Travelling Light. Sandra Field
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gave him a dirty look. Then she said ungraciously to Lars, ‘I suppose you can phone me in the morning. If you want to.’
‘Do you travel so light that you can’t even commit yourself a day ahead of time?’ he exploded.
‘Don’t yell, it hurts,’ she said fractiously. ‘I can’t even decide which side of the street to walk on today, Lars.’
Disregarding Harald as if he didn’t exist, Lars seized her chin in one hand, kissed her full on the mouth, and then put the glasses back on her nose. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said, and strode away down the street.
Harald said, fascinated, ‘Well...you’ve made a big hit, little cousin.’
‘He’s not used to women who say no. Harald, I’m in urgent need of coffee. Black coffee.’
‘He’s in love with you.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense—we haven’t known each other for three days and all we do is fight.’
‘He’s rich and handsome and crazy about you—are all Canadian women this fussy?’
‘His grandmother wants him to marry the girl next door.’
‘Not a hope,’ said Harald. ‘That’s a man who’ll do what he wants...I think you should stay another week and give him a chance. Fjaerland will keep.’
Kristine scowled at him. ‘Tell me about your work or your girlfriend or your new car, Harald. And please get me that cup of coffee.’
Harald, after one look at her face, obliged on both counts. Kristine then went back to the flat and slept through the afternoon. Harald’s first comment when she came out of the bedroom was, ‘Dress up—we’re going to the best restaurant in town.’
Kristine felt a great deal better than she had this morning. Giving him an impish grin, she said, ‘I have one dress and you saw it last night.’
‘Maybe something of Gianetta’s will fit you—come along.’
Half of Harald’s closet was taken up by female clothing. Utterly delectable female clothing. ‘I can’t wear something of hers, I haven’t even met her,’ Kristine protested, looking longingly at a slinky sea-green jumpsuit with spaghetti straps.
‘She’d be delighted to lend you something,’ Harald said; ‘she’s very generous,’ and winked at her.
So when she and Harald walked arm in arm into an elegant dining-room that overlooked the royal palace Kristine looked slim and sexy and every inch as though she belonged there. As she was guided to her window-seat the first person she saw was Lars.
He was sitting at a circular corner table, staring at her. He looked as though he had been struck on the head by a blunt instrument.
The waiter put an immense, leather-bound menu in front of her and asked her something in Norwegian. Harald glanced over his shoulder to follow the direction of her gaze, then looked back, an unholy amusement in his face. ‘Of course, this is the obvious place to bring his grandmother on her birthday—I should have thought of that,’ he said blandly.
‘Perhaps you did,’ Kristine snorted.
‘I admit nothing. What will you have to drink, cousin?’
‘Anything but champagne,’ she said, and buried her face in the menu. It had English subtitles. From behind it she sneaked a glance at the circular table, met Lars’s eyes again, and ducked. He was with a party of five, one of whom, seated beside him in a demure white lace dress, had to be the sweet and biddable Sigrid. It hadn’t taken him long to find a substitute once she, Kristine, had turned down his invitation, she thought shrewishly.
Cocktails arrived, the menu was discussed with the solemnity due to a serious matter, then Harald put his linen napkin on the table and said, ‘Dance, Kristine?’
She had already noticed the rectangular parquet floor and the small dance band. Her brother Art had taught her how to dance; and it would beat sitting here trying not to stare at Lars. ‘Sure,’ she said.
The music was probably as lively as it got in these august surroundings; but Harald was a flashy and inventive dancer and Kristine was soon caught up in the rhythm of a jive. Her cheeks were pink and she was out of breath when he whirled her one last time and pulled her against his chest for the final chord. Then he said, taking her firmly by the hand, ‘It would be polite of you to wish an elderly lady the compliments of her birthday,’ and set off towards the circular table.
‘Harald—don’t!’ she whispered fiercely, tugging at his hand.
‘Are Canadian women cowards as well as fussy?’ he whispered rhetorically, and kept going.
And Kristine, her breast still heaving from her exertions, thought recklessly, Why not?
Lars and a younger man, who was a less striking version of Lars, got to their feet. Harald greeted Lars, who then introduced his grandmother, his brother and sister-in-law, and Sigrid Christensen, who was even prettier close up than at a distance. A great many pleasantries were exchanged. Although Marta Bronstad looked less than delighted to see Kristine, Kristine wished her a happy birthday. From the fragments of cake left on the dessert plates, it was plain the party was almost over.
The band had struck up a waltz. Harald, with a charming smile, asked Sigrid to dance. Lars, without asking, walked around the table, took Kristine by the hand, and pulled her between the tables to the dance-floor. Just before he took her into his arms, he said, ‘Bestemor invited Sigrid—I didn’t.’ Then he put an arm around her waist, took her hand and pressed it to his chest, and began to dance.
His cheek was resting on her hair. The length of his body was hard against hers. Kristine made a tiny sound expressive of dismay, delight, and desire, and gave herself up to the slow rhythm of the music and the sensuality of an embrace unlike any she had ever known. Beneath her palm was the strong, steady beat of Lars’s heart, an intimacy new to her. Against her hip she felt the instant and explicit hardness of his arousal; and that too was new and frightening and more exciting than she would have thought possible.
The dance seemed to last forever and was over before she was ready. There was a smatter of applause from the couples on the dance-floor, and slowly Lars released her. He had, she knew, been holding her far closer than was correct, but she could not find it in her to chide him. His eyes brilliant with a mixture of lust and laughter, he said, ‘As you must be aware, I’m in no state to face my grandmother...perhaps you could walk in front of me?’
Kristine fluttered her lashes and said demurely, ‘So I’m to run interference? I’ll do my best.’
‘We’re in trouble enough with Bestemor without any outward manifestations.’
She loved the twinkle in his eye and the sense of shared conspiracy. As her laugh rang out in a delicious cascade of sound, Lars added evenly, ‘When you look at me like that, you’re no help at all.’
For a moment his gaze dropped. Her backpack had not included a strapless bra; the jumpsuit therefore clung to her breasts, and the hot touch of his eyes hardened her nipples instantly. She said unsteadily, ‘Who’s going to walk in front of whom?’
‘Side by side?’ he suggested.
Laughter bubbled in her throat again. ‘You’re the one who has to live with your grandmother,’ she said, and set off through the tables ahead of him. His hand was resting lightly on the nape of her neck; she was sure her desire and her happiness—as deep as it was unreasoning—must be written on her face for all to see.
Harald was standing at the circular table chatting to Lars’s brother, while Marta Bronstad was sitting rigidly in her chair, fury evident in every line of her body. Lars let his hand fall to his side, said to Kristine, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ then sat down. After a round of polite goodbyes, Harald took Kristine back to their table.
A tempting array of hors-d’oeuvres on a silver tray had been placed on the starched