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treated like I deserved a killer drone with my name on it should have given me an inkling that a month on a beautiful island might not be all that it was cracked up to be.
    But I didn’t see the situation for what it was.
    In my newfound optimism, bathed in the afterglow of a Kate Winslet romantic comedy, I saw my incarceration as a temporary hiccup in a life-changing adventure. A mistake, if you will, in an otherwise mistake-less experience.
    “I want all of your badge numbers!” I hollered.
    Stripped of my purse and carry-ons, I was put in a tidy little room with a wood table and four metal chairs. The walls were covered with posters from the Icelandic Tourist Board. Iceland looked nice. Clean with beautiful nature.
    Not Mallorca, but still.
    The door opened and in walked a gorgeous Icelandic man. Blond just like everyone in the posters. He was tall, stood ramrod straight, and didn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere on him. He was a muscles only kind of guy.
    I looked at his muscles, tracing them with my eye down his shoulders to his torso and his thighs, which pressed through his black slacks. I caught myself biting my fingernail and stopped. He smiled at me like he was a kindergarten teacher and it was my first day at school. Eye contact.
    I felt something comforting and warm wash over me. Forgotten was the fact that I had been jilted at the altar. Forgotten was the fact that I had been arrested as a terrorist suspect and would probably wind up in Alcatraz or Devil’s Island or wherever Iceland sent its worst criminals.
    I was surprised that I could feel such an attraction, considering I had just had my heart broken by the love of my life, but as in all good things that come to us, I didn’t question it.
    I put my hand out to shake his, but before he could put his hand in mine he stumbled to the side, presumably pushed by the man behind him. That man took a giant step forward and got in my face like a frothing pit bull.
    He was just as tall as the gorgeous Icelandic man but with more muscles. He didn’t exactly slouch, but his posture was more than relaxed, all the while giving off an air of aggression. Pit bull was a good nickname for him. He looked like once he took a bite, he didn’t let go.
    “You’re wearing Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt,” I noted. His left eyebrow shot up in surprise. What can I tell you? It was odd clothing for an interrogator. “Your clothes,” I said, tugging at my own blouse to illustrate.
    He nodded. “Yeah, I understood what you said. I was just wondering why you said it.” He took a seat across from me and nodded to the blond to sit next to him.
    “Oh, you speak English,” I said, relieved.
    “I’m English, you see. So I speak English.” He removed a sandwich from his pocket and took a bite. He was clean-shaven, and so was his head. He had striking blue eyes, big, round, and sparkling. He was very—how can I describe him?—manly. He was also rude, eating in front of me,  I had only had a bag of pretzels and three Bloody Marys in the last twenty-four-hours.
    My stomach growled in protest. He took another bite of his sandwich.
    “You don’t sound English,” I said. “Nothing like Gerard Butler or Sean Connery.”
    “That’s because they’re Scottish.”
    “You don’t sound like the Queen, either.” He had a thick, guttural accent with a gravelly voice that was hard to understand. He raised his eyebrow again and took another bite of his sandwich.
    “My Icelandic colleagues thought I could be of some help because of the whole Anglo thing. I’m just passing through,” he explained.
    “I thought I was passing through, too,” I pointed out.
    He took another bite of his sandwich. “Chief Inspector Doyle Wellington,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m actually on my way to a holiday.”
    The blond Icelander piped in. “Chief Inspector Wellington has terrorism experience.” He smiled at me, and my heart did a little leap. I smiled back.
    Wellington cleared