in Jorvik, had a mind of her own and claimed to have no interest in men. That would change when the right man came along.
“Your son John,” Alinor said softly, taking one of Eadyth’s hands in both of hers. John was Eadyth’s illegitimate child. He was a handsome, brooding man of twenty-six who resided at Hawks’ Lair, almost a recluse. Everyone in the family worried about him. “Yea, we must make John our next project.”
Eadyth remained silent, but her eyes affirmed how much that would mean to her.
Eirik and Tykir just groaned.
Women! Viking men had found through the ages that they could not live with them, as evidenced by their long months a-Viking, but they for a certainty could not live without them.
Someone should warn John.
THE END
(Please continue reading for A Viking for Christmas )
A Viking for Christmas
When my son Rob was a little boy, he asked, “Mommy, are Santa Claus and God the same person?”
“I like to think they are,” I said.
So, this book’s dedicated to Rob—my rebel—who tries so hard to be a “bad boy,” but will always be a Santa at heart.
Chapter One
Desperation makes for strange bedfellows . . .
Only winos and weirdos shopped at the Piggly Jiggly Supermarket after midnight. But tonight there was also a thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus.
Correction. A thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus, packing a forty-five in her pocket.
As she waited her turn at the service desk, Jessica Jones grimaced at the ludicrous situation she found herself in. It was the “Christmas Curse,” of course. For as long as she could remember, something really awful happened to her during the Christmas season.
She’d thought she was over the bad luck for this year when her fiancé, Burton Richards, dumped her two weeks ago, but uh-uh, the fix she found herself in now was even worse. A definite ten on the Christmas Curse Richter scale.
Jessica hitched up the wide belt beneath her sagging Santa stomach with determination. Like the old song goes, I ’ m not gonna take it anymore.
A very tall, broad-shouldered woman walked by, swishing her hips in a red nylon mini-dress—not a good choice for a cold Philadelphia winter. Clearly a male, the cross-dresser was probably a prostitute. She . . . he . . . smiled at Jessica and made a kissy sound through thickly painted lips. Criminey, Santa was being propositioned.
Jessica shook her head vehemently.
The hooker shrugged as if to say it was Santa’s loss and walked over to the cigarette rack.
Good grief!
An old man standing in front of her, waiting to have his welfare check cashed, turned and slurred out, “Wha’dja say?”
His boozy breath almost knocked Jessica over. Her knees were knocking together as it was, and her hands were shaking so badly she had to stuff them in her wide pockets. She shifted the pillow higher and felt with her right hand for the pistol nestled against her thigh. Help! This is not happening. “Nothing. Just get moving, okay?”
“Some grumpy Santa you are,” he muttered.
Her eyes darted about the area, casing the automatic exit doors a few feet away. She was the last person in line. The only other person nearby was a gorgeous guy with a long blond ponytail, leaning lazily against the wall, scratching off a lottery ticket. Amazingly, he wore a Santa Claus outfit, too, but his hat, beard, and wig were stuffed in his belt.
He resembled some kind of Norse god with his sculptured cheekbones and clear blue eyes. Thor never looked so good, even in a Santa suit. Norse god, Norse, rather North Pole . . . made sense, she supposed.
The Thor lookalike glanced over at her, gave her a quick once-over, and winked.
Darn! Caught smack dab in the middle of a leer! Her heated face probably matched her suit. Jessica lifted her chin haughtily and pretended she’d been looking at something else, like the bare wall behind him. Hah! Who am I fooling? And, Lordy, haven ’ t I
“Your son John,” Alinor said softly, taking one of Eadyth’s hands in both of hers. John was Eadyth’s illegitimate child. He was a handsome, brooding man of twenty-six who resided at Hawks’ Lair, almost a recluse. Everyone in the family worried about him. “Yea, we must make John our next project.”
Eadyth remained silent, but her eyes affirmed how much that would mean to her.
Eirik and Tykir just groaned.
Women! Viking men had found through the ages that they could not live with them, as evidenced by their long months a-Viking, but they for a certainty could not live without them.
Someone should warn John.
THE END
(Please continue reading for A Viking for Christmas )
A Viking for Christmas
When my son Rob was a little boy, he asked, “Mommy, are Santa Claus and God the same person?”
“I like to think they are,” I said.
So, this book’s dedicated to Rob—my rebel—who tries so hard to be a “bad boy,” but will always be a Santa at heart.
Chapter One
Desperation makes for strange bedfellows . . .
Only winos and weirdos shopped at the Piggly Jiggly Supermarket after midnight. But tonight there was also a thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus.
Correction. A thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus, packing a forty-five in her pocket.
As she waited her turn at the service desk, Jessica Jones grimaced at the ludicrous situation she found herself in. It was the “Christmas Curse,” of course. For as long as she could remember, something really awful happened to her during the Christmas season.
She’d thought she was over the bad luck for this year when her fiancé, Burton Richards, dumped her two weeks ago, but uh-uh, the fix she found herself in now was even worse. A definite ten on the Christmas Curse Richter scale.
Jessica hitched up the wide belt beneath her sagging Santa stomach with determination. Like the old song goes, I ’ m not gonna take it anymore.
A very tall, broad-shouldered woman walked by, swishing her hips in a red nylon mini-dress—not a good choice for a cold Philadelphia winter. Clearly a male, the cross-dresser was probably a prostitute. She . . . he . . . smiled at Jessica and made a kissy sound through thickly painted lips. Criminey, Santa was being propositioned.
Jessica shook her head vehemently.
The hooker shrugged as if to say it was Santa’s loss and walked over to the cigarette rack.
Good grief!
An old man standing in front of her, waiting to have his welfare check cashed, turned and slurred out, “Wha’dja say?”
His boozy breath almost knocked Jessica over. Her knees were knocking together as it was, and her hands were shaking so badly she had to stuff them in her wide pockets. She shifted the pillow higher and felt with her right hand for the pistol nestled against her thigh. Help! This is not happening. “Nothing. Just get moving, okay?”
“Some grumpy Santa you are,” he muttered.
Her eyes darted about the area, casing the automatic exit doors a few feet away. She was the last person in line. The only other person nearby was a gorgeous guy with a long blond ponytail, leaning lazily against the wall, scratching off a lottery ticket. Amazingly, he wore a Santa Claus outfit, too, but his hat, beard, and wig were stuffed in his belt.
He resembled some kind of Norse god with his sculptured cheekbones and clear blue eyes. Thor never looked so good, even in a Santa suit. Norse god, Norse, rather North Pole . . . made sense, she supposed.
The Thor lookalike glanced over at her, gave her a quick once-over, and winked.
Darn! Caught smack dab in the middle of a leer! Her heated face probably matched her suit. Jessica lifted her chin haughtily and pretended she’d been looking at something else, like the bare wall behind him. Hah! Who am I fooling? And, Lordy, haven ’ t I
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