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.
Almost as if she was afraid of what would happen if she surrendered to this place. As if the lure of it was that powerful, even while she was doing nothing more salacious than walking across a lobby.
Margot dismissed that notion almost in the same instant. She wasn’t afraid. She was a tenured professor back home, a position that had required single-minded determination to achieve. She was a strong and capable woman, wholly self-reliant, to the point that her two last attempts at relationships had complained bitterly about her independence on their way out the door.
Good riddance, Margot had thought, once the sting of each departure had faded. Because she didn’t believe that independence was anything to be ashamed of.
And she certainly didn’t think that finding herself snowed in for the night in a sex hotel was any reason to fear she might lose that independence.
Annoyed with herself, she pushed through the double doors that looked like something out of Beowulf and walked into the bar. She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever needed a glass of wine more.
Inside, it was far more ornate than the lobby. Deep reds and golds somehow merged with a kind of industrial feel that, once again, shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. The light was dim and suggestive. There were seats grouped together in intimate little clusters, taking advantage of the deep shadows. Unearthly Icelandic music played while various configurations of hotel guests talked. Flirted. And maybe did more than that under the stout wooden tables where no one could see.
Stop seeing sex everywhere, she ordered herself.
Margot ordered a drink from the friendly bartender and carried a gratifyingly large glass of wine to a little booth facing the windows on the far side of the bar, where she couldn’t begin to figure out the relationships on display at all the other tables even if she wanted to. Instead, she had a front-row seat to the storm wreaking havoc outside.
Every now and again she saw glimpses of the surging sea far below, pounding against the obsidian volcanic rock the way it had done forever on this remote, northern island. But everything else was the snow. The wind rattled the windows, but it wasn’t threatening now that she was sunk deep into a comfortable seat, safe and warm.
And yet a kind of threat seemed to roll over her anyway, making her skin prickle.
“Excuse me, I—”
Margot stiffened. She lifted a hand without looking up, stopping whatever was happening before it started.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. “But I’d prefer to be alone.”
“You are trapped in an isolated hotel in the middle of a blizzard,” came the amused, decidedly male voice again, English spoken with an Icelandic accent that kicked its way down her spine like another caress. “It would be difficult to find more solitude than that.”
“I understand that this is a sex hotel,” she said crisply. She turned as she spoke, twisting around in her seat. And then looked up. And up further. And then still further, until she found the face of the man towering over her like a Viking god of old. “But I’m afraid I’m not a sex tourist. I’m just an accidental visitor.”
The man standing beside her seat laughed. Loudly and deeply, as if he might break the windows in another moment if he let himself go. And Margaret was surprised to discover that his laughter seemed to move in her, too. It washed down her back, then spiraled even lower, settling like a fierce heat between her legs.
“This isn’t a brothel,” he said, all that laughter a kind of honey in his voice, and pooling in her, too. It made her feel almost...sticky. It made her very nearly wish that she really was a guest like everyone else. Like him. “What dark tales have you been reading?”
“The reputation of the Hotel Viking speaks for itself.”
Margot was used to traveling alone. It rarely took more than a few cool words and an unapproachable expression on her face to deter unwanted male advances. Especially in Iceland, which prided itself on its civility. But the man standing over her was...different, somehow.
He was so big, for a start. Iceland was filled with tall men, broad of shoulder and long of leg as befit the descendants of Viking raiders. This man was all that, but something else besides. Something more. Every inch of him was packed with lean muscle, as if he carried a leashed danger in every sinew and held it in through sheer force of will.
And yet the way he stood there was easy. Lazy, almost.
Margot was meant to be a clear-eyed observer of humanity in all its complexities, damn it, so she was forced to acknowledge the simple fact that this man was easily the most striking she’d ever seen. He was beautiful, in fact. His hair was a tawny gold, worn in a careless length that looked as if he spent his days raking his fingers through it—or more likely letting others do that for him, if he spent time here.
And he had the face of a saint.
Nordic cheekbones. A carnal mouth.
And eyes so blue they burned.
Good lord, she burned.
“Exactly what have you heard about the hotel?” he asked in that same boneless, effortlessly suggestive way.
Margot tried to school her expression to her usual academic disinterest, but she couldn’t quite get there. Her pulse seemed to be everywhere, too hard and too fast. She fingered the stem of her wineglass and sat back in her chair, hoping she looked as irritated as she wished she felt.
“The hotel is the premier international destination for extremely high-class pursuits of pleasure,” she said, well aware that she was practically quoting from the website. “In whatever form they might take.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand the word pleasure,” he replied, but Margot doubted it. Not when she was looking at his mouth, hard and sensual. “A ‘sex hotel’ suggests a certain lack of consent. Prostitutes, for example. There’s none of that here. The Hotel Viking caters to consenting adults.”
“And of course there are no blurred lines,” Margot said, as if she was auditioning to be a Puritan, all pursed lips and clutched pearls, when all she really wanted to know was how he made the word consent sound so hot. “Not in such a fine establishment
