Prince and...Future Dad Page 9

  "He didn't know that when he leaked the story."

  "Liv. He's not a fool. He's spent enough time with you to see you're not a woman to roll over and play dead when you're crossed."

  Liv thought about that one for a moment, then admitted, "All right. You may have a point."

  "What's that I hear? An actual concession?"

  "Don't expect a lot of them—and maybe he did it to … scare someone away."

  Finn rose, carried his glass to the sideboard and poured another drink. He didn't speak until he'd returned to the sitting area and taken the space beside her again. "Someone like…?"

  She thought of poor Simon, looking at her with those big, lost puppy-dog eyes. Oh, why was she telling Finn this? It didn't seem right, somehow.

  "Liv," he said softly. "Tell me. Now." Beneath the velvet of his voice, there lay a hint of steel.

  "You have no right to—"

  "Tell me." He had her hand again. His grip was gentle, but she knew if she tried to shake him off, she wouldn't succeed. There was, she kept discovering, more to the playboy prince than met the eye.

  "Simon." She said the name grudgingly. "Simon Graves. I think I mentioned him to you before, didn't I? He's a law student at Stanford. Third year. We've been … together, for about eighteen months."

  "And you think your father…"

  "Maybe he wanted Simon out of the picture. Maybe he thought a big tabloid spread about you, me and wedding bells would do it."

  "Well, did it work? Is Simon 'out of the picture'?"

  She saw what was going on, then. "It was you, wasn't it? You planted the story."

  He gave her the laziest one-shoulder shrug. "Well, yes. I did."

  "To get Simon 'out of the picture.'"

  "Guilty as charged—and did it work?"

  She realized she wasn't as angry as she probably should have been. Breaking it off with Simon was something she had needed to do. Finn's lie to the tabloids had only forced her to do it sooner rather than later.

  "Yes," she confessed, "it worked."

  He waited, looking at her steadily.

  "What?" she demanded.

  "Tell me more."

  "Such as?"

  He shrugged again—a lift and drop of that one shoulder. It seemed, on the surface, a casual movement. "Was Simon Graves your lover?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Do you love him?"

  "Of course, I love him." She said it automatically. With a total lack of ardor that told volumes more than she'd intended to reveal.

  Finn didn't move, but a certain edge of coiled intensity seemed to drain from him. "Ah. That kind of love."

  She jerked her hand free. "I care for Simon. A lot."

  "And was he your lover?"

  "Didn't I just not answer that question a minute ago?"

  "Was he?"

  Liv wanted to grab his drink from where he'd set it on the table and toss it in his face. She restrained herself and spoke with measured care. "Why don't we talk about a few of your old girlfriends? That Danish actress, for instance, the one whose picture they ran in the Tattler? Or the lady I saw you dancing with that first night at my father's court? Or … any woman. Pick a woman. I know there have been plenty."

  Finn didn't answer immediately. They enjoyed a mini stare-down. Finally he nodded. "Point taken."

  She relaxed a little. "Well, okay."

  After a moment he volunteered levelly, "There's no one now. No one but you."

  Ha. "Since Sunday, anyway."

  He grinned. "That's right."

  And maybe, she decided, Finn did deserve to hear a few specifics about what had happened last night between her and Simon. She volunteered, only a little bit reluctantly, "As far as Simon and me, he came to see me last night. He'd read the Tattler article. He was upset. I told him that I wouldn't be seeing him anymore. And I sent him away."

  Something flared in Finn's incredible eyes. "You do believe you're pregnant, then."

  "No. I don't. My symptoms the other night could far too easily be nothing more than a psychosomatic reaction based on a family superstition."

  "A psychosomatic reaction that you experienced because…?"

  "I was absolutely disgusted with myself."

  "For making love with me, you mean?"

  She winced.

  Finn laughed. "I think I heard somewhere that you plan to go into politics."

  She admitted ruefully, "Okay, okay. I need to work on my diplomacy a little."

  "It's a thought—and back to Simon."

  "Do we have to?"

  "Yes. If you don't believe you're pregnant, then why did you break it off with him?"

  "Because you're right about one thing. What I felt for Simon was that kind of love. And what I did with you the other night has made me see that Simon really isn't the man for me any more than I'm the woman for him."

  There was a long, quite beautiful moment. He regarded her steadily. She didn't look away.

  Then he took his glass from the table and raised it in her direction once more. "Well said."

  Liv nodded graciously.

  Finn drank. "Another question."

  "Why stop now?"

  "Given that you don't believe you're pregnant, why am I here, in your sitting room?"

  "Because I'm willing to admit I might be pregnant. And if I am, I realize I will have to deal with you."

  "You certainly will."

  "Don't be overbearing. I said that I would."

  "I seek clarity only, my love."

  "Right. And since when did I become your love?"

  "Since the moment I first saw you."

  "If you think I believe that, maybe you have a bridge you can sell me."

  He frowned for a moment, then his fine brow smoothed out. "Ah. One of your clever Americanisms." He brought the hand he was forever capturing to his mouth. Her skin tingled deliciously at the touch of his lips. "You could marry me now…"

  "I could climb Mount Everest. Go skydiving. Jump off the Empire State Building."

  "Meaning?"

  She pulled her hand free for about the hundredth time. "Just because I can do something doesn't mean I will."

  * * *

  They walked to a restaurant not far from the house, shared a leisurely meal, then strolled back together.

  They'd taken perhaps ten steps along the sidewalk when Finn's hand closed over hers. Liv didn't remark on it or try to pull away.

  By then, it was a little after nine and night had fallen. The streetlamps made warm pools of light on the sidewalks and the sycamores and maples rustled softly in a gentle breeze. The Sacramento summer, so far, had been a mild one. The nights, as yet, were balmy. Perfect for an evening stroll.

  They went up the wide stone steps to the inviting wooden porch where a swing, suspended from the eaves, swayed slightly, as if an invisible occupant had just jumped up to greet them.

  They sat down and swung idly back and forth.

  "A porch swing is so American," Finn said. "Always, in your American movies, the young lovers sit out in them, on nights like this." He raised his left arm and laid it along the back of the swing, behind her. "Casually, the young quarterback puts his arm in position."

  She sent him a look. "Quarterback?"

  "Always, in your American movies, the young lover is a quarterback. He scores the winning touchdown for the home team. And then later, he sits out on the front porch in the swing with his girl—a front porch very much like this one, a swing no different than the one we're sitting in now. And he prepares to score in another deeper, more intimate way."

  "Which movie, specifically, are we talking about here?"

  "Wait." He put up his right hand. "Look over there." He pointed toward the rosebush twining over the thick stone porch rail. She strained to see, and his other arm settled across her shoulder.

  She turned to him again. "Smooth."

  He pulled her closer. "I'll wager you know what comes next."

  She breathed in the scent of h
im. So tempting.

  Oh, what could be the harm in a kiss?

  Or two.

  She whispered, "Show me." The swing moved gently back and forth, back and forth. Liv tipped her head up, offering her mouth.

  He wasted no time in taking it.

  They sat on that swing for over an hour, swaying and kissing, whispering together. He said he'd never gone to a school until he was a young man and attended University at Oslo. "I lived at Balmarran. There were tutors, excellent ones."

  "How old were you, when your mother died?"

  "Twelve."

  "And thirteen, when you lost your father?" He made a noise in the affirmative. "Tough times, huh?"

  "Don't forget, I had my baby sister to keep me company. Wretched child. She cried for two years without stopping, or at least, it seemed that way to me."

  "You adore her."

  "I never said that."

  "You didn't have to. I can tell by your voice when you talk about her."

  "My grandfather is still strong and healthy at seventy-eight. But Eveline will drive him to his grave. Of late, since her attraction to the groundskeeper's boy began to pall, she speaks of running off to the wilds beyond the Black Mountains, to become a kvina soldar."

  "Kvina soldar? Woman warrior, right?"

  "Very good. I'll make a Gullandrian of you yet."

  "Never. I'm American to the core."

  "We'll see about that."

  "I can hardly be governor of California if I'm living in Gullandria."

  "Ah. You're willing to discuss where we're going to live."

  "What's to discuss? I'll live here. You'll live there."

  "Hardly my idea of a marriage."

  "But Finn, I'm not going to—"

  "Shh." He laid a finger against her mouth. And then that finger lightly brushed over her cheek and into her hair. He cupped the back of her head, brought his lips so close to hers…

  How could she resist? She gave him her mouth and he gave her another of those lovely, deep, wet, lingering kisses. The swing softly swayed. The crickets sang in the grass.

  Sometime later, she rested her head on his shoulder and whispered, "When my sisters and I were little, on nights like this, we'd take our sleeping bags out to the backyard, roll them out on the grass and spend the night under the stars. We'd pick out the constellations and tell each other scary stories. Even at the age of seven or eight, Brit could tell a scary story with the best of them. More than once, she had me so terrified I would have given just about anything to wiggle out of my sleeping bag and run for the safety of the house."

  He nuzzled a kiss into her hair. "But of course, you couldn't."

  She pulled back a fraction so she could look at him. "How did you know that?"

  "You would want no one—not even your sisters—to see your fear. They might think you weak. You despise weakness in yourself, though I'd guess you would be willing to tolerate it, to an extent anyway, in those that you love."

  He had it exactly right. She smiled at him through the darkness. Then, with a sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder once more.

  * * *

  "I have to go in," she said a long time later.

  He caught her chin, guided it up and brushed another kiss across her mouth. "I'll come in with you…"

  "It's tempting. Very tempting."

  "So why resist?"

  A few hours ago, she would have had an instant answer to that one. Now she was finding herself perilously close to agreeing with him.

  They were both adults, both—since she had said goodbye to poor Simon—unencumbered by other commitments. And they wouldn't be doing anything they hadn't done before.

  But she whispered, "No," anyway. Tenderly. With regret.

  * * *

  The next day, as Finn sat in the office room at Ingrid's house, checking his stocks and speaking with a London broker he often used, the other line blinked red.

  He looked at the display and recognized the number. "I'll ring you back," he said to the broker. He punched the second line. "Your Majesty. I am honored."

  "How goes it?"

  Finn sat back in his chair and stared, unseeing, at the columns of figures on his computer screen. He thought of the night before, of all the lingering, maddening kisses. Of how, in the end, Liv had sent him away. "She's an amazing woman, your daughter."

  The king grunted. "She has yet to say yes."

  "That's correct."

  "The World Tattler says otherwise."

  Finn chuckled. "Sadly, the Tattler's sources are often untrustworthy."

  "My sources tell me my daughter is … softening."

  "Softening." Finn pondered the word. "Yes, sire. I think I can safely claim that to be so."

  "We have reason then, to be optimistic?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. I believe we do…"

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  That evening Liv and Finn went to the movies. The night after that, they ordered in. Friday, they went to a play in the park. And Saturday, they rode up into the foothills. Finn drove. He kept the music up way too loud. And he made jokes about that extra brake pedal she appeared to have on her side of the car.

  Liv found Nevada City as charming as ever, with its adorable Victorians in close rows, the slopes of the hills blanketed in tall evergreen and the oaks and maples thick with their summer leaves. They wandered the steep streets of downtown, window-shopping, stopping to look inside when a particular store caught their fancy. Later they shared a picnic in Pioneer Park.

  It was after dark when they got back to the T Street

  house. Finn came in for a couple of hours.

  They watched a movie, a bowl of popcorn on the couch between them, losing track of the story as they kept bending across the bowl to enjoy an endless string of lovely, salty kisses. Somehow, though, she managed to send him away before bedtime.

  It wasn't easy, keeping Finn out of her bed. He was so very skilled at tempting her to let him in. Liv spent more time than she would ever admit dreaming about doing with him what she kept insisting they weren't going to do. Mostly, she was able to confine her dreams to the appropriate situations: mornings, over a cup of herb tea; when she was in Finn's arms—and at night, after she sent him away.

  Happily, fantasies of making love with Finn brought only pleasure now. They didn't torture her in daylight, or keep her awake too long at night. She was sleeping well and she was pulling her weight at work again, word processing with the best of them, answering phones with cheer and efficiency, ready and willing to "gofer" whatever needed getting.

  On Monday, she saw the new issue of The World Tattler on the table in the break room. She couldn't resist thumbing through it.

  She and Finn didn't rate their own article in that one. Just a couple of snapshots in a spread titled Young Royals In Love. There was a shot of them walking up Commercial Street in Nevada City, hand in hand, their heads turned toward each other, both of them grinning. And another of them sitting close together at the Land Park amphitheater, eyes forward, focused on the play.

  It wasn't so bad, really. At least they'd only been caught during their more … public moments. She didn't find a single shot of them locked in a torrid embrace on her front porch swing or anything.

  And besides, wasn't it something she'd have to get used to—reporters trailing her, asking questions, taking pictures? She planned, after all, a very public kind of life for herself.

  "Lookin' good, there, Liv." It was one of the file clerks, peering over her shoulder.

  Liv only smiled. "Hey, thanks, Orinda."

  * * *

  In his office room, Finn picked up the phone. "Your Majesty. I trust you are well."

  "I didn't call to speak of my health. My sources tell me you're with my daughter constantly."

  Finn turned in his swivel chair and looked out the window at a lush-leaved oak in his hostess's backyard. "Your sources have it right."

  There was a silence. Then the ki
ng prompted, "Well?"

  "My lord, progress is slower than I would wish."

  "I'm told you always leave her house well before morning light."

  "Your men are most impressively observant."

  "Take her to bed. A woman is always more easily led after thorough pleasuring."

  "Excellent advice, my lord."

  "Have you taken her to bed as of yet?"

  "Your Majesty, we wouldn't be in this predicament had I not."

  "Don't toy with me, Finn."

  "My liege, there are some things a man hesitates to discuss, even with his king."

  Again the line was silent, except for the faint crackle of static. Finally the king said, "Perhaps you have a point."

  "Thank you, Your Majesty."

  "I want to know immediately when she says yes."

  "And you shall."

  "And Finn?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty?"

  "Remember the words of Odin himself. 'The hearts of women were fashioned on a spinning wheel.' Those of the fairer sex are by nature capricious. Don't allow her forever to make up her mind. She will take eternity—and then demand another day."

  * * *

  "Marry me," Finn said that night. They were sitting in the porch swing. Swaying. Kissing. "Oh, Finn."

  He captured her chin. "Tell me that means yes."

  She wrapped her hand around his wrist and held on. They stared at each other as the crickets sang and a siren started low in the distance, the sound swelling until it passed a few blocks away and then fading off into the summer night.

  He asked, "When you know you're pregnant, will you marry me then?"

  "I … don't know."

  He let go. For a moment, she thought he was angry. And then, very slowly, he smiled. "A week ago, you would have said absolutely not."

  He was right. But that didn't mean she could ever, realistically, say yes. She knew that the future she planned for herself could still be made to happen, even if she was pregnant and had her baby without benefit of marriage. Single motherhood, in America, was becoming, more and more, an acceptable way to raise children. In a decade or two, she felt certain, single mothers would be running for Congress.