he said, ‘Thank you... My name, by the way, is Lars Bronstad.’
‘Kristine Kleiven.’
‘A Norwegian name, surely?’
‘I was born here,’ she said crisply. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Yet you speak no Norwegian?’
She did not want to tell anyone, let alone this handsome and disturbing stranger, the story of her upbringing. ‘I’ve lived in Canada ever since I was two,’ she said repressively. ‘Do you live in Oslo, Mr Bronstad?’
‘High-spirited, foolish, and a woman of secrets,’ he said, setting off down the street at her side.
‘Everyone has secrets!’
There was an answering grimness in his tone. ‘True enough.’
She did not ask what his secrets were. ‘So do you live in Oslo?’ she persisted.
‘On my grandmother’s estate, north of the city. Asgard, it’s called—my great-grandfather had more than his share of self-esteem.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Asgard is the old name for the home of the gods.’
She chuckled. ‘And they didn’t call you Thor?’
‘Thor was full of brute strength and not very bright—not exactly a compliment, Miss Kleiven.’
‘Kristine, please.’
‘And I am Lars. Are you staying long in Oslo?’
‘I’m not sure what my plans are,’ she said evasively. ‘But while I’m here I have the use of my cousin Harald’s apartment; I’m very lucky.’
They talked about the high prices of accommodation and food until they came to the elegant stone building where Harald had a fourth-floor flat. Kristine unlocked the security door and together they climbed the stairs. Now that she was here with Lars Bronstad, she was regretting her hasty invitation; Oslo seemed to be having a most peculiar effect on her, for it was not characteristic of her to invite a strange man to her room. Particularly a man as compelling as Lars. She hesitated outside the door, and said clumsily and untruthfully, ‘My cousin will be home later.’
Lars said drily, ‘You can leave the door open into the hallway if that will make you feel safer.’
As she glanced back over her shoulder at him, the light fell strongly across the curve of her cheek. Anger hardening his voice, Lars demanded, ‘Did the men hit you?’ Then with one finger he traced the reddening weal on her skin.
His lashes were darker than his hair, and his eyes had an intensity that disturbed her. ‘It’s nothing—a tree branch when I was running away from them.’
‘I’ll put some ice on it for you.’
She turned away, unlocked the door and ushered him in, flipping on the light-switch. Then she let the door close behind them; she already sensed that her safety where Lars Bronstad was concerned had nothing to do with an open door.
Although Kristine had yet to meet her cousin Harald, she knew quite a bit about him from the contrasts in his six rooms. Because the flat with its high ceilings and oak floors was clearly expensive, and because he had several exquisite antiques, she was certain he had money. That he was untidy and did not believe in housework was self-evident. He also skied, played tennis, drank beer, and, judging by the delicious lace négligé hanging on the back of the bathroom door, had at least one girlfriend of equally extravagant tastes.
But Lars Bronstad quite effortlessly dominated Harald’s large living-room. He too looked expensive, she thought, noting his tailored summer trousers, well-fitting open-necked shirt, and crafted leather loafers. He did not look at all like Andreas, Bill or Philippe, young men with whom she had teamed up at various stages of her travels. It was not just that he was older, or that something in his bearing seemed to define the word masculine. There was something seasoned about him as well, as though his life had led him down some rough roads and the scars of travel were still visible. She said politely, ‘May I offer you a cold beer?’
He was examining the painting over the marble fireplace. ‘Thanks...your cousin has good taste.’
In the kitchen she poured the beer into sterling-silver mugs. Then she fetched her first-aid kit from the guest bedroom and said, using his name for the first time, ‘Lars, if you’ll come into the bathroom I’ll wash your cut.’
She was standing in the doorway. He said abruptly, ‘You look tired...did you just arrive in Norway today?’ She nodded. ‘And you haven’t been here since you were a little girl?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Am I way off the mark if I think it’s not easy for you to be here?’
Every nerve in her body tensed. She didn’t want Lars Bronstad guessing the confusion of emotion that had claimed her ever since she had headed in the direction of Oslo. ‘You can’t possibly know that!’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I know it. I don’t know how or why, but I do.’
With a lack of finesse that secretly appalled her, Kristine snapped, ‘Look, I’m grateful you came to help me, and I’m truly sorry I hurt you—and that’s that. My private life—my feelings—are nothing to do with you.’
‘We’ll see.’
Two small words into which he had injected a world of purpose. Her breath hissed between her teeth. An open door into the hallway was most certainly irrelevant as far as Lars Bronstad was concerned, she thought furiously. He was the most unsettling man she had ever met.
In the bathroom she turned on the taps in the basin. The room was graced with a sunken jacuzzi, great piles of fleecy black towels, and rather more mirrors than were discreet; in one of them she watched Lars look around with interest. ‘A hedonist,’ he commented. ‘Why didn’t he accompany his Canadian cousin on her first wanderings around Oslo?’
‘He was busy,’ Kristine said with minimal truth, scrubbing her hands with soap and hot water, then guiding Lars’s elbow under the cold tap. The flesh was swollen. Blood had encrusted his arm, so that the water ran pink into the bowl. His forearm was corded with muscle, and very tanned; blue veins stood out in the crook of his elbow. Her mouth suddenly dry, she turned off the tap and rummaged in her kit for the antibiotic ointment.
After dabbing his arm dry with a sterile pad, she daubed the cream on the long red gouge, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried to concentrate on her task. She had not felt the slightest bit like this when Philippe had been stung by a bee, or when Bill had scraped his knee on some rocks. Straightening, forcing herself to meet Lars’s eyes, she said, ‘That looks better.’
His face was very close to hers; she had no idea what he was thinking. His eyes were deep-set, the sockets lined, and again she had the sense of a man who somewhere in his past had been stretched beyond his reasonable limits. Yet she had forfeited the right to ask him how or why, for she had discouraged him from a similar curiosity about herself. She bit her lip in frustration.
Lars reached around her with his other arm, turning
