Page 30 of Viking Unchained

He did that . . . THING to me.

He said his name is Thorfinn. What kind of name is that?

But wait, didn’t Kirstin say this was her cousin Finn? So maybe he’s not an ax murderer or serial killer or pervert.

And always she kept coming back to her original idea . . . that maybe Dave hadn’t died in the explosion.

That he’d been injured, requiring facial reconstruction, and that the government had taken advantage of his changed appearance to utilize him in some hush-hush mission . . .

But, no, Dave would never have allowed her to suffer all this time, not knowing.

Unless . . . he’d had amnesia!

His eyes were closed, and those had been the most compelling reminder of Dave. Truly, his very unusual silver gray eyes were identical to Dave’s. And his body was similar, too. Long. Lean. Muscular . . . not just arms and legs, but hard ridges of abdomen and stomach. And his penis, well, yeah, it was impressive. But his face was different and that silly long hair with the beaded braids! And did he really think wearing brass armbands made him look macho?

On the other hand, maybe Dave really is dead, but he sent this man, and the eyes are a signal to me.

How can I be sure?

I need time, she decided, time to figure out what’s going on. I can’t let him leave me yet . . . I have to keep him here.

Going into the kitchen, she used the combination to open Dave’s Navy SEAL operative drawer for the first time in five years. She hadn’t been able to face disposing of the contents before. Scrambling among the pager, gun, KA-BAR knife, night vision goggles, Kevlar gloves, satellite phone, length of thin rope, and black balaclava, she came to what she had been looking for: a package of disposable flex cuffs, the lightweight, extra-strong handcuffs used by police and military today.

I must be losing my mind.

Going back into the bedroom, she saw that her Dave, who was not Dave, still slept soundly, thank God.

Quickly, but gently, she cuffed both wrists in one double cuff to the headboard, and each ankle to opposing lower bed-posts. At one point, he moved a bit, scaring the spit out of her, then went back to sleep with a soft snore.

A half hour later, she was in the kitchen, having her second cup of coffee, when she heard his roar of outrage.

Tears of a Viking . . . oh, my! .

. .

He was a captive.

In all his thirty years, many of them engaged as a far-famed warrior, Thorfinn had never been captured by his enemy. But he was now, and the enemy was a woman.

He let out a roar of outrage as he fought against his restraints, to no avail. Both wrists and ankles were locked to the bed with some thin black ties. Not rope, but just as strong.

Almost immediately, the wench appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning.” Come closer, you evil witch.

“Now, don’t be mad,” the idiot woman said.

Mad? How about stone-cold furious? “Now why would I be mad?”

“I just want to ask you some questions.”

I am the one with questions. Like where the bloody hell have you been the past five years? And where have you hidden my son? And who taught you to do that trick with your tongue?

“Just a few polite questions.”

“And you needed to tie me up for that purpose?”

She nodded. “I was afraid you would leave before I could ask all my questions.”