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Hot & Heavy
By Sandra Hill
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2005
Sandra HillAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8439-5160-5
Chapter One
Playing possum ... Ian blacked out for only a second, but he remained still, flat
on his stomach, arms stretched forward, one hand holding his
assault rifle. He deliberately kept his eyes closed to a bare
slit.
He waited while the woman circled him tentatively, checking
for signs of life, he would guess. First, she toed him on the
side to see if he would move, which he didn't. Then the
nutcase pinched his buttock ... as if that would cause him to
move. He barely felt a thing.
He'd only got a brief glimpse of her before being struck, but,
man, she was some kind of wild thing. She would scare the
bejesus out of someone in the dark, for sure. Plus, she
reeked to high heaven.
He could easily jump her now, but decided to wait and see what
she was up to. More important, who she was, out here in the
middle of Arab nowhere.
"Cat Two to Cat One. Contact? Contact? Cat Two to Cat One."
Cage kept saying into Ian's earphone.
When in hostile territory, real names were not used over radio
lines which could be intercepted. Since this was Operation
Rodent, each member of Ian's squad had named themselves Cat
One, Cat Two and so on. The upper chain of command had names
of well-known cats, such as Garfield and Sylvester. It was a
joke among the teams that none of the flag rankswould take
the name Puss, as in Puss in Boots.
When the woman moved to his legs, he whispered into his throat
mike, without moving his lips. "Cat One here. Do you read?
I'm okay."
"Roger. I'm watchin' your six. Need help?"
"Not yet. Woman here. Watch for others. Alert team."
"Did you say something?" the woman shrieked, coming back to
his head area.
He made a soft groaning noise to cover up. Then went back to
silence.
"Bloody hell, I best hurry afore he wakens," the woman said in
an odd accent.
Ian decided to play possum for a while to see what was up.
* * *
My cave is your cave, honey ...
Madrene started to drag the man farther into the cave by his
outstretched arms. He was still facedown.
"Loki's Lips!" she swore under her breath. "He must weigh as
much as a war horse. Must be I am weakened by my escape ...
and lack of food." In the end, it took her a considerable
time to pull and shove his large body, huffing and puffing the
whole while.
The villain appeared to be as tall as the men in her family,
from his helmeted head to his booted feet. Lean, but
well-muscled. Instead of Arab garb, an odd fabric covered his
wide shoulders, narrow waist and long legs. It was a mixture
of browns, green, and blacks ... a combination that would blend
well in a wooded area. His hands were covered with fingerless
gloves. In one of those hands had been a strange, molded
object made of iron, or some similar product; it had been
slipped from his fingers when she'd started tugging. Was it a
club?
I should just kill him, one part of her said.
Yeech! the other part countered.
It would be done in self defense ... of a sort, her hardened
side argued.
Hmpfh! Killing is killing.
Mayhap I will kill him later.
Yea, later is good.
Madrene had no idea why she hesitated. She had killed in the
past. She was not proud of the fact, but it had become a
reality of her life after being left alone to safeguard
Norstead. Fighting men needed a leader, and she'd been forced
to take on that role. But usually it had been done to save
her life or that of one of her hird of soldiers. And if she
ever faced Steirolf again, she would surely find a way to send
him to the cold halls of Nifhelm. She sighed with
resignation. She needed to know more about this man before
dispatching him to the afterworld.
Was he one of Fakhir's men, come to take her back for
punishment? That would merit death. Or some other man with
ill intent? That, too, would merit death.
What a fool I am! I should have killed him outright. But
she could not bring herself to do so until she discerned his
intent. It was a weakness of hers, she supposed. Her father
and brothers would not have hesitated.
I should turn him over and see if he has any hidden weapons.
Nay, I must needs restrain him first lest he awaken. With
quick efficiency, she removed his large cloth pouch with
shoulder straps off the man's back. Then she tore two long
strips from the hem of her robe, thus leaving it only
mid-calf. Wrenching the man's arms behind his back, she bound
his wrists tightly. She did the same for his ankles. After
that, she went outside the cave to survey the area for any of
his comrades that might be lurking about. There were none.
She swept the ground with a leafy branch to hide any foot
prints.
When she came back inside, she saw that he still lay facedown
in the same spot. She rolled him over with a bare foot.
"Eeeeek!" she screamed. It was a monster she had captured.
Not only was his face black with only his eyelids and lips
showing up white, but there was an appendage coming out of his
ear and around his face to rest in front of his mouth, like a
grasshopper. A man-beast, that is what he must be. A troll.
She had heard of such in the sagas spun by the skalds of old,
but never believed in them. Till now.
Bending over, she touched a fingertip to his cheek and saw
that some of the black came off. Ahhh. Face paint, like the
Scottish warriors wear when going into battle. So, this must
be a soldier of some sort. A troll-soldier. Hmmmm.
Just then, his eyes shot wide open, which made his appearance
even more bizarre, the white of his eyes surrounded by all
that black. Immediately, he tried to lurch upward but
realized that he was restrained hand and foot.
She jumped backwards, just in case.
He let himself fall back to the ground and looked up at her.
He seemed just as surprised and repulsed at her appearance as
she was at his. "Jesus, who are you?" he asked.
English. The troll-man spoke the Saxon English. Just my luck
to be saddled not only with a troll, but a bloody Saxon as
well. "Nay, I am not Jesus," she replied. The man's head
wound must have rendered him senseless.
"Jes ... what?"
"I ... am ... not ... Jesus," she said, very slowly, so he could
comprehend her meaning.
"Holy hell! I know you're not Jesus. Who are you?"
"Madrene," she said, before she could hold her tongue. 'Twas
not wise to give the enemy too much information.
"Yasmine?" he repeated, mishearing her. His eyes went wide
with wonder.
"Yea, that is who I am. Yasmine." What a dolt!
Narrowing his eyes, he reverted to the Arabic tongue and
asked, "Are you Yasmine?"
"I already said I was," she snapped back, also in Arabic. A
double dolt, that is what I have here.
"You speak Arabic." The troll-man smiled then, which made him
look almost appealing, and at the same time ridiculous in that
black face with white eyes and teeth. "Sonofabitch! Talk
about wandering in a field of shit and landing in a gold
mine," he muttered to himself, or was he speaking into that
appendage.
Well perhaps not that appealing. "What is your name?" she
inquired in English, a language which came easier to her
tongue than the Arabic, since it was more like her own Norse.
He hesitated, then disclosed. "Ian MacLean."
"A Scotsman! I should have known," she said, throwing her
hands up with disgust.
"What's wrong with a Scotsman?" he asked, working himself into
a sitting position, then wiggling his arse back so his head
rested against the cave wall, his long legs outstretched.
"Hah! Sneaky thieves, that's what they are. Always stealing
cattle and such. And they eat that horrible haggis."
He shook his head as if he couldn't believe what she was
saying. Betimes she had that effect on men. "Are you the one
who knocked me out?"
She nodded.
"Why?"
Questions, questions, questions! Does everything have to have
an explanation? She shrugged. "Every soldier knows to take
the offensive. Attack before being attacked."
"You a soldier?" he scoffed.
"Betimes." I should have knocked him harder. She could tell
that her answer surprised him.
"What makes you think I would have attacked you?"
Now that is a silly question. "You were carrying a club."
"Huh?"
She pointed to the iron object.
"That's a weapon, for chrissake. An assault rifle, to be
precise."
Madrene hadn't a clue what he just said.
"Let me go," he demanded.
Does this man truly not understand that I am the one in charge
here? "Are you demented? Nay, I will not release you. In
fact, I am thinking about killing you."
He arched his eyebrows. "What's stopping you?"
How do I know? "That is not for you to know."
He seemed to accept her answer ... for now.
The man is extremely calm, considering his position. "Are you
not fearful of death?"
He pondered her question a moment. "I'm not afraid to die ...
but I don't want to."
A logical answer, she decided.
"Your English sounds ... odd," he remarked.
"Nay, your English sounds odd."
"Now that we have established that we're both odd, what is
that ungodly stink in here?" He sniffed several times, then
looked pointedly at her.
Her face heated with embarrassment. "Well, you would smell,
too, if you had not bathed in more than a sennight, especially
in this heat," she said indignantly. In truth, her underarm
scent was enough to turn her own stomach.
"A sennight? What's a sennight?"
"Seven days."
"Why didn't you just say a week?"
"Huh? Were you sent by Fakhir?"
He frowned with confusion and repeated back to her, "Was I
sent to fuck her?" Then, "Fuck who?"
"Oh, you vulgar beast! I said Fakhir, not ... that other word."
He smiled again.
And Madrene felt an odd flutter in her stomach, not unlike
butterfly wings. She supposed it must be hunger pangs.
Just then, she could swear she heard talking coming from his
ear/mouth appendage accompanied by a sort of buzzing noise.
Rather like a bee buzz, she decided. He really was not human
then. "Are you a bug?" she blurted out. The buzzing, as well
as the talking, stopped.
"No, I'm a SEAL."
"That is ridiculous." I better watch him closely. My blow to
his head must have turned him barmy.
"No more ridiculous than asking me if I'm a bug."
Should I just humor the man? "Where is your glacier? Did it
melt in this excessive heat? Ha, ha, ha."
"I am not a bug. I am a SEAL," he said, not at all amused by
her little jest.
I have had enough of this nonsense. The lackwit is trying to
make me out the lackwit when it is clear that he fits that
description better than I. "You buzz like a bee. You have a
bug-like appendage sticking out of your ear. You're ugly as
a ... bug."
"Are you for real?"
"What? You think you are dreaming me? Methinks you might be
an idiot."
"There's only one idiot here, and it's not me." He exhaled
with a whoosh like men are wont to do when women have
outwitted them. "Have you ever heard the proverb, 'Silence is
golden'?"
"Are you saying I talk too much?"
"If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it must be a
duck."
"Is that another proverb? If so, it is lackwitted."
"I like proverbs, and that's a very good proverb. By the way,
how long have you been living in this cozy cave?"
"Since this morn," she answered.
"Are you alone?"
"Dost thou see anyone else here?"
He bared his teeth at her sarcasm. "Does anyone else know
about this cave?"
"I hope not."
"Why are you here?"
"I am running away." Now, why did I tell him that? Why am I
telling him anything?
"From whom?"
"That bloody Arab who calls himself my master." My tongue
must have a mind of its own.
"Really? That's interesting. So, you're not with him by
choice?"
"Of course not. Do I look like a harem houri?"
"Not like any whore, I've ever seen." He gave her a sweeping
head to toe scrutiny, and it was not complimentary. Her grimy
feet and exposed calves got special attention.
"I do not appreciate your insult." She put a hand to her head
and figured her hair must look like a haystack.
"What insult?"
"Calling me a whore."
"Hey! I'm not the one who mentioned a whore first."
She tilted her head before understanding came to her. "You
halfbrain! I said houri, not whore."
He grinned then. "Someone tried to make you into a harem
girl?"
The oaf! Apparently he'd known what a houri was all along.
"Pfff! Nine men tried these past three years. None
succeeded. I have developed a knack for making a sultan's
manpart wilt. So, best you not try any of that bedplay with
me." If I had a needle and thread, I would sew my mouth shut.
Be quiet, Madrene. He is quite possibly an enemy. Stop
giving him information.
His jaw went slack with astonishment. "This is the most
incredible conversation I've ever had with a woman. Let me
get this straight. You escaped from some Arab sultan, and-"
"The last one was a sheikh." It was a flaw in her personality
that she always needed to correct mistakes.
"You escaped from an Arab sheikh, in fact nine different Arab
sheikhs-"
"Three were sultans, two were caliphs."
"Stop interrupting."
"Interrupting is one of my talents, or so the men in my family
always complained."
She could swear she heard laughter coming from his appendage.
He exhaled with exasperation, just like her father used to do
when she nagged him endlessly. "You escaped from nine
different Arabs who tried to make you their harem girl, and
you were passed from one to the other because you can make
their cocks wilt."
"Precisely." She smiled at him before she caught herself and
frowned some more.
"How did you get to be with the first ... sultan?"
"Ah, that is a long and painful story."
He glanced at his bound legs. "It doesn't appear as if I'm
going anywhere soon."
"I am a noble woman in my own country."
"You're not Arab?"
"Nay." Why he was surprised she could not say. Surely she
did not resemble Arab women, not with her light hair and fair
skin. Mayhap they had darkened during her sojourn in this
land.
"Where do you come from?"
Once again, she cautioned herself not to disclose too much
information. She thought a moment and said, "The Rus lands."
"You're Russian?" Shock showed on his face and he muttered
something about the Pent-dragon going to be interested in that
information.
One thing stood out to Madrene in his mutterings. The word
dragon. Yea, he must indeed be a troll who lived in the land
of dragons.
Just then, there appeared to be a lot of chatter coming from
his appendage.
"Lower the volume on my headset," he ordered her.
"Huh? Who are you to give me orders?"
"My headset. Turn it down, dammit."
"Why do you want me to turn down the set of your head? Does
it hurt?"
"Adjust the frickin' volume, here, near my ear." He jerked
his head, indicating the part of the appendage that came out
of his ear.
Peering closer, she decided it might not be a part of his
body, but a part of that thing in his ear. But she was taking
no chances. "Nay. It might bite me."
"Bite you? I have landed in a looney bin. No, bite me!" he
said with chagrin. If his hands were free, he would probably
be tearing at his hair as her father had been wont to do on
occasion when exasperated with her. She guessed she knew what
his expression meant. 'Twas like Askil the Angry used to say
"Eat my nose!" when he was especially angry.
"Bite me? Is that another of your ridiculous sayings?" She
raised her chin haughtily and said something she never in her
old life would have dared say, "Nay, I will not bite you.
Bite me!" She felt herself blush like a young maid.
His brown eyes-and, yes, she could see in the dim light from
the cave's opening that they were brown as clover
honey-almost bulged with astonishment. She was astonished
herself and wished she could take the words back, especially
since she belatedly suspected a different meaning to those
words. But she was ne'er one to back down once she'd taken a
stand.
"You are priceless, sweetheart," he said and began to laugh ...
and laugh ... and laugh.
"Mayhap I will kill you after all," she said.
The brute continued to laugh.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hot & Heavy
by Sandra Hill
Copyright © 2005 by Sandra Hill .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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