she’d be warm. His fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel.
No, don’t think about touching this woman. She’s not The One. Couldn’t be. The noise he’d heard at the depot had been the sound of a child dropping a toy. Possibly even luggage trolleys colliding. Thor’s Hammer was just a legend anyway.
Too bad. Bleach her long, braided hair white, give her blue lenses for her eyes, and she’d almost look like the princess. Crown Princess Coreen Ileana Adelaide Elizabeth Audelhuk, Duchess of NyUppland and NyDalarna, first in line to the throne upon which sat an aging king, was the very essence of Nordian womanhood, but she wasn’t The One. As her loyal subject, and even more loyal friend, he’d been unable to deny the special request of the princess to pick up this woman. This woman who could be the twin sister of the princess, if one didn’t pay attention to her coloring. Or her attitude.
Then again, many of the women inhabiting the palace could very well serve as a double for the princess. It didn’t help that all nine of the king’s daughters had similar names, all ending in ‘oreen’. King Bjorn had been a busy man in his prime. Just not busy enough to produce sons. And only one daughter from his official wife, Queen Elke, or so the stories said. Rumor included tales of a twin who’d died at birth, but he’d never been able to find proof. Coreen merely laughed it off as palace intrigue. Daughters from the concubines didn’t count in the line of succession. Coreen was the duly acknowledged heiress-apparent to the throne, followed by a male cousin with a duchy.
Hence the confusing point of the damn Profetia.
If his grandfather’s ability to interpret the ancient document hadn’t already been proven fifty times over as genuine, he would have thought the old man had cooked up this scheme with either the king or Coreen. So here Gunnar was, in the prime of his life, traveling from city to city to attend boring social functions, all in name of searching for a woman who would, according to The Profetia, produce the first male heir in fifty years.
Which made no sense at all. Gunnar was twelfth in the line of succession. How could he father the next king? Especially if the Crown Princess wasn’t The One, destined to be his bride? He would have gladly married Coreen, but it just wasn’t to be. While he was fond of her and admired her, she’d never rocked his soul like the ringing of Thor’s Hammer. Or at least that was the feeling he was supposed to have upon discovering his Promised One, according to his grandfather and the king.
Gunnar shook his head and turned his attention back to Noreen, the mystery woman from beyond the galaxy.
How did she get her skin so brown? Was it naturally that way? Somehow he didn’t think her red hair was a natural color. Even though he didn’t travel off-world, he did read and study the news and had never seen a being with hair such a color. At least not with that skin and eye color combined. Or in humanoid form come to think of it. And what a form. She was of a height and shape to mold perfectly to him. Long legs curved into hips just wide enough and rounded enough to fit his hands. A narrow waist curved up into a lean torso, which presented breasts perfect for holding and suckling. All attributes he knew would make her a fine mother. Motherhood be damned, they were all perfect attributes to take to his bed. He wanted to suckle on the perfectly shaped breasts he’d seen outlined under the red silk just before she’d pulled on the heavy outer gear.
Trying to shift to a more comfortable position, he had to content himself with looking at her large, thick-lashed eyes, pert nose and lush lips. Red cream colored her lips at the moment, as much to protect from the elements as to emphasize their shape. Lips he could imagine wrapped around a certain part of his body which was uncomfortably throbbing at the moment. Lips he longed to taste.
He swallowed a groan at the sex-drenched thoughts overrunning his head and body.
Where were these thoughts coming from? Sure, he appreciated a beautiful female, but he didn’t spend time dreaming of peeling off their clothes to see if their skin color was the same over every inch of their bodies. Granted, with the women of his planet, he already knew the answer to that particular mystery. He’d seen photos of people who lounged in the sunlight with the express purpose of changing their skin color. Often times they covered one part of their body so it remained its natural color. Did Noreen do that? Or was she the same all over?
No, there was no point dreaming about the strange woman beside him. He knew who his mate was. He just hadn’t met her yet. Which was damn perplexing, because he’d traveled to nearly every city on the planet, and attended more tedious court functions than he could count, in an effort to find his Promised One. He was sure he’d met every Nordian woman of the right age. All in the name of finding The One. The Profetia said he’d know her the moment they met. The Profetia also said she’d be one of his people, not an off-world stranger.
So why did this woman, Noreen, intrigue him so?
“You never said where you were born,” he reminded her.
“You’re right. I don’t see how it’s pertinent. I’m here to find out about your world. Why don’t you tell me what makes all this cold and snow special?”
Sharp, this one was. He wasn’t used to women with tongues this fast. Most tended to go tongue-tied in his presence. Between his title and the mystique of The Profetia, it was if the gods had placed an aura around him, elevating him on a pedestal. Though he found her reluctance to talk about herself frustrating, in a way it was refreshing. A challenge. And the bed thing. There was a question there. What concerned her? His word was good. Mostly. Well, usually in that area at least. She might tempt him otherwise. In the close quarters of the cabin her soft scent teased him, pushing away the usual odor of hot metal and fuel.
“What makes snow special?” He repeated her words to refocus and mentally rolled his eyes. Now he sounded like an imbecile who couldn’t string two thoughts together. So much for the fancy education, or the years of running a duchy and the king’s intelligence network.
“Yes. What makes your world so wonderful you’ve never left it?”
“Good question. I’m not sure you’d believe me. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”
“Well then, it seems we don’t have much to discuss, do we?”
“You don’t want to come clean about something as simple as where you come from, why should I share the intimate details of a world I love? You give every appearance of not wanting to like this place. How can you call that objective reporting?”
“Tell me about these herds you mentioned earlier?”
“Know what a caribou is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they aren’t caribou.”
“Really.”
“Reindeer. Domesticated caribou. The first herds were brought with the original colonists from Earth five hundred some-odd years ago.” Just as the gods and people had been imported.
“So I’ve read. What makes them special?”
“You don’t want to talk about reindeer.”
“It seemed like a neutral topic. What else is there? I believe I read something about thermal pools. Tourists would find those interesting. People have been known to spend their whole lives in search of the perfect hot springs and mineral waters.”
“Ah yes, the thermal pools. Very nice places.” Especially since people bathed naked. As a general rule, Nordians were a fit and beautiful
