Riveted by Meljean Brook Page B

again and tilted his head as if trying to catch a bit of their conversation. Annika ignored the others in favor of watching Kentewess’s changing expression—fondness, at first, then a flash of humor, as if he heard something that amused him. He looked to her again. “Ah, yes. And there are the stories—Dooley loves any fable or tale, the sort passed down through generations, and to pick out any variations. That’s partially the reason we chose Iceland for our next expedition: His mother used to collect and record the whalers’ tales about the trolls and witches, especially those that flourished after the fissure eruptions. Since her death, he’s made it a hobby to trace their origin. I’m sure he’ll speak to some of the old fishermen in Höfn and Smoke Cove.”
    Dooley wouldn’t find the origin of the stories there. Though some of the fishermen might claim to have lain with a witch or two, it would have only been in their imagination. Most of the women from Hannasvik went a bit farther for their seed.
    She couldn’t resist asking, “You don’t believe in witches and trolls, Mr. Kentewess?”
    “No. Do you?”
    “Yes. But we aren’t talking about me.”
    “I’d like to make you talk, Annika Fridasdottor.”
    Oh.
That softly spoken statement and his steady gaze seemed to flip her stomach over, a thrilling little jolt of desire that ebbed into a warm flush beneath her skin. His response called for a smart reply, but she couldn’t think of anything except that she’d been wrong, so wrong. She’d thought his interest wasn’t in bedding her. She’d thought he’d wanted something else from her.
    Now Annika thought the bed was exactly where his interests lay. That he felt the same attraction she did.
    How would he make her talk? A kiss? Something more? Oh, she wanted that. She wanted to know what it was to need someone so desperately that she would promise anything for another kiss, another touch.
    But she couldn’t. And she couldn’t let this attraction go any further than flirtation. Pursuing this wouldn’t be fair, not when she couldn’t let anything come of it.
    With regret, she looked away from him.
No more of this.
They would have a fun conversation and nothing more.
    What had they been talking about?
    Dooley, she remembered. But it was her turn now. Only one man at the game table was left to discuss.
    “The tall, thin man is Mr. James, the first mate. He’s very good at his job.” She paused, searching for something else to say. What did she know of him? “He has a wife and two children, I believe.”
    Kentewess didn’t speak for a moment. Then, with a slight frown, “That’s all?”
    “He enjoys playing patolli—and winning.”
    His gaze narrowed. “You don’t like him.”
    “No, it’s not that.” She didn’t know him well enough to dislike him. “I avoid him when I can.”
    “Why? What has he done?”
    “Nothing. He’s not rude or unpleasant, but I never know how to respond to him, and that frustrates me.” Until later, sometimes, and thinking of a reply when it was too late frustrated her even more.
    “What does he say?”
    “When we pass each other in a companionway, he will make a comment like, ‘So you are here again?’ in a friendly way. But his question always makes me feel as if I shouldn’t be there. And when I answer honestly—‘I’m returning to my cabin’—I feel like I should have been cleverer. Then I resent him for it. I hate feeling stupid, but I always do when he speaks to me. So I avoid him.”
    He nodded, his gaze on the first mate. “I understand that.”
    “You’ve felt stupid?”
    “No.” He grinned when she wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ve avoided people who made me uncomfortable, even if they were always polite.”
    She hoped never to give him reason to avoid her. “So, that is everyone. Shall we talk about you now?”
    “No. You’ve yet to tell me about my aunt.”
    “You know her.”
    “I know what she tells me in her