The Angel Wore Fangs

  “I understand your concern, but this isn’t the kind of—”

  Sensing that he was going to decline the job, the woman, who still reeked disconcertingly of vanilla and coconut, went on, “I know Celie must come across as a flake. She exercises bad judgment and has screwed up her life on more than one occasion,” she said, waving a hand toward the incriminating folder, “and it’s not the first time she’s become involved in a cult, but they were usually harmless in the past. Mostly. This . . . this ISIS connection, though, scares me to death. I mean, everyone has seen those beheading videos. Why would anyone in their right mind join them? Pfff! My sister apparently. But, really, what an anti-woman group! If anyone told me to wear a veil, I’d tell them where to stuff it, cult or not, religion or not.”

  One word stood out in Andrea’s lengthy plea. Cult. Hadn’t Michael mentioned cults in connection with Cnut’s new mission?

  Oh no! Oh no, no, no! Cnut couldn’t be involved, in any way, with this woman—this sweet-scented bit of tempting fluff—lest he start licking her up one side and down the other. Now that he thought about it . . . turn the woman upside down in a vat of pineapple juice with a splash or ten of rum, and she’d be a tempting piña colada. And, boy, was he getting a thirst on!

  No, no, no! At the recent Reckoning, he had been as shocked as everyone else that for the first time ever, he’d had no new years added to his penance. In other words, he’d been a good boy, so to speak. And now this!

  But “cult,” that was the key, wasn’t it?

  “Did Michael send you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Michael who?”

  That answered that question. But not really. This was just the kind of trick the archangel was known to pull on the VIK. Give them a mission, but have it wrapped in something sorely tempting or contrary to their weaknesses. Vikar’s overblown pride was tried in a run-down castle. Trond’s laziness tested in grueling SEALs training. Ivak’s lust restrained in a male prison. And Cnut’s gluttony . . . ?

  His stomach growled suddenly.

  And with a sigh of resignation, he said, “Quack, quack.”

  Chapter 4

  A CHEF’S NIGHTTIME SNACK

  (and not a Philly cheesesteak in sight)

  Ginger chai tea with orange blossom honey

  Belgian chocolate-dipped madeleines

  Crisp-skin Peking duck slices topped with pomegranate hoisin sauce, wrapped in paper-thin mandarin pancakes

  Warm candy-cane-striped beet salad

  Artichokes with tart mustard aioli

  Saffron-scented jasmine rice

  Fresh fruit in orange curd tart

  Boutique honey beer (i.e., mead for the Viking)

  He was a jar. No kidding! A jar! . . .

  Andrea was puttering about her apartment that evening. She’d already showered and put on her PJs, a pair of leopard-print, low-riding nylon harem pants with a matching cropped tank top. She was combing through the long, wet strands of her hair as she stood, barefooted, at the bank of windows giving her a bird’s-eye view of the sun setting over the Schuylkill River.

  A rowing crew was making its way back to dock at one of the famous boathouses that lined the waterway. The long, narrow scull with its multiple oars extended resembled nothing more than a centipede from this distance. She had a pair of high-powered binoculars that she used on occasion to watch the rowing teams, especially during the annual regatta, but for now this long-distance view sufficed.

  It was only eight-thirty, but she tried to go to bed by ten p.m. on those nights when she knew her alarm would go off at an all-too-early four a.m. Her work began in the La Chic Sardine kitchen by five, six at the latest. Usually, she had at least six new pastries ready before noon to be added to the menu. A killer schedule for any kind of social life, but essential for her career.

  She doubted she’d be able to sleep tonight, though, with all that roiled in her brain. Mainly, worry over her sister. Her only hope at the moment was that Mr. Sigurdsson—the detective or security expert or whatever he was—had not given her a definite no. He’d told her that he would look into the matter and get back to her ASAP. If he couldn’t help her, he might be able to recommend someone who could. As a result, Andrea jumped every time her cell phone rang, but thus far, the only calls, which she’d diverted to her answering machine, had been from Darla and her father, who were equally concerned. Not enough to postpone their annual cruise to the Bahamas, though. Their boat departed from Florida on Friday, day after tomorrow.

  “We trust you to take care of this, honey,” her father had told her.

  Please don’t.

  “Besides, it’s probably the same old crap from Celie,” Darla had proclaimed. “Nothing dangerous.”

  ISIS not dangerous? Yeah, right!

  “Let me know how much money you need for travel and expenses. Whatever you need!” her father offered.

  Now there’s an idea. Open wallet, here I come.

  “But not that fifty thousand dollars, for heaven’s sake!” Darla quickly amended.

  Not so open, then.

  “I still say you should go to the FBI about this, Daddy.” Andrea had told her father this earlier, although even Mr. Sigurdsson had been skeptical about involving the “feds.” Apparently, Americans sneaking off to join one terrorist group or another was becoming epidemic. Too much for Uncle Sam to handle individual cases. And many of the times the kids had second thoughts before they even got to Syria or whatever foreign country was being used as an ISIS conduit at the time.

  “No, no, no! I have clients who would run at the first hint that my family has any ties to terrorists. Even if it’s not true.”

  “Definitely not! The publicity would kill your father.”

  “Now, darling, you know it’s not about me,” her father had cooed to Darla.

  “Of course it is, sugar doll. Kiss, kiss.”

  Gag me with a pastry brush.

  Andrea sighed deeply and turned back to the living room, tidying some gourmet cooking magazines on the Louis Seymour coffee table she’d found in a thrift shop. She loved this condo she’d purchased two years ago in the old Concorde building, and not just because of the twelfth-floor view from the floor-to-ceiling wall of arched windows on one side of the living room. She loved the open concept in which the living room, dining area, and kitchen were all one big room, with a comfortable separate bedroom and bathroom. She loved the vintage decorative elements the developers had managed to salvage, like crown molding and random plank, golden oak flooring and built-in cabinets. She loved each furnishing in the unit that she had picked out with care, usually from a flea market or used furniture store. The result was a comfortable, albeit small, living space that was all hers.

  She decided to make herself a cup of decaffeinated ginger chai before calling it a day. A nook on the back side of the condo, overlooking a rather sad garden quad down below, contained a desk, her reading glasses, a laptop, and a stack of notes for Dessert on a Dime, a cookbook proposal Andrea should be working on, but not tonight with her lack of concentration. She couldn’t stay up all evening in hopes Mr. Sigurdsson would call, either. Once the tea steeped, she poured it with a dollop of honey into a Limoges china cup decorated with tiny roses, another thrift shop purchase. She added a few chocolate-dipped madeleines to the saucer and was about to go into her bedroom and watch an episode of Game of Thrones on Netflix when she saw that she had company.

  “Eeeek!” With a shriek of alarm, she almost dropped the tea and cookies. Just in time, she caught herself, and set the cup and saucer on the granite bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the unit.

  Cnut Sigurdsson was sitting on one of her low couches, his long legs propped on her precious coffee table, skimming one of the food mags.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled.

  “Uh. You hired me.”

  “I did? I mean, you couldn’t call?”

  “When I decide to do something, I like to get it done. Right away.”

&nb
sp; “How did you get in here?” she asked, now that her racing heart had slowed down to mere jogging speed.

  “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. So I just came in.”

  “The door was locked.”

  “Was it?”

  She knew it had been. Living single in a city, she was diligent about always locking the door after herself. In fact, glancing to the left, she saw that the dead bolt was still in place. She would definitely address this issue later. “Do you have news?”

  “Mayhap.”

  “Mayhap? What kind of word is mayhap?” she grumbled, her heart still racing from the shock of finding a stranger in her apartment.

  “Old Norse. I did mention I’m a Viking, didn’t I?”

  Definitely a Viking! He wore the same black jeans and athletic shoes as earlier today, but on top he’d changed from the dress shirt to a white, long-sleeved T-shirt with the logo “Crab Claw” down one sleeve. Despite the modern clothing, there was no downplaying his immense height, his killer body, his sharply defined Nordic features, or that disconcerting, hot-damn-I-am-a-Viking hairdo. He looked as if he’d be just as comfortable on a motorcycle, like the one that had been parked outside his agency, as he would on a longship. As if any of that matters! she chastised herself.

  “Great view!” he said, motioning toward the windows. “I love boats.”

  “No kidding!” At his arched brows, she added, “I am Viking, see me row.”

  His brows arched even more, this time in confusion.

  “Boats, Vikings, longships, rowing,” she explained.

  Finally, his forehead unfurrowed and he nodded. “You were making a jest.”

  She almost said, No kidding! again, but bit her tongue. She didn’t know why she was being so rude to the man, especially when she needed his help. He rattled her, that’s why, she decided. And she didn’t often get rattled by men.

  She picked up her tea and cookies once again and walked toward him. She was decently covered, but the way Cnut stared at her exposed arms and shoulders and upper chest and waist, she felt naked. When he homed in on her leopard-print harem PJs and made a rumbling, big cat sound—a deep masculine purr that acted like a tuning fork to instantly humming hormones—she lifted her chin and tried for nonchalance. Sitting down carefully on the low matching couch that faced him, she set down her cup and saucer and said, “What? You have a thing against leopards?”

  “On the contrary. At the moment I have a particular fondness for big cats.”

  Was he flirting with her?

  No, that frown back on his face clearly spelled disapproval, or disgust, or something. “Don’t tell me this time that you haven’t been soaking yourself in coconut and vanilla? You reek of a sweet dessert, even more than this afternoon.”

  “Reek?”

  He blushed. The big guy actually blushed. “Well, reek is mayhap not the right word. You exude sweetness, m’lady.”

  M’lady? First mayhap, now m’lady. What next? Forsooth and ’tis and ’twas? “And you have a thing against sweetness?”

  “Hah! I have a sweet fang like you would not believe.”

  “Did you say fang?”

  The blush on his face deepened. “Of course not. I said sweet tooth.” He pressed his lips together, but not before she noticed that his two lateral incisors, or canine teeth, were, in fact, slightly elongated. He was probably embarrassed about his dental imperfections.

  “You have news?” she said then.

  He nodded. “Circle of Light is a hundred-thousand-acre property outside Bozeman. The Circle Z was a working ranch in the beginning. Then, when the cattle market crashed fifty years ago, it became what is known as a dude ranch. A dude ranch is geared more toward tourism than ranch business, relying on guests who pay for such activities as horseback riding, target shooting, hiking, camping, hayrides, whatever those are, and sing-alongs, for cloud’s sake! Plus whitewater rafting and—”

  “I know what a dude ranch is,” she snapped.

  “You have been to a dude ranch?” he asked, with surprise.

  “No, but I’ve watched the City Slickers movies.” It was her turn to blush.

  He rolled his eyes. “Anyhow, the Circle Z was sold in 2010 to a group of foreign investors who turned it into Circle of Light. Supposedly still a dude ranch experience, along with a bunch of transcendental crap, like meditation, extreme yoga, and something called nature immersion therapy. But that’s just a front. In essence, the ranch lures troubled teens and young adults as a safe refuge where they can work as housekeeping staff, riding and fishing instructors, and so on, all the while being groomed and indoctrinated, first in basic Islamic religious tenets, but then into the extremist ISIS philosophy. From there, they move on to Syria or Pakistan or Afghanistan, where they get further training in the Sharia lifestyle, including weaponry and battle strategy. As a result, most of the staff is constantly changing.”

  “Is Celie still there?”

  “I don’t know. They’re very secretive. Even the guests are screened heavily. The only way to infiltrate the compound is through a guest reservation or as a recruit, both of which would be difficult.”

  “Hmm. I’m a quick learner. I could bone up on Islam enough to appear as if I have an interest. Should we apply for jobs or pretend to be city slickers? Which would be quicker?”

  “There is no ‘we.’ If I take on this mission, it will be me alone, or possibly some of my vang—my employees. It’s too dangerous for you to engage with these sword-happy terrorists. They would as soon lop off a head as negotiate.”

  “No, no, no. If I hire you for this mission, I’ll be with you every step of the way. It’s my sister whose head is in question, and—”

  “Not just your sister’s head. If you poke your pretty little head in the wrong place, yours will roll, too.”

  She gulped at that image, and didn’t even bother to react to his dubious reference to her as pretty. It was probably just a throwaway cliché, anyway. Men like him were attracted to Sports Illustrated swimsuit model types, not skinny nerdy girls with a white thumb. “Celie is my responsibility. She always has been. Besides, my sister is so stubborn, she probably wouldn’t leave without me there to kick her butt. Even if she’s scared to death, as she appeared to be in that video. Besides, no offense, but you’re a stranger and darn intimidating in appearance.” When she saw his jaw clench, she went on, “I could apply for a position as a cook. Any kind of cook, really. Not just desserts. I know some basic yoga, but I’m hardly qualified to teach, unless their standards are really low. And, of course, I could clean rooms, if necessary. How about you? Can you do maintenance work, carpentry? Push a mop? Rake stalls? Can you even ride a horse, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I built a longship one time,” he told her stiffly, “and, yes, I can ride a horse, though I much prefer a car or motorcycle. Can you ride?”

  “A little,” she said, though it had been fifteen years since she’d gone to the summer camp where there had been trail riding. She’d had blisters on her rump for a month. Not her cup of tea.

  Speaking of tea, rather thinking of tea, she reached for the cup in front of her and sipped at the now lukewarm beverage. At the same time, Cnut reached for one of the scalloped shell cookies, popped it in his mouth, and chewed, his eyes widening in appreciation at the delicious flavor.

  “Help yourself,” she started to say, belatedly, but he’d already grabbed the last two madeleines and consumed them with eyes closed in delight. She did make superior madeleines, the touch of hazelnut butter and orange substitution for lemon making all the difference.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “I am always hungry,” he replied.

  Is there a double entendre there? Is he implying that . . . no, this guy is just too sizzling hot. His hotness is giving me wrong ideas. Very wrong. Look at him, licking the chocolate off his fingers. Be still my heart . . . and other places. Yikes! “I have some restaurant leftovers I can warm up,” she offered, not at all surprised that her
voice sounded so husky.

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. Today’s special was Peking duck.”

  He blinked at her several times, then burst out with laughter.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about ducks, lately, and you just mentioned ducks.” He shrugged.

  “Well, then, you should like my leftovers. It’s made with plum truffle sauce. Our sous chef’s specialty.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “I meant that I’ve been absorbed with ducks, in general. It’s an inside jest with me and my brothers.”

  “You have brothers?” Good Lord! What has that to do with anything? My brain is melting here. With lust overload.

  “Six of them.”

  “Wow!” They must rock a room when they’re all together. If they look like him.

  “That about sums them up, in their own inflated opinions.”

  “Do they work with you?”

  “Sometimes. Uh, are you sick?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were fanning your face. Do you have a fever or something?”

  Oh yeah, I got fever all right. No, no, no! I do not behave like this. It’s demeaning. Next I’ll be wolf-whistling at construction workers. Time to put the brakes on this runaway train of steaming hormones. “If you don’t know if Celie is at the ranch, what’s the news you referred to when I first asked?”

  “Well, I can trace her exact whereabouts for the weeks leading up to May 15 when she first entered the compound with Kahlil Ajam. In fact, I can tell you a lot about Ajam, and none of it’s good. I can tell you about young people, mostly American teens, who entered Circle of Light and never went home again. I can tell you that most of them are now either dead or fighting for ISIS on the other side of the world. Worse yet, maybe being planted in sites around the United States for potential missions.”

  “But how can they get away with this? To be so subversive in an open way in the middle of ‘enemy’ territory?”

  “This is the land of the free. Terrorists love your country’s political correctness.”