Kristin Hardy - Sealed With A Kiss

“Often enough to know anyone useful?”

He gave her a pitying look. “Isn’t that why you hired me? As a matter of fact, I’ve already arranged a meeting.”

“I apologize for underestimating you,” Joss said, looking over to see him relaxed on the seat in his travel clothes. She should have known he’d be organized. There was nothing for getting to know another person like taking a long and complicated international flight together. Bax always had ticket and passport in hand, chose the right line, knew where their seats were. That wasn’t too much of a surprise to her. What had been a surprise was how quickly the hours together had gone, lightened up by his flashing humor and odd bits of knowledge.

She’d expected the trip to be illuminating on the subject of John Baxter. She hadn’t expected it to be fun.

The taxi swung around a U-turn and pulled to a stop in front of a rococo fantasy of a hotel. “The Royal Viking,” the cab driver announced. Windows topped with stylized lintels marched across the high, sheer front of the hotel. On the first floor, elaborate carvings decorated the rosy stone facade. Flags flew from the green copper roof, snapping in the breeze. Behind them, script letters spelled out Royal Viking against the sky.

At the foot of the hotel lay the waterfront, lined with the white tour boats and ferries.

The building had the same sort of presence as an aging prima ballerina, stylish and graceful, but mellowed. There were small signs, perhaps, of the passage of time, but the bones and muscles remained disciplined.

“The Royal Viking, huh? You’ve got expensive taste,” Bax commented as they got out.

“I figure if we want to get our friend’s attention, we’ve got to walk the walk, as well as talk the talk,” Joss said with a little smile, watching the blue-uniformed bellhop bring a wheeled luggage rack out to collect their bags. “If I’ve inherited some of Jerry’s stolen swag, I should already be living well off the more easily fenced items, right? Besides, if they think I’m not too smart, they’re likely to drop their guard.”

“To their peril.”

She smiled at him. “Exactly. By the way, the room’s under your name,” she said over her shoulder and walked through the doors into the hotel.

“ What? ” Bax stopped her, brows lowering.

“Well, we don’t want our friend to somehow find out that a Chastain is staying here, do we?” She didn’t see the point in mentioning the fact that she didn’t have a credit card to her name. That was the old, feckless Joss. The new Joss was getting her act in gear. Bax didn’t look convinced, though. She tried again. “Look, if we’re lovers, we’d be registered under your name, wouldn’t we? It makes sense. Breathe,” she patted his cheek. “We’ll pay you back at the end.”

“I’ll make sure of it. Any more surprises?”

“Only of the most enjoyable kind,” she murmured and continued through the doors.

Like the city outside, the lobby was a fantasy of gold and blue. Marble pillars with gold-leafed crowns soared to fifteen-foot ceilings ringed with crenellated moldings. Crystal chandeliers glimmered overhead. Underfoot, herringbone-patterned hardwood floors gleamed at the edges of royal blue carpet woven with twisting gold vines.

“Good evening,” said the smiling woman behind the polished mahogany counter.

“ Hej ,” Bax said, using the Swedish word for hello. He then astounded Joss by producing a stream of what sounded like Swedish. Once or twice, he searched for a word or the desk clerk frowned, but mostly they chattered along like magpies. Finally, he signed the registration card and received the key.

“Was that what I thought it was?” Joss asked as the bellhop collected their luggage and they headed toward the elevator. “Are you fluent in Swedish?”

“Not exactly. I’m fluent in Danish. I can get by in Swedish. Not all the words are the same, but the two are close enough that we can generally understand one another. I’m sure nearly everyone here speaks English—but I wanted to get the rust off.”

“Didn’t sound like there was any rust on it to begin with,” Joss said, thinking of the lilting conversation she’d listened to.

Bax shrugged and punched the call button for the elevator. “My mother was Danish. I lived in Copenhagen until I was about six.”

“No kidding. Was your father Danish, too?”

Bax shook his head. “American. He was a marine, an embassy guard. We lived all over Europe until I was about sixteen.”

“Wow. You must be one cultured guy.”

“I have my moments.” The elevator appeared.

“So do you wish you lived over here?”

He shrugged and opened the door to let her walk into the car ahead of him. “I’m not sure I know. I don’t exactly feel like an American, but I don’t really feel like a European anymore. I’m somewhere in the middle.”

“I know what you mean,” Joss said as they got into the tiny car. “I grew up in Africa.” An experience she wouldn’t have traded for anything, but one that had left her homeless in a way, and always searching for more.

“Really?” He looked at her with interest. “How did that happen?”

“My parents are doctors,” she explained. “We lived all over. Zimbabwe, Botswana, Tanzania, mostly out in the bush.”

“What was it like?”

“It was amazing, the animals and the landscape and the people. I loved it. There was always something new. I was free there, you know? No rules.” And it had been so hard to get used to life in the real world.

“Ah. Now it all makes sense.” The car stopped on their floor and they got out.

Joss gave Bax a quick smile as they stopped at the door to the room. “Are you saying that I’m not good with rules?”

“I’m saying that you like to make your own.”

He stood there in his jeans and denim shirt, his jaw darkened with stubble from the long flight, looking just about good enough to eat. Joss took a step toward him and flowed into his arms. “Let me tell you about my rules,” she began.

“Good afternoon,” someone said cheerfully from behind them. They turned to see the bellhop walking toward them with their suitcases on the shiny brass birdcage luggage cart. “Welcome to the Royal Viking Hotel.”

Joss gave Bax a rueful grin as the bellhop opened up their door.

It was like walking into a room in some eighteenth-century palace. Glossy white paneling with gilt moldings spread across the walls. White and gold swags of fabric framed the wide windows that overlooked the waterfront. Rich aquamarine damask covered the reproduction antique chairs—surely they were reproductions, she thought feverishly—as well as the coverlet of the half-tester bed. And what a bed, high and wide and piled with pillows, just made for all manner of aristocratic decadence.

She looked over at Bax and their eyes met. And desire throbbed through her.

The bellhop came through the door with their last bag and set it down. “Let me just get your suitcases,” he began reaching for the luggage rack.

Bax took it from him and set it aside. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said smoothly.

“Well, then, I can show you—”

“Nope, won’t be necessary,” Bax told him, turning him around and ushering him toward the door. “In fact, I think we’re all set.” Bax slipped a twenty-five kroner tip in his hand and closed the door in front of his startled face.

“Now.” Bax walked back toward Joss and tumbled her onto the bed with him. “What was that you were saying about rules?”

WHEN JOSS opened her eyes the following morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. The big bed was empty but for her, the room silent. Yawning, she found her way to the bathroom, with its aqua and white tile walls and gleaming chrome. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and washed her face, she was feeling almost human.