Free Santa Viking by Sandra Hill Page A

eyebrow jiggle on you again!
    “Thirty, and believe me, I feel pretty darn old sometimes.”
    “Thirty? Old? No way! Back to me—” he said.
    She made a rude sound of disgust and mimicked, “Back to me  . . .  ”
    “What’s that snort supposed to mean?”
    “Men. Everything always comes back to them. And I don’t snort.”
    “Are you trying to say I’m vain?”
    She snorted again, and it was a snort, no matter what she claimed.
    “Just because I’m in my prime?”
    “And because you think you look like Brad Pitt. A younger Brad Pitt.”
    “You’ve got a real attitude problem, lady. Anyhow, it’s true, I have been told that I resemble Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall .”
    “More like that county singer Blake Shelton, back when he had a mullet.”
    “I do not have a mullet.” Affronted, he gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. Now that he thought about it, he had noticed a few extra hairs in his brush lately. It took iron willpower not to touch his brow, just to check for a receding hairline.
    He tilted the rear view mirror so he could see her face and noticed her smiling  . . . at his expense. Was he that transparent? Or narcissistic? Probably.
    “If you’re really a bodyguard, show me some proof. Do you even have a license for this firearm?” She pointed to his revolver which lay, outside his reach, on the far side of the back seat.
    “Yeah, in the glove compartment.” He reached over slowly, making sure he didn’t make any abrupt moves that would surprise her “itchy thumb.” Pushing aside a set of handcuffs and a box of condoms, he picked up his wallet, tossing it back to her. He was hoping she’d drop the weapon when she reached to catch his wallet, but no such luck. She let it fall into her lap while her eyes focused on the glove compartment.
    “Oh, God, are you a pervert?”
    He grinned.
    “A gun and handcuffs and a box of condoms! Boy, oh, boy, this is the worst Christmas Curse ever. The Midnight Ride with Paul the Pervert.”
    “Call me crazy, but I can’t for the life of me see the connection between a gun, handcuffs, condoms, and perversion. Do you know many perverts who use condoms?”
    “I don’t know any perverts at all.” She rifled through his wallet, checking his driver’s license, muttering, “Erik Thorsson.” Then, she hooted with glee, “I knew it. A Viking! First time I saw you, I thought: Viking. In fact, in my mind, I called you Thor.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Well, my grandmother came from Norway, but I wouldn’t really call myself a Viking.”
    “Wouldn’t you know it? I’ve taken a Viking hostage! Why couldn’t I have picked out an accountant, or a bag boy?”
    “It must be The Curse,” he offered.
    He was kidding, but she nodded, “Yep! That must be it.” She smiled then, and it was a pretty smile, if he did say so himself, before adding, “Where’s your mighty hammer, Thor?”
    “In the tool kit in the trunk.” Maybe if he kept her smiling, she would relax, and he could get himself out of this fix.
    But, no, she was back to studying his wallet. He could see from the rear view mirror that she had pulled out his gun registration and his business card for Watchdogs, Inc. “So you really are a bodyguard, huh?”
    “Damn straight.”
    “For how long?”
    “Five years.”
    “What’d you do before that? CIA? Ha-ha-ha!” she mocked, leaning forward and picking up his handcuffs, examining them idly, even clipping one on her left wrist.
    When he didn’t answer, she gasped. “Oh, great! Don’t tell me I’ve kidnapped a CIA agent.”
    “Ex.”
    “Golly gee! That makes me feel better.”
    Then, before he could blink, she reached over the seat, locked his right wrist to her extended left, and pocketed the key.
    “Sister, you are driving with your lights on dim.”
    “I am not a nun.”
    Cursing silently, he berated himself for his carelessness. Never underestimate the enemy. Never. How could he have forgotten that golden rule of