Prince and...Future Dad Page 8

  "Back to your sister."

  "If you insist."

  "How has she been allowed to become so unmanageable?"

  "My mother died when she was born, and my father soon after, of a broken heart. My grandfather is her guardian. He's never been able to refuse her anything."

  There was, she realized, so very much she didn't know. "Your grandfather, what's his name?"

  "Balder."

  "A true Norse name."

  He laughed. "How would you know?"

  "My mother taught us the myths—at least the major ones. Balder, as I recall, was the son of Odin and Frigg. He was much beloved by the gods. His mother fixed it so nothing could kill him."

  "Except a dart made of mistletoe." He leaned in closer again. "Take me home with you…"

  She breathed in the intoxicating scent of him, admired the shadowed shape of his mouth, felt the pull of his gaze through the darkness. His suggestion did tempt her—far too much. "Uh-uh."

  He bent closer. "Allow me the opportunity to convince you…" His mouth was an inch from hers. So far, she'd resisted the desire to kiss him. But she was weakening. And with his mouth so close, she couldn't keep herself from thinking that if she were to move toward him a fraction, their lips would meet.

  "I don't…" She hadn't the faintest idea what she'd meant to say next.

  "Like this." He leaned forward the necessary minute distance. His mouth touched hers—too briefly. And then he pulled back. "What would you like, Liv?"

  "I…"

  "What do you want?" As if he didn't know very well. "A kiss?"

  How was she supposed to make a rational decision, with his arms on either side of her and his wonderful, hard body brushing the front of her and his lips no more than a breath away?

  No doubt about it. It was happening again, that distressing problem he so easily created whenever he was near: the problem of a precipitous drop in her IQ…

  And just look what he had done, after tempting her so thoroughly? He'd ended by making it, undeniably, her choice.

  She wasn't as strong as she probably should have been, as strong as she'd always considered herself until recently—recently being ever since she'd met this particular impossible, too-charming man. "Oh, Finn." And then she was leaning into him, capturing that wonderful, skilled, hot mouth of his.

  He took care of the rest. Those lean arms closed around her and his body pressed close. And his mouth…

  With a small, lost cry of surrender, Liv wrapped her arms around his neck.

  His tongue entered quickly, sliding along the top of hers, pushing all the way in, then slowly, teasingly retreating.

  No way could she stop her own tongue from following, into the hot, wet cave beyond his lips. His teeth closed, lightly, and her tongue was captive. And then there was his tongue again, slipping beneath hers in a liquid, oh-so-lovely caress.

  Oh, how did he do it? When Finn Danelaw kissed her, she went spinning, deliciously, out of control. His hands moved, pressing, rubbing, down over the curve of her bottom, and back up, insinuating themselves under the hem of her gauzy blouse, so he could rub and stroke her up and down her spine. Her skin burned and tingled everywhere that he touched. His mouth held hers captive as his tongue worked its hot magic. One hand curved possessively at her waist while the other was slipping around to the front of her, then moving, oh-so-slowly down…

  And down…

  And if they kept on like this, they'd end up stretched out naked on her mother's driveway. Uh-uh.

  From some source of good sense she'd almost forgotten she possessed, she slid her palms down to his chest and exerted a light but definite pressure.

  After a moment, with obvious reluctance, he lifted his head. She saw the white flash of his teeth in the darkness. "Change your mind?"

  What mind? "About?"

  "Allowing me to come home with you."

  She sucked in a calming breath, let it out very carefully and shook her head.

  He looked at her for a long moment. Finally he asked with rueful good humor, "That wasn't a no, was it?"

  "It was."

  "How discouraging."

  "But tomorrow night—"

  His teeth flashed again. "At last."

  "You didn't let me finish." Her lips felt swollen, tender. Hot. She had to resist the urge to raise a hand and touch them. "I was going to say we'd go to dinner, if you'd like."

  "Dinner." It clearly was not what he'd had in mind.

  "Yes, dinner. We'll talk. We'll … enjoy each other's company."

  "I'm all for enjoyment, in any form."

  "It's a date, then—say seven-thirty, my house?"

  "I'll be there."

  She felt his heart beating under her hand. And it was crazy, but she could have stood there forever, with Finn, in her mother's driveway, surrounded by warm summer darkness, beneath the old oak tree. "I … well, I guess there are things to be said for relentless pursuit."

  He caught one of her hands and kissed the tops of her knuckles, causing them to tingle in a heady, lovely way. "I assure you, my darling, I have only begun to assail the walls around your stubborn heart."

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  « ^ »

  Liv's cell phone rang as she was pulling in beneath the carport at the back of her borrowed house on T Street

  . She dug the thing out of her purse and flipped it open.

  The number in the display was to Simon's cell.

  For a moment of which she was not the least bit proud, she considered not answering. Then, thoroughly disgusted with herself, she pushed the talk button and put the phone to her ear.

  "Liv?"

  "Hi."

  "At last, I caught you." He sounded … she couldn't tell. Worried? Suspicious? Maybe he had read about her and Finn in the tabloids.

  "Liv? Are you there?"

  "Right here. And it's been pretty crazy, since I got back. I should have called you, I know, but I…" She what? There was no excuse for not having called him. She finished lamely, "Well, it's been such a zoo…"

  "Where are you now?"

  "I just got home—to the T Street

  house?" She pressed her fingers to her lips. It seemed as if she could still feel the hot pressure of Finn's mouth there. Fifteen minutes ago, in her mother's driveway, with Finn's arms around her, she'd felt pretty good about everything. She was finally taking charge, dealing with the mess she'd made in a way that everyone involved—meaning herself and her family and Finn and the baby that might or might not be coming—could accept.

  Simon hadn't figured in the equation. She hadn't so much as considered him. Which made her feel like something very low—a snail, a slug—something that crawls along the ground and leaves a slime trail.

  "Liv, are you all right?"

  "Fine. Really. And where has the future senator dragged you off to this week?"

  "Right here," he said, and again named the hotel he'd mentioned in his phone message yesterday. "Remember, the rally today?"

  "Oh. Yes. The rally. Of course." The one she'd promised to attend. "I'm sorry, Simon. As I said, it's just been—"

  "Never mind," he said glumly. "It's okay."

  They both knew it wasn't. She asked, too brightly, "How did it go?"

  "Great."

  "Well. Hey. Okay."

  "We're leaving for Salinas tomorrow. He's got a speech Wednesday, the UFW branch there. I was hoping, maybe, I could see you tonight."

  "Ah," she said, as if that were an answer.

  He asked nervously, "Where have you been, anyway?"

  "Dinner. At Mom's." It was the truth, just not all of it. Oh, she despised herself more by the minute.

  "Well," he said, all glumness again. "It is late. I'm sure you're tired."

  No more excuses, she lectured herself. She had to stop putting this off. "Why don't you come over."

  "Right now?"

  "Yes."

  "Good," he said, suddenly firm. "I think I should. I think we need to talk
."

  * * *

  Simon appeared at the door ten minutes later. Liv saw the paper rolled in his fist and knew he'd been reading about her supposed engagement to Finn.

  "The World Tattler," he said, and tried to smile. "Hot off the presses."

  The World Tattler was jam-packed with photos of her and Finn at the airport yesterday. The story included the obligatory rehash of the old, sad tale of how her mother, an American heiress of Gullandrian descent, had traveled to the land of her forefathers and met Osrik Thorson, the soon-to-be king. After a whirlwind fairy-tale courtship, they'd wed; she'd borne him five children—two sons and triplet daughters—and then left him, taking the three tiny princesses to raise as Americans. The deaths of Liv's brothers received mention under the heading, Tragedy Upon Tragedy. And then there was the bit about Elli and Hauk: The Princess And Her Warrior Groom.

  And last but not least, the intrepid Tattler staff had managed to dig up a few pictures of Finn escorting past girlfriends. The caption read, Former Flames Of The Playboy Prince. Liv couldn't help noting that the women were all gorgeous, much better looking than she. One was a fairly well known Danish actress with absolutely spectacular breasts. All the women seemed to glow from within, as if they'd found true love at last.

  "Charming," Liv said with a scowl.

  "Liv, what is going on?" Simon looked at her as if she'd stabbed him to the heart. "Are you marrying this guy?"

  "No."

  "But—"

  "Simon."

  "Yes?" He looked at her desperately, longing for her to explain.

  There was nothing to explain. In fact, there was only one thing to say. "I'm sorry, Simon. I've behaved badly. Things are … suddenly all turned around in my life. I asked you here to tell you I won't be seeing you anymore."

  "You mean you're in love with this guy?"

  "No." She said it far too quickly, as if she had to deny it to herself, which was crazy. Of course, she wasn't in love with Finn. She was … kind of nuts about him, okay. A little bit out of her head when he was around. It was purely physical, and she was ashamed to admit her own—oh, what to call it—her purely sexual weakness? But as to her heart? It wasn't involved.

  Simon was still sitting there, waiting for her to make it all clear to him. She tried again. "I mean … oh, Simon. You and I, well, we never had any real commitment. We just shared a sort of unspoken understanding. And I've realized in the last few days that I can't, um, share that with you anymore."

  Simon was crushed.

  He swore, whatever she'd done, it didn't matter. He didn't own her—but they were so close. They had so much they shared. They'd both dedicated their lives to working for positive political change. She couldn't really be thinking about marrying the playboy prince, could she? Wouldn't she please reconsider? He didn't want to lose her…

  Liv only kept repeating, "Oh, Simon. I'm so sorry, Simon. But I can't see you anymore…"

  Finally he said goodbye, looking dazed and beaten, leaving her feeling as if she'd just spent forty-five minutes or so torturing a small, defenseless animal.

  The next day, guilt over what she'd done to poor Simon, and a worrisome combination of dread and anticipation at the thought of seeing Finn again that evening, made it hard to concentrate on filing and word processing and on the law books opened in front of her with their endless columns of tiny print. The attorney general himself came by her desk and asked her a question. She jumped and blinked and said, "Huh?" like some idiot with no background, who had no idea at all of how to handle herself.

  Her life was in shambles. She'd broken poor Simon's honest, steadfast heart. She might or might not be having the baby of a man who'd made love with hundreds of gorgeous, willing, large-breasted women. Her mother and her father and her sister all believed there was a baby coming. And her mother and her father thought she ought to marry the seductive stranger who'd supposedly impregnated her.

  And whenever she wasn't thinking about the abject awfulness of her situation, she would find herself wandering off into misty, lustful daydreams in which she did with Finn the very things that had gotten her into this predicament in the first place.

  Strangely, her memories of Midsummer's Eve, the ones she'd thought lost in a haze of too much ale, seemed to be slowly coming back to her. She remembered lying naked in the clearing, both of them on their sides, her leg slung over his lean hip. He was inside her, but they weren't moving.

  Well, except for their hands and their mouths. They lay there, joined, and kissed and kissed and kissed some more. She combed his silky hair with her fingers, and he stroked her—long, slow caresses, his hand sliding over her shoulder, down her arm, into the curve of her waist, up over the cocked slope of her lifted hip, along her thigh…

  His finger trailed inward, following the shadowed place where her thigh met the cradle of her hips, now and then pausing to pet the dark blond curls there. And then, as she started moaning low in her throat, he'd touched her cleft, his finger trailing in, finding the center of her pleasure within the slick folds and—

  "Liv, are you sick?" one of the clerks asked.

  She blinked and sat up straight and announced, "Oh, no. Just fine. Just terrific. Really."

  "Just wondered. You look kind of dazed, you know? Staring into space with your mouth hanging open."

  At the water cooler, two of the secretaries who'd been whispering gleefully to each other fell instantly silent when she approached. And she found a copy of The World Tattler in the break room.

  It was absolutely awful. She thought that day would never end. She was never in her life so grateful to see five o'clock come around.

  * * *

  The bell rang right at seven. She marched down the stairs and yanked open the door.

  In a soft short-sleeved gray silk shirt and black slacks, Finn stood there looking ready for anything. Oh, come on now, did any man have a right to be so sexy?

  "Well," she said sourly, "if it isn't the Playboy Prince."

  He made a tsking sound. "Don't tell me. You've been reading The World Tattler. Darling Liv, I know you've got better things to do with your time."

  "I had," she announced, "a very bad day." He stepped forward. She stepped back. He reached behind him, caught the door and pushed it shut. "Why don't you come on in?" she scoffed.

  "Thanks, I will." He looked around the old-fashioned foyer with its cabbage-rose wallpaper and mahogany wainscoting. "Charming little place." And then he looked right at her. "You'll get wrinkles, scowling all the time like that."

  "My life is just not turning out the way I planned." She knew she sounded petulant and spoiled, and right at that moment, she didn't even care.

  She looked down. He'd done it again. Without her even realizing it was happening, his hand was wrapped around hers. It felt very good—warm and strong. Reassuring. Encompassing.

  She glared up at him. "Did I give you my hand?"

  His mouth curved lazily. "I took it."

  She knew she should yank it away or demand he give it back. But what good would that do? He'd only capture it again. He'd keep capturing it and capturing it until she finally gave in and let him have it.

  Might as well just cut to the chase and let him have it now.

  He said, "You need a drink."

  "I'll never drink again, and besides, what if I am pregnant? It wouldn't be good for the baby."

  "Ah. You may be right. But do you have whiskey?"

  "Yeah. On the sideboard in the dining room."

  "May I have some?"

  She grumbled her answer. "Oh, I suppose."

  "Which way?"

  "Let go of my hand and I'll show you."

  "Never. Lead the way."

  So she took him through the sitting room into the dining room and showed him the crystal carafe half-full of amber liquid. He poured two finger's worth into a short glass with his free hand.

  "Your dexterity amazes me," she remarked as he sipped.

  "Yes. It's true I have always been … g
ood with my hands." He tipped his glass at her. "To my favorite princess." He sipped again, then raised her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it, causing the usual heated thrill to shimmer through her. "Come. Let's sit down for a moment." He pulled her to the settee in the sitting room, sat and dragged her down beside him. "Now." He released her hand and sat back. "Tell me all."

  "All?"

  "Your terrible day. What is it that has you growling and scowling?"

  "You don't want to know."

  "Liv darling, trust me. If I don't want to know, I won't ask."

  She muttered, "They're whispering about me at the water cooler."

  "This water cooler, I take it, is in the Attorney General's Office where you work?"

  "Exactly."

  "Ah. And you've never been whispered about before?"

  "Oh, of course I have. But only by extension."

  He frowned. "By extension?"

  "Well, I mean, because I'm a princess. Because my mother is the Runaway Gullandrian Queen. All that old garbage. Never before because of…" She didn't know quite how to put it.

  He did. "Something you did yourself?"

  "But I didn't."

  He only looked at her.

  "Okay, I did do … something I shouldn't have. But nobody knows about that—I mean, outside of you and my father and Prince Medwyn." He was looking at her sideways. She made an impatient sound in her throat. "All right. And my mother and my sister and a nosy Gullandrian maid—oh, and don't look at me like that. You're right, I know. Since that many people know, it wouldn't be surprising if there were others. But what we did on Midsummer's Eve didn't make the tabloids. Our supposed engagement did. I know my father planted that story, that he had all those reporters waiting for us at the airport Sunday night. I hate reading lies about myself, and knowing my father perpetrated those lies makes it all the worse."

  Finn set his empty glass on the coffee table in front of them. Then he looked at her again, an odd sort of look this time, one that made her wonder what he might be up to. Finally he asked, "Why would he do that? What would it get him?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he did it for spite."

  "I have served your father most of my life. His Majesty does nothing for spite. He will go far, it's true, to get what he wants. He's made it very clear he wants you to marry me. The question is, how would his lying about it to the press help him accomplish that goal? As far as I can see, it only made you more angry and unwilling, created more barriers for me to break down."