Добавить в цитаты Настройки чтения

Страница 2 из 62



"Ilargi!" Jens gasped, his expression suddenly horror filled as he snatched his son from where he was bouncing up and down on my feet. "You are Ilargi?"

"Me? No, I'm Irish. Mostly. There's some German on my mom's side."

Jens eyed me warily. "If you are not Ilargi, are you from the Brotherhood?"

"I'm not overly religious," I said slowly, confused by his reaction. "I'm sorry, maybe we're having a communication issue, despite the fact that your English is exceptional. This Ilargi place that we're going to visit tonight isn't an abbey or a religious house, it's a stretch of untouched forest, which I gather is rare. It's supposed to have some sort of pagan meaning, but I'm afraid I kind of skimmed that section of the itinerary."

"Not pagan," Jens said, picking up his squirming son and backing away. "Not good. Stay away from Geirfi

Before I could ask him just what the dickens that meant, he turned and bolted, Geirfi

"Well, how do you like that?" I asked no one in particular. I was answered by a brutal jab to the back, reminding me that there were better places for contemplation of confusing Icelanders than the middle of a dance floor.

I made my way back to my table and ordered another lemonade, nursing it as I watched the people swarm around me. What on earth was so wrong with the Ilargi forest that it triggered such a strong reaction in Jens? Did Audrey know about it? I wondered.

Before I could mull over what I wanted to do next, a dark-haired woman plopped down in the chair that had previously been occupied by Geirfi

"Not since lunch, no," I answered, digging out my disposable camera to snap a picture of the behorned kids as they waved flags madly. "I think she said something about checking on the accommodations in Amsterdam."

Denise, the fourth woman on the tour, and my least favorite of all the members, curled a scornful lip at my answer. "Bah. We don't go there for three days. Not that I won't be glad to get out of this country. I've just been in the most appalling bookshop over there. Ugh. They didn't have anything printed in the last hundred years. And the spiders! Who'd have thought that Iceland would have such big spiders? Positively tarantulas! Here, you! Diet Coke. Coca-Cola. You understand?" Denise grabbed a passing waitress and shook her arm. "Pia, you have a phrase book—how do you say that I want a Diet Coke?"

The waitress gave her a long-suffering look. "I speak English. We do not have Coke. I will bring you a Pepsi."

"Whatever, just so it's cold." Denise released the waitress and used my napkin to mop at the sweat that made her face sparkle in the bright afternoon sunshine. "Sorry I just sat down without asking you, but we big girls have to stick together. You weren't waiting for anyone, were you?"

Sharp, washed-out hazel eyes peered at me from beneath overplucked eyebrows, a gloating glint indicating that an answer in the affirmative would surprise her greatly. I adopted a polite smile and shook my head, my teeth grinding at both her expression and the big-girl comment. I had come to grips with the fact that I was what my mother euphemistically termed "big boned," but I didn't need to be reminded of it every few minutes, as Denise was wont to do.

"Didn't think so," she answered with sour pleasure. "Women like us never get the guys. It's always the ones who put out who end up having all the fun. That Magda. Did you hear her last night? She was at it all night long. I asked Audrey to change my room, but she says the hotel is full and they can't. Honestly, why on earth did I spend two grand on a singles' tour of romantic Europe if the only men on the trip are old, perverts, or gay, and I have to spend every friggin' night listening to Magda get her jollies. "Oh, Raymond! Harder! Harder, my stallion of love!'" she all but yelled in an obscene parody of Magda's Spanish-inflected voice.



"Shhh," I cautioned, frowning at the startled looks we received from people seated around us. "Others can hear you."

"So what?" She shrugged. "They can't understand us, and even if they could, I'm not saying anything that isn't true. Has Raymond hit on you yet? He tried me this morning, but I wouldn't have anything to do with him. I don't take her leftovers." She cast an acid glance toward the dancers.

I had no doubts at all—Magda and I shared a bathroom, and noises from her room were audible through it—that Raymond and she were actually hitting it off rather well, but it was almost impossible to believe that he'd want anything to do with Denise. She was pretty enough, with dark brown hair that was carefully coiffed, a heart-shaped face, and an overall impression of neatness despite the trials of traveling out of one bag, but her personality did much to ruin the first impression.

"Sorry." She raked me over with a scathing look. "I didn't mean to rub it in that Raymond wants into my pants but not yours. Not that you're missing much, despite Magda's histrionics. Have you ever seen such a motley collection of men as the ones on this tour? We're expected to hit it off with Ray the lounge lizard, Gary, who has to be right off the set of Queer as Folk; Ben, who is clearly sixty if he's a day; or Alphonse, the Mafia pervert. And we paid money for this? Audrey sure has some sort of a scam, and we're the suckers who fell for it. Romantic Europe, my ass."

I'd lived with Denise's negativity and overall nastiness for three days now, and was sorely tempted to tell her just what I thought, but I reminded myself that we had another eighteen days together, and it wouldn't actually kill me to turn the other cheek. Instead I indulged in a fantasy wherein she was left behind on a remote fjord.

"Have you dated much lately?" she asked, obviously sharpening her claws for another attack.

I smiled and threw in a couple of hungry wolves prowling along the edge of the fjord. "I live outside of Seattle in a small town in the mountains. There aren't a lot of people there to begin with, so it's kind of hard to meet guys. That's why I decided to go on this tour, to open my horizons."

"At least you're not opening your legs for everything with a penis, unlike some people I could mention," she said with another waspish look toward Magda. "I think we've been had, though. The men on the tour are useless, and as for these Icelanders… they may be descended from Vikings, like Audrey says, but I don't see any of them panting over us. Mind you, if you said the words 'green card' to them, that would change things fast enough, but that's not going to happen."

"We've only had three days so far—" I started to object, but was cut short when she slammed her glass down on the little table.

"You don't get it, do you? Pia, look at yourself! You're, what, forty? Forty-five?"

"Thirty-nine. I won't be forty for another ten months," I said defensively, trying to keep a grip on my temper. I had spent every cent I had to go on this tour, and I absolutely refused to let one sour woman ruin what was sure to be the trip of a lifetime.

"Close enough to count. You're forty, with no man, no looks, and a dead-end job in some insignificant little town."

"Hey!" I objected. "You don't even know what I do. My job is quite nice."