Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (3 page)

Instead he fingered the bridge of his nose, which had obviously been broken at some point in his life, undoubtedly in a brawl, and grinned knowingly. “I see you got my message and decided to come over,” he murmured. “Very wise.”

Jordan balled her hands into fists, suppressing the temptation to add another crook to his nose, and feigned surprise. “Was that what it was, a message? I thought it was your peculiar idea of a joke.”

“Oh, it’s no joke, Ms. Roberts. I’m very serious.”

He knew her name, which meant she was right. He’d deliberately taken her bananas in order to bring about this confrontation. No matter what Terry thought, this man wasn’t interested in her, at least, not as a woman.

She found herself thoroughly annoyed with him because his interest was purely a business one. And she was thoroughly annoyed with herself for even caring. Jordan pulled herself up short. No need to get a dented ego, she silently scolded. He was enough of a threat without that sort of complication.

She glanced at Marco, who stood gazing in fascination at a crushed box of tomatoes tossed to one side of the dock. The poor man couldn’t have shown his discomfort any clearer if he’d jumped up and down and screamed it for the world to hear.

“Why don’t we dispense with the games and get down to business?” she suggested. “You have my bananas and I’d appreciate their return.”

“My bananas,” he corrected softly, staring down at her.

How could a single glance from those ice-blue eyes burn so? She crossed to the pallet holding her bananas, her back defiantly stiff. Lifting off a cardboard lid, she flicked the thin plastic cover out of the way and, with a quick twist of her wrist, broke off a banana. After peeling the yellow skin she took a bite, then faced him again. Claim staked, she announced silently.

“What do you want, Mr. . . .”

“Thorsen. Rainer Thorsen.”

Jordan inhaled sharply, choking on the banana. The Thorsen name and reputation was well known in the Seattle produce community—as well known as their Viking-like appearance and Viking-like ruthlessness. Also well known were the dozens of markets they owned and operated, each one at least as large and profitable as Cornucopia. She should have guessed his identity sooner. Her gaze strayed back to the lightning bolt earring he wore. She should have guessed from that telltale symbol alone.

“My banana too strong for you?” he inquired with mock solicitude.

Jordan lifted her chin.
“My
banana is just fine, thanks.”

“Then you must be choking on the Thorsen name. I’ve found it does tend to intimidate people.”

“I’ll struggle to keep that from happening,” she informed him, surprised by his levity. “As for the bananas . . .”

“I suppose, since both of us claim ownership, we’ll have to split them.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, waiting until she caught his pun.

Jordan’s lips twitched. Impossible, contradictory man! Didn’t he realize what a serious issue this was? “That’s one solution, though quite unfair. We both know they’re really mine. Unfortunately splitting them won’t do me any good. I need the full pallet. I don’t suppose you’re willing to acknowledge prior ownership?”

His teasing facade vanished, exposing the merciless businessman lurking beneath. So the lighthearted charmer was just for show, she realized, filing the information away for future reference.

Rainer shook his head emphatically. “No, I’m not willing to acknowledge any ownership but my own.”

Jordan lowered her eyes and thought fast. “I suspected as much.” She sighed. “I guess we’ll have to settle it in the only reasonable way I know.”

“Which is?”

“I’ll flip you for them.”

He looked down at himself, then at her, his expression doubtful. “Won’t be easy. I’m a big guy.”

It took her a second, but then she broke down and laughed. “A coin, Mr. Thorsen. We’ll flip a coin. Heads or tails?”

“Er, Rainer . . .” Marco began. He was waved silent.

“Tails,” Rainer said and reached into his pocket.

Jordan forestalled him. “Please. Allow me.”

If she’d suspected the buyers and workers along the dock were staring before, she was certain of it now. The shouts and occasional curses that usually rang out over the constant noise of the busy marketplace faded away. Men in jeans and flannel shirts who normally bustled around the loading area stood in small knots, their attention on the players. Silence reigned.

Steeling her nerves, Jordan stuck a hand into her right pocket and pulled out a nickel. In a practiced move, she flicked it high into the air. All eyes watched the silver coin spinning in the early morning light. It tumbled to earth and landed with a ping. After two bounces, the coin lay flat on the cement dock.

“Heads,” she announced, not displaying the least bit of surprise at the outcome.

Rainer lifted an eyebrow. “Congratulations. I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever been beaten.” He frowned. “In fact, I’m certain it’s the first time I’ve ever been beaten.” His frown deepened. “I’m not sure I like it.”

Jordan smiled. “Get used to it, Mr. Thorsen. I can be pretty resourceful when necessary.” She bent down with studied indifference, picked up the coin, and pocketed it. Curling her pinkie fingers into her mouth, she gave a high shrill whistle. As though by magic, Terry appeared at her side.

“Please put my bananas on the truck, Terry,” Jordan instructed briskly. She glanced up at Rainer and smiled again. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Thorsen.” She hesitated. “Our business is completed, isn’t it?”

He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Not quite. But it’ll keep, Ms. Roberts. It’ll keep.” He offered a large callused hand. “Until next time.”

Faltering, but only for a moment, she slipped her hand into his. The man’s handshake was as strong and firm as the man. He tightened his grip, refusing to release her. Her gaze flashed to his and she nearly flinched. She couldn’t mistake the fierce determination in his expression.

“I’m accustomed to getting what I want, Ms. Roberts. You’d do well to remember that.”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded. Carefully, she tugged her hand away and retreated across the loading dock. The distance seemed even longer than before, especially with every eye on her. She touched the double-headed coin in her right pocket. How long would it take for Thorsen to learn how she’d tricked him?

She reached her end of the dock and Terry scurried over to her. “You know who that is?” he demanded in a nervous whisper.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And still you pulled that little stunt with one of your double-sided coins?”

She turned on him. “They were my bananas. I told you I’d get them back one way or the other. Unfortunately it had to be the other.” She glanced at the salesman, not hiding her concern. “Do you think Marco will tell him what I did?”

Terry shook his head. “Not likely. He used to work for the Thorsens a few years back, so he has a certain loyalty to them. But he’s crazy about you. We all are. If anyone tells Thorsen, it’ll be Mr. Constantine. Once he gets wind of it he’ll spill the beans, if only because he thinks it’s such a huge joke.”

“Nuts.”

“You got that right.” Terry leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I’d hoped to avoid a confrontation with him, get you to forget about those bananas. It’s too late for that now. You’d better know, Jordan, the Thorsens have always bought their produce from houses closer to Boeing Field. I hear Marco convinced them to try us. You realize what that means, don’t you?”

“Another showdown tomorrow?”

“That and more.” Terry’s expression turned unusually serious. “Thorsen buys big, real big, and he always, always gets what he wants. If he decides to buy from Constantine, he’ll keep two of our salesmen hustling and more importantly, he’ll pay same as everyone but you, cash on the barrelhead. None of this line-of-credit stuff the boss gives Cornucopia. And that’s a lot of bucks.”

“Nick must be jumping through hoops,” she muttered.

“He ain’t crying in his beer, that’s for sure. Mr. Constantine may think your little stunt funny now. But if he loses any business because of it, you’ll find yourself out on your pretty little keister, no matter how close you are to the boss’s daughter.”

“That’s not fair!” she protested. “Andrea and I have always kept our friendship separate from our business relationship. Cornucopia has a line of credit because we’re a safe risk, not because of Andrea.”

Even so, her concern deepened. She didn’t like the sound of this. Nick Constantine was a hardheaded businessman. If Thorsen decided to make life uncomfortable, Nick might choose to go with the money and to hell with ten years’ worth of loyalty.

Her mouth firmed. She wasn’t beaten yet. In fact, she hadn’t even begun to fight. “I may not be in the same league as the Thorsens, but Cornucopia is nothing to sneeze at.”

Terry sighed, shaking his head. “It is compared to the Thorsens. If it meant getting their business, the old man would sell his own daughter. Hell, he’d give her away. So, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Jordan stirred uneasily. “I’ll consider myself duly warned.”

She glanced over her shoulder and down the long length of the dock. The Viking still stood there, staring once again, his brawny arms folded across his chest. As clearly as though he’d shouted the words at her, she knew their business—whatever that might be—was far from completed.

R
ainer watched Jordan climb into the cab of her truck and start the engine. He’d been impressed by her. Very impressed. He hadn’t seen any volcanic activity during their confrontation, but that didn’t bother him. Once she found out what he really wanted, he bet he’d see a major eruption.

A damned shame, really. Jordan Roberts fascinated him. He sensed a shrewdness behind those cool direct eyes, eyes an intriguing shade between blue and gray. He’d discovered her face held more than beauty, it contained a wealth of character. The rounded chin and dark angled eyebrows suggested determination. The high cheekbones and firm set of lips and jaw hinted at an inner strength lacking in most women he knew. Even the way she’d subdued that mane of curly black hair warned of her need for control.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. Black velvet over steel, an intriguing image, one he found both enlightening—and revealing. Probably more revealing than she’d have liked.

“Judging from her reaction over those bananas,” he said, turning to Marco, “there’s little doubt how she’ll respond once she learns I’m after Cornucopia. I have to admit she has nerve. She took quite a gamble with the coin toss.”

“If you say so,” Marco muttered, mopping his brow.

Rainer frowned at the salesman. “I say so.” He tilted his head to one side, analyzing his options. “Looks like I have three choices. I can either buy Cornucopia out, go around it, or break its hold on the north end with a competing market.” He grinned. “And since I’ve never been one to go around an obstacle when I can bust right through it, I guess we can eliminate at least one of those options.”

Marco shifted uneasily. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s faster to skirt a mountain. Tunneling through can take time.”

Rainer remained unswayed. “Tunnels make for a shorter trip over the long haul. Besides, it’s cleaner. Cornucopia is going down, one way or another. It’s best not to prolong the agony.” That resolved, he gave a decisive nod. “Well, Ms. Roberts. You have your bananas. But soon, I’ll have you.”

L
ater that morning, Jordan walked through the front door of Cornucopia Produce Market—and into the one place she considered more of a home than any spot on earth.

Another hour remained before the doors opened for business. She looked around, releasing a happy contented sigh. It gave her a good feeling, standing in the very store her grandfather started while continuing the family tradition.

She paused in front of a wall of photos tracing the history of the market from its inception to present day. She took pride in her family history. It gave her a connection, a sense of belonging, something she and her Uncle Cletus both appreciated.