have to,” he muttered under his breath.

  “This short-haired young man is Karl Mortensen.” Karl hated when he called him a young man. Tit for tat in Sigurd’s increasingly immature personality. “Karl was a soldier in Vietnam. He will be my medical assistant at this conference.”

  “Hi, Karl.” Tiffany gave Karl a little wave, which caused him to blush right up to his scalp exposed by the short haircut.