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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…good 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.’’

‘‘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 him. 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….’’