Baby, It's Cold Outside (14 page)

W
HILE THE ANNOYING
S
TEFAN
directed him to look that way or pose another way, Kristján distracted himself by focusing on Stacy. The petite, dark-haired American stood out in the room full of pale blondes and redheads. But it wasn’t merely looks that set her apart. She had an inner fire and intensity the statuesque beauties around him couldn’t hope to match.

She moved around the nightclub, setting up the next series of photographs. She issued orders with the calm authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted—an assuredness he hadn’t felt in months.

He’d spent more than twenty years working toward a single objective—winning Iceland’s first medal in a Winter Olympics. Standing on the podium, accepting the gold medal while the Icelandic national anthem played had been the greatest moment of his life.

And then what? He’d been swept up in a wave of television appearances, newspaper and magazine interviews, and sponsorship contracts. But when the applause faded and the cameras were switched off, he was left with an aching emptiness and the burning question:
what am I going to do with my life now?

“All right everyone, I think we’re done here.” Stacy clapped her hands to capture their attention and strode to the middle of the dance floor. “Thank you all for your hard work. I’ll see you tomorrow in Haukadalur.”

The models shrugged into jackets, the camera crew began disassembling their equipment, and with amazing speed everyone dispersed. Within a matter of minutes only Kristján, Stacy, Jóna and the baby were left.

“I really have to go,” Jóna said, gathering her infant carrier, blankets, diaper bag and purse. “I have an appointment to go over some new designs.”

“I’d better go, too,” Stacy said. “I need to review the proofs from today.”

“Surely they will not be ready for a while,” Kristján said. He checked his watch and was surprised to discover it was nearly noon. “Let me buy you lunch.” He wanted the chance to get to know her better.

“No, really, I’d better go.” Avoiding his eyes, she tried to duck past him, but he blocked her.

“Please,” he said, offering his most winning smile. “I owe you for being late this morning. And I could show you Reykjavik. It’s a beautiful city.”

“I don’t know…” She glanced at Jóna, who smiled approvingly at him.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Jóna said. “I’d come with you, but as I said…” She hefted the baby carrier and moved past them to the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, at the Blue Lagoon. Call me if you need anything.” But her eyes telegraphed a clear message to Kristján—she would call him, and she’d want all the details.

He turned to Stacy. “Shall we go?”

She straightened her shoulders, as if steeling herself for an ordeal. Was he that repugnant to her? “Sure. Thank you for the offer.”

They walked to a bistro a few blocks from the nightclub. For once it wasn’t raining in Reykjavik and temperatures were mild for March. “Have you visited Iceland before?” he asked.

“No. This is my first time. I was expecting more, well, ice.”

He laughed. “You will see plenty of ice in the countryside. We still get snow this time of year and, of course, the glaciers never melt.”

They were shown to a table by a window in the nearly empty bistro. She started to shrug out of her jacket. “Allow me,” he said, and slid it from her shoulders. She seemed taken aback. Was she offended because he’d insulted her independence, or merely shocked at such gentlemanly behavior? “I apologize again for my tardiness this morning,” he said, when they’d ordered their food. “I overslept.”

“That was obvious. Hard night partying?” The disdain in her voice was clear.

He had, in fact, been at a party last night, a large affair given by one of his Olympic sponsors. He’d spent the evening avoiding the advances of a minor movie starlet and dodging questions from other guests about what he planned to do now that he’d won his gold medal. It had been a miserable night and the memory of it had kept him awake long after he’d arrived home. He’d tossed and turned for hours before finally falling asleep, only to awake to the realization that he was late for the modeling assignment he’d foolishly allowed Jóna to talk him into.

“Or maybe you were late because you didn’t want to do this in the first place,” Stacy said.

“I see you are a psychoanalyst as well as a marketing director,” he said.

She flushed, an attractive pink staining her cheeks, but the wounded look in her eyes made him regret his sharp tongue.

“You are right,” he said. “I did not want the job. I am an athlete, not a model.”

“But you’re also a celebrity. The hero of the hour. You should enjoy it while you can. If you play your cards right, you won’t have to get a real job for months, even years.”

It was his turn to flush. “Is that what you think? That I’m using my fame for my own gain?”

“Aren’t you?”

The arrival of their food prevented him from answering immediately. Just as well, or he might have said something he’d regret.

“What is this?” Stacy poked a fork at her plate.

“Lamb sausage,” he said. “It’s very good. The pink sauce is remoulade.”

“No mustard?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Try it. It is good.”

“What are you having?” She peered at his plate.

“Reindeer.” He cut into the steak. “Would you like to try some?”

“No, thanks.”

They began to eat, but the accusations she’d made earlier still hung between them. Kristján laid down his fork. “Obviously, I did not make a good first impression,”
he said. “But I am not what you think I am. I agreed to this job as a favor to my sister. My other public appearances have been obligations to my sponsors or to my country. I am not a man who seeks the limelight.” Other than his brief time on World Cup and Olympic podiums, he preferred the anonymity of his sport. Unlike soccer or hockey, few people followed downhill skiing.

“I’m sorry.” Stacy’s eyes met his, the soft brown of turned earth, full of contrition. “I have a nasty tongue when I’m stressed. But that’s no excuse. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.” He picked up his knife and fork and focused on his plate once more. Either that or continue to stare into her beautiful eyes and reveal his powerful and quite unexpected attraction to her. “What are you stressed about? Surely the shoot this morning went well.”

“Yes, I think it did. But a lot depends on the success of this campaign. My boss thought adding this line was a risky move in this economy, but I persuaded him to take the chance. Now I want to prove to him I was right.”

“And you think my picture will persuade people to buy my sister’s sweaters?” he asked.

“I think any awake, breathing woman who sees you in one of those sweaters will want her man to have one—if only so she can indulge in fantasies of Vikings and Norse gods.”

He laughed, out of surprise and embarrassment more than mirth, but Stacy didn’t join in his laughter. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you look like,” she said. “I imagine your looks have been getting you what you want all your life.”

And what do you want, Stacy?
he wondered. Did her fantasies have anything at all to do with Vikings or Norse gods—or Icelandic skiers? “My looks did not win me an Olympic medal,” he said.

“Obviously, you’re talented and athletically gifted. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I’m not insulted. And it would be foolish for me to pretend I’m not flattered that you think I’m good-looking.”

She flushed and looked away. Ah! So Ms. Always-in-Charge could be shaken up a little. “Tell me about your job,” he said.
Tell me about yourself
. “Do you enjoy the work?”

“Yes, I do.” She spoke briskly, back to business. “Our company, Eagle Mountain Sportswear, has shops in all the major ski resorts in the United States and Canada, so I get to travel to beautiful places and work with the store managers, as well as design national marketing campaigns.”

“And do you ski?”

“Oh, yes. I learned to ski almost as soon as I could walk.” Her expression sobered. “My father wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

“Did you ever try ski racing?”

She shook her head. “I was never that good or that brave.”

“Some call it foolish, flying down an icy slope, always on the edge of hurtling out of control.”

“Not as dangerous if you’re any good,” she said. “I’m purely a recreational skier. No daredevil stuff for me. A lot of times I’m so busy at the stores that I don’t even get out on the snow.”

“How did you come to have this job?” he asked. “Does your father or mother also do this kind of work?”

“Oh, no. My mother is a teacher.”

“And your father?” he prompted, when she didn’t volunteer more.

“He’s a ski instructor. My parents divorced when I was eleven.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“It was for the best, really. My dad wasn’t cut out to have responsibilities.” She gave him a forced smile and pointedly changed the subject. “So, have you ever been hurt skiing?” she asked.

“Not too seriously.” He knocked on the table. “I have been lucky.”
And who has hurt you?
he wondered. There was a sadness about her that touched him and made him want to comfort her, though he had no right.

Tell me your secrets, Stacy
, he thought.
And maybe I will tell you mine
.

W
HETHER HIS MODESTY WAS
genuine or merely practiced, Stacy had to admit she was charmed. Kristján was clearly not the dumb blond jock she had expected.

After lunch, he suggested they walk to the waterfront and she agreed. If she was only going to be in the country two weeks, she should see as much of it as possible.

Reykjavik might have been built in the past year, everything was so clean and modern; even obviously older buildings looked scrubbed and shiny. “Did you grow up here?” she asked as they waited to cross a busy street. “In Reykjavik?”

“No. My family lives in Húsavik, on the Northern Coast. My father is a teacher of Icelandic history.” He slanted a look at her. “Vikings and Norse gods.”

Touché
. She suppressed the urge to giggle and hurried to keep up with his long strides as they crossed the street. She could smell the sea now, the salt and fish tang cutting through the odors of diesel and concrete. Ahead, in the middle of a large concrete plaza, rose what looked like giant…bones.

“The
Sólfar
.” Kristján nodded toward the plaza. “It means
Sun Voyager
. The sculpture represents the skeleton of a Viking ship.”

Now that she had a clear view, Stacy recognized a ship’s ribs and prow. It wasn’t an actual ship, but a sculpture of a wreck, what would have been left of an ancient vessel ravaged by time and the elements.

“This land was first discovered and settled by Vikings—Naddod, from Norway, and later Gardar Svavarsson from Sweden, who lived for a time in my part of the country, Húsavik. Another Viking, Raven-Floki from Norway, gave the country its name, Iceland.”

Vikings again. Explorers. Conquerors. Adventurers. How did that kind of bloodline produce a man who didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life? Maybe Jóna was wrong about her brother.

Or maybe Stacy only wanted her to be wrong.

As they made their way around the massive sculpture of the Viking ship, two little girls rushed forward, talking rapidly in Icelandic. Kristján smiled, and obligingly signed the notebook they handed him. He was still smiling as they skipped away and Stacy joined him.

“More adoring fans?” she asked.

His smile faded and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “When I was training for the
Olympics, I thought only of winning a medal,” he said. “I didn’t think of what my life would be like after I won. I couldn’t have imagined this.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” she asked. “You’re a national hero. Didn’t you win some kind of big award?”

“The Order of the Falcon. Iceland’s highest honor.” His voice grew rough. “It is true that at the Olympics, I represented my country. But I don’t think any person thinks of himself as a national symbol. I won the medal for Iceland, but when I was competing in that race, I was competing for myself and my family. I wasn’t thinking of my countrymen—these strangers—who felt a part of the race, too.”

“And overnight you went from being a private citizen to a national symbol. I suppose that does feel strange.” Disorienting. She’d only been thinking of the glamour of celebrity, not the difficulties like loss of privacy, or even loss of self.

“In a few months, most people will have forgotten,” he said. “I will go back to being anonymous.”

“Then what will you do?” she asked. “Will you start training for the next Olympics?”

He shook his head. “I am tired of that life. I don’t know what I’ll do.” He smiled, the self-deprecating charm of a boy in the body of a handsome man. She felt the attraction of such a man even as she fought to resist. “Maybe I’ll become a ski bum,” he said. “I’d be good at it, don’t you think?”

Wrong answer. Stacy’s stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a rock. The last thing she wanted in her life was another ski bum. Growing up with one had been enough.

S
TACY TOLD HERSELF
a good night’s sleep would restore her to the practical, sensible woman she was. She dealt with good-looking, athletic men every day of her life and none of them made her all dreamy-eyed the way Kristján had. The strain of travel must have something to do with her reaction to him—though this was one symptom of jet lag she’d never encountered before.

She didn’t see Kristján the next morning as she boarded the van for the trip to Haukadalur, which both relieved and worried her. She was grateful she didn’t have to spend several hours in close quarters with him, yet she was worried his absence meant he wasn’t going to show up at all.

“Kristján said he’s taking his own car and he’ll meet us there,” Jakob said, sliding into a seat across from Stacy.

“Let’s hope he’s on time today.”

“If he’s not, we’ll have more time to enjoy the scenery.”

Stacy refrained from reminding Jakob that they weren’t here to enjoy the scenery. She knew how uptight that sounded. And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t enjoy the
beauty of the country; she simply knew her priorities. Get the work out of the way and there’d be plenty of time for pleasure later.

For the moment, however, she had little else to do but enjoy the passing countryside. As soon as they left Reykjavik they entered an otherworldly landscape of towering cliffs, ice-blue lakes and jagged lava fields, a world of water, ice and rock that resembled a lunar landscape. Stacy recalled reading that the astronauts who had landed on the moon had trained here; now she could see why. The terrain was cold and forbidding, yet fascinating and romantic, also, with a wild beauty unlike any she’d ever known.

Their schedule called for filming first at Geysir, the hot water spout from which all others derived their name, then moving on to nearby Gullfoss, the Golden Falls.

As the crew unloaded their equipment, a red Porsche slid into the parking space next to the van. Stacy’s heart sped up as Kristján emerged from the driver’s side. She couldn’t help it; he was so perfectly tall, blond and tan, designer shades shielding his sea-blue eyes. He scanned the crowd until he found her, and smiled. She smiled back, her insides as warm and goopy as hot fudge.

Not good. Not good.

He strode toward her, long legs quickly covering the distance between them. “Did you enjoy your trip along the Golden Circle?” he asked.

“Yes. It was beautiful.” She turned away from him; it was either that or get caught staring into his eyes, as mesmerized as a mouse by a cat.
Get a grip
, she told herself.
He’s just a guy, and definitely not one you want to be involved with
.

“Let’s set up in front of the Geysir,” she said. “Are the models ready?”

Kristján fell into step beside her as she started across the parking lot. “You’ll get better pictures if you photograph by Strokkur, the Churn,” he said. “It’s more spectacular than Geysir, and more predictable, erupting approximately every five minutes.”

She was tempted to remind him that she was in charge and she’d decide where to film, but really, there was no point in being stubborn for the sake of misplaced pride. And she could see no reason for Kristján to mislead her. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”

She directed the crew to relocate to Strokkur. They were breaking down the equipment when a battered Mercedes sped into the lot and a short man in a red down coat tumbled out of the driver’s seat. He aimed a camera at them and began clicking away as he hurried toward them.

Stacy stared, sure the man would collide with a car or fall into a hole, but he sidestepped every obstacle, taking picture after picture as he drew closer.

“Hello, ma’am.” He offered Stacy a gap-toothed smile. “What is your name?”

“She isn’t going to tell you.” Kristján stepped between Stacy and the photographer. “I told you to leave me alone.”

The photographer’s grin didn’t waver. “It’s a public place. You’re a public figure. A man has a right to make a living, and the tabloids will pay good money for shots of you and your new girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Stacy peered from around Kristján’s broad back. “I am not his girlfriend.”

“The tabloids don’t care about that.” He snapped another photograph.

“You’d better leave. Now.” Kristján took a step toward the photographer, his expression grim.

“I was just leaving.” The man sprinted to his car, pausing to snap one more picture before he climbed inside and roared away.

“Who was that?” Stacy asked as she stared at the fading exhaust plume left by the rattletrap car.

“His name is Lang Kerr. He makes his living photographing celebrities and selling the pictures to Web sites and tabloids.”

“A paparazzo.” She laughed. “I never knew anyone who was pursued by paparazzi before.”

He put a hand to her back and steered her down the path toward Strokkur. “You won’t think it’s so amusing when you see a picture of yourself identified as the newest mystery woman in my life.”

Stacy sobered. “No, that wouldn’t be funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Kristján said. “One day interest in me will die down and there will no longer be a market for the photos, but for now, I can’t do much to stop him.”

His concern for her was touching. “It’s all right,” she said. “No wonder you were reluctant to take this job—to willingly be photographed.”

His smile was rueful. “I have a hard time saying no to Jóna. Besides, if I hadn’t agreed to do this, I wouldn’t have met you, and that would be a shame.”

They reached the end of the path just as the waterspout shot into the air in a jet of steam and hot water. But the spectacle was dulled for Stacy by the impact of Kristján’s
last words. Was he flirting with her? Or was the sentiment more serious?

“The eruptions vary in size,” Kristján continued, as if nothing of particular importance had passed between them. He was flirting, then. She suppressed her disappointment.

“Some are much more forceful,” he continued, “so don’t stand too close.”

Unlike in the United States, there were few warning signs and no roped-off areas keeping visitors away from the steaming geysers, bubbling hot pots and other dangers.

Stefan, mindful of his cameras, set up well away from the water and arranged Kristján and the female models for the first shoot.

The scenery was truly spectacular, and the people in it were equally awe-inspiring. The three female models were Scandinavian Graces, long-legged and blonde, with perfect cheekbones. Kristján stood among them like a conquering warrior, all broad shoulders, narrow hips and masculine beauty. There was nothing androgynous or effeminate in his good looks and as usual a crowd of women had gathered to watch.

But as Stacy observed his staged interaction with the models, she remembered how he’d looked in the Reyjavik nightclub, with Jóna and her baby. The Warrior at Home, she might have labeled the picture. Was it only wishful thinking that made her believe that was a truer picture of Kristján than this fantasy among the geysers?

“I suppose that will have to do,” Stefan said at last, with his usual coolness, as if expressing enthusiasm to
his subjects might spoil them. “Let’s break down the equipment and move on to the waterfall.”

While the crew was reloading the van, Kristján approached Stacy. “Let me take you to Gullfoss in my car,” he said.

“All right.” She saw no reason to refuse. Besides, there was no reason she and Kristján couldn’t be friends. He was a nice guy, just not her type. He probably felt the same way about her. For all she knew, he was dating a fellow Olympian, or had a girlfriend back home in Husavik. After all, how likely was it that a man as gorgeous as this one would be unattached? The thought did little to cheer her.

“Nice car,” she said as he held the passenger door open for her.

“A gift from an admirer,” he said.

“What does your girlfriend think of all this public adulation?” she asked. Not the most subtle question, but she’d never been much for coyness.

The engine roared to life. Kristján glanced at her. “No girlfriend,” he said.

“No?” Her heart refused to settle into a steady rhythm. “Does this mean all the pictures I’ve seen of you with other women are like the ones Lang Kerr took of me today? Misrepresentations?”

“My lifestyle these past few years has made relationships difficult,” he said. “Too much traveling, long hours training.” He shook his head. “I thought it was better to focus all my energy on skiing.”

“What about now?” She remembered him cuddling the baby and her heart did a crazy tap dance. At that
moment he’d been the picture of a man who was ready to settle down.

“Maybe.” He shifted gears. “If I find the right woman. What about you? Do you have some rich American lover?”

She wondered at his choice of words—lover instead of boyfriend. Was he being deliberately provocative? “I’m not dating anyone in particular,” she said. Not dating anyone at all, actually. Her friends said she was too picky. She saw it as simply not wanting to waste her time on someone unsuitable.

“I am surprised,” Kristján said. “You are a beautiful woman. The kind many men would be attracted to.”

It was definitely too warm in this car; she resisted the urge to roll down a window. “I guess I just haven’t found the right man,” she said.

“You believe there is only one?”

The question startled her into looking directly at him again. “I…I don’t know. Isn’t that what everyone thinks? I mean, except for polygamists.”

He laughed. “I think one wife would be enough. I wouldn’t want to be at the mercy of two or more.”

She had a hard time picturing him at the mercy of any woman, but then again, under the right circumstances…. She forced her mind away from that particular fantasy. “Maybe there is more than one right person,” she said. “But I’d be happy to find just one.”

“I imagine your parents’ divorce has made you cautious about relationships,” he said.

“Not any more cautious than anyone else,” she said. “I mean, I would like to avoid making a mistake, if I could.” She’d always thought if she was careful enough, if she
took her time and chose wisely, she could have a real “happily ever after.” But here she was, almost thirty, and she hadn’t even come close to finding “the one.” Maybe her friends were right and her standards were impossibly high.

She was surprised to find the van waiting for them in the parking lot at Gullfoss. For a man with a fancy sports car, Kristján didn’t drive very fast. Or had he prolonged the trip on purpose? Could it be she wasn’t the only one who felt the attraction between them?

K
RISTJÁN COULD THINK
of worse jobs than posing with a trio of beautiful women, but it wasn’t how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Balancing on jagged rocks in the icy mist from the waterfall that roared behind them wasn’t very comfortable or exciting. And the arrogant photographer, Stefan, annoyed him with his constant instructions to “move there, stand there, raise your arm there, look there.” If not for Jóna, Kristján would have walked off the set long ago.

And Stacy. He stayed because of her, also. Because she intrigued him. And because the thought of disappointing her made him feel small and ugly.

So he tuned out Stefan’s badgering and thought of Stacy. Surely she was aware of the attraction between them. Alone in his car, the air had simmered. She’d definitely warmed to him, but he’d sensed she was holding back.

As if she was deliberately erecting a barrier between them. Why was she trying to keep him away? Or maybe she was only protecting herself. If she didn’t let him close, she didn’t have to worry about the consequences.

He recognized the tactic. It was one he’d used himself,
not to keep away women, but to keep out fear and anxiety before a race. He refused to think or talk about the possibility of injury. He avoided passing by the first aid station or medical tent. If another skier was injured he refused to look, and pretended it had never happened. Such indifference, and at times even delusional thinking, had been a matter of survival.

In denying her attraction to him, was Stacy doing the same thing? Or was he the one who was arrogant now, in thinking that after a few hours’ acquaintance, he could be such a threat to her peace of mind?

“All right. We’re done here.” Stefan clapped his hands, dismissing them. The female models hurried away, muttering complaints about the damp and cold and what the weather was doing to their hair. Kristján headed toward Stacy.

“Ride back to Reykjavik with me,” he said.

She zipped her leather coat, then shoved her hands deep into the pockets. “I should go back in the van with the others,” she said. “Stefan and I need to discuss tomorrow’s shoot.”

“You will talk, but will he listen? He strikes me as the type who most enjoys the sound of his own voice.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but she suppressed it. “I also need to make some calls to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow.”

“You can telephone from my car.” He put his arm around her. “Come on. It is too cold to stand out here arguing. You should have a warmer coat.”

His solicitude threw her further off guard. “I really don’t think—”

“What is it about me that makes you so nervous?” he asked.

She met his gaze, her eyes sparking with anger. He almost smiled, pleased to have aroused any emotion in her. “I’m not nervous,” she said. “But I do have a job to do.”

“I won’t stop you from doing your job. I only want to know why you are friendly to me one moment and freeze me out the next.”

She looked away again. “You’re imagining things.”

He leaned closer, his voice low, his lips almost brushing her ear. “I wasn’t imagining the heat between us in my car before. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too.”

Her lips parted, and he steeled himself for her denial. He was aware of her shallow breathing, and of his own pounding heart.

“I…There may be some…some
physical
attraction between us,” she said. “But there’s no point in taking things further. I’m only going to be in Iceland another week or so and as I said, I have work to do, so a relationship would really be impossible….”