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  He looked around, studying the slick, shiny walls that reminded him most painfully of the ice fields. The walls were smooth and cold to his touch.

  Although the tub looked inviting, with steam rising over the water, it was the shining glass that drew him. He pressed his palm to it. His breath misted the surface. Even reflected in a still pool, he’d never seen himself with such clarity. The whites of his eyes were threaded with red. The deep cut on his cheek looked as nasty as it was painful. Dried blood crusted his beard. His hair lay matted against his brow. Dirt streaked his skin. In fact, there was a line of grime about his neck that he eyed with fastidious displeasure.

  But a wide grin split his mouth, opening a crack in his chapped lips. A low rumble of laughter came from deep in his chest. He slapped his hands against the reflective glass and leaned his forehead against its cold surface. He swallowed his glee lest the female be drawn near. He met his own eyes. Nay. She would not be tempted by this damaged face, this human wreckage.

  An elation born of a lifetime of being mistaken for one of the angels of the gods bubbled and churned in him. No one would make that mistake now. He appeared as what he was, a mortal man, a warrior. He had no healing powders to prevent scarring. He grinned with satisfaction.

  His muscles trembling, he fairly collapsed into the hot tub. The water nearly burned his buttocks. With an oath, he fell back with a splash and groaned. The heat embraced his hips, reaching only to his waist. He had to fold his long legs to fit in the hard white tub. The bathhouses in Tolemac had water taps that brought water from rain butts on the roof, but none with such force as this one had, none that poured hot water. He was much more used to it bubbling up from the earthen bottom of a bathing pool.

  A moan of pleasure escaped him. He swallowed it whole as he heard the woman’s footsteps outside the door. She called to him through the door. “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” he bellowed back. I am more than all right, he thought. I am scarred and marked as if from battle. He propped his legs on the platform surrounding the tub and slid down until his head rested on the edge. In an instant, he was sound asleep.

  Gwen heard the snores. She smiled and tossed the man’s clothes into a garbage bag. Slinging it over her shoulder like Santa’s pack, she ran down the stairs and dashed into the shop. “I’ll take over for a few minutes, Neil. Would you run these over to the dry cleaners? Tell Harry one hour.”

  “I don’t think you should leave that guy alone upstairs. How’d he get in here? He’s probably stealing your jewelry right now.”

  Gwen glanced down at her wedding band, as simple and unadorned as the gold hoops in her ears. She remembered the day her husband had slipped the ring on her finger. Forever, he’d said. Who could have guessed forever would last for only one year? The thought never failed to raise a huge lump in her throat. “I’m wearing my jewelry, Neil. Now get a move on with this stuff. I don’t think he’s a thief. I think he’s just a wacky wargamer, like you said—and harmless. And I want him at my ball. Just think of all the publicity. But,” her eyes glazed over, “he needs his clothes; he’s buck naked right now.”

  “There’s no way Harry can get that stuff back in an hour if his leather stuff is in there.”

  She dug into the bag and drew out the leather trousers. The black leather was incredibly soft and supple in her hands. For a moment she mused on how the leather had clung to the man’s legs. “Bribe him.” She folded the trousers carefully and tucked them back into the bag.

  Neil took the laundry. “Stop thinking about his ass and cover your own. He’s a nut.”

  Gwen felt the heat rush into her face. Had she been that transparent? The instant Neil was out the door, she lifted the phone and punched in a familiar number. When an answering machine stated its neutral message, she swore under her breath.

  “Maggie? If you’re fooling around, stop it and pick up the phone.” No one obliged her. “Okay, listen, I have this guy here at my place. He’s the spitting image of Vad. In fact, he claims to be Vad.” She mentally cleaned him up and shaved him. “He’s beyond gorgeous. Tell your husband the poster doesn’t begin to do him justice. Think Nordic god. Sure wish you could meet him.”

  Maggie was Gwen’s best friend and was married to the creator of Tolemac Wars. They were staying at a farmhouse Gwen owned in the New Jersey pine barrens, left to her by her maternal grandmother. Gwen was grateful her friends could use the house. She personally found it lonely. The six bedrooms were meant for a large family. She had no family—or no family she wished to acknowledge. Her little apartment suited her needs much better, and was handy to her business; and whatever remained of Bob was here, too. Bob. He’d always said she’d end up on the farm, tending a garden and cooking up huge meals in the vast kitchen. How wrong he’d been.

  For the next half hour Gwen absentmindedly handled the crowd in her store. A turmoil of questions about the man upstairs prevented her from really attending to the customers. When Neil returned, she gave him a grateful smile. He popped out her Garth Brooks CD and slid in another.

  Gwen made a face as she ran a credit card through for approval. “Oh, no, not that pathetic Tchaikovsky symphony again.”

  Neil shook his head and took over for her. “That’s Pathetique, you infidel.”

  “Whatever you say.” She patted him on the shoulder. “On that note, I’m going to see how Mr. Sleeping Beauty is doing.”

  Neil gave the customer the charge slip to sign. He grabbed Gwen’s arm. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but are you sure you should be alone with that guy?”

  Gwen edged around a customer who had settled a stack of computer games on the counter. “I’m sure. I think he’s as much a gentleman as you, in fact.”

  In a few moments she stood outside the bathroom door, listening to snores as loud as the crash of the cymbals in any of Neil’s symphonies. She rapped sharply on the door. The snores ended in a snort and a grunt. “You okay in there? Can I get you anything?”

  Vad swore and fumbled the bottles he’d knocked into the tub back onto the edge. “I am bathing, woman.” His voice sounded like a hoarse croak to him. He swallowed. “If I wished assistance, I would call for it.”

  “Suit yourself,” she hollered back to him, a touch of sour wine in her voice. Her footsteps receded.

  There were no pots of soap for washing in sight. Although the bathing tub was more the size of those found in a children’s bathhouse, the edge of the tub had deep recesses decorated with bulky silver ornaments. On closer examination, he realized they moved. He gave one an experimental turn. A soothing bubble tickled his thigh.

  He sighed and thought of calling the woman to bring him soap. His eyes settled on a green bottle. The green liquid looked suspiciously like some witch’s potion, but the words on it said, For Cleaner, Silkier Hair. Normal to Dry. He ran a hand over his hair. Definitely dry, like straw, and filthy. Thank the gods he could read the language of this strange place. He read the bottle. Ammonium Lauryl Sulfate. On second thought, there were many words here he did not know.

  He struggled with the bottle for a moment, trying to pull out the smooth white cork. Instead it popped open. He peered into the tiny hole at the top. The wonderful scent of green grass in spring teased his nose. He tipped the bottle and poured a generous amount into his palm. The many experiences he’d had in bathhouses told him this was some potion meant to please and tantalize.

  He slid down until his head was underwater, his knees sticking into the air. In a rush, he surfaced and shook. He rubbed the liquid into his hair. The joy of finally bathing made him groan aloud. He dunked. Pouring the green liquid over his head, he twice more lathered his hair until it really was cleaner and silkier.

  He sniffed the other bottles. One said Jasmine Body Gel. Only the middle word did he know. The thick liquid’s scent was even more alluring than the one for his hair. Not a manly scent, he must admit, but potent—spicy and intoxicating. As he rubbed the gooey pink liquid across his chest and belly he
bumped his elbow on one of the silver decorations.

  A whooshing sound filled the room. A gush of water surged between his thighs. He yelped. His knees disappeared in a froth of water pulsing from the sides of the tub. The empty bottle he’d discarded in the water bounced and jumped about. Suds foamed and rose, spilling over the sides and across the floor. He stared in fascination and poured more liquid into the tub.

  Gwen heard the jets come on in the bathroom. “I guess warriors like a whirlpool, too,” she muttered. She lifted her late husband’s worn green velour robe from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. It was one of the few articles of his clothing she hadn’t donated to charity. As she approached the bathroom door she heard an ominous bellow and a huge splash.

  She flung open the door. The man lay submerged in suds.

  He floundered indignantly to his feet. Bubbles covered him from shoulder to thigh. Her mouth hung open. Then she realized what he’d done.

  She shrieked and pointed to the controls. “Off. Turn it off. You’ll gum up the works. Turn it off!” Frantically, the man twisted the controls. The jets fell silent.

  “No,” she mouthed as he turned one final knob. In a blast of water, the shower overhead washed him clean.

  She cleared her throat. The robe dropped from her hand. “Well, you’re definitely not a boy.”

  Chapter Three

  “Unless you are offering your services to clean the floor, woman, I suggest you leave.” Vad stepped over the side of the tub. His foot slipped in the slick mess of water and suds. He skidded across the room, his arms flailing.

  Gwen thought of a hockey goalie stretching for a save. She’d never again be able to attend a Flyers game without picturing the players naked. There was something quite magnificent about a well-honed man in motion. Any motion.

  He righted himself and reached for his furs. Around his beautifully sculpted right biceps were three silver arm rings. Then light glinted off the long blade in his hand.

  “Oh, my God,” she said with a gasp. Her throat dried.

  Then the man lifted one of the towels and wiped the blade. “Water plays havoc with fine steel,” he said. She remembered to breathe when he turned away and inspected the knife’s leather sheath. Tension flooded through her again as he swung back to poke the sodden mass of fur at his feet.

  “Put the sword down.” She hated the tremor in her voice.

  Puddles of soap and water slowly crept in her direction. They would soon soak the robe she’d brought for him, but she couldn’t make herself move.

  His sword pointed toward the floor, he came to her. “I wish you no harm.”

  How she wished she believed him. He was too big and too near—and way too naked. His steady blue gaze held her frozen in place. The touch of his fingers to her cheek was gentle, but she could not stop herself from flinching.

  “A warrior must think of his weapons first, and ‘tis naught but a small knife. Nothing to be afraid of, woman.” Her head bobbed in assent, but she took a step away from him, then another. He bent and lifted the robe. It was heavy and soft. A floral scent clung to the fabric. His body responded.

  With as much disdain as possible, he donned the robe. Still, she stood in the door as if ready to flee. Her ale-dark eyes were huge in her face. Her fear insulted him. He had never harmed a female in his life. Well…there had been that time he had dropped his shield on a slave’s foot. But surely that did not count—it was an accident. She had recovered quite nicely once the healer had stitched her up. Perhaps this one, too, might regain her humor, given the opportunity. It was not often his weapons gained more attention than his manhood.

  Shaking out a white cloth, he once again lifted his blade. He began to stroke the cloth up and down its length. “Unless you wish to polish my other sword, woman, be gone.”

  She flitted away. A cold breeze replaced her. He sheathed his knife and, although it was the work of slaves, he tossed cloths upon the floor to sop up the mess he’d made. There were piles of cloths, cloths enough to dry many bathers. In a cupboard he found more. They joined the others on the soapy floor.

  He donned the robe to conceal the knife sheath and sighed over the dampness of the leather. Unbidden, his fingers stroked the green fabric. It was like none he had ever felt before. It had a nap like fur, yet inside it was woven, proving it to be cloth of some kind. He shrugged and scooped up his sodden cloak.

  A commotion brought him from the bathing chamber, dripping a trail of water from his furs. So…she had feared him enough to fetch the snake man. The woman half hid behind her champion and prattled something about his knife.

  “By the gods, woman! Are you so spineless you quail at a small blade?” Keeping one eye on the snake man, he heaved his cloak onto her table.

  Her shriek burned his ears.

  “How dare you! That was my mother’s table. She loved that table. I learned to write at that table.” Before he could stop her, she dragged his cloak off the battered wood and, after twisting and turning the silver knob on the glass door, heaved the furs out like so much refuse to be discarded.

  He shoved the snake man aside. The man went down like a sack of feathers. Vad leaped to the deck and snatched up his furs. He clasped them to his chest. Anger warred with compassion. The woman was scrubbing the water from her scarred table. He knew well the value of ancestors. As an orphan, he had no mother’s table to preserve.

  The snake man picked himself up off the floor. “Get downstairs, Gwen. Call the cops.” He spread his arms to protect the woman.

  Wind whipped at Vad’s robe and tore at his hair. It thrummed like the wings of a thousand ravens about his ears. Vad considered how best to handle her protector without hurting him or offending her further.

  Gwen giggled. Her Vad look-alike pushed through the deck door, struggling a moment as six and a half feet of man and a mountain of fur were caught between the uprights. He looked ridiculous. The robe came only to mid-calf on him. The ocean winds flapped it about his legs and threatened to once again reveal a tantalizing length of muscled thigh—and other important stuff.

  Somehow she could not be afraid of a man who nursed a dirty cloak like a beloved child. Any fear she had dissolved. “Let him alone, Neil. I’m sorry I called you.”

  Neil ignored her. He took matters into his own hands. He strode to the kitchen, lifted the phone, and punched 9-1-1.

  Gwen sighed. “Prepare yourself, Vad. You’re about to answer a zillion questions.”

  “From whom?” He hovered at the deck door, arms clutching his cloak.

  “The police.” When he tipped his head and looked confused, she smiled. “Here, beyond the ice fields, we don’t have an army in charge. We have what we call the police. In fact, if you listen, you should hear them any moment now.”

  He dropped his furs. With fluid grace, he drew his knife. He looked as if he were preparing to confront an army. “What is a zillion?”

  “A lot. Take it from me.” Gwen sighed heavily at the distant wail of sirens on the sea air. It made her heart beat faster. She didn’t want him arrested. She wanted him at her ball. “Now put the knife away.”

  “Yo, bud. Take it easy.” Neil encircled Gwen in his arms and put her behind him again.

  As much as she appreciated the gallantry, it blocked her view. Robe open, blade in hand, the man looked so much like the Tolemac warrior—from his straight, noble nose to his honed, muscular body—she almost fainted. Beard or not, there was no mistaking that arrogant sneer.

  She whispered in Neil’s ear, “He must have posed for those posters. Look at him. Really look at him.” Her heart slammed in her chest—and not from fear.

  The police hammered on her door. Neil jerked it open.

  “Oh, no,” she said with a groan. The man who stepped into her apartment was the last man on earth she wished to see. Her former fiancé—now her older sister’s husband. Talk about grand larceny. What the heck was the traitorous detective doing answering a routine call?

  “Gwen? Are you
okay?” R. Walter Gordon stepped into her apartment. Two other officers stepped in behind him. There were no guns drawn, but Gwen knew that if Vad made a move, there would be.

  “I’m fine. We really don’t need you,” she said, hands up, palms out. Her voice sounded shrill and peevish to her. This was her warrior. Nut case or not, she’d invited him into her apartment. If someone hurt him, she’d never forgive herself. “Just go away. Please.”

  “The guy’s got a knife,” Neil said.

  The officers ignored her as they faced Vad. If they’d missed the knife, they must be blind. Relief came from an unexpected quarter. Vad turned his blade hilt out and offered it to Gwen; then he belted his robe and yawned. He scratched his ear. He looked like a harmless, sleepy guy who’d just climbed out of bed.

  Oh, no. What would Walter think? And what story would he spread—like a bad flu virus—to her sister and her mother? She hugged Vad’s knife to her chest as he had his furs. She acted without thought. She slid an arm around Vad’s waist and hugged him close as well. “There’s nothing wrong here, Walter.”

  Neil gasped. Vad stiffened, but did not move from her embrace. It was like hugging a petrified tree.

  With little of the air of a bed companion, Vad said, “This impertinent woman tried to take my cloak. The snake man overreacted. ‘Tis oft times seen in poorly trained warriors.”

  She wanted to kick him in his perfect shins.

  Walter froze. Oh, no, Gwen silently groaned. The British accent had done it. Walter was a hopeless Anglophile. He’d bored her to tears reading droll Inspector Morse lines from his favorite British mysteries—until he’d run off with her sister, that was.

  “What’s going on here?” the detective asked.

  “Neil? Who’s watching the shop?” Gwen used her sweetest voice. “Could the customers be stealing us blind? Should we take the shortages out of your share of the profits?”