THE overly polite receptionist said from behind the polished surface of the gleaming marble desk in Hotel Viking’s iconic lobby. “The weather has turned foul. There will be no possibility of returning to Reykjavík tonight.”
Professor Margot Cavendish squared her shoulders as if the woman had taken a swing at her, and forced a smile. It wouldn’t do to let her irritation get the better of her, especially when she was mostly—okay, entirely—annoyed with herself.
She’d seen the weather with her very own eyes. She’d known that coming all the way out to this remote village was a risk, especially when there’d been no indication that the man she’d come to see would take a few minutes out of his busy schedule of sin and temptation to meet with her. He hadn’t condescended to answer her emails or bothered to return her calls. And yet she’d gone ahead and come all this way anyway.
This was what she got for being spontaneous, she told herself darkly.
“It was snowing on the way here,” she said, as if she could argue her way back to the little flat she was renting in central Reykjavík during her semester sabbatical. “It was a little slippery, but fine.”
That wasn’t entirely true. The road over the mountains had been treacherous. The snow had been coming down much harder up high than it had been in the city. But her taxi driver had been undeterred. And Margot was used to blustery Midwest winters at the University of Iowa, where she’d taught in the humanities department since completing her doctorate a few years back.
She wasn’t afraid of a little snow. But she’d never spent a winter this close to the arctic, either.
“It’s a developing storm, I’m afraid.” The woman typed ferociously on her keyboard as if she was transmitting that same information to the public as she spoke. The tag on her chest read Freyja. “These winter storms are so unpredictable. It might very well clear up by morning.”
“By morning?”
Margot’s voice was too loud in the hushed, expensive lobby, which made her want to cringe. There was something about this place that got under her skin: its epic pageant of ice and fire on display wherever she went; elves and trolls and sagas wherever she looked, in one form or another. Like this hotel, a monument to sin that its reclusive owner somehow made seem attractive when Margot thought it should all be seedy. She could imagine the sort of things that must go on here, even if she hadn’t seen much of it besides this damned lobby.
She forced her shoulders down an inch from where they’d crept up toward her ears. “You can’t be suggesting I stay here overnight?”
She might or might not have emphasized the word here a bit too much.
The previous owner of the famous Hotel Viking, larger-than-life Daniel St. George, had died in a dramatic car accident in Germany some months before. His will had divided up his boutique hotel properties to the sons it had always been rumored he’d littered about the globe, though he’d never acknowledged them while alive. One of those assets had been Hotel Viking, the remote Icelandic hotel and resort that billed itself as the first and last stop in international fantasy. And it was only a couple of hours outside Reykjavík in good weather, so Margot had decided she had to go see it for herself.
Her current research project was all about Iceland and its reputation as the most feminist country in the world. Specifically, she was interested in sex and how Iceland’s famous and highly alcoholic hookup culture intersected with those feminist principles—because to Margot’s mind, those things didn’t go together. She’d been in Reykjavík for almost a month already, consulting with colleagues at the University of Iceland and conducting interviews with as many locals as she could convince to talk with her on any given late night out there on Laugavegur—the famous street where so much of Reykjavík’s nightlife happened—as they stumbled from bar to nightclub in the cold.
The name that kept cropping up was Thor Ragnarsson, the brand-new owner of the iconic Hotel Viking and the eldest of Daniel St. George’s sons and heirs. Thor, who they whispered personally practiced all the many wicked things his guests got up to at the hotel. Thor, who seemed to embody all the things Margot liked least about men—in bed and out.
Overtly sexual. Too physical.
Not that it mattered what kind of sex the man had in his private life, of course. Margot wanted to know what he thought about sex in general, that was all.
Of course that was all. Even if she was trapped here.
His secretary had politely refused all requests for an interview when Margot had started calling instead of emailing. So she’d decided to just show up today and see what happened.
But she hadn’t gotten past the lobby. Freyja had been polite but firm. The hotel proper was accessible only to its guests because complete privacy was its central promise, and Mr. Ragnarsson was unavailable for even a five-minute chat. It had been foolish for Margot to come here.
And now she had to pay for it.
“There are worse places to be snowed in,” Freyja was saying. “After all, we’re a hotel. There are those who get stuck in the snow out on the roads in these conditions and must hope for rescue.”
“Yes, but...”
“Why don’t you go and sit in our bar,” Freyja suggested. “Have a drink. Relax. And I’ll see how we can accommodate you tonight.”
It wasn’t as if Margot had a choice. She could see the way the snow was beating down outside. It swirled around on the other side of the glass entry doors with visibility of about an inch, leaving her well and truly trapped. She’d let herself grow complacent this past month in Reykjavík, clearly. She’d imagined that she could handle the snow the way the locals seemed to so easily.
And it had certainly never occurred to her that she could find herself stranded in a sex hotel. The whole building felt swollen with dark passions, with an undercurrent of sensuality weaving in and around everything, even the cheerful flower arrangements that adorned all the tables.
It was...disconcerting.
Margot had always viewed her body as an afterthought. She was a woman of intellect, not rampant, unchecked desires. She liked sex the way anyone did. Meaning, she enjoyed it. At its best it was fun. But she didn’t hunger for it. She certainly wouldn’t check into a special hotel to have particular kinds of operatic sex—mostly because she didn’t like opera that much when it was sung, much less acted out in the flesh.
But Margot kept her thoughts on sex hotels and operas to herself. She nodded stiffly at Freyja, then made her way from the reception desk across the lobby toward the great, high doors on the far side that looked like they belonged on a Viking longhouse and led into the bar.
Hotel Viking was beautiful, as befit the exorbitant cost of even a single night’s stay. It married the typical Scandinavian starkness of this part of the world with opulent details better suited to something more traditionally European and decadent, and somehow made it all work. And Margot found the hotel itself seemed to soothe her as she walked, not unlike a cool caress from a—
Get a grip, she ordered herself. She was not going to succumb to the sensual promise of this place. She wasn’t a guest here. She didn’t need a pageant with her orgasm when she could come happily and quickly and move on. She was an academic observer, that was all.
And she didn’t like the fact she had to remind herself of that.
