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‘‘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?’’
