PREGNANT!

Prince and Future…Dad?

CHRISTINE RIMMER

Expecting!

SUSAN MALLERY

Millionaire Cop & Mum-To-Be

CHARLOTTE HUGHES

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Prince and
Future…Dad?

CHRISTINE

RIMMER

CHRISTINE RIMMER

Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been an actress, a sales clerk, a caretaker, a model, a phone sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma, USA.

Writing this story reaffirmed my joy in those two

most basic and important of female connections:

with our sisters and with our mums.

So this one’s for my own sister, BJ Jordan,

and my dear mum, Auralee Smith.

Chapter One

Princess Liv Thorson woke nose to nose with a sheep.

Karavik, Liv thought woozily. The Gullandrian sheep are called karavik….

Since she’d arrived in her father’s country six days before, Liv had trotted along obediently on several highly informational tours. As a result, she’d seen a large number of karavik—always from a distance, though.

The karavik, up close and very personal, said what any regular American sheep might say: ‘‘Baaaa.’’ Its nose was damp.

‘‘Yuck.’’ Liv jerked away. Her naked back met another naked back. Her bare foot brushed a hairy leg.

She frowned. For the moment, she decided, she wouldn’t think about that other naked back. Or that hairy leg.

The sheep, spooked, had already turned to trot off. It had a fat, fuzzy tail. Liv stared at that tail until the morning mist and the thick green trees enveloped it.

Her mouth tasted foul. She was lying on her left side on a bed of cool, damp grass. The idea of sitting up—of so much as lifting her pounding head—made her already queasy stomach roll. She shivered. The small clearing where she lay was protected somewhat by the thick circle of surrounding trees. Still it was chilly. Especially since she wasn’t wearing any clothes.

She ought to get dressed.

But to do that, she would have to move, to sit up.

Uh-uh. Sitting up went in the not right this minute category.

Squinting through the lushly green blades of grass in front of her face, Liv pondered the question of how she’d gotten herself into this mess.

It had all started last night. Beyond being Midsummer’s Eve—a major event in the island state of Gullandria—last night was the night her sister Elli married Hauk Wyborn.

Liv licked her dry lips and wished that little man inside her head with the hammer would give up and get lost.

But back to last night.

Back to Elli and Hauk.

Liv wasn’t sure she approved of the marriage. Yes, it was true they adored each other, Elli and Hauk. But what did they have in common, really—a kindergarten teacher from Sacramento and a huge, be-muscled Gullandrian warrior?

Liv brushed impatiently at a blade of grass that was tickling her nose. Those Gullandrians. They didn’t fool her. The tour guides loved to point at the spires of the local churches and call themselves Lutherans, but everyone knew better. Okay, it had been eight or nine hundred years since the last Gullandrian raider had kissed the wife goodbye and set off in his swift, sleek Viking ship to do a little raping and pillaging along the coasts of England and France. But every Gullandrian knew the Norse myths. They lived by them, really. They were Vikings at heart.

And on Midsummer’s Eve, they threw one hell of a par-tay.

Liv groaned softly.

Actually, much of last night was a blur. There had been a lot of that tasty, slightly sweet Gullandrian ale, hadn’t there? She really shouldn’t have drunk quite so much of it.

She remembered….

Laughter. And lots of raw jokes at the bedding of the bridal pair.

Hauk had gotten fed up with them—all the young, unmarried men and women—and ordered them out. So Liv and the rest of them had raced down the back stairs and through the gardens and out to the open parkland where, in honor of the occasion, Liv’s father, the king, had ordered a Viking ship set ablaze.

She had danced, hadn’t she?

Oh, yes, she had. Danced drunkenly right along with everyone else, laughing and singing as she pranced around the ship’s blazing hull.

But after that, well, it all got pretty fuzzy.

She was shivering steadily now. She wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to warm up a little.

Seven or eight feet away—maybe halfway to the trees—she could see a swatch of midnight-blue silk. Her bra. Past the bra, nearer the trees, lay the long, glimmery peacock-blue skirt of the terrific two-piece crushed velvet dress she’d been wearing. Where were the rest of her clothes?

Oh, really. How could she have allowed herself to get so out of control? What could have gotten into her?

Beyond too much ale, the answer to that one lay behind her. Carefully, still shivering, stifling a groan at the way her head pounded and her stomach rebelled, she rolled over.

And there he was: Prince Finn Danelaw.

Oh, God. She did remember.

She’d kissed him in the shadows of the trees. And he had led her here, to this lovely, cozy private spot. The grass had shone golden in the faint endless twilight of Gullandrian Midsummer’s Eve. He’d undressed her and she’d undressed him and…

Liv turned back to her other side, dropped to the grass again, closed her eyes and stifled a long, self-pitying moan.

This was so not her. She was a second-year law student at Stanford, top of her class. Hardheaded and take-charge and always a model of self-control.

A princess? Well, all right, yes. By birth. But not by inclination. At heart, in her soul, Liv Thorson was American. Capital A. And she had plans for herself. Big ones.

By the age of forty, she’d be a senator, at least. Or maybe she’d end up taking a seat on the Supreme Court. She could never be president because she hadn’t been born in the U.S.A. But nobody ever got anywhere by not thinking big. Her prospects were better than most.

Which was why her current situation was so… disappointing.

A woman who dreamed of being on the Supreme Court one day did not have sex in fields. She did not have sex with men she’d known for less than a week. And she certainly did not have sex with men like Finn, who was charming, heartbreaker handsome and nothing short of legendary when it came to his exploits with women.

Slowly, carefully, ignoring her roiling stomach and her spinning head, Liv propped herself up on her forearms and looked at him again.

He was turned away from her, his beautiful, leanly muscled back curved to a bow, his hard, long legs drawn up against the morning chill. He remained—as far as she could tell—sound asleep. His hair, rich brown shot here and there with hints of gold, curled a little at his nape.

Even as her stomach lurched and her face flamed, Liv had to stop herself from reaching out. Her fingers itched to touch that silky hair, to trace the vulnerable bumps of his spine. He really was one gorgeous hunk of man. And last night—at least what she could remember of it—had been absolutely splendid.

She let her head drop to the grass again, shut her eyes and stifled another moan. Oh, how could she?

Liv wasn’t married. She wasn’t even engaged. But she and Simon Graves, a fellow student from back home in California, were more or less a steady couple. And even if she’d been completely free, well, Prince Finn was a player, for heaven’s sake. The man was incredibly charming. All the available—and some of the not so available—women in her father’s court adored him. They vied for his attention. He had his pick of them and he did his best to satisfy them all.

Never—ever—would she have imagined she’d wake up one morning and discover she’d become a notch just like all the other notches in some player’s bedpost. She was seriously disappointed in herself.

She was also outta here.

Now.

With bleak determination, Liv braced her hands against the grass and pushed. That brought her to all fours. It also caused her stomach to do something distinctly unpleasant—a lurch, followed immediately by a long, awful roll. She found the sensation not the least reassuring. And she didn’t even want to think about what might happen once she was fully on her feet.

But it couldn’t be helped. She was standing up and she was doing it now.

With a muffled groan, she lunged upright. For a minute, she swayed there, certain she was going to spew the contents of her stomach all over the dewy grass and the gorgeous naked man at her feet.

Somehow, she held it in.

Her clothes—and his—were strewn around the clearing. She had to swallow more than once to keep from hurling, but somehow she managed to lurch around from garment to garment, disentangling her soggy things from his.

She located everything—well, except for her shoes and her panties. The shoes, she remembered now, had been left behind long before Finn led her to the clearing—back there while she was dancing around the burning ship. As for the panties, well, she just didn’t care to consider what might have happened to them.

She made herself get dressed, more or less. Everything was limp and damp and hard to manage, and wooziness left over from all that ale she’d drunk didn’t help matters any. Right away, she gave up on her bra and the clingy calf-length half-slip that went under the skirt. She just put on the two damp halves of the dress, smoothed them as best she could and carried the rest in a wad in one fist. She did not look back as she headed for the trees.

Her father’s palace—unlike her panties—was easy to find. Isenhalla loomed several stories tall, a marvel of gleaming gray slate, with a fairy tale’s worth of turrets and ramparts, towers and widow’s walks. It rose majestically over the parkland where the revels of the night before had taken place, the red-and-black Gullandrian flag flying proudly from the tallest spire.

Liv walked fast, through the thick copse of trees that ringed the clearing, out into a broad, sloping meadow where the ashes of the burned-out ship still smoldered. She kept her head down and her feet moving and managed to avoid contact, verbal or otherwise, with the few leftover revelers sprawled here and there on the grass.

Beyond the grass were high topiary hedges, broken at intervals for access to the gardens. Head hammering and stomach churning, Liv pushed on through the gardens, ignoring the way the pebbled paths abused her poor feet.

By blind luck, she ended up at the same narrow back palace entrance the bridal party had come down the night before. Miraculously, the door had not been locked. She slipped through, padded down a short, dim hallway and then began climbing the narrow flights of stairs.

At the third floor, she pushed open the landing door. She went down a narrow hallway to another door. Through it was a main hallway—a wide one with an arched, intricately carved ceiling and a beautiful marble floor. A thick Turkish runner led off in both directions.

Liv went left. It wasn’t far—maybe a hundred feet—to the tall, carved double doors of the suite she shared with her ‘‘baby’’ sister, Brit—they were fraternal triplets, Liv, Elli and Brit. Liv was the oldest, Brit the youngest.

The doors, as per usual, were guarded.

Liv had hoped against hope that the pair of Gullandrian soldiers, beautifully rigged out in the dress uniforms of the palace guard, would for once have taken the morning off. But there they were, resplendent and impassive, as always. Liv tried her best to look dignified as she approached them, an effort severely hindered by her soggy dress, her battered, dirty bare feet and the wad of limp underwear she clutched in her fist.

Not that they said anything. The guards never said anything. They stared straight ahead, their handsome, square-jawed Nordic faces about as readable to her as runes. In unison, white-gloved fists hit proud, broad chests. As one, they each took an equal sideways step toward each other. Each grabbed a handle of one of the doors. Smoothly they pulled the doors wide.

Liv walked through with her shoulders back and her head high. Not until she heard the doors click shut behind her did she allow herself to droop a little.

The suite was huge. The marble-floored antechamber opened into a massive drawing room done in rich damask and heavy silk, with lots of gilded intricately carved tables and an ornate fireplace rigged, by way of a beautiful wrought-iron insert, to burn gas.

Liv kept walking. She walked through the entry hall and the drawing room, down a hallway, right past her own bedroom to Brit’s room. The door was shut. She grasped the gilded door handle. Not locked, it turned.

Just as she was about to push the door inward, Liv became aware of movement to her right. It was the chambermaid. For their stay in Gullandria, Liv and Brit shared a maid to take care of their rooms and their clothes and a cook who inhabited the small galley off the private living area to one side of the drawing room. The maid was young—eighteen or nineteen, max—and way too thin, with big, slightly protruding eyes in a wan, pointy face. She wore soft-soled shoes, so you couldn’t hear her coming. It seemed to Liv she was forever popping up out of nowhere, startling her and Brit when they thought themselves alone. Right now, the girl hovered in the open doorway to Liv’s own room.

‘‘What?’’ Liv demanded in a distinctly crabby tone.

The pale, pointy face seemed to get paler and pointier still. ‘‘Highness, forgive me. Just tidying up—are you all right, Highness?’’

‘‘Never better,’’ Liv lied with a sneer.

The maid dipped a quick curtsy and escaped toward the drawing room. Liv watched her scurry off. Once she was sure the girl was gone, Liv swayed toward the door frame. For a moment she just sagged there, disgusted with everything, herself most of all.

She needed to lie down. To lie down and go to sleep and not wake up until her head had stopped hurting and her stomach quit churning.

But instead of turning for her own room, she pushed open Brit’s door and tiptoed in. After the trouble she’d gotten herself into, she wanted to be sure that Brit was all right.

The room was dim, all the heavy curtains drawn. The centuries-old rug—wine-red, with a golden wheellike pattern spinning out from the center of it—was wonderfully soft beneath her sore feet. The fine old mahogany bed, its four posters broad as tree trunks and intricately carved with dragons and vines and fairylike women with long, twining hair, loomed in the center of the room, the soft, old linens in disarray. Liv could see a slim tanned hand and arm hanging over one side.

Quietly Liv moved closer. At first, she smiled at the sight that greeted her when she got close enough to see that her sister was, indeed, in bed sound asleep.

Brit had always been a bed hog. When they were children and for one reason or another had to share a bed, Liv and Elli would whine and moan and complain that that they couldn’t sleep with Brit. Brit was always squirming around and sometimes she talked to herself in her sleep—plus, she stole the covers.

Now Brit managed to sprawl spread-eagled, face-down, wide enough that she took up the entire bed. Liv watched her slim back moving—slow, shallow breaths. Her face was turned Liv’s way and covered by a tangled mop of straight blond hair much like Liv’s own.

She looked so…utterly relaxed. So totally unconcerned, lying there in her usual bed-hogging sprawl.

Liv felt the tender smile leave her lips. Brit was the ‘‘wild’’ one of the three sisters, the one more likely to have done the kind of thing that Liv did last night.

But Brit hadn’t done it—though she’d danced with Finn Danelaw herself more than once, though she’d flirted and laughed and had herself a grand time. At some point, Brit had had sense enough to climb the stairs to her own bed, where she was now sleeping peacefully. When she woke, she’d have nothing to regret. She’d down her usual three or four cups of strong black coffee and she’d be ready to face the new day.

For the first time in her life, Liv wished she’d followed her baby sister’s example. She should be in her own room, safe in her own bed. Not dressed in last night’s wrinkled, clammy clothes, sick to her stomach with a pounding head, wishing she could turn back time and do it all differently.

And speaking of her stomach…

Liv dropped her underwear on the thick wine-red rug, clapped a hand to her mouth and whirled for Brit’s bathroom.

She got over the commode just in time.

It seemed like forever that she leaned there, until everything had come up and there was nothing left—and still, her stomach kept trying to get rid of more.

Somewhere in the middle of the unpleasantness, her sister’s bare feet appeared on the soft rug beside her.

‘‘Oh, Livvy. What have you been up to?’’ Brit’s voice was sympathetic, her question rhetorical. She turned on the shower and then knelt beside Liv and held her tenderly as she finished.

‘‘Come on,’’ she coaxed, when it looked like the heaving had stopped at last. ‘‘Into the shower… you’ll feel better.’’

After the shower, Brit produced a tall glass of bubbling headache remedy. Liv made herself drink the whole thing. Then, gentle as a loving mother, Brit led Liv to bed.

Out in the clearing where Finn Danelaw lay, the morning mist slowly faded away. The day grew brighter. An eagle soared overhead, broad wings strong enough to carry him far to the north, to a craggy aerie somewhere high in the snow-crested peaks of the Black Mountains.

Finn woke to the eagle’s long, hollow cry. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at a swathe of thick green grass. On the grass lay his shirt and a shoe. Beyond the two articles of clothing, fat-trunked oaks stood close together, their branches so thickly intermingled it was impossible to say where the crown of one tree ended and the next began.

Finn’s head pounded dully, though not unbearably. It had been quite a night. A night certainly worth the price of a mild headache. He smiled to himself and rolled over to reach for the law student, his king’s daughter, Princess Liv.

She was gone.

With a soft groan, Finn sat up and raked his hair back out of his eyes. A quick scan of the clearing showed him the rest of his clothing but none of hers. The only proof that she’d spent the night in his arms was her scent on his skin—so sweet now, bound to fade too soon.

He leaned back with a long sigh and his fingers touched something silky. Her underlisse. What did they call them in America? Ah. Her panties.

The small triangle of dark blue satin had been pressed into the grass beneath his hip. He snagged it on a finger and twirled it. So. A proof beyond the enticing scent of her that she had been here, that he’d kissed all the most secret parts of her, that he’d pressed her down into the moist grass and buried himself to the hilt within her.

Was he surprised she’d left him there asleep? Not in the least. Finn understood women as well as any mere man might. She didn’t see herself as the kind who could ever become involved in a wild moonlit tryst with a man she hardly knew.

He closed the panties in his fist. On awaking, she would have been shocked at what she’d done so willingly the night before. The most natural response would be to flee before he woke and possibly did something to compound her distress—like reach for her and try to make love to her again.

A pity. He would have thoroughly enjoyed one last time with her. It aroused him even now to imagine staring down into her face by morning light as her pleasure crested.

Finn dropped the satin triangle to the grass. Sadly, such a moment was not to be. In fact, the night before was more than he should have dared to take. Were he a man prone to shock, he would be shocked right now. Shocked that he did take it, though last night was Midsummer’s Eve and Gullandrian tradition held that no man—or woman—could be called to account for amorous indiscretions on Midsummer’s Eve.

Tradition aside, if the king found out, he would not be pleased. And when a man displeased his king, disagreeable things were far too likely to happen to him. And more important than the possible danger inherent in crossing His Majesty, Finn didn’t want to displease Osrik Thorson. His king happened to be someone Finn Danelaw admired and respected.

Finn pushed himself to his feet and began gathering up his clothes.

As he dressed, he chided himself for being an idiot. He should have stolen a few harmless kisses and left it at that. He stood for a moment, staring up at the clear summer sky, wondering why he’d found Liv Thorson so difficult to resist.

The answer wasn’t that long in coming: her intelligence. He dropped to the grass to put on his shoes. Finn did admire a quick mind in a woman. Intelligence in a woman kept a man alert and boredom at bay. What was that old line from Chesterton? Something about one good woman eliminating the need for polygamy…

And besides her sharp mind, there was that excess of ambition and the matching control. The woman had the kind of control Finn was accustomed to seeing only in men. It was refreshing to find it in a woman, especially one under thirty years of age. Naturally, the temptation to help her lose that control had been great.

He stood once more, tucking and smoothing, straightening his collar, linking his cuffs. It had been an indiscretion, to put it mildly—one, he had enough self-awareness to know, given a fraction of a chance, he’d willingly commit again.

However, he wasn’t getting a fraction of a chance. Liv was leaving the next day, returning to America. Until then, he’d lay odds she’d do all in her power to avoid him.

The little swatch of satin glimmered at him from the grass. He bent and claimed it. As a rule, he wasn’t a man who collected intimate trophies. But it seemed somehow thoughtless—crass, even—to leave it lying there for some groundskeeper to find.

Ah, to be able to anticipate the delicious and private moment when he might return it. But it wasn’t to be. This woman, he would never see again.

Unless…

He shook his head.

The odds were very small.

Still the fact remained that he had been, in a second very dangerous way, indiscreet. He hadn’t been as careful as he should have been—as he always had been before. Yes, he would confess it, though only to himself: It was just possible that he’d been slightly swept away.

But the chance that there’d be the predictable price to pay for such a foolish oversight had to be slight. It had, after all, only been one night.

There was surely no need to worry. No need to give it another thought.

With a grin, he snapped his fingers. There. It was gone from his mind.

Her Highness’s underlisse, however, were still in his hand. He smiled a little wider. A swatch of blue satin, some sweet, hot memories.

It could have been worse.

Soon, he knew, the time would come for him to make a good marriage. The patriarch of more than one important family had approached him. All of those doting fathers kept their young virgin daughters well away from him, of course. They wouldn’t want the notorious Prince Finn plying his famed powers of seduction on their precious daughters until after the marriage swords had been exchanged.

He’d been…what? Accepting of the situation, he supposed. Willing to do what was expected of him. A man couldn’t hop from bed to bed forever. At some point, he had to find his comfort with one woman, plant his seed, raise his sons and pamper his daughters.

So it would be with him.

And last night?

Finn smiled up at the clear morning sky. When he was old and stooped and slow, when death was near and the frost giants hounded him through haunted dreams, he could remember his glorious, wild night with the princess from America. It would help him to hold back the encroaching cold.

Finn slid the panties into a pocket and turned for the silver-slate palace gleaming above the last of the mist.

Chapter Two

Liv woke to a muffled clicking sound—someone tapping on computer keys.

Brit. Liv’s sister had opened the ornate Victorian-style secretary at the foot of Liv’s bed and set up her laptop on the desk within. She was typing away, her pale hair anchored in a messy knot at the back of her head, shoulders slightly hunched, strong chin jutting toward the screen in fierce concentration. Next to the keyboard sat an open bag of peanut M&M’s. Brit loved her M&M’s.

Liv watched her for a while. The sight was soothing, somehow: her baby sister working on her novel—which novel, Liv hadn’t a clue. Brit had started writing novels before she even reached her teens—and started was the operative word. Brit had begun ten or fifteen of them, at least. When she got bored with one, she’d drag out another and type away at it for a while. To Liv’s knowledge, Brit had yet to actually finish any one of them.

With a sigh, Liv turned to the travel clock she’d set on the marble-topped nightstand. Past two in the afternoon. My how time did fly when you were passed out drunk.

Brit must have heard the sigh. She turned in her chair. ‘‘Sleeping Beauty awakes.’’

Liv dragged herself to a sitting position. ‘‘Ugh.’’

‘‘Coffee? Toast?’’

Liv pushed her tangled hair out of her eyes. ‘‘I suppose I’d better.’’

The skinny, sneaky chambermaid was summoned and returned a short while later with a tray.

Brit played nurse, plumping Liv’s pillows, getting Liv’s tray arranged just so. Then she dropped into the claw-footed velvet wing chair next to the bed. ‘‘Want to talk about it?’’

Liv shot Brit a look over the rim of her eggshell-thin china cup. In spite of their differences, the sisters loved each other and trusted each other implicitly. There was no one, outside of their third sister, Elli, in whom Liv would rather confide.

And she needed to confide, after what she’d done. The more levelheaded Elli, leaving that day on her wedding trip, wasn’t available to lend an ear.

So Liv told Brit. Everything. Brit, who was wearing a pair of short-short cutoffs and a tight semi-tube knit top that tied on one shoulder, dragged her long bare legs up, rested her chin on her knees and listened patiently to the whole story.

‘‘Oh, I am so disappointed in myself,’’ Liv cried once she had told it all.

Brit swiped at a swatch of hair that had fallen into her eyes. ‘‘Oh, come on. I think it’s great.’’

Liv sat up straighter, deeply offended. ‘‘Great?’’

‘‘That’s what I said. G-r-e-a-t.’’

‘‘What, may I ask, is great about what I did?’’

‘‘Well, just that you busted out a little, Livvy.’’ Brit shifted in the chair, letting go of her legs, stretching them out and studying the polish on her toes. ‘‘That you had yourself a wild, hot, monkey-sex night.’’

‘‘Monkey sex?’’

‘‘Is there an echo in here?’’

‘‘Is that really what it’s called?’’

Brit dropped her feet to the floor and lifted a shoulder—the bare one—in an elaborate, oh-so-cool shrug. ‘‘Monkey sex. Jungle sex. Crawl-all-over-each-other sex. Am I making myself clear?’’

‘‘Unfortunately, yes.’’

‘‘Admit it. You loved it.’’

‘‘Oh, puh-leese. You’re practically salivating. I don’t need this.’’

‘‘Slurp, slurp. And, IMO, you do need it. Why beat yourself up? Why not just accept that you did it and admit it was great?’’

Liv slumped back to the pillows. ‘‘I can’t. I hate myself for it. And I have to say it would be more appropriate if you could just…well, sympathy is all right. But don’t tell me it’s great. It’s not great. It’s awful.’’

Brit shook her head. ‘‘Livvy, give it up. I know you want to run the world, but you’ll never run me. I get to have my own opinions and I also get to express them.’’

Liv made a growling sound and picked up her nearly empty cup. She gestured with it, frustrated. ‘‘And what about poor Simon?’’ She sipped, swallowed, set the cup down. ‘‘He’ll be crushed when he hears about this.’’

‘‘Don’t tell him. Simon doesn’t own you.’’

‘‘Well, of course he doesn’t. But still, it’s only right that I tell him.’’

‘‘You have some agreement with him that you won’t see other people?’’

‘‘No. But we are very…close.’’

Brit lifted one eyebrow but kept her mouth shut.

Liv glared at her. She knew what Brit thought of Simon—and if she hadn’t known, she could have figured it out just by looking at her face right then. ‘‘You never liked Simon,’’ she muttered accusingly.

‘‘That’s so not true. I think Simon’s a fine man. He’s just…not the man for you.’’

‘‘And why not?’’

‘‘Oh, Liv. Because he doesn’t thrill you, that’s why.’’

‘‘Thrills aren’t everything.’’

Brit looked thoroughly put-upon. ‘‘Haven’t we been through this before?’’

‘‘Simon,’’ Liv couldn’t stop herself from insisting, ‘‘is a good man.’’

‘‘He certainly is.’’ Brit sat up straighter and offered with nerve-flaying cheerfulness, ‘‘More coffee?’’

Liv huffed out a breath and wrinkled her nose. She felt out of sorts to the max, disgusted with being in her own skin. She knew she was a fight looking for a place to happen. And Brit really did seem to be trying to keep from getting into it with her. She felt a wave of warmth and gratitude toward her baby sister.

‘‘Sorry.’’ Liv held out her cup.

‘‘Forgiven. You know that.’’ Brit took the small silver pot to the suite’s kitchen and returned with it. She poured more for Liv and a cup for herself.

Liv nibbled her toast. She really was feeling better. The toast—lightly buttered with a dab of marmalade—tasted good. ‘‘At least this is it. We’re out of here tomorrow. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to see Finn Danelaw’s face again.’’

Brit was significantly silent.

Liv let out a groan. ‘‘Oh, just say it, why don’t you?’’

So Brit did. ‘‘Don’t blame poor Finn for giving you what you wanted. And face it. You had a fabulous time.’’

Liv opened her mouth to do some more denying.

Brit put up a hand. ‘‘I’ll bet you’ve never before in your life got so carried away the night before that you couldn’t find your panties the morning after.’’

Liv looked at her sideways and accused in a mumble, ‘‘You noticed. About my panties.’’

Brit wiggled both eyebrows. ‘‘Slurp, slurp.’’

‘‘Don’t make fun, please. I’m really upset at myself. You know I’m thinking of going into politics eventually. Who’s going to vote for a woman who can’t keep track of her own underwear? It’s not…confidence-inspiring.’’

Brit raised both hands then, palms out. ‘‘Okay, okay. Have it your way. What you did is horrible and disgusting and if you hide out here in your room like a big, fat coward, you might not have to see Finn again. And while we’re on the subject of leaving…’’

Liv knew that something she didn’t want to hear was coming. ‘‘What about it?’’

‘‘I’m not.’’

‘‘Not…?’’

‘‘Leaving.’’

Liv stared. ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’

‘‘I am.’’

‘‘I do not believe this.’’

‘‘Whatever.’’ Brit was sounding infuriatingly offhand. ‘‘I’m staying for a while.’’

Their mother would burst a blood vessel when she heard. Ingrid hated their father and all things Gullandrian.

And what was to stay for, anyway? More tours of fisheries and offshore oil derricks, of rolling, charming farmland, more tall pines and spruces and distant views of fat-tailed karavik?

More chances, a salacious voice in the back of her mind whispered, you might run in to Finn…

‘‘This is nuts.’’ Liv scowled. ‘‘We came for Elli’s sake, remember? We swore to Mom we’d fly right home after the wedding. Father agreed to that.’’

‘‘So?’’

‘‘So it’s after the wedding. Time for you and me to keep our word to our mother and go home.’’ Liv picked up her cup—and set it down without drinking from it. ‘‘Anyway, I’ve got to be at work on Monday—and I thought you said you did, too.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Brit, her tone only slightly bitter. ‘‘You’ve got your plum summer internship with the State Attorney General’s Office that you can’t wait to get back to. And me? Well, I’ll return to dealing ’em off the arm at the Pizza Pitstop in East Hollywood, listening to my boss yell at me, looking forward to going home to my charmingly seedy courtyard apartment.’’

Liv resisted the urge to nobly remind her sister that if she didn’t like her life, she should go back to college or at least learn to live on her trust allowance.

Brit said, ‘‘Dad has invited me to stay for a while, and I’ve said I will.’’

‘‘Dad? You’re calling him Dad now?’’ This was the man who, until very recently, had given new meaning to the words absentee parent. Their mother, Ingrid, had left Osrik—and Gullandria—when Liv, Elli and Brit were ten months old. Osrik had kept their two sons, Valbrand and Kylan, then five and three, to raise as kings. Now both sons were dead. And suddenly, Osrik had decided it was time to play Dad to his long-lost girls. It had started with Elli. And now, obviously, he was after Brit. ‘‘I don’t like it,’’ Liv said flatly.

‘‘I’m sorry. I’m staying. I want to see more of Gullandria—maybe nose around a little, too—see if I can find out any more details about what really happened to the brothers we’re never going to get a chance to know.’’

There was a moment. The two sisters looked at each other, both of them wondering what their brothers had been like, both of them wishing for what was never going to be: their broken family whole again, their dead brothers alive…

Finally Liv spoke. ‘‘I thought Elli had settled that.’’ Elli had questioned their father. She’d received Osrik’s assurance that there was nothing suspicious in the way either of their brothers had died. Elli had believed him. So did Liv. She wasn’t crazy about the man who’d suddenly decided to try being a father to his daughters. But her brothers had been everything to him. They were the children he had kept—his chance that his own blood would claim the throne of Gullandria when he could no longer rule. If someone had murdered them, Osrik would have tracked the killers down and seen to it they paid for their crimes in a big way.

Brit said, ‘‘I want to look into the situation a little for myself.’’

‘‘You still think there’s something…not right?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I just want to check around some more.’’

Liv wasn’t so sure she liked the idea of Brit snooping around a strange country on her own. ‘‘What do you mean, ‘check around’?’’

‘‘Just what I said. Ask some questions.’’

‘‘Of whom?’’

‘‘Well, I’m not sure yet—but did you know that Kaarin Karlsmon and Valbrand were an item?’’

Liv didn’t. ‘‘Before he disappeared at sea?’’

‘‘You got it.’’

‘‘Who told you that?’’

‘‘I asked around. It’s common knowledge.’’

The lady Kaarin was jarl—of noble birth—a slim, graceful redhead perhaps a year or two older than the princesses. Kaarin was always meticulously turned out in gorgeous designer clothes and she made herself available to Liv and Brit whenever they asked for her. Cheerfully, Kaarin would accompany them anywhere they wanted to go; she’d provide lively chatter and well-bred companionship.

The strap on Brit’s top had slid down her shoulder. She pushed it back in place. ‘‘You have to admit, it’s odd she never even mentioned that she and Valbrand had a thing going on.’’

‘‘Oh, Brit. Come on. I can think of several reasons why she wouldn’t want to talk about it. Especially if she really cared for him. It’s probably painful for her, to go into it—and I don’t see how her relationship with him could have had anything to do with his death.’’

‘‘I’m only saying, there’s a lot we don’t know—a lot I want to find out.’’

‘‘I don’t like it.’’

‘‘Well, I can’t help that.’’

Liv got the message. Brit had made her decision and no matter what Liv said, Brit would not change her mind.

‘‘Fine.’’ Liv pointed at the phone on the nightstand. ‘‘Call Mom yourself. Now.’’

Brit groaned. ‘‘Livvy, it’s barely seven in the morning there.’’

‘‘So you’ll be sure to catch her. I can’t stop you from sticking your nose in where I doubt it belongs. But I’m not getting stuck telling Mom what you’re up to because you just never manage to get around to calling her.’’

‘‘I will tell her.’’

Liv only waited.

Finally Brit muttered a couple of bad words and reached for the phone.

Ingrid didn’t take the news well. She insisted on speaking to Liv. Brit was only too eager to pass Liv the phone.

Liv was treated to her mother’s frantic voice uttering an endless series of pleas and demands that she make her crazy baby sister come home. Powerless to do any such thing, Liv babbled a bunch of meaningless placating noises and waited for Ingrid to wind down.

Liv hung up the phone. ‘‘I’ve got a splitting headache and I’m going back to sleep.’’

Brit took the tray, her laptop and her M&M’s and tiptoed out.

Liv scooted down and pulled the covers over her head. Lord, what a weekend. Elli had married a huge, tattooed Viking berserker, she herself had spent the night in a field having wild sex with a virtual stranger, and Brit had pushed their mother to the verge of a nervous breakdown. What more delights might be in store?

Liv didn’t want to know. She spent the remainder of the day and the evening in her rooms, avoiding any possibility of running into Finn, nursing the queasy end of her hangover, feeling totally fed up with herself and her sisters and the world in general, longing only for the next day when she’d be on the way home.

Liv woke in the middle of the night. Her eyes popped open—wide. She was going to be sick again.

With a miserable cry, she threw back the covers and sprinted for the bathroom.

Brit found her a few minutes later, hugging the toilet—again.

As she had the morning before, Brit stayed close. When it was finally over, she turned on the light and handed Liv a cool wet washcloth.

Liv bathed her face, then chucked the washcloth toward the bathtub, flushed the toilet a final time and pushed herself upright, grabbing the edge of the wide sink basin when she swayed a little on her feet.

‘‘Livvy, maybe you shouldn’t—’’

She gestured for silence. ‘‘Toothpaste,’’ she said. ‘‘Toothbrush…’’

Brit helped her, getting the tube and squirting a line of paste on the brush while Liv clutched the sink rim and wondered why her head wouldn’t stop spinning.

‘‘Here.’’ Brit took Liv’s right hand and wrapped it around the base of the toothbrush.

Liv looked down at the bristles, the neat line of mint-green paste. Doubtful, she thought. Her hand was shaking.

‘‘Oh, Livvy. What’s the matter? What is going on?’’

Liv was wondering the same thing. Her hangover had faded hours ago. So she must really be sick now. Terrific. Just what she needed with a long flight ahead of her: a bad case of some awful stomach bug.

She looked over to tell Brit not to worry. She was okay, just a bug of some kind.

But her mouth stayed shut. Her fingers went nerveless; the toothbrush clattered into the sink at the same time her other hand let go of the rim. Then her knees gave way. She sank to the cool smooth tiles of the floor as, far in the distance, she heard Brit frantically calling her name.

Chapter Three

Liv opened her eyes. She was flat on her back on the bathroom floor.

Brit was bending over her. ‘‘Livvy?’’

Liv frowned as she studied her sister’s face above her—upside down and way too pale.

Brit said, ‘‘Can you hear me?’’

So strange, Liv thought dazedly, the way a mouth looks when it’s moving upside down, as if the top were the bottom and the bottom the top.

Brit’s turned-around mouth continued asking questions. ‘‘Do you know what happened? Do you know who I am?’’

‘‘I fainted. You’re Brit.’’

Brit’s upside-down mouth formed what must have been meant as a smile. ‘‘Welcome back.’’

‘‘Why are you grinning?’’

The forced smile flattened out. ‘‘Damn it, I’m trying to be reassuring.’’

‘‘Well, it’s not working—and really, I’m okay.’’

‘‘I’d better get a—’’

Liv grabbed Brit’s arm before she could jump up and rush off. ‘‘I don’t need a doctor.’’

‘‘But—’’

‘‘I mean it. I am fine.’’ She did feel a little warm. She fumbled at the silk frogs that buttoned her pajama top.

‘‘Here.’’ Brit scooted around beside her and gently pushed her hands out of the way. She unhooked the first three frogs—and then she gasped.

‘‘What?’’ Liv popped to a sitting position and looked down at herself.

Her Chinese-style tangerine silk pajamas gaped. She could see her upper chest, the shadows of her breasts. Everything seemed to be right where it was supposed to be. She looked closer.

Liv felt her mouth drop open. ‘‘Omigod.’’

Beside her, Brit said in an awed whisper, ‘‘My sentiments exactly.’’

Liv met her sister’s astonished eyes. ‘‘It can’t be.’’

‘‘But Mom always said—’’

Liv didn’t let her finish. ‘‘Help me up.’’

‘‘Are you sure? You just fain—’’

‘‘Help me. Now.’’

Brit took her hand and half dragged her to her feet. Together, they turned to the mirror above the sink. Liv pulled the sides of the mandarin collar wide. The skin of her upper chest was a florid red—blotched and welted with a livid rash.

‘‘It can’t be,’’ Liv said. ‘‘I refuse to believe it.’’

‘‘But, Livvy. You’re showing all the signs.’’

Liv shifted her angry glare from her own chest to her sister’s wide-eyed reflection. ‘‘Oh, please. You know very well it’s only a family superstition.’’

‘‘Call it what you want. It did happen. To Mom and to Aunt Nanna and Aunt Kirsten, and to Granny Birget, too.’’

‘‘So they say.’’

‘‘Why would they lie?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I’m sure they didn’t lie—not exactly. I’m only saying, it’s a story. A family myth.’’

‘‘But your symptoms are exactly the same. You threw up. You fainted. And now, there it is. The rash.’’

The Thorson sisters had heard it over and over all their lives: The women in their family—on their mother’s side, the Freyasdahl side—always knew right away when they conceived. They’d all discovered they were pregnant within twenty-four hours of conception. They knew it every time, without fail. Partly, it was a simple feeling of certainty—that it had happened; there was a baby growing within them. But beyond the certainty, there were, each and every time, the family signs: they’d throw up, followed by a fainting spell and then by a bizarre bright red rash across the upper chest.

Liv spoke firmly to Brit’s reflection in the mirror. ‘‘I just don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. It’s a family superstition, that’s all—and besides, he used a condom.’’

Brit’s gaze slid away, was drawn inexorably back.

Liv wanted to strangle her. ‘‘Will you stop it with all those sneaky sideways glances? You’re starting to remind me of the maid.’’

‘‘Sorry—and are you sure? About the—’’

‘‘Positive. He’s a Gullandrian.’’

Brit blinked. ‘‘Right. And that means…?’’

Liv let out an impatient sigh. ‘‘Remember what Elli told us about Gullandrians? How it’s such a big stigma to be born illegitimate around here?’’

Brit still wasn’t getting it. ‘‘And so from that we can deduce…?’’

‘‘Well, it stands to reason that if you’re not married around here, you use contraception religiously.’’

‘‘So you’re saying you specifically remember that he used—’’

‘‘No. I’m not saying that.’’

‘‘You’re not?’’

‘‘No. I mean, yes. I mean, I do remember.’’ She fervently wished she sounded more convincing. ‘‘I do…’’ She looked at her welted, inflamed chest again and let out a moan.

Brit spoke flatly. ‘‘You’re not sure.’’

Liv found she couldn’t meet her sister’s eyes. She began hooking the silk frogs, buttoning all the way up, until she couldn’t see the rash anymore, until she could almost pretend it wasn’t even there.

‘‘Liv?’’ Brit asked carefully. ‘‘Are you sure or aren’t you?’’

Liv whirled on her sister. Fisting her hands at her sides, she spoke softly through clenched teeth. ‘‘All right. I suppose he didn’t. I suppose we were both kind of…carried away.’’

Brit said nothing. She was looking at Liv tenderly. Tolerantly. Liv hated that. She was not someone people had to look at with tolerance. Especially not people like her baby sister, whom she loved with all her heart, but who was, after all, a college dropout who’d never finished even one of the novels she’d started, who worked in a pizza joint in East Hollywood and couldn’t be bothered to balance her checkbook.

Brit began to speak. She said kind things, gentle things. ‘‘Oh, Livvy. I know everything is going to be all right. Of course, it’s probably just a fluke, your having the family symptoms like this. You’ve been so upset about what happened last night. Maybe tonight, you’re only showing the effects of all the stress, only…’’ Brit’s voice trailed off. Apparently, she had read Liv’s expression and realized that Liv had heard more than enough.

Liv spoke with grave dignity. ‘‘There’s certainly nothing that can be done about it right now.’’ Better, she thought. She sounded firm. Take-charge. More like herself. She was standing very straight, her head high. ‘‘In a few weeks, if my period is late, I’ll take a test like the normal, civilized twenty-first century woman I am. After that, if it turns out I really am going to have a baby—which I truly believe I am not—I’ll start making decisions.’’ She narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin at her sister, as if Brit had given her some kind of argument. ‘‘And that’s it until then. You hear me? Not another word about it until then.’’

The next morning, the rash was gone. Liv showed Brit. Brit nodded and made a few cheerful, so-glad-you’re-feeling-better noises.

Liv knew just what she was thinking. The rash disappearing fit right in with the way it always happened, according to their mother and their aunts and their grandmother. The rash would appear after the fainting spell and fade a few hours later. The next signs of pregnancy wouldn’t appear for weeks and could be any of the usual ones: a missed period, morning sickness, aversions to certain foods….

‘‘And I feel just fine,’’ Liv announced with some defiance. ‘‘Whatever weird bug I caught, it’s gone now.’’ With each hour that passed, she found she was more and more certain that the events of last night had merely been some crazy stress reaction.

Liv could go home to her great summer job and her second year of law school and the nice boyfriend who might or might not be able to forgive her when he learned what she’d done on Midsummer’s Eve with the devastatingly sexy Prince Finn Danelaw.

And okay, yes, that would be a problem: figuring out how to tell Simon about the wild night she’d spent with Finn. But she’d manage it. All in good time.

Right now, her job was to get her things together and get to the plane.

An hour later, Brit hugged Liv goodbye and went off to spend the day wandering the charming cobbled streets of Lysgard, Gullandria’s capital. An hour after that, Liv was packing her vanity case in her bathroom, almost ready to head for the airport, when she glanced up and saw a flicker of movement behind her in the doorway.

She whirled, a hand to her throat. It was the maid. ‘‘You scared me to death.’’

‘‘So sorry, Highness.’’ The maid curtsied and brought her right fist to her flat chest. ‘‘Highness, Lady Kaarin is in the drawing room. She’s asked to speak with you.’’

‘‘Fine. Tell her I’ll be right there—and will you please stop sneaking around?’’

‘‘Yes, Highness. Of course, Highness. And I’ll tell Lady Kaarin you’re on your way.’’

Kaarin Karlsmon rose from a damask wing chair, fist to heart, when Liv entered the room.

‘‘Your Highness.’’ Liv stared at the beautiful redhead. She couldn’t help thinking of what Brit had said yesterday. Had this woman once been the lost Valbrand’s love? Clearly, now wasn’t the time to ask. Kaarin was looking very official. She announced, ‘‘The king has asked to see you right away in his private chambers. If you’ll come with me…’’

Liv had been expecting the summons. Her father, after all, would want to say goodbye. She didn’t exactly relish this final visit. Though Elli seemed fond of the king, and Brit, already, was calling him Dad, Liv still felt she hardly knew him. And she could see no reason that she had to know him in any particularly meaningful way.

She supposed it was classic stuff. In her heart, she sided with her mother against him. Liv felt he’d deserted her and her sisters when they were babies and as yet, he’d given her no reason to forgive him for it.

And that was okay with her. She didn’t hate him or anything. For Elli’s sake, she’d come here. She’d seen her sister married, met her father and looked around the land of her birth.

It was enough for her.

Now she could pay her final respects and go home.

Kaarin led Liv down a series of wide hallways to the massive doors that opened onto the king’s private reception rooms. Her task accomplished, she didn’t linger. With a bow, she took her leave.

The guards pulled the doors wide. Liv went through, the heels of her shoes tapping crisply as she crossed the stone floor of the antechamber.

Her father, tall, dark-eyed, in his fifties and still straight-backed and handsome, stood waiting for her in the room beyond. He was dressed in a fine lightweight, perfectly tailored midnight-blue suit.

‘‘Daughter.’’ He didn’t smile, but he did, very slightly, incline his proud silvery head. ‘‘Please. Join us.’’

‘‘Us’’ consisted, at first glance, of Osrik’s closest advisor and dearest friend, Prince Medwyn Greyfell. Greyfell held the title of Grand Counselor, the second most powerful position in the Gullandrian governmental hierarchy. Liv thought it odd that her father would have the gaunt, white-haired Greyfell present for a private farewell visit with his oldest daughter. But hey. Goodbye was goodbye, Greyfell or not.

The room was large, with tall diamond-paned windows. Bookcases filled with gold-tooled leather volumes lined two walls. A huge heavily carved antique desk with an inlaid top stood on a raised platform not far from the windows. There were a number of beautiful old chairs and couches arranged in separate conversation areas, and a thronelike seat, also slightly raised, with lower chairs grouped around it, used when her father granted private audiences to those who served him, or to freemen who had earned a coveted few moments of his undivided attention.

Liv didn’t see the other man until she cleared the massive arch that separated the antechamber from the main room. He stood off to the side, near a rather devilish looking bust of some Norse god or other. He wore a suit every bit as beautiful as the one her father wore, though it was lighter in color, a soft charcoal-gray. His eyes were the honeyed amber-brown she remembered from the magical, impossible, reprehensible night-before-last.

Liv froze at the sight of him, a small sound of distress escaping her before she could collect herself and call it back.

Intimate images insisted on flashing, unbidden, through her mind. Those eyes…

They had seemed to see right inside her—all her secrets, all her longings—as his lean naked body pressed her down into the green sweet-smelling grass.

She thought of her lost panties. Did he have them? Did he know where they were?

Oh, this was awful. It was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid at all costs: the chance of running into him again.

And there was absolutely no reason she could see why he should be here.

Unless…

But no. That was impossible. He would never tell her father what had happened between them the night before last. Why should he? What could that possibly get him? Except maybe the king’s ire.

Oh, God. Had someone seen them? And then carried the tale to her father?

And even if such a thing had happened, well, why call a meeting about it? It was acutely embarrassing, yes. It showed a distinct lack of judgment on Liv’s part and on Finn’s.

But this, after all, was an era when royals sometimes cohabitated without benefit of matrimony. That an unmarried princess and an equally unattached prince might spend a few passionate, imprudent hours together simply wasn’t the end of the world.

Plus, it had happened on Midsummer’s Eve. In Gullandria, the way she understood it, Midsummer’s Eve was the one night a year when, as the old saying went, anything goes.

Her father spoke again, his tone irritatingly neutral. ‘‘Of course, you know Prince Greyfell. And Prince Danelaw.’’

Liv nodded at each man in turn, taking care not to meet Finn’s eyes. ‘‘Yes, hello. Good to…see you both.’’ The old prince and the young one honored her with the usual fist-to-chest salute.

As Liv concentrated on not looking at Finn, she found herself pondering the whole prince question. In Gullandria, all male jarl born of married parents were princes, each a possible successor to the throne. When her father, for whatever reason, could no longer rule, the princes would gather in the gold-domed Grand Assembly building down in the capital. They would hold a special election, know as the Kingmaking, and a new king would be named from among them.

Thus, in her father’s palace, virtually every man she met who wasn’t a servant or a soldier was a prince. Kind of diluted the meaning of the word, if you asked Liv—which, of course, no one had.

Liv faced her father. She gave him a big smile. ‘‘Well, I’m glad you sent for me. I did want to say goodbye and—’’

Her father raised a hand for silence. ‘‘Liv, my dear. I didn’t call you here to tell you goodbye.’’

A weighty sense of foreboding caused her to swallow. Convulsively. ‘‘You didn’t?’’

‘‘No. I called you here so that we might discuss your upcoming marriage to Prince Danelaw.’’

Chapter Four

Liv stared at her father. Surely he hadn’t said what she’d thought he’d said.

She heard herself croak in sheer disbelief, ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’

‘‘Ah,’’ said her father in a gentle, kindly tone that made her want to grab a heavy, blunt object and break it over his head. ‘‘But I am serious. A marriage has become imperative. And I think you know why.’’

Liv kept her shoulders back and her hands at her sides. Of course, it didn’t matter what he knew or what he commanded her to do—at least, not aside from how utterly mortified she felt at the thought that somehow her father had found out about Friday night. She was her own woman and would run her own life.

And never in a million years would she marry Finn Danelaw.

Still, she did want to know what information he actually had and where he might have gotten it. She sent Finn a hot glare. He looked back at her, one bronze eyebrow slightly lifted—cool, collected. Giving her nothing.

Her father continued, ‘‘I know that you and Finn spent Midsummer’s Eve out in my parkland, indulging in…amorous adventures, shall we say?’’

‘‘Who told you that?’’

Osrik didn’t even blink. ‘‘You deny it?’’

She did not. She wasn’t proud of the truth, but she had more respect for herself than to tell lies about it. ‘‘I only asked who told you.’’

Her father waved a hand. ‘‘Suffice to say, there is nothing you do in Isenhalla or on the grounds surrounding it that I won’t learn about.’’ He paused, then swept his arm out toward the windows—and the world beyond. ‘‘There’s nothing you do in the whole of my kingdom that I won’t hear of, eventually.’’

‘‘Spies?’’ she demanded. ‘‘That’s what you’re talking about. You’ve got spies on me—and on Brit, too, right?’’ Suddenly, the annoying behavior of the chambermaid was starting to make sense. And if he had the chambermaid reporting to him, spying on his daughters for him, then he probably did know everything. It was altogether possible that the maid could have been there, lurking, listening to everything Liv had told Brit both last night, and the night before.

Osrik went on, ‘‘I was prepared to overlook your misadventures the other night. After all, it was Midsummer’s Eve and you were raised an American. You have no real sense of your true place and responsibilities in the world. But a pregnancy cannot be overlooked.’’

Liv stared at her father unflinching. ‘‘With all due respect, Father, I’m not even going to dignify that bit about me and my ‘place’ in the world with a response. As for the rest of it—ridiculous. Prince Danelaw and I were…together for one night. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since then. The likelihood that I’m pregnant isn’t all that high—and there’s no way to prove it right now, even if I am.’’

Osrik granted her an infuriatingly patronizing shrug of his proud, well-tailored shoulders. ‘‘I had, I confess, high hopes for you, Liv. I won’t go into detail about my plans. There’s no point. Now that there’s a child coming, my hopes must be put aside.’’

The man was impossible. Assumption piled upon assumption. Liv didn’t know how to answer them all. So she picked one of the major ones. ‘‘How many ways can I say it? You don’t know that I’m pregnant. I don’t know that I’m pregnant. There is no way for anyone to know at this point whether I might be pregnant or not.’’

‘‘Of course there’s a way. There’s what happened to you last night.’’

‘‘Who told you what happened to me last night?’’

He didn’t answer, only went on as if she hadn’t asked the question. ‘‘Your mother had my children. I know the Freyasdahl symptoms and I know those symptoms have never been wrong. You’re pregnant, Liv. I’ve spoken with Finn and he has agreed to marry you as soon as we can reasonably make the arrangements.’’

Liv could not find words blistering enough to express her unqualified contempt for virtually everything her father had said since she’d entered that room. While she cast about for them, Osrik let out a long sigh. He and Prince Greyfell exchanged knowing looks.

Osrik said ruefully, ‘‘As I mentioned, this marriage is not what I intended for you. But after what happened with Elli—which was not at all what I at first wanted for her—I find I’m learning to be more flexible.’’ He gestured grandly at Finn, as if drawing her attention to some fine piece of horseflesh or a prime breeding bull. ‘‘Finn Danelaw is the scion of an ancient and important family. His holdings are extensive. You will not be disappointed in the wealth and influence he brings you. It’s not a bad match by any means.’’

Liv was still seeking the right final, scathing words. They had to be just right. After all, her father was a king. And even a daughter had to use some care when giving a dressing-down to a king. She slid one more hard, burning glance at Finn. He met her look coolly, as if none of this ridiculousness really involved him, as if he were a mildly interested spectator at a melodramatic play.

Liv almost hated him at that moment. How dare he stand there, looking faintly amused as her father informed her that she had to bind her life to his?

She faced her father proudly. ‘‘Listen. Listen carefully. It is not going to happen. I am not marrying Prince Danelaw. I am…appalled at this, at all of this. I don’t know which of your outrages to answer first. If you will remember, you gave up my sisters and me when we were only babies. We never knew you. We still don’t know you.’’ And I don’t want to know you, she added silently. ‘‘The mere fact that you would dare to have ‘plans’ for me is insulting enough. But the rest is so much worse. You’ve spied on me. You’ve invaded my privacy and found out things you have absolutely no right to know. You’ve taken the information gleaned by your spies and used it to pressure a man who doesn’t love me—a man I don’t love—into marrying me. Evidently, all the awful things my mother ever hinted at about you are true. You’re an impossible chauvinistic manipulator of other people’s lives.’’

There was a rather grisly silence. Liv knew she had gone too far, but she couldn’t make herself feel sorry that she’d done it.

At last, her father said, too quietly, ‘‘You would do well to guard that tongue of yours, daughter. No matter what you may think of me, I am king here.’’

‘‘Yes, you are,’’ Liv readily agreed. ‘‘And that’s why I’m going back to my country. Today. I am not—’’

‘‘Stop!’’ Osrik cut her off with a booming shout and then instantly lowered his voice to an ominous growl. ‘‘You will go nowhere. No daughter of mine will bear a bastard. It’s a crime against humanity and I won’t have it.’’

‘‘You?’’ Liv went nose to nose with him. ‘‘You won’t have it? You don’t have a thing to say about. No horse in this race. No dog in this show. If, by chance—and believe me, I don’t think it’s so—I do turn out to be pregnant, I’ll be the one deciding what to do about it. And one thing I can tell you right now, I won’t be marrying Finn Danelaw and I’m going home today—and all right, that’s two things, and I’m doing both of them.’’

‘‘You will stay!’’ Her father shouted. ‘‘You will marry!’’

‘‘No, I won’t!’’

‘‘Don’t you dare to disobey me!’’

‘‘Disobey you? How could I possibly disobey you? I am not one of your subjects, nor am I a—’’ Liv broke off with a cry of surprise. Finn had stepped up and snared her hand. She rounded on him. ‘‘Let me go, you—’’ Something in his eyes stopped her, just cut her off cold.

She glared at him, fuming, as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. It was smoothly done— lightly, with what seemed like no effort at all.

His grip, however, wasn’t light in the least. It was warm steel.

He leaned too close and whispered silkily, ‘‘Come with me, my darling. We’ll talk.’’

A shiver went through her, purely sexual, at the sound of that whisper, at the feel of his breath against her cheek. Her own response stunned her. How could she even think about sex at this moment, let alone shiver over it?

She opened her mouth to announce that she was not, by any stretch of a wild imagination, his darling, and he’d better let go of her or she’d break his damned arm—but then she noticed that her father had stepped back.

Apparently, Osrik was willing to let Finn handle this.

Ha. Finn Danelaw was not the one who’d be doing the handling here. The man was a player, after all. Not the marrying kind, as they say. If she got him alone, it should be easy to make him admit he was only doing this because he felt he had to. Once she made it clear to him that he didn’t have to, they could come to an understanding—one in which he could go his way and she would go hers.

‘‘All right,’’ she said loftily. ‘‘We’ll go to my rooms.’’

Her head high, she allowed Finn to lead her out.

Chapter Five

When they reached the pair of expressionless soldiers at the doors to her suite, Liv commanded, ‘‘Out of here. Both of you. Now.’’

She got no response aside from the usual twin fist-to-heart salutes.

‘‘You two, you guards. I mean it.’’ Her too-loud voice echoed in the wide hallway. ‘‘Get lost.’’

They didn’t move.

Beside her, Finn said quite calmly, ‘‘By the king’s command, you are both dismissed. Go to your quarters. Await further orders.’’

In unison, the soldiers barked, ‘‘Yes, Your Highness.’’ They pivoted on their black boot-heels and marched off down the hall.

Liv couldn’t believe it. ‘‘That’s what you say to them, by the king’s command, and they do what you tell them to?’’

Prince Finn sketched the most elegant of shrugs. ‘‘Plausibility was on my side.’’

She frowned. ‘‘Meaning it’s not on mine?’’

‘‘Liv,’’ he said tenderly, ‘‘you are such a pugnacious creature.’’

‘‘Creature? I’m a creature?’’

‘‘No need to screech.’’

‘‘I’d say I have a right to do a little screeching at this point. Answer my question.’’

He gave her a patient look. ‘‘Since I’d assume they were stationed here to guard you, it’s unlikely they’d believe you were authorized to send them away.’’

This whole situation irritated her no end. ‘‘Guard me? Oh, please. They weren’t here to guard me. They were here to make note of the comings and goings of Their Royal Highnesses and report what they saw back to my father.’’

Finn chose, probably wisely, not to reply to that one. Instead, he reached for one of the door handles. ‘‘Shall we go in?’’ He ushered her over the threshold, pulling the door shut behind them. They proceeded, Liv in the lead, to the formal drawing room.

She threw out a hand in the direction of a chair. ‘‘Take a seat. I’ll be right back. I want to make certain we have this discussion alone.’’ She headed for the hallway that led to the kitchen.

She caught the maid just beyond the open doorway-lurking as usual. ‘‘All right. I want you out of here.’’

‘‘But, Your Highness—’’

‘‘Out. I mean it. Go.’’

The maid backed up and Liv advanced. Finally, with a cry, the maid turned and fled.

Liv chased her into the suite’s small kitchen, where she found the cook playing solitaire at the table. ‘‘Okay. You, too. Out. Now.’’ She made broad shooing motions.

The cook, looking terrified, shoved back her chair. Liv herded her toward the maid and then urged them both toward the door to the back stairs. ‘‘Go on. Out.’’ Finally the maid flung the door wide and fled, the cook close on her heels. ‘‘And stay out!’’ Liv slammed the door behind them.

She stalked back down the hall and into the drawing room.

Finn had taken the seat she’d offered him. He stood when she came toward him, still wearing that exasperating expression of aloof good humor. His eyes met hers. Her pulse quickened—why, she could hear her heart beating.

Oh, this was way, way disturbing. She not only had to be disappointed in herself for her actions of two nights ago. She also displayed all the indications of an ongoing attraction to this patently unsuitable man.

How was that possible? Hadn’t being attracted to him gotten her into enough of a mess already?

‘‘Look, Finn, I—’’

He shushed her with a finger to his fine, sensual mouth—and reached for her hand. Scowling, she let him drag her toward the hall where she’d found the spying maid. How, she wondered as he led her along, could the mere clasp of his hand around hers send a thrill racing through her? Stuff like that didn’t happen in real life—or at least, not in Liv Thorson’s life.

He paused before the open door to the suite’s informal sitting area and looked in. ‘‘This will do.’’

‘‘I don’t—’’

He turned again, winked and once more brought his finger to his lips. She almost snapped at him to stop shushing her, but he was already dragging her into the room, across the fine Persian rugs to a fat velvet sofa. He sat her down in the middle of it and went to switch on the TV and the radio, too.

‘‘What in the world is the matter with you?’’ she asked as the radio blared Norwegian pop and a gorgeous Gullandrian weather girl pointed at a map on the TV and babbled cheerfully about the North Atlantic drift.

With that stunning lazy grace of his, he dropped down beside her. ‘‘Speak softly.’’ His beautiful, tender mouth was not all that far from her ear, his voice low and seductive, his breath, as before in her father’s chambers, warm and sweet against her cheek.

Through the fog of despicable desire he aroused in her, she took his meaning. ‘‘You think the suite is bugged?’’

He nodded.

And she supposed he could be right. If her father would plant spies in her rooms, there was no reason he wouldn’t throw in a little electronic surveillance, as well.

But what did Finn care? She asked him, whispering, ‘‘What does it matter to you if my father hears us?’’

‘‘It doesn’t,’’ he whispered back. ‘‘But I thought it mattered to you.’’

‘‘Ah,’’ she said, absurdly touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘‘Well. Okay…’’

So the radio and the television stayed on and they remained close together there on the couch, speaking in near whispers—a truly nerve-racking way to speak with a man as dangerously seductive as Finn. But it couldn’t be helped. With superhuman effort, Liv managed to maintain something resembling a train of thought.

She spoke the truth. In a civil and reasonable tone. ‘‘Finn. Seriously. You have to see that a marriage between you and me would be a disaster. We’re strangers, really. Strangers from completely different worlds. And neither of us is ready for marriage. You’re a confirmed bachelor who until this morning has shown no inclination to marry anyone.’’ She tried a little joke. ‘‘I mean, what will all the ladies around here say? They’ll be so disappointed….’’ She waited for him to chuckle.

He didn’t. ‘‘I’m sure they’ll survive.’’ He took her hand, turned it over and traced a heart in the center of her palm, his head bent to the task. Then he looked up and met her eyes again.

That amber gaze seduced her. Her palm seemed to sizzle where his finger had brushed it. And her foolish heart was knocking so loudly she knew he had to be able to hear it, even over the chatty Gullandrian weather girl and the haunting Secret Garden tune on the radio. Liv had a fine brain. Too bad it ceased to work properly when this man was around.

She cleared her throat and forged on. ‘‘Finn, I’m, well, I’m on a career fast track right now. I’ve got to finish getting my education and then I’ve got to build a reputation as an attorney. I have plans for myself. Important plans. I’m sure it’s not easy for a lot of men to understand—particularly, forgive me for saying it, men from Gullandria—but I’ve got a future, in the law, in the political arena. As far as my life goes, marriage and babies are a long way off.’’

He was watching her, leaning in, listening so patiently. So attentively. He was very good at that. At listening, one on one. He made a woman feel so…cherished and important. As if he was literally hanging on her every word.

It was very seductive.

And there it was, that word again. Seductive. Various forms of that word popped into her head with scary frequency when Finn Danelaw was near.

He said softly, ‘‘Are you finished?’’

As an undergraduate, Liv had taken Speech as her minor. She was a killer in debate; she did her homework and knew how to think on her feet. As a rule, she won. Often, like many high achievers, she’d dream of blowing it big time, of getting stuck debating a crack team on a subject of which she knew nothing, of trying to fake it, of failing miserably.

It was very strange. Back in her father’s chambers, she’d felt so strong and sure. She’d known herself to be in the right, known exactly what to say. She’d lined up her points and fired them off straight on target.

But now, here, alone with Finn…

She felt as though she’d somehow wandered into her own bad dream: the nightmare debate. She wasn’t prepared. He would triumph utterly, with patience and good humor. With understanding.

With sheer seductiveness.

She blinked. ‘‘I…uh, go ahead. What is it? Say what you have to say.’’

Somehow, he had captured her hand again. He kept doing that, taking her hand after she pulled it away. And then, for a while, she would let him hold it. Because it felt so good, so right, so natural, that he should.

And then she would realize what she was doing and pull it away.

Only to have him capture it once more.

She stared at him. He stared back, the beginnings of a smile on that mouth she couldn’t make herself forget she had kissed.

That mouth, God help her, she wouldn’t mind kissing again.

That mouth began to move. ‘‘Darling Liv…’’

She pulled her hand free. ‘‘There. Now. That.’’

‘‘What?’’ His voice was teasing. Gentle. In the background, the weather girl had finished. A man was talking now. The music on the radio droned on.

‘‘I…well, Finn. You shouldn’t call me that. I don’t want you to call me that.’’

‘‘What should I call you, if not by your name?’’

‘‘I don’t mean my name, you know I don’t. I mean ‘darling.’ I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me darling.’’

He considered for a moment, his head tipped slightly to the side. And then he caught her hand again. They both stared downward, at his hand around hers. His skin was so warm. His fingers were long, the pads smooth, but callused at the inner joints—the hands of a man who rode. He had a spectacular seat on a horse.

And those hands…oh, they felt delicious against her skin.

She remembered, in a vivid flash, the other night. Those hands rubbing in the hollow of her back, brushing over her belly, sliding down into the secret wetness between her open thighs…

She looked up. ‘‘Please. This is disorienting.’’

‘‘All right,’’ he said, as if he had seen what was going through her mind and had decided to take pity on her. He let go of her hand. The minute he did, she found herself wishing he hadn’t.

Oh, she was thinking. This is bad, bad, bad….

He began to speak in a half whisper. ‘‘As to your plans for your education and future career, I don’t see a problem.’’ How did he do that, manage a tone both reasonable and intimate at the same time? ‘‘I’m sure you’ll get to all that. In good time. But right now, you’re having a baby. My baby.’’

She couldn’t let that pass. ‘‘But I’m not—’’

He raised a hand. ‘‘I believe I’m the one speaking now.’’

She pressed her lips together and nodded. ‘‘Go on.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ His brows drew together. He looked so serious, so very concerned. ‘‘I want you to know that I do regret having put you in this position. It shouldn’t have happened. I should have used more care. But now that it has happened, well, you see, this is Gullandria. It’s a terrible thing to be born a bastard here. Perhaps you’ve spoken to your sister, Princess Elli, on the subject….’’

She didn’t care how serious and concerned he looked. She didn’t like where he was headed. ‘‘Was that a question?’’

‘‘Well, have you?’’

Elli’s new husband, Hauk, had been born of unmarried parents. When he and Elli declared they would marry no matter what, Osrik had legitimized Hauk. Until then, Elli’s warrior had carried the shameful prefix of ‘‘fitz’’ before his name. His childhood, Elli had implied more than once to Liv, had been deeply stigmatized, a living hell.

‘‘Have you?’’ Finn asked yet again.

She gave him his answer, grudgingly. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Then you have some idea,’’ Finn said, ‘‘of what it’s like to grow up a fitz in this country. No man would willingly do that to his own child.’’

A shiver ran beneath her skin—this time one that hadn’t a thing to do with sex. He looked so determined. She never would have imagined Finn Danelaw would be determined about anything.

The first time she saw him—it would be exactly a week ago tonight—he had been dancing. With a beautiful woman, Lady Something-Or-Other. Liv couldn’t recall her name at the moment. The lady had looked up at him dreamily as she whirled in his arms. Liv could have sworn that the woman’s feet had never once touched the ballroom floor.

An hour later, Liv was the one in his arms. They danced several dances. And they talked—flirtatious talk. As a rule, Liv Thorson didn’t flirt. What was the point of it? If she liked a man, they had things that mattered to talk about: politics, corruption in big business, recent Supreme Court decisions and how they would impact the practice of law in courtrooms all over America.

Flirting, as far as she was concerned, was a little silly. Definitely lightweight. Fine for other women, if that was how they chose to spend their time.

But with Finn…

Well, somehow, he made flirting feel exciting and fun, not a waste of time at all. When Finn Danelaw flirted, it was the next thing to an art form.

She’d asked—flirtatiously—if a prince had to work for a living.

He’d chuckled. ‘‘Depends on the prince.’’

‘‘Well, you, for example.’’

‘‘If I did work, I would never admit it while dancing with you.’’

Brit had danced with him later. And much later, when the sisters were alone in their rooms, they’d agreed he was a total charmer, killer handsome, yum-yum and all of that. Eye candy. Ear candy. Easy on the senses all the way around.

But someone to be taken seriously? Someone who would ever be very determined about anything?

Uh-uh. No way.

Somehow, he had managed to take possession of her hand again. His thumb slid very gently back and forth, caressing the cove of her palm, creating lovely ripples of sensation, making her think of the other night when he had—

Liv cut off the dangerous thought before it could go where her thoughts had no right at all to be wandering. She reclaimed her hand. Where were they?

Oh, yes. On the subject of growing up a fitz, which was a terrible thing. In Gullandria. ‘‘But Finn, I don’t live in Gullandria. I’m an American and in America there are lots of happy children raised in single-parent homes. Now, I’m not saying it’s usually the best choice for a woman to bring up her baby on her own. But there are times when it can’t be helped.’’

He was doing it again, leaning in close, listening as if her voice was the only thing that mattered in the world. More men should listen like that….

She drew herself up. ‘‘And you know, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. As I keep trying to remind everyone, we can’t be sure I’m pregnant. Yes, I’ve shown the family signs. But what is that? Superstitious nonsense, really. I will not start stewing over what to do about being pregnant until I’ve taken a nice, safe, dependable home test and know for a fact I’ve got something to stew about. And, well, I can’t take a home test for a while yet.’’

He asked, a look of great interest on his wonderful, sensitive face, ‘‘How long is a ‘while’?’’

‘‘Well, I’m not sure. I’ve never taken one—and I doubt I’ll be taking one anytime soon.’’

One corner of his mouth quirked up—in amusement, or maybe in a sort of gentle impatience. ‘‘But if you find you do have to take one…’’

‘‘I would guess a couple of weeks, at least. Maybe more.’’

‘‘A couple of weeks.’’ He said the words so thoughtfully. Imagine that. Finn Danelaw, thoughtful. Too, too strange.

‘‘Yes,’’ she said, and wondered why it mattered.

A second later, she had her answer. His eyes lit up and his face became suddenly so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. ‘‘Then come with me. For two weeks. Until you know. Let me show you Balmarran, my family home. You’ll love it there, I know you will. You’ll meet my family—what there is of it, and we can—’’

She couldn’t let him continue. ‘‘No, Finn.’’

The music on the radio played on and the newscaster kept talking, but still, at that moment, the silence seemed deafening.

Finally he said very quietly, ‘‘No?’’

‘‘Well, you have to see, there’s no point in my running off to your family castle with you. Oh, Finn. I have a life, important work that I need to get back to. Even if I am pregnant, I won’t be marrying you.’’ She expected him to cut in about then and argue with her. It didn’t happen. Vaguely nonplussed by his sudden complete lack of resistance, she babbled on. ‘‘A marriage between us would never work. I mean, honestly, we hardly know each other. We come from truly, uh, diverse backgrounds. There’s no…commonality. Is there, really?’’ He didn’t answer, so she did it for him. ‘‘None at all. We had a lovely, um, summer fling. I truly did, er, enjoy it. But really, what happened between us on Midsummer’s Eve is hardly a basis for marriage, now, is it?’’

For several uncomfortable seconds, he didn’t say anything. There was a lull—in the music on the radio, in the news on the TV. The ticking of the gilded French clock on the mantel seemed to rise up loud and gratingly insistent.

She was just about to ask him what kind of scheme he was hatching now, when the music swelled again and the newsmen began chatting and Finn inquired softly, ‘‘What will you do?’’

She almost asked, You mean, if I am pregnant? But she stopped the words just in time, drawing back, thinking, I will not start making plans that probably won’t even be necessary.

She told him in a tone that allowed no room for argument, ‘‘I’m going home, Finn. Today. And no matter what results I get, if it turns out I have to take that pregnancy test, I’m not going to marry you.’’

He rose—a portrait of purest male grace. ‘‘I see.’’

She looked up at him, narrow eyed. ‘‘What is that? ‘I see.’ What does that mean?’’

In lieu of an answer, he offered his hand. Warily she laid hers in it. He gave a gentle tug and she was on her feet beside him.

He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, just the faintest, most incredibly seductive brush of his lips against her skin. ‘‘Necessity, Fate and Being,’’ he whispered. ‘‘May the three Norns of destiny show you the way.’’

Lovely, she thought. Yet another of those archaic Gullandrian sayings. She’d heard a lot of them in the past week. What, exactly did he mean by this one? Damned if she was going to ask him.

And really, men didn’t kiss women’s hands anymore. Yet, when Finn did it, it seemed so perfectly natural, so right.

He was such an anomaly: kissing her hand, whispering baroque Norse axioms; determined to win her to his way one minute, bowing himself out the next. She simply could not figure him out.

And so what? It didn’t matter. It was okay. Let Finn Danelaw remain a mystery to her, a tender, naughty memory to bring a secret smile now and then as the years went by.

‘‘Come,’’ he said, guiding her fingers over his arm. ‘‘Walk me to the door.’’

Finn was hardly in his rooms five minutes when the summons came from the king. He returned to the private audience room, where His Majesty and Prince Medwyn awaited him.

The king wasted no time on amenities. ‘‘Well? Will she marry you?’’

‘‘Your Majesty, she says not. She says she’s returning to America today, as planned—and alone.’’

‘‘You used all your skills of persuasion?’’

Finn nodded. ‘‘I am ashamed, Your Majesty, to admit they were not enough, not at this point. She is too wary. I need time.’’

The king’s usually kind eyes grew hard as agates. ‘‘She’s leaving, you said. That means you have no time.’’ Osrik began to pace back and forth between the leaded windows and the archway to the antechamber. Finn and Medwyn waited, deferentially silent, until he chose to speak again. Finally His Majesty stopped and turned. ‘‘Liv is too proud. Too opinionated. Her tongue is as sharp as the beak of a raven. There is, in the end, no reasoning with a woman like that.’’ Those dark eyes leveled on Finn. Finn met them, unblinking.

The king said, ‘‘You will have to take her. I regret the necessity for such a move, but I see no other way. My grandchild will not be born a fitz. Have her car waylaid en route to the airport and transport her to a tower room at Balmarran. Keep her there until she agrees to the marriage.’’

Finn felt a tightness in his chest. Regret. ‘‘She will hate me.’’

‘‘It can’t be helped.’’

‘‘As soon as she gets the chance, she’ll divorce me. Our own laws make it so.’’ No Viking woman could be held to a marriage against her will.

‘‘Keep her at Balmarran until the child is born. Then let her do as she pleases. Your child will be legitimate, and that’s what matters above all.’’

‘‘Your Majesty,’’ Finn said respectfully.

The king looked at him, narrow eyed. ‘‘I don’t like the sound of that.’’

‘‘I would prefer, sire, to capture my wife in my own way.’’

‘‘What way? With Liv, there is no other way than force.’’

‘‘Sire. I assure you. There is a way.’’

Osrik waved a dismissing hand. ‘‘Come now. Listen to your king. Distance has not kept me from watching over my daughters as they grew to womanhood. I know their lives, the choices they’ve made, the men who swarm around them, like bees to hollyhocks in high summer. Liv’s men? Every one of them, soft and giving. Tender as women themselves. They talk with her of changing the world—and they do as she tells them to do.’’ The king’s look turned crafty. ‘‘Did you know she’s got one of those poor fools squirming on the hook of her considerable charms right now?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Finn said dryly. ‘‘Simon Graves is his name. She spoke of him once or twice in our time together.’’

Osrik strode to his desk and lowered himself into the velvet-padded, intricately carved chair behind it. He laid his hands flat upon the inlaid desktop. The bloodred ruby in the ring of state caught the light streaming in the beveled windows behind him and glittered like fire in a dragon’s eye. ‘‘Finn, we all know that no woman can resist you. As a rule, they don’t even try. But Liv is not a woman in the sense that any true man can understand.’’

‘‘I know that, Your Majesty.’’

The king studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. ‘‘She’s not like Elli, who understands her womanliness in the deepest way. And not like Brit, who is wild and willful, yes, but still knows herself as a woman and glories in the fact. Liv’s spent her life training herself to assume high office, shuffling her womanhood aside. And that means this may be one game of love you can’t hope to win.’’

‘‘My lord, that’s altogether possible.’’

‘‘You’ll end up with the ashes of regret in your mouth, bitter that you played at all.’’

‘‘Perhaps so.’’

But Finn didn’t feel regret right then. Right then, his blood raced and his mind was clear and sharp as the edge of good sword. He knew his king, could see where this interview was going. He would have His Majesty’s blessing to seduce Princess Liv. To go after her and run her to ground, armed only with his wits and his quick tongue. He would outtalk her—and yet he would hang on her every word. He would touch her, kiss her, caress her—only when she allowed it.

Until she begged for his kisses, pleaded for his touch, yearned only to have him, once again, inside her.

Until she moaned beneath him.

And writhed on top of him.

And crawled all over him.

Whenever he wanted her.

Until he said, Marry me.

And she cried out, Yes! tears of joy streaming from those blue, blue eyes.

It was what he did best.

And he did love a challenge.

Osrik was watching him. The king shook his proud gray head. ‘‘You would be wiser to take her and be done with it. In the end, you’ll have to do it, anyway.’’

Finn said nothing. He’d already made his intention crystal clear.

Medwyn spoke then, from behind Finn. ‘‘Remember, my lord, how this situation came about. Two nights ago, Princess Liv did surrender. She can be seduced, and Prince Finn is the man to do it.’’

Osrik’s expression turned thoughtful. He was nodding, but then he frowned. ‘‘We mustn’t forget that was Midsummer’s Eve. A night when all the rules are broken. Also, there were large quantities of ale involved—is that your plan, then, Finn? To get her drunk and keep her that way?’’

‘‘No, my lord. My plan is to marry her. By her choice. When she makes that choice, she’ll have all her wits about her, else the game would not be fairly played.’’

‘‘Hmm,’’ said the king.

‘‘I believe,’’ said Medwyn, ‘‘that if any man has a chance at this impossible task, it would have to be Finn.’’

Osrik looked right at Finn again. ‘‘You’re absolutely determined to try to win her—on her ground?’’

‘‘Sire. I am.’’

‘‘You will allow me to aid you in one small way?’’

‘‘No force,’’ Finn insisted.

The king smiled and crooked a finger. ‘‘Approach.’’ Finn strode to his side and bent close. His liege whispered of the aid he offered.

Finn stood back.

The king said, ‘‘I can’t guarantee it. But I shall make the call. Deaf ears sometimes hear again, when blind eyes begin to see there is no other way but to learn to be flexible. And the news of the baby will help. If I succeed, you will have not only an important ally in your quest, you’ll also be positioned properly, in a place where Liv will find it difficult to ignore you. What do you say?’’

Finn nodded, ‘‘Yes, my lord, if you would. Such aid would be greatly appreciated.’’

Brit came breezing into the suite at a little after four that afternoon, a flush on her cheeks and her arms full of packages. She dropped them all by the door when she saw that Liv was still there. ‘‘Okay, what’s happened?’’

Liv didn’t bother with the TV or the radio. If her father was listening in while she told Brit what a rat he was, so be it.

Besides, she’d had several hours to ponder Finn Danelaw’s cleverness in hinting that the suite might be bugged. It had given him a perfect reason to sit next to her, to whisper in her ear and capture her hand over and over again—to remind her with his closeness of the forbidden night they had shared, to put those incredible powers of seduction to work on her.

And then, she had no doubt at all, not long after he left her rooms her father would have summoned him and commanded him to repeat everything she’d said. So Osrik knew already where she stood and what she intended to do.

Bottom line: this was not espionage. And Liv was through speaking in whispers and sneaking around.

She pulled Brit down onto a long, padded bench near the door. ‘‘I couldn’t leave until I talked to you.’’ Quickly she told everything—of the meeting in her father’s private audience chambers and the one right after it with Finn. When she’d finished, she commanded, ‘‘I want you to come home with me. Get packed and we’re out of here.’’

But Brit wasn’t moving. ‘‘I’m not ready to go yet.’’

‘‘Are you out of your mind? He’s probably got this room bugged and can hear everything we’re saying. If he’s capable of that, think what else he might be willing to—’’

‘‘Liv. Listen. I’m staying. Our father…is who he is. And I don’t care if he has spies on me. He’s not going to learn anything I’m not willing for him to know, especially not now that I’m aware he’s doing it.’’

‘‘But he might do anything. You don’t know what might happen to you here.’’

‘‘He’s not going to hurt me. I’m his daughter, and so are you.’’

‘‘Argh. Don’t remind me.’’

‘‘In his own overbearing way, he loves us both very much.’’

Liv had to admit she didn’t really believe Osrik would hurt Brit. And Brit seemed so firm about staying.

‘‘Oh, Brit…’’

‘‘I’ll be fine.’’

‘‘Are you certain?’’

‘‘I am.’’

Liv gave up and called for a car, half expecting to be told one wasn’t available and that the royal jet would not be at her disposal, after all.

She was gearing up for another confrontation with her father when an attendant appeared to carry her bags down.

Liv hugged her sister good and hard. ‘‘You be careful. I will kill you if you get yourself hurt.’’

‘‘I promise. I’m going to be fine. Have a safe trip.’’

The drive to the small airport was uneventful. And the royal jet—a Gulfstream capable of flying straight through to California without a stop—was waiting, ready to go as soon as Her Highness could board and the flight plans could be cleared.

Her driver opened her door for her and ushered her from the car, detouring next to the trunk, where he hauled out her bags and turned them over to the porter who would load them in the luggage compartment.

The air was clear and the wind was up. Liv could smell the ocean on it. Overhead, a few gulls dipped and soared. She smoothed her blowing hair off her face and ran for the steps that led up to the passenger door.

The pretty attendant—the same one who’d taken care of Liv and Brit on the flight over—greeted her at the top. ‘‘Welcome, Your Highness. So lovely to have you flying with us again.’’

Liv gave the woman a big smile and ducked into the cabin to find that there was one other passenger traveling with her: Finn Danelaw.

Chapter Six

Liv hovered in the galley area, the flight attendant at her back, glaring at the man waiting for her in the cabin.

‘‘Liv. Welcome.’’ Finn rose from the plush leather seat and held out a fine long-fingered hand as if inviting her to dance.

Liv swept through the narrow doorway into the cabin, then stopped short and turned back to the flight attendant. ‘‘Excuse us for a moment.’’ She shut the door in the attendant’s pretty, bewildered face and whirled on Finn. ‘‘I’ll ask the obvious. What are you doing here?’’

He gave her one of his oh-so-elegant shrugs. ‘‘You wouldn’t come to my home. I thought I might visit you in yours.’’

‘‘What we had to say to each other has been said. It’s done, finished, through. I will never again have anything to do with you. Thus, it’s impossible for you to ‘visit’ me.’’

‘‘I hope to convince you to reconsider my suit.’’

‘‘I absolutely will not. I meant what I said. I won’t marry you. No matter what…happens.’’

‘‘You won’t marry me. I understand. You’ve said it repeatedly. There’s no need to say it again.’’

‘‘Oh, why can’t I get through to you?’’

‘‘But Liv darling, you have gotten through to me.’’

‘‘I am not your darling.’’

‘‘Ah. Yes. I believe you’ve mentioned that, too.’’

‘‘Then don’t call me that.’’

He dropped into the chair again, rested an elbow on the wide, padded arm and looked up at her, an absolutely infuriating expression of charmed bemusement on his gorgeous face. ‘‘He who fights shadows only squanders his strength.’’

She really, sincerely, wanted to bop him on the head with her Balenciaga lariat bag. ‘‘What is that? One of those obscure Gullandrian sayings of yours?’’

‘‘Hardly of mine. And I do think the meaning is clear.’’

‘‘There is no point to this. This will get you exactly nowhere.’’

‘‘So you’ve explained to me. I find, though, that I have an unrelenting yearning to see Sacramento.’’

‘‘Oh, right.’’ She was truly furious. She felt as if, any second now, steam would start hissing out of her ears. ‘‘Prime vacation destination in the Golden State. No doubt about it. What’s Monterey, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, when you can be in Sacramento?’’

One corner of his mouth lifted. Lazily. Seductively. ‘‘A visit of…two or three weeks, I would say…’’

Oh, there was absolutely no point in talking with him. It got her nowhere and seemed to provide him an endless source of amusement.

Should she deplane?

To what purpose? She’d just have to find some other way to get home. And Finn would still be there when she arrived.

She turned from him abruptly and yanked open the door to the galley area. The attendant stood on the other side, looking sheepish.

‘‘Come in, come in,’’ Liv said with heavy irony. ‘‘Prince Danelaw and I have nothing more to say to each other.’’

Liv put the man on permanent ignore. For the entire flight, she did not say one word to him.

They were served an excellent meal of veal medallions with pasta salad and artichokes. Liv savored hers in silence, careful never to let her gaze stray in the direction of the prince, shaking her head when the attendant offered her a glass of wine. It would be a long time before she let anything with alcohol in it cross her lips again.

After she’d eaten, she moved to the bedroom half of the cabin, pulled the accordion doors shut and didn’t emerge for the several hours left in the flight.

It worked out fine. She had a bed to stretch out in and a rest room all to herself if she needed it. She watched a movie, read the new Sandra Day O’Connor memoir and told herself she was hardly giving a thought to the patient, gorgeous, relentless man on the other side of the flimsy doors.

She even had the foresight to call ahead and arrange for a cab to be waiting at the other end. Her father had sent a limousine to pick her up and take her to the airport for the flight to Gullandria, but she had no illusions he would have made any such arrangement now. She was not going to be stuck without a ride—not with the ever-resourceful Prince Finn around. Of course, he’d have a limousine waiting. And he’d be oh-so-eager to give her a lift.

The flight took ten hours. With the eight-hour time difference, they touched down at Sacramento Executive Airport at a little after eight in the evening—only two hours later than the time it had been when they left Gullandria.

Liv looked out the window and saw a throng of reporters waiting on the tarmac—along with a shiny black limousine and an undistinguished-looking white four-door sedan: her cab.

She scrawled the address and phone number of her summer sublet on the back of a business card and gave it to the flight attendant along with a fifty. ‘‘Make certain my bags get to that address tonight.’’

‘‘Yes, Your Highness. I’ll see to it. Thank you for flying with us.’’

Liv smiled politely and moved on. She got out the door first, ahead of Finn. The cameras started clicking the minute she appeared on the small landing at the top of the steps. And the questions came at her as she descended.

‘‘Princess Liv, how’s your sister, the warrior’s bride?’’

‘‘Elli is blissfully happy.’’

‘‘Where will they honeymoon?’’

‘‘You know, I can’t say for certain….’’

‘‘I see Princess Brit isn’t with you. Why?’’

‘‘She decided to extend her visit in my father’s country.’’

Finn was right behind her. And they noticed. The women in the crowd waved and called to him—by name. ‘‘Prince Danelaw!’’

‘‘Prince Finn, this way!’’

Finn grinned and waved. Click-click-click went the cameras. More than one woman fanned herself and sighed.

‘‘Princess Liv, we understand that you and Prince Finn will be celebrating a wedding of your own very soon.’’

She’d been smiling until then. ‘‘I beg your pardon, I hardly know Prince Finn.’’ Well, it was true. Just because she’d slept with him, didn’t mean she knew him. ‘‘He’s visiting Sacramento. We merely flew here on the same plane. We are not engaged—I’m not engaged to anyone.’’

‘‘But my sources have it that—’’

‘‘Your sources have it wrong.’’ Liv elbowed her way through the jostling crowd as quickly and smoothly as she could manage it, with the questions still flying and the cameras clicking away.

She couldn’t believe it. How could they possibly have any clue about her and Finn? But then she thought of her father and decided this was just like him: to plant false information and put her in the embarrassing position of having to deny it.

Finn stayed right with her, too close for comfort. He was at her side when she reached the cab. The cabby hadn’t thought to get out and open her door for her.

Finn did the honors. He reached for the handle and then stopped to grant her a heart-twisting smile. ‘‘Are you sure you won’t ride with me? I’d be happy to take you wherever you’d like to go.’’

Oh, I’ll just bet, she thought.

Click-click-click-click. The cameramen kept shooting away.

Live returned his smile, but only because she’d been taught by her mother that one must never let the paparazzi see one sweat. ‘‘No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Enjoy your visit to Sacramento.’’

His gaze tracked to her mouth, then flicked up to collide with hers again. ‘‘Yes. I have a feeling I’m going to be very glad I came.’’

Another of those infuriating, purely sexual shivers quivered through her. She went on smiling and spoke very softly. ‘‘Open that door or I’ll spit in your eye.’’

With a flourish, he pulled the door wide.

Liv gave the cabby her address and turned to look out the rear window as the cab pulled away from the crowd of reporters. She wanted to make certain Finn didn’t follow her.

Still waving at the clicking cameras, he strode over to the long, black limousine. The limo driver jumped out and opened the door. Sable hair shining in the fading light of early evening, the prince ducked inside.

Liv kept watching, until the limo went another way. Apparently, Finn had better sense than to try tailing her home. A wise move on his part. If he had, she’d intended to call the police on him.

She could see the headlines now: Princess Liv And Her Handsome Stalker, The Prince. Royal Engagement A No-Go. His Highness In Jail. It would be ugly. And he would fully deserve whatever embarrassment he suffered.

Where would he go? she found herself wondering, though she knew she shouldn’t spare another thought for him. Some exclusive hotel, no doubt. Wherever. She didn’t care. She was jet-lagged and emotionally exhausted and she needed a good night’s rest. She had to be at work tomorrow.

The cabby let her off in front of the cute, attractively renovated two-story Victorian on T Street. It belonged to a friend of her mother’s—a friend who was visiting Alaska for the summer. Ingrid had wanted Liv to stay in her old room at the Land Park house where Liv and her sisters had grown up. But Liv treasured her independence too much. She wanted to come and go as she pleased and know she wouldn’t be worrying her mother. Plus, the T Street house was downtown, closer to the State Attorney General’s Office and her job.

Inside, she brewed herself a cup of soothing tea and checked in with her message service. There was one from Simon, which brought a fresh twinge of guilt.

He was in town—Simon was spending his summer on the campaign trail with a senatorial candidate they both supported—and he wanted her to call him at his hotel. He reminded her about the rally tomorrow, the one she’d promised him several weeks ago that she’d attend.

She thought of a thousand excuses why she didn’t have to call him right then. None of them added up to anything but the desire to evade an unpleasant duty. She picked up the phone.

In the instant before she punched up his number, the doorbell rang. Her bags.

She had the driver lug them in. He left them in a neat row inside the front door at the foot of the stairs. She tipped him and locked up. Then she grabbed her overnighter—the rest she’d worry about tomorrow—and went on upstairs.

The phone rang as she was pulling on her thick terry bathrobe. She knew it was going to be Simon. She considered not answering.

‘‘Coward,’’ she muttered, and picked up the receiver.

It was her mother.

‘‘Liv darling, you’re home.’’ Her mother always called her darling. She’d never thought a thing about it. But now, the word stood out when Ingrid said it, making Liv think of the infuriating Prince Finn.

‘‘Liv?’’ Ingrid asked, a note of concern creeping in.

‘‘Sorry, Mom. I’m beat. And yes, I’m home. Safe and sound.’’

‘‘Good trip?’’

‘‘Can’t complain. Nonstop. The king’s luxury jet.’’ Liv waited, somewhat grimly, for her mother to start in about Brit staying on in Gullandria and Elli marrying ‘‘that big Gullandrian thug.’’

But she didn’t. She only said, ‘‘It’s a long flight, I know. Take a hot bath and get some rest.’’

Liv heaved a grateful sigh. She wanted to be there for Ingrid, to listen to her worries and provide a shoulder to cry on. But tonight, it really would have been one big scene too many. She said warmly, ‘‘A bath and a good night’s sleep. My intentions exactly.’’

‘‘And how about dinner, tomorrow night? I’ll have Hilda make your favorite stuffed pork chops. Say sevenish?’’

‘‘Sounds wonderful. I’ll be there.’’

Liv was just about to say good-night when it occurred to her that her mother might hear about her so-called engagement before she could explain the situation tomorrow at dinner. Ingrid hopefully would take such news with a grain of salt. But then again, she might completely freak. Hard to say. ‘‘Listen, Mom, I just want to warn you.’’

‘‘My. This does sound ominous.’’ Ingrid’s voice was light. Almost teasing.

And Liv wanted it to stay that way. ‘‘It’s not ominous. Not in the least. It’s nothing. I met this, well, this very charming man, in Gullandria. We spent some time together. You know, just casual?’’ Well, okay, not completely casual. But she was hoping Ingrid would never have to know about that. ‘‘We danced. We…talked. We went riding. He gave me a tour of Lysgard. He, um, showed Brit and me around….’’

‘‘Darling, what are you getting at?’’

‘‘Well, his name is Danelaw. Prince Finn Danelaw. And somehow, the press has gotten hold of it. As usual, they’ve made a big deal out of nothing. They seem to think I’m engaged to Finn. It’s not true. There’s nothing between us. And I, well, I just wanted you to hear it from me first, that’s all.’’

Her mother made a noise in her throat.

Liv couldn’t decide what that sound might mean. ‘‘Mom, it’s nothing. I just didn’t want you to read it first in the papers or have somebody tell you before I had a chance to.’’

‘‘Darling.’’

‘‘Mmm?’’

‘‘Don’t give it another thought. I know how the press is.’’ And she did, of course. After all, Ingrid Freyasdahl Thorson had been known for over two decades as the Runaway Gullandrian Queen. She was no stranger to scandal or to lying reporters. ‘‘And look at it this way…’’

‘‘What way?’’

‘‘If they had to pair you with a Gullandrian, at least he’s a Danelaw. It’s a very old family. Very wealthy. And powerful—at least at one time. Dane-laws once sat on the throne of Gullandria, did you know that? For several generations, as a matter of fact.’’

‘‘Mom, that’s not the point.’’

‘‘Of course it’s not, darling. I’m only trying to…look on the bright side.’’

‘‘There is no bright side to nosy reporters making up lies about me.’’

‘‘Sweetheart. Take a bath. Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow night.’’

* * *

Liv thought of Simon after she hung up. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she’d make the time to give him a call.

She went to the bathroom and filled the claw-footed tub. She soaked for an hour.

But when she climbed into the big, comfy canopy bed with the fat, luxurious pillow-top mattress, sleep wouldn’t come. Every time she’d relax, she’d find herself thinking sexy thoughts about Finn—the way his hair curled at his nape, the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, the brush of that thumb of his—gently, relentlessly—against her palm.

She’d catch herself and groan in frustration—and realize she was wide-awake.

She got up at seven, ate breakfast and spent a half an hour carefully making up her face, troweling on the concealer in an effort to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Then she dressed for success in a knee-grazing pencil skirt, short jacket to match, with her faux croc pumps and the beautiful single strand of Mikimoto pearls her Granny Birget had presented to her on her graduation from high school, right after she’d given the valedictory speech. Liv always felt good when she wore her valedictory pearls.

Her platinum blue Lexus was waiting in back. When she pulled out of the driveway and onto Thirteenth Street, she spotted a reporter crouched among the rhododendrons beside the house’s wide front porch. The man’s camera was pressed to his face. He pointed the thing at her car as she rolled up to the corner stop sign.

Liv put the passenger window down, leaned across the seat and signaled the man over. She smiled for a couple of close-ups and reassured him that, no, she really was not going to marry Prince Finn Danelaw. ‘‘And I would appreciate it if you’d stay out of the rhododendrons. They break so easily and you know this isn’t even actually my house. A friend of the family’s has let me use it for the summer.’’

Bowing and scraping, the man backed away, promising he’d never get near the flowerbeds again.

At the State Attorney General’s Office, Liv spent the day answering phones, typing letters and researching a few finer points of law. She had no illusions about the complexity of her three-month job. The work she did as an intern was what any junior clerk might do. In terms of job description, she wasn’t much more than a glorified gofer. She got work-study units for it in lieu of a salary.

But the contacts she was making were invaluable. One in every seven Americans lived in California. It was, in terms of the numbers and diversity of its people, by far the biggest state in America. And Liv, at the age of twenty-three, was rubbing elbows with those who ran it.

She left work at a little after six, with plenty of time to stop in at the house on T Street, where she noticed with satisfaction that the rhododendrons were undisturbed. Not a reporter in sight.

She got rid of her panty hose and changed into sandals, a more casual skirt and a comfy embroidered gauze peasant top. She thought of Simon again right before she went back out the door. She was early. She had time to give him a quick call.

But no. What she had to tell him wasn’t something she could explain in a ten-minute call. Later tonight, she promised herself.

She got to her mother’s at twenty of seven. The three-story Tudor where Liv and her sisters had grown up sat on a wide, curving tree-shaded street. The graceful old houses were set far back from the sidewalks, up long sweeps of green lawn, with driveways that led around back, to three-and four-car garages, maids’ quarters above. Not a street of mansions, by any means. But a street that spoke of prosperity, of the very-well-to-do. The sisters had always known that their mother—not only a runaway queen, but an heiress in her own right—could have raised them in a bigger house. They could have lived in San Diego or Beverly Hills. In a Park Avenue town house. In a palace in Timbuktu.

But Ingrid had wanted her daughters to have ‘‘some semblance of a normal childhood.’’ So they attended public schools—not always the safest endeavor in recent years. They played soccer on community teams. And they lived on a nice, wide, oak-shaded street in Land Park.

Liv pulled into the driveway on the side of the house and drove on beneath the porte cochere to the wide parking area with its row of four garages in back. She went in through the back door, the heels of her sandals tapping on the terra-cotta tiles of the service porch floor. She found Hilda, her mother’s housekeeper and cook for as long as Liv could remember, busy chopping herbs at the marble-topped island in the center of the big kitchen.

‘‘Hildy, I’m home!’’ Liv announced in a teasing singsong. She breezed over to the imposing, stern-faced woman with the iron-gray hair and planted a loud kiss on her gaunt cheek. ‘‘Mmm. I smell stuffed pork chops. I think I’m in heaven.’’

‘‘Liv,’’ Hilda said, coming as close to cracking a smile as she ever did. ‘‘It is good to see your face.’’ Her dark eyes met Liv’s.

Liv stepped back. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

‘‘You look…I don’t know. Is something wrong?’’

‘‘Why, no. Nothing.’’

Liv studied the housekeeper for a moment and then shrugged. Hilda was Gullandrian—Ingrid had brought her back to California when she left Osrik—and often mysterious or moody for reasons that Liv and her sisters never could figure out.

Hilda had gone back to chopping her herbs.

‘‘Where’s Mom?’’

‘‘In the family room.’’

Liv grabbed an apple from the bowl on the side counter and headed for the central hall. She heard her mother’s throaty, musical laughter as she approached the open doorway.

And then she heard a man’s low, teasing voice. She froze stock-still as she recognized that voice and understood the reason for the strange look in Hilda’s eyes.

Finn Danelaw was in the family room, making her mother laugh.

Chapter Seven

Ingrid laughed again. ‘‘Oh, Finn. I really think you’re a hazard on our highways. Use a driver from now on.’’

Finn chuckled, so charmingly. ‘‘But I love driving, especially with all the windows down, the radio turned up loud. And going very fast. Sadly, here in America, there are so many other cars in the way. Big ones, too. I saw my first Lincoln Navigator today. Amazing. And with a very small, very angry looking woman at the wheel….’’

‘‘Yes,’’ said Ingrid, a lightness in her voice that had been there too seldom of late. ‘‘You ought not to mess with an American woman in an SUV.’’

‘‘Excellent advice, I have no doubt.’’

Liv, still hanging back near the foot of the stairs, straightened her shoulders and stepped proudly into the open doorway.

Her mother, in a chair facing the hall, saw her first. Finn, lounging against the mantel on the outside wall, turned when he caught the direction of his hostess’s gaze.

Ingrid didn’t miss a beat. Her wide mouth spread in a happy, gracious smile. ‘‘Liv darling. You’re early.’’

‘‘Mother,’’ Liv said. She felt like a wire—strung tight, but not yet sprung. ‘‘Finn. How are you?’’

He gave her the most beautiful welcoming smile. ‘‘Better by the moment.’’ Oh, he was good. He was very, very good.

‘‘What a surprise,’’ Liv sneered, ‘‘to see you here.’’

Those amber eyes glittered with challenge, with something Liv couldn’t quite define. ‘‘Her Majesty has graciously invited me to be her guest during my visit to your beautiful city.’’

The wire of Liv’s temper pulled all the tighter. She flashed a furious look at her mother.

Ingrid rose to her feet. ‘‘Finn, I wonder…’’

He nodded. ‘‘I can see the two of you would like a little time alone.’’

Ingrid beamed him a grateful smile. ‘‘Yes, that would be wonderful. Fifteen minutes?’’

‘‘No problem.’’ He bowed over her hand and then he was striding straight for Liv. He wore camel-colored slacks and a polo shirt and he made something inside Liv go silly and hopeless and weak. Oh, why did he have to be so utterly gorgeous?

He reached her. And she was still standing there, rooted to the spot, blocking the doorway. She stared at him and he stared back at her. The air around them seemed to be humming—with her own righteous indignation, she tried to convince herself, as she ordered her foolish, wobbly legs to get her out of his way. With a quick, polite nod, he went on by.

She heard his footsteps going up the stairs. They faded off on the second floor. By then, she’d more or less pulled herself together. She leveled a look of disdain at her mother. ‘‘Well?’’

‘‘Oh, darling.’’ With a long sigh, her mother dropped to her chair again. ‘‘I hope you’re not too upset with me….’’ She looked across at Liv, hoping, no doubt, that Liv would rush in with eager reassurances, vowing she wasn’t angry in the least.

No way.

Ingrid became very absorbed with crossing her long legs and smoothing her bronze-colored linen skirt over her knees. ‘‘Oh, all right,’’ she finally admitted, ‘‘I should have said something earlier.’’

‘‘Now there’s a thought. Maybe you could have mentioned it last night, while I was stumbling all over myself trying to make sure you wouldn’t worry if you heard any rumors about my ‘engagement’ to that man.’’

‘‘I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep, be fresh for your job today. I knew you’d be angry, whenever I told you. And last night it simply seemed…wiser, just to wait until this evening.’’

Liv still held the apple she’d carried from the kitchen. Her appetite for it had vanished. She set it on the counter in the built-in bar area and moved nearer the chair where her mother sat. ‘‘Finn was here last night when you called me, wasn’t he?’’

Her mother sighed again and nodded.

‘‘Then you know about what happened between us?’’

‘‘Yes, darling. I do.’’

Did the humiliation never end? One night’s indiscretion and everybody had to know about it, her mother included. ‘‘How did you find out?’’

‘‘I spoke with your father. He called yesterday. We had a long talk.’’

Liv wondered if she’d heard right. ‘‘Wait a minute. The way you say that, you seem to be implying that you and Father had an actual conversation.’’

‘‘Yes. I would say the word ‘conversation’ pretty much describes what took place between us.’’

‘‘But…you never have conversations with Father.’’ The two had barely spoken in over twenty years.

Her mother was smoothing her skirt again. ‘‘Well, sweetheart, I’ve been doing some thinking. And I’ve come to the brilliant deduction that things change. If we want to survive in life, we have to adapt.’’ Ingrid looked up. A rueful gleam lit those sea-blue eyes. ‘‘With Elli married and living in Gullandria, and with Brit suddenly deciding to—oh, how should I put it?—explore her Gullandrian roots—I can see I’ll have to be willing to talk to Osrik now and then if I want to have any idea of what’s going on in my daughters’ lives.’’

‘‘You could try asking us.’’

Ingrid made a sound of frustration low in her throat. ‘‘I have. I don’t get a lot of answers—and what are you saying? That you’d rather your father and I went back to not speaking?’’

Maybe she would. Especially if they were going to discuss things like her sex life. ‘‘Whether you speak to him or not is completely up to you.’’

‘‘Thank you, darling.’’ There was a definite note of sarcasm.

Liv decided to ignore it. ‘‘So Father called and he told you…’’

‘‘About how you spent Midsummer’s Eve, about how you experienced the Freyasdahl symptoms the following night, about Finn’s offer of marriage and your refusal. Your father said Finn had decided to come here, to Sacramento, for a few weeks, to see if he might somehow manage to change your mind.’’

Liv felt her anger rising again. ‘‘And you want that to happen, right? You want him to change my mind. That’s why you invited him to stay here, in the house where I grew up—to show your support for him. You actually think that I ought to marry him.’’

Ingrid reached out. ‘‘Oh, Livvy…’’

Liv stepped back and sat in the chair across from her mother. ‘‘Just say it. You think I ought to marry him—marry a man I hardly know, a man with whom I have absolutely nothing in common, a man who’s been under just about every skirt in Gullandria.’’

Ingrid said nothing. For a moment, they sat in silence, mother and daughter, at odds.

Then Ingrid was leaning forward again, a wild, warm light in her eyes. ‘‘Oh, Livvy. I like him. I do. And he’s from a good family. And if you give it a chance, you might find the two of you have more in common than you realize. And besides, I saw the way he looked at you just now.’’

‘‘Mom.’’ Liv leaned forward, too. She spoke softly, taking care that no one but Ingrid would hear. ‘‘He’s a…playboy. Flirting to him is like breathing. He does it without having to give it a thought. He looks at all the women as if they’re the only one.’’

‘‘No, he does not. I’d bet a huge sum of money on that,’’ said Ingrid firmly. ‘‘And please don’t scowl. I do understand exactly what you mean when you speak of his flirting skills. He’s flirted with me, for heaven’s sake, and I loved it.’’

‘‘Well, at least you admit it.’’

‘‘Why shouldn’t I? He’s a joy to flirt with. But the way he looked at you…it was an altogether different thing.’’

Absurd, but Liv felt her heart lift a fraction. ‘‘Oh, I don’t think so.’’

‘‘You’re so bright, Liv. So strong and sure. Focused and determined, way beyond your years. And you’re also domineering. And overbearing. And it wouldn’t hurt you to stop and smell the flowers now and then.’’

Liv tried to keep from rolling her eyes. ‘‘Your point being?’’

‘‘That I think Finn sees your value, as a person, as a woman he could love. And you have to admit—’’ her mother dared a naughty grin ‘‘—he’s certainly experienced enough with the fairer sex to know a special woman when he meets her.’’

Liv did roll her eyes then. ‘‘That’s an interesting way of looking at it.’’

‘‘It’s merely the truth.’’

‘‘Mom. You are working on me.’’

‘‘Yes, I am. I want you to give Finn a chance.’’

‘‘I have a boyfriend, remember?’’

‘‘Darling. Simon Graves is a lovely man. But if he was really all that important to you, I doubt you would have spent Midsummer’s Eve with Finn.’’

Liv felt her face flaming. Okay, okay, maybe some of her fury at Finn was misdirected anger at herself. What she’d done with him four nights ago told her things about herself she really didn’t need to know.

‘‘Finn,’’ Ingrid said, ‘‘is, after all, the father of your child.’’

Liv groaned. ‘‘Please. It was only one night—to my lasting shame. And it’s way too soon to—’’

‘‘No, it’s not. What happened to you always happens to the Freyasdahl women when—’’

‘‘Mom. Let’s just…not go there, okay? I’ve been over it with Brit and Father and Finn. I really don’t feel up to going around and around about it with you, too.’’

Her mother’s eyes were very bright. ‘‘There will be a baby. Deny it now, if you feel you have to. But that won’t make it go away. And yes, I am… supporting Finn in this, in his effort to get to know you better. In his willingness to try and do the right thing. He seems a lovely man to me and he’s welcome in my home. I’m only too happy that the father of your baby was well-brought-up, is well-to-do and wants to marry you and give your baby his name.’’

‘‘Oh, Mom…’’ Liv knew she was softening. How could she help it, seeing the way her mother looked right now, that gleam in her eyes, the glow on her cheeks?

Liv supposed her mother’s reaction wasn’t surprising. A new baby in the family, to Ingrid, would mean new hope for the future, someone on whom to lavish all the love she’d never be able to give her lost sons.

‘‘Darling, I’m not saying you should marry him just because of the baby. This is not Gullandria and you know your family will support you, whatever steps you feel you have to take. I’m only saying, what can it hurt to give Finn a chance?’’

At dinner, by tacit agreement, they kept things light.

Finn entertained them with stories of his adventures during his first day in Sacramento. Yes, he confessed, he had once or twice driven over the speed limit.

‘‘But, as luck would have it, no one was hurt.’’

He’d eaten lunch at McDonald’s. ‘‘Excellent French fries.’’ And pumped his own gas at a Jiffy ServeMart. ‘‘There was a small market beyond the pumps. I went inside. Rows of muffins and biscuits, individually packed. Racks and racks of crispy snacks made of mysterious ingredients the names of which I found difficult to pronounce. And self-serve beverages. They offered something called a Super Huge Gulp. A massive plastic cup and you fill it up yourself. In my rental car, along with the computerized mapping system and the state-of-the-art stereo, there’s a small device between the seats for holding beverage cups. Not big enough to hold a Super Huge Gulp, however. I was forced to drink the entire thing before I dared to get back behind the wheel.’’

Ingrid suggested teasingly, ‘‘And from this you learned?’’

He laughed. ‘‘Absolutely nothing.’’ He asked Ingrid about her work. Liv’s mother owned an antique shop in Old Sacramento. He listened, rapt, as she described how she’d sold two French Empire armchairs with bronze sphinx mounts and a Winged Victory gilt candelabra.

And then he turned to Liv. ‘‘And how are things at the Attorney General’s Office? Did they manage to get along without you for an entire week?’’

Liv admitted with a good-natured smile that somehow they had.

There were candles on the table, tall white tapers in her mother’s favorite silver candlesticks. Liv looked across at Finn. His eyes met hers, gleaming more golden than amber with the candle flames reflected in them. She thought of the two of them, on Midsummer’s Eve, dancing like moonstruck fools around that blazing Viking ship, the rim of the red Gullandrian midnight sun dropping at last below the horizon. Her pulse quickened. Her whole body was too warm.

She felt a smile quiver across her mouth as she accepted the fact that he was here, in Sacramento, that he really did seem to want to make it work between them. And even if she didn’t believe it could work, even if she didn’t really believe she was pregnant, even if the last thing she needed in her life, at her age, with her career goals, was a baby…

Well, if by some crazy trick of fate it turned out she was pregnant, her choice would have to be to keep the child. She had plenty of money, a loving family to provide emotional support and she was strong and self-directed. For her, it would be a coward’s act to do otherwise. Yes, it would slow her down a little, as far as her goals were concerned. But it wouldn’t stop her. Nothing would stop her. She meant to make a difference in the world, no matter what curves life decided throw her.

So all right. She would…work with Finn on this, on getting to know him better. After all, if it did turn out she was pregnant, whether they married in the end or not, she would still have to find a way to get along with her baby’s father.

‘‘Good night, darling. Drive carefully,’’ Ingrid said, presenting her cheek for a kiss. ‘‘Finn will walk you to your car.’’

Liv hardly needed an escort out to the back driveway, but she didn’t argue with her mother’s obvious attempt to throw her and Finn together.

Side by side, she and the prince walked down the back steps and over to her waiting car. Liv found herself all too conscious of the way his arm twice, and oh-so-lightly, brushed hers.

The thick branches of an old oak had swallowed the light intended to brighten the area between the porte cochere and the garages. When they reached her car, they were in deep shadow.

She stopped before crossing around to the driver’s side and leaned back against the passenger door.

Finn, as if invited, moved in close. ‘‘Do I detect a certain…softening in your attitude toward me?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she confessed, ‘‘I suppose you do. You and my father and my mother have worn me down. I still don’t think I’m pregnant, but I’m willing to accept that it’s a possibility. I’m willing to do what you suggested back in Gullandria, to spend the next few weeks getting to know you better, just in case we end up discovering that there’s a baby on the way, after all.’’

‘‘Clearly a fate worse than death.’’ He said the words lightly, but there was a note of rebuke in them, too.

She shrugged. ‘‘Well, I have to tell you, a baby was just not on my to-do list for at least another decade or so.’’

‘‘Sometimes,’’ he whispered, ‘‘life refuses to go according to plan.’’

They were quiet for a moment. From the corner of the yard, a cricket chirped steadily. And a block or so away, some lonely dog let out a long, sad howl. The night was clear. And warm. The white disc of a full moon rode high in the sky, partly obscured, from where they stood, by the branches of the oak overhead.

As the dog’s forlorn howl faded to nothing, Finn laughed. The sound was low and achingly sensual. ‘‘I have an idea.’’

She looked at him warily. ‘‘Oh, no.’’

He put a hand to either side of her, resting his palms on the car behind her, trapping her gently between his outstretched arms. ‘‘Let me come with you to that house on T Street.’’ He smelled of lovely, tempting things. A hint of heather, a suggestion of musk…

‘‘How do you know I’m staying on T Street?’’

‘‘I asked your mother. She told me everything I needed to know—address, house phone, cellular phone. I have it all. I can call you or find you at my will.’’

‘‘You know no shame.’’

‘‘So I’ve been told.’’

‘‘And I have to ask…’’

‘‘Anything.’’

‘‘Don’t you have any responsibilities in Gullandria? Can you really afford to just take off out of nowhere and stay on for weeks in another country?’’

‘‘Liv darling, you’ve got your Puritan face on—your eyes narrowed, your nose scrunched up, that beautiful mouth of yours pinched up tight.’’

She stuck out her chin at him, scrunched her nose harder and pinched her mouth up all the tighter.

‘‘Gruesome,’’ he said, and they laughed together. Then he explained, ‘‘I have estate managers. I pay them. They manage. And should there be a terrible crisis of some sort, they know how to reach me. I also expend a considerable amount of effort—much more than I would ever admit to any casual acquaintance—managing a hefty stock portfolio. For that, in the past few years, all I need is a computer with an Internet connection and a telephone or two. Your mother has been so gracious as to give me one of the upstairs rooms to use as an office during my stay in America.’’

‘‘You’re admitting then, that you actually do work.’’

‘‘Please don’t tell anyone.’’

‘‘My lips are sealed.’’

‘‘Ah. Your lips…’’ He leaned a fraction closer.

She brought a hand up, palm out, between his mouth and hers. He made a low, impatient noise in his throat. But he did back off. And she asked, ‘‘What about family? I seem to remember, at some point during the time we spent together in Gullandria, you mentioned a sister and a grandfather?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘My sister, Eveline, is sixteen. She lives at Balmarran. She’s utterly unmanageable, I’m afraid. She drives tutors and companions away effortlessly, usually on the day my grandfather hires them. And then there was the recent upheaval over the groundskeeper’s boy. The two decided they were in love. The boy is totally unsuitable for her, of course.’’

Egalitarian to the core, Liv put on her most socially superior expression. ‘‘Because he’s a mere freeman?’’

‘‘Not really. I think my grandfather and I are enlightened enough to accept that my sister might someday decide to marry a man without a title.’’

‘‘Then why?’’

‘‘You’d have to meet the boy. Cauley is completely uncivilized. He was ten when the groundskeeper and his wife adopted him. It was probably a mistake that they took him on. He was angry and aggressive, couldn’t read or even write his own name. He’s seventeen now. Under all the hair and the surly attitude, I’d venture to say he’s a handsome young man, if a trifle too thin. But he remains woefully undereducated and socially inept. He’s good in the gardens, though. His father has him working with his top assistant, Dag, learning the ropes, as they say.’’

‘‘And he and your sister?’’

‘‘She seems, I’m somewhat relieved to say, to have tired of him.’’

‘‘Only somewhat relieved?’’

Finn shrugged. ‘‘I can’t help but pity Cauley. He’s hopelessly in love with her still. She’s hurt him terribly and he’s pulled into his shell even deeper than before.’’

‘‘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…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….’’

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 king 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.

But there was no way she’d ever realize her ambitions if she married Finn and moved to Gullandria.

She whispered, ‘‘One thing I do know…’’

He grabbed her hand and laid it flat against his hard chest. ‘‘How do you say it? Hit me with it. Right here.’’

‘‘Well, I just can’t see…how it can work. No matter what happens, I’m not running off to live in your castle in Gullandria. I’m staying here. I’m finishing law school. I’m—’’

He put his finger to her lips again, signaling for silence. ‘‘I think ‘I don’t know’ is enough for tonight.’’

The next night, he showed up at her door with a home pregnancy test kit tucked under one arm, the instruction sheet open in his hands. ‘‘Look, my love. It says here, ‘Ninety-nine percent effective one day after—’’’

She took his arm, dragged him inside and firmly shut the door. ‘‘Where did you get that?’’

‘‘Albertson’s Food and Drug, it was called. The pharmacy section. The clerks there were marvelously helpful.’’

‘‘I’ll bet.’’ People—especially female people—fell all over themselves when Finn needed aid.

‘‘You didn’t let me finish. It says, ‘Ninety-nine percent effective one day after a missed menstrual period.’’’

‘‘Oh, that’s so lovely to know.’’

He sent her a fond smile. ‘‘And when would that be—for you?’’

She wondered why she felt so resentful. It was a perfectly reasonable question, given the situation.

‘‘Liv?’’

‘‘What?’’ It came out sounding much too hostile.

He folded up the instruction sheet and set it and the kit on the entry hall table. Then he turned back to her and waited, arms crossed over that broad chest, feet planted wide apart, as if taking a stand in a strong wind.

After a stubborn twenty seconds or so, she muttered, ‘‘I’d have to look at my calendar.’’

‘‘And where is your calendar?’’

She knew by the expression on his face that there was no way to get out of this gracefully. She also knew there was no real reason she should want to get out of it. Whether or not she was actually pregnant was the main question, after all.

Still she resisted. ‘‘You know, Finn, I think my biological functions should be my own business.’’

He regarded her from under slightly lowered brows. ‘‘Darling. Please get the calendar.’’

She had her own feet planted apart now, her arms folded over her middle, in a mirror of his pose. ‘‘I do resent this.’’

‘‘You being you, I’m certain you do.’’

‘‘What is that supposed to mean?’’

‘‘You’re an intelligent woman. My guess is you already know.’’

They shared one of their stare-downs. A very long one. Out on T Street, a car went by, stereo booming out, heavy on the bases. As the hollow beat faded away, an ice-cream truck rolled slowly past, playing ‘‘It’s a Small World, After All’’ in the usual tinkling organ-grinder style of ice-cream trucks everywhere.

In the end, Liv was the one who blinked. ‘‘I suppose you’ll stand there forever, refusing to budge, until I get you what you want.’’

For that, she got the tiniest lift of one side of his beautiful mouth. And other than that, absolute stillness.

‘‘Oh, all right,’’ she muttered, then commanded, ‘‘wait here.’’

She pounded up the stairs and stomped down the hall to the bedroom that was hers for the duration of her stay in the house. The calendar hung on a suction hook over the small cherry-wood desk in the corner, by the mirrored mahogany wardrobe. She had a palm planner, but she used it for appointments and school and business. She liked a nice big old-fashioned wall calendar for personal stuff—birthdays and dates with the hairdresser and keeping track of her periods.

She snatched the calendar off the wall and turned to the previous month. She was pretty sure her last one had started a week before she left for Gullandria. It had been Friday, hadn’t it? And she’d had to run to the ladies’ room to take care of the problem.

However, it appeared she’d forgotten to mark it down on her calendar.

Well, well. Too bad.

She started to hang the thing back on the wall, but then she remembered that look in Finn’s eyes. He was truly the most persistent man she’d ever had the inconvenience—and yes, all right, the pleasure—to get to know. Better to simply take it down to him and show him that whenever it had been, she’d failed to make a note of it.

Finn was waiting right there at the bottom when she descended with the calendar. He watched her come down to him, a gleam of pure suspicion in his eyes. ‘‘I’m not sure I like that smile. It’s much too smug. Also, you’ve stopped pounding around like an elephant on the rampage. These are not good signs.’’

‘‘An elephant, huh? That’s not very flattering.’’

‘‘Let me see it.’’

She reached the bottom and handed him the calendar. ‘‘Sorry. It appears that, whenever it was, I forgot to mark it down.’’

He studied the page for June, pointed to a small pen mark on Wednesday, the fifth. ‘‘What about this?’’

‘‘A smudge. I draw a star in the upper left hand corner of the box for the first day.’’

He looked at her probingly, then accused, ‘‘You do remember when it was, don’t you?’’

She didn’t lie—exactly. ‘‘It was a hectic month. The end of school, finals, all that, followed by the move here and starting a new job. And then off to Gullandria and my, er, whirlwind week with you.’’

He flipped the page back to May. Pointed at the tiny star in the square for the eleventh. ‘‘All right. Four weeks from there.’’

‘‘My. An expert on a woman’s cycle.’’

He met her eyes. He wasn’t smiling. ‘‘This is a stupid game.’’

‘‘I’m not the one who insisted on playing it.’’

‘‘Is there some reason you don’t want me to know? Some reason for keeping me—for keeping both of us—in the dark?’’

The question got snagged in her mind and wouldn’t shake loose. She felt a tiny stab—a pinprick, a needle’s jab—at her conscience.

The day after a missed period, the brochure had said. According to that, they could know on Saturday. In four days, her life could be irrevocably changed.

Yes, she did realize that if it was changed, it had happened already. It had happened almost two weeks ago in a small green clearing in the strange half light of a Gullandrian summer night. No home pregnancy test would change what already was.

Still…

The simple truth was as Finn had just said. She didn’t want to know. Not yet. As soon as she knew—as soon as Finn knew—decisions would have to be made.

Oh, not yet, her heart cried. Don’t make me decide yet.

So strange, for her, Liv Thorson, to be thinking of her heart. She didn’t go there, as a rule. She dated men like dear, sweet Simon. They told each other they cared for each other—and they did. They worked hard to excel. They spent their evenings studying or rallying for social change or discussing America’s rights and responsibilities as the only true remaining world superpower, debating this or that issue currently before the Supreme Court.

It was nothing like this magic, this enchantment, with Finn. Yes, she’d had sex before that one unforgettable night with Finn. But not often, and not for a while. Until Finn, she simply hadn’t seen what all the shouting was about.

She and the men she’d known before didn’t kiss endlessly on porch swings and whisper of romantic movies and tell each other what it was like back when they were children. They didn’t share picnics in Pioneer Park. They’d had more important things to do.

And it wasn’t that she didn’t value all the same things that had mattered to her before. She did value them, and highly. It was only that she was seeing a whole new side of herself, one that, until Finn, she’d left utterly unexplored.

Her mother had said it the night Liv found Finn staying at Ingrid’s house. The stop-and-smell-the-flowers part of her needed room to grow. And Finn Danelaw knew better than anyone how to help her with that.

He’d done, she decided, a wonderful job of helping her so far, in spite of how she’d fought him every inch of the way. She wouldn’t mind at all if he kept helping her, indefinitely—for as long as the magic lasted between them.

However, just because she wanted something didn’t make it fair or right. Finn couldn’t be expected to hang around in California forever making certain that Liv Thorson had a good time. She had no right to string him along for one minute beyond the day when they’d both know for certain if there’d be a baby or not.

From the first time he’d proposed, that Sunday morning in Gullandria, she’d told him she’d take a test as soon as she could. It was only fair, only right, that she do as she’d promised. Only fair that he should know when that time would be.

Liv snatched the calendar from him and threw it over her shoulder. It hit the heavy oak door behind her and slid to the shining hardwood floor.

He looked puzzled but not especially surprised. ‘‘No need to start throwing things.’’

She said, ‘‘My period is due Friday. If it doesn’t come, I’ll take the test Saturday morning.’’

Chapter Ten

Finn reached out and slipped his fingers around the back of her neck. He gave a tug—a tender one. It didn’t take more than that. He was, after all, only pulling her where she wanted to go.

She landed with a sigh against him.

He lowered his mouth so that it just brushed hers. ‘‘Was that so difficult?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Why?’’

She glanced away.

‘‘Look at me.’’

She made herself do that. ‘‘I just realized I’m going to hate saying goodbye to you.’’

He kissed her, quick and hard. ‘‘You won’t have to. You’ll be coming with me.’’

She shook her head. ‘‘I can’t do that, Finn. You know I can’t. Not and continue with the plans I’ve made for myself. I can’t be in politics in California—if I live in Gullandria.’’

He asked tenderly, ‘‘You want that so very much, to run this state of yours someday?’’

‘‘Oh, Finn. I do. I want…to make a difference. I want to leave the world a better place than it was when I got here.’’

‘‘There are other ways to do that than to be a governor or a senator.’’

‘‘You’re right, there are.’’

He chuckled. ‘‘Say that again—the part about how I’m right.’’

She wrinkled up her nose at him. ‘‘Okay. You’re right. There are other ways. But those other ways aren’t my way.’’

He looked at her deeply. ‘‘Maybe you’ll reconsider. Maybe you’ll…how do you say it? Rearrange your priorities.’’

‘‘Maybe you’ll move to America.’’

‘‘I am Gullandrian.’’ He wasn’t smiling.

She wasn’t smiling, either. ‘‘And I am American.’’

‘‘We have a problem.’’

She nodded. ‘‘We do—or we might. It could, after all, turn out that I’m not even pregnant.’’

He was studying her again, giving her that feeling that he could see down into her soul. ‘‘You’re saying that everything would be solved if you’re not pregnant?’’

Would it?

Uh-uh.

With humor and heat and relentless tenderness, this man had left his mark on her. She would never forget him, whatever they found out when she took that test.

‘‘No,’’ she confessed on a breath. ‘‘It wouldn’t. Not everything. If I’m not pregnant, you’ll leave. I might never see you again. And I’ll miss you, so very much.’’

He lifted a hand, traced the line of her hair where it fell along her cheek. ‘‘Four days, until Saturday…’’

She felt a pang of sadness, sharp and also infinitely sweet. ‘‘It’s no time at all.’’

‘‘True.’’ His eyes glittered down at her. She could feel every glorious, lean male inch of him pressing so close. And all she wanted was to have him closer still.

She lifted up, brushed her mouth once, and then again, across his. ‘‘Let’s not waste a moment.’’

He whispered, almost as if it hurt him to say it, ‘‘Such willingness suddenly.’’

She kissed his chin with its faint, masculine cleft. ‘‘Not so sudden. We both know you’ve been breaking me down for days now.’’

‘‘Breaking you down?’’ His eyes were hooded.

‘‘Oh, you know you have. With your endless stunning kisses, with your hand that won’t stop reaching for my hand, with the way you listen, as if mine is the only voice you’ll ever hear.’’ She laughed, low in her throat. ‘‘But I know all the women must tell you that.’’

He gave her a smile—a faint one, the smallest hitch at both sides of his mouth. ‘‘How would I know, as yours is the only voice I hear?’’

‘‘Hmm. A question I don’t think we need to even try to answer.’’

‘‘Wisely said.’’

She put a finger to his mouth, felt the feathery warm caress of his breath against her palm. He caught her hand, kissed the fingertips and then guided it up to encircle his neck.

‘‘Such softness,’’ he whispered, his mouth against hers again, ‘‘and pressed so close…’’

‘‘And we shouldn’t waste a minute, a second, a fraction of a second…’’

His hand swept down her back. He tucked her snugly into him. She felt the firm ridge of his erection against her lower belly. And then he was kissing her—little, brushing butterfly kisses—up over her cheek to her ear.

He smoothed her hair out of his way and he whispered, ‘‘What would you like, my darling?’’ He captured her earlobe and worried it tenderly between his teeth.

‘‘Oh!’’ She lifted her hips, pressing in shamelessly, making a cradle for him. ‘‘Everything.’’

‘‘Everything?’’

‘‘Oh, yes. Please.’’

He took her face between his two hands and claimed her mouth—hard—his teeth punishing her lips. She moaned.

He softened the kiss, teasing her mouth with his questing tongue, running it over the bow of her upper lip, tracing the slightly fuller bottom lip until she moaned again.

He caught her lower lip between his teeth gently, dragging on it. ‘‘Open for me.’’

With a small cry, she obeyed. His tongue slid in, slick and wet and wonderful. He swept all her inner surfaces, claiming them, branding them as his, leaving a hot trail of longing in his wake.

Liv was melting, sighing, gone already. And all he’d done was kiss her.

He turned her, one hand sliding down to catch her under the knees, one bracing across the widest part of her back. She shuddered as her feet left the floor.

His tongue moved in her mouth, thrusting, retreating and thrusting again, in a blatant imitation of the motions of lovemaking. He started up the stairs carrying her high in his arms, never once breaking the hot rhythm of the shamelessly sexual kiss. At the top, he lifted his mouth just enough to ask ‘‘Which room?’’

She flung out a hand toward her open bedroom door and dragged his head back down to hers. Four steps and they were there.

Somehow, he turned her—how did he do these things?—and guided her legs to wrap around his waist. She kicked off her sandals. One and then the other, they thudded against the wall. She hooked her bare feet at the small of his back, locking herself around him like a vine around a tree.

She kissed him deep and hard and oh so wet.

Images spun and pulsed through her mind: wet things, open things—orchids beaded with dewdrops, the secret, moist sweetness of a freshly cut peach. She saw slick curves…a large, thick glass vase, calla lilies standing in it, water cascading down the sides of it, dripping more gently on the flowers themselves.

The flowers, so white, velvety trumpets dewed with water drops like jewels, naughty stamens like tongues…

He already had her button-front sundress scrunched up around her waist. He cradled her thighs on his lean arms, those incredible hands of his cupping her bottom, fingers slipping skillfully under the elastic of her panties, finding her, spreading her, gliding along her cleft, which was already thoroughly drenched, swollen with yearning. Liv writhed and moaned and kept on kissing him.

She had a sensation of opening, of turning, wet flower petals blooming so wide that the inside turned outside. His fingers teased her, readied her, while his manhood pressed up, hard, insistent, shielded from her by his clothing and her panties. She could have stayed there forever, in the doorway, wrapped all around him, kissing him endlessly, her body moving, pulsing, yearning, in his strong arms.

But he had other plans. Still kissing her, he lowered her. She slid down his body with a needful moan.

He fisted his hand in her hair and he tugged, gently, inexorably, until the kiss broke.

‘‘Liv,’’ he said. ‘‘Ah, Liv…’’ He scraped his teeth along her chin, his fist opening, his hand easing from her hair.

Her head tipped back, her eyes still closed, she drew in one slow breath. And another.

There. She was able to open her eyes and lift her head.

The sight of him thrilled her, his eyes so hot they seemed to burn her, his mouth as swollen as hers—swollen and hot, as if every nerve had been drawn to the surface, the flesh itself seeming to cry out for the next consuming kiss.

He laid a hand between her breasts, at the top button of her sundress. Light as a breath, his fingers went to work. The button fell open. Then the next, and the next….

He was still fully dressed. She could help him with that. She got to work, starting at the top button of his shirt, staring in his eyes as she slipped each button from its hole.

But then she happened to glance down. The front of her dress, with its built-in demibra, gaped open. Her nipples, drawn to tight buds, were exposed.

‘‘So pretty,’’ he whispered, as he took a nipple between thumb and forefinger and rolled it.

She moaned. And he edged the sides of the dress farther apart, both hands at work now, guiding the thin straps over her shoulders and down.

The dress fell away. She stood before him in only her panties. He knelt, taking hold of that scrap of satin and lace and whisking it over her hips, along her thighs.

She stared down at him, slightly stunned. She’d never seen his eyes so soft. So hot. Like fire. Amber fire.

She thought of that other night, a continent and an ocean away. Of the sleek Viking ship, blazing, the flames reflected in his eyes…

Her panties were all the way down, at her ankles. She stepped out of them. His hands moved back up, along the outsides of her calves, over her knees and then inward. Her thighs trembled. She had to clasp his strong shoulders to brace herself upright.

The brushing caress turned searingly intimate, his palms against the front of her, thumbs burrowing in, dragging in the wetness, rubbing back and forth, back and forth…

Liv groaned. Her eyes would not stay open.

He was leaning closer. She felt the heat of his breath—and then his lips upon her. She cried out then. He wrapped his hands around her hips, pulling her into him, opening her with his hot, skilled mouth, delving in with his clever, knowing tongue.

He found her, found the center of her pleasure, the small, swollen nub tucked away in the wet folds. He drew on it.

She clutched his shoulders and moaned. She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t…

Words blew away. The world spun off into twilight and wonder. She saw meadows, smelled heather and cedar, felt the acrid tang of wood smoke at the back of her throat. And there was fire. Endless, red fire, blazing toward the twilit sky.

She called his name and the pulsing began. He held her to him as the contractions claimed her, his mouth tender and demanding, never letting go.

At the end, she crumpled on a groan. He let her fall, guiding her so she dropped across his shoulder, limp, finished.

She let out another sharp cry of surprise as he rose beneath her. The floor moved away and she found herself carried, head down, legs dangling, like the ravished prize from some hard-fought midnight raid. He wrapped an arm tight around her to steady her. A few dizzying steps and they reached the bed.

‘‘Here we are.’’ He was whispering, the sounds soothing, coaxing. Carefully, as if she were a most precious burden, he lowered her to her back on the high, soft mattress. Then he stood to his height again and looked down at her.

She lay under his gaze, without a stitch on, arms and legs flung luxuriously out, everything heavy—with heat, with stunned satisfaction. She had no urge to move or to cover herself.

He looked at her, at all of her, his gaze burning. She felt claimed by him, his in some deep and irrevocable way.

She had felt this same soul-deep sense of possession Midsummer’s Eve in Gullandria. And as soon as the morning came, she’d set herself to escape it—to escape him.

It hadn’t worked out the way she’d planned.

Really, the truth was, it hadn’t worked out at all.

He had won this race. And in this at least—in her passion for him—she conceded to him willingly.

With a soft sigh, she lifted her arms.

He started undressing, quickly, ruthlessly, kicking off his shoes, tearing off his socks, shrugging his shirt off and tossing it behind him, yanking his zipper down, shoving his pants and briefs off in the same motion. He stared at her the whole time, pausing only to take from a pocket a few small foil pouches, the condoms he’d forgotten that other night.

She smiled at that. ‘‘Prepared this time, huh?’’

He gave no answer. She gazed up at him. He was so tall and lean, every muscle sharply defined, long rather than bulging. Graceful, in a thoroughly masculine way. A dusting of chestnut hair tracked the center of his chest, continued over his lean belly, and widened to a nest between his strong thighs. His manhood stood out, proof of his intent. She looked at the strong, upthrusting shaft, and then she looked back into his eyes. Her smile trembled. Her whole body felt as if it shimmered in sheer eagerness.

He tossed the last of his clothing aside and joined her on the bed, settling himself between her open thighs, lifting up enough to slide the protection into place. She lowered a hand and took him, guiding him home.

He lunged deep, filling her. She gasped in shocked delight, grasping his hard shoulders, holding on tight.

He moved—a slow, rocking motion, settling in. Then he rested on his forearms above her and sought her eyes.

It was Midsummer’s Eve again. They were joined, they didn’t move. He looked into her, into the heart of her. And she looked back at him.

‘‘Sweet,’’ he whispered. ‘‘So very sweet.’’

She sighed and managed a nod. ‘‘Oh, yes.’’

Time spun out, a web of stillness and sensation. She couldn’t have named the exact moment when they began to move. It happened so slowly, her body responding to his, so they rippled together, a seamless swaying, like waves lapping on a gentle sea.

His eyes changed. They made demands of her. She gave herself up to them—gave herself up to him, as the rhythm below became faster, deeper, frantic….

Needful.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, anchoring on him, and drew him down. He buried his silky head in her shoulder.

The rhythm slowed, each stroke so long and hot and deep. And then, with a groan, he was moving faster again, she with him.

She saw the heavens, exploding on the inside of her eyelids, stars going supernova, everything shimmering, a blanket of light thrown out to swallow the universe.

A sense of falling.

Of opening.

Lilies, roses, water…

Heat.

Liv heard a shout of pure erotic joy. Several endless moments went by before she recognized it as her own.

Chapter Eleven

‘‘Come home with me tomorrow,’’ he whispered. ‘‘We’ll be married in the Viking way.’’

‘‘Oh, Finn. I am home.’’

He looked at her for a long time. She wasn’t sure she liked what she saw in his eyes. Finally he covered her mouth with his own in a savage, demanding kiss.

She didn’t fight him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him right back, as hard as he was kissing her. Slowly, the kiss gentled.

And then it turned to heat and hunger.

They spoke no more of marriage that night.

They got up much later, showered together and went out for a late meal. He stayed with her until morning.

It was after nine when Finn returned to Ingrid’s house. Hilda came out on the back steps as he was emerging from his rental car. The housekeeper watched him, her long face set in a scowl as he came across the lawn.

‘‘Well,’’ he said cheerfully, ‘‘good morning to you, too.’’

Hilda grunted. She opened the screen door and held it for him to go through.

‘‘Thank you, Hilda.’’

‘‘Humph,’’ said the housekeeper.

‘‘Is Ingrid already gone for the day?’’

Another grumbling sound. He assumed it must mean yes.

Finn turned and faced her once she’d joined him on the big service porch. ‘‘Something you’d like to say to me, Hilda?’’

One side of her thin lip lifted in an expression very close to a sneer. ‘‘His Majesty called for you ten minutes ago. He asked if you’d returned yet. I said you were…still out. He said to tell you to call him back as soon as you got in.’’

‘‘All right. And you’re angry because His Majesty called?’’

‘‘I am only a servant,’’ the housekeeper said, aggressively humble.

Finn knew that when good servants got surly, it was usually wisest to keep after them until they admitted what was bothering them, and then to immediately take pains to solve the problem. Otherwise, they tended to exercise their pent-up frustrations in inconvenient and unpleasant ways—they’d run off with the silver, or take to spitting in the soup.

‘‘Come on, hit me with your best shot.’’ He smiled to himself. He liked that expression. It came from an old song by an American rock star, Pat Benatar, a song that sounded especially satisfying when played very loud.

‘‘Too much scheming around here of late,’’ the housekeeper muttered. ‘‘The king knows where you’ve been. So does the queen. So do I.’’

‘‘And?’’

The housekeeper shook her iron-gray head. ‘‘I don’t like it, that’s all. I’m not so blind as some. I have no stars in my eyes at the idea of a grandchild. I know what Liv wants from life. And I can see it’s not at all what you have planned for her. I know the ways of Gullandria. I know you will see to it, in the end, that she marries you—whatever you have to do to make it happen.’’

‘‘You know then why I’m here?’’

Hilda knew. The servants always did. ‘‘Liv has shown the Freyasdahl signs. She carries your child.’’

‘‘And you are Gullandrian by birth?’’ He knew she was.

She admitted it. ‘‘I am.’’

‘‘Then you should understand why a marriage has become imperative.’’

‘‘I understand more than you think. Liv is not like Elli. She’s not a woman to follow her man wherever he must go. You think to tame her to your will. Think again.’’

Finn stared into Hilda’s piercing dark eyes. He wondered if perhaps she’d been raised among the Mystics.

A chill crept up his spine.

And why in the name of all the frozen towers of Hel was he standing here explaining himself to the housekeeper? He’d do better to leave her to spit in the soup.

‘‘Thank you for the advice, Hilda.’’

Hilda took his meaning. The subject was closed. She brought a fist to her chest in the Gullandrian salute of respect for one’s betters. ‘‘Will you have breakfast, sir?’’

‘‘I’ll go up and make that call. I’ll be down in an hour to eat, if that’s convenient.’’

‘‘Of course. I’ll have it ready.’’

‘‘Well?’’ said the king.

‘‘Your Majesty, I am returning your call.’’

‘‘Stating the obvious is not answering my question. I know you spent the night with my daughter.’’

‘‘Sire.’’

‘‘Has she come to her senses?’’

‘‘If you mean, has she agreed to a marriage—no, she has not.’’

‘‘Is it your intention to stay there in America forever, catering to her every whim?’’

Finn decided that silence was the most effective answer to that one.

The king sighed. ‘‘In the end, you know, you’ll have to take her.’’

Finn was thinking that Osrik Thorson, given his own marital situation, was the last person he ought to be listening to when it came to the question of what to do about a woman.

But one did not remind one’s king of such things. ‘‘I’ll do what I must do, my lord.’’

‘‘Has she at least admitted there is a child?’’

‘‘No, my lord. But that time is coming.’’

‘‘When?’’

‘‘Very soon.’’

That night, Liv took Finn to the Convention Center to hear the Lieutenant Governor speak on preserving coastal ecology. A five-hundred-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner followed. Liv and Finn found themselves seated at the same table as the state treasurer and his wife. When he learned Finn was Gullandrian, the treasurer asked him a few questions about the new European currency. Finn explained that Gullandria, like the other Scandinavian countries, was sticking with its national currency, the Gullandrian krone. They spoke of the offshore oil industry. Finn said that, because of it, the Gullandrian standard of living was much higher than it had once been.

The treasurer’s wife wanted to hear of the recent wedding of Liv’s sister. So Liv and Finn took turns describing a Viking wedding.

It was well after midnight when they returned to the T Street house. They paused on the porch for a long, searching kiss.

Then she slipped the key in the lock and pushed open the door. ‘‘Will you…come in?’’

He swept her high in his arms and carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

The next day was the Fourth of July. Ingrid, Liv and Finn went together to the picnic sponsored by the Boys and Girls Clubs of Sacramento. There was softball. Liv and Finn played on opposite teams. Twice, Finn put her out at third.

That night, after the fireworks at the fairgrounds and the more intimate pyrotechnics at home, she told him she didn’t at all appreciate the look of pleasure on his face those two times he caught the ball just as she was sliding in.

He pulled her close and kissed her hard. ‘‘Ah, my love. Leave a man his petty triumphs, won’t you?’’

‘‘Why? Your team won.’’

For that, she got a maddening low chuckle.

She grumbled, ‘‘I’ll bet you’re a lousy loser.’’

‘‘Not as lousy as you are, my darling.’’ He slid beneath the sheet, disappearing from her view. She felt the shivery scrape of his tongue against the curve of her hip. ‘‘I am not a lousy loser,’’ she announced.

And then she moaned.

And then she forgot everything but the magic he could work with his hands and his tongue.

Liv and a number of other ‘‘nonessential’’ staff at the Justice Department got Friday off.

She and Finn slept late. When they woke, they made leisurely love. Then they wandered downstairs and fixed a big brunch, which they ate sitting on the floor in the family room watching daytime TV, sharing coffee-flavored kisses.

Later they went over to Old Sac. They strolled the wooden sidewalks and toured the permanently moored Delta King. When Ingrid’s shop closed at six, they took her to dinner.

They were back at the T Street house by eight-thirty—and wrapped in each other’s arms upstairs in her bed by nine. They made love and then they made love again.

They slept.

Live woke a little after two. She looked at the clock and she thought of the test she’d agreed to take in just a few short hours. The truth was, the test had been there, lurking in the back of her mind, since the night Finn had brought it to her and they became lovers again.

Her period hadn’t come and she’d experienced none of the usual signs that it was coming. Still, things had been stressful, to say the least, these past few weeks. In all likelihood, she was simply going to be a little late this month.

She turned her head and looked at the sleeping man beside her, resisting the all-too-constant urge to touch him, to trace his fine brows, to brush at his hair where it curled at his temple, to run her finger down his beautiful blade of a nose.

Positive or negative…

Either way, tomorrow she would probably lose him. Unless she agreed to return to Gullandria and become his wife. The choice, in the end, was one she dreaded having to make. Give him up. Or give up her dreams for herself.

There was pressure at the back of her throat. Ridiculous. She was Liv Thorson, head of her class, with a mind like a steel trap. She was going into politics and there was no crying in politics. She swallowed to banish the traitorous tightness.

Finn stirred. He opened his eyes. Through the darkness she saw the white flash of his smile. The smile faded and he looked at her deeply as he realized what was going through her mind. ‘‘Don’t think about it. Plenty of time for that when daylight comes.’’

She did touch him, then. She laid her palm against his cheek, rough now with the beginnings of morning stubble. ‘‘It seems as if we’ve just begun to get to know each other.’’

‘‘Come home with me. Marry me.’’

What could she say? She settled for snuggling close and lifting her mouth to his.

Daylight came too quickly, a golden slice of light between the curtains. Finn lay with his eyes closed as he felt the bed shift.

Oh, he knew her. Three short weeks since the night he’d first seen her, in the grand ballroom at Isenhalla, a frown on her kissable mouth as she watched him whirl another across the floor. Two weeks since Midsummer’s Eve, when he’d first held her naked in his arms. And but a few short days since he’d become her lover once again.

The blankets moved slightly as she slid from the bed. Her bare feet whispered across the floor. The bathroom door made hardly a sound as she shut it behind her.

He turned so that he could watch the clock. The test would take several minutes. He waited.

When the time came, he pushed back the covers and rose from the bed. He knew she wouldn’t lock the door.

She hadn’t. He turned the handle and pushed it open. And there she was, wearing a fluffy white robe, perched on the edge of the claw-footed tub, head bent over the test wand, her straight gold hair sleep-tangled, falling forward over her shoulders.

Something happened inside him right then as he stood naked in the doorway and stared at the vulnerable crown of her head. Something tore.

Something ripped wide open.

She looked up. Her face was white as her robe, the blue eyes haunted.

Up till now, he’d been able to keep his eyes on the prize—the prize being to get the mother of his child to marry him and come home with him where she belonged. My love, he had called her. And Darling Liv. It had all been in the nature of a delicious game, a game he had played for the joy and the challenge of it, his only goal: to win.

But all at once it was a game no longer. His mouth tasted of ashes as he recognized the moment for what it was: the moment of his own defeat.

‘‘Well?’’ The word emerged from his mouth sounding harsh, guttural.

She whispered, ‘‘I’m pregnant.’’

It was no surprise to Finn. He’d known she carried his child from the Sunday after Midsummer’s Eve, when her father called him to his chambers to tell him of the Freyasdahl signs and their meaning.

No, it wasn’t the news of a baby coming that stole his breath and gripped his belly to a fisted knot.

It was the sudden clear knowledge that he loved her.

Deeply.

Completely.

He loved her in a way he had never, ever meant to love anyone—the way his father had once loved his mother, the way that cut out all others and left him longing only for her.

He felt scraped raw, his flesh peeled away. Leaving him much worse than naked. Leaving him shamed and revealed: the seducer, seduced.

He looked into those stunned blue eyes and saw her doubts, her thousand and one denials. He knew her thoughts exactly. ‘‘You never believed you were pregnant, did you, until now?’’

She swallowed, her slim throat moving convulsively, and she shook her head.

‘‘And even though you know it now, you still don’t plan to marry me, do you?’’

She found her voice. She used it to sputter excuses, to stammer out halting evasions. ‘‘It’s just…so difficult. To believe. I, well, of course, somehow there’ll be a way. It’s going to be…challenging, but not impossible.’’

He knew what people called him. Player. Charmer. A man who changed lovers like most men change shirts. And it was true. He wanted to give pleasure. And take it. It was never his intention to love anyone too much or too long. He’d seen what that could do to a man.

Yet at the core he was Gullandrian. It was bred in the bone with him to make certain his children were born only to his wife.

What a vain, proud fool he’d been. He should have taken the advice of his king, should have kidnapped her that morning when she first refused him, should have kept her under lock and key until she’d agreed to marry him and the baby was born.

Then, Freyja curse her, she could have divorced him. What would it have mattered? His child would have his name; the goal would be won.

Yes, Liv would have hated him, but he wouldn’t have cared. Not in any deep way. He would hardly know her, after all. She wouldn’t have let him know her, had she been his captive. Not a woman like Liv. She’d have fought him every step of the way.

But no. He couldn’t simply take her and be done with it. He’d had to do it his way. He’d thought himself the smooth one, the one who understood the twenty-first century woman so well.

And now what? Now that her eyes told him so clearly, so regretfully, that she would never marry him. How in the name of all the nine worlds would he bring himself to carry her off and imprison her at Balmarran? Now that he loved her. Now that her happiness and high regard meant everything to him, more, even, than the right of his child to be born legitimate.

‘‘By Odin’s one eye, just say it,’’ he demanded low. ‘‘Just tell me. Once and for all. Will you marry me?’’

‘‘Oh, Finn. You know I can’t. I…I have things I…what I mean is, I just don’t think…’’

Before she could finish stuttering out her refusal, he turned and left her there.

‘‘Finn!’’ Liv jumped up to follow as he disappeared into the other room. She took one step and faltered. The wand that proved she was pregnant was still in her hand. She looked down at it, shook her head and dropped to the edge of the tub once more.

Finn had been right. She had never really believed.

Until now.

In the other room, she could hear him moving around. She didn’t understand his strange, abrupt reaction. It was so unlike him. Of the two of them, he was always the reasonable, levelheaded one. He took everything in stride, with a wink and smile and a clever remark.

She ought to get in there and talk to him, find out what was going on with him, but right at that moment, she was in no condition to find out anything. Right at that moment, she was, quite simply, reeling.

A baby…

It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t…in the plan.

Liv wasn’t the one who was going to have the babies. Not for years and years yet. Elli was the one who’d have all the kids. In any case, Elli was supposed to have three or four of them before Liv got around to deciding if, just maybe, she dared to add a baby to all the other heavy responsibilities that would come with her powerhouse career.

A baby came under the heading: Hope so. Eventually.

After I’m established…

If I find the right husband, a nice, settled-down type of guy, a guy willing to change diapers and get up close and personal with the downside of parenthood: things like colic and late-night feedings, ferrying them around as they got older, taking them to the pediatrician and the orthodontist, checking into the best schools, monitoring their homework, making sure they ate right…

God. The list went on and on.

True, she’d been telling herself for two weeks that she might be pregnant. That maybe it was something she’d have to come to grips with soon.

But might and maybe were worlds away from the two solid blue lines in the little white wand.

It was real. It was going to happen. She was having a baby.

She tossed the wand into the trash and then sat there some more, hunched on the tub’s edge, staring at the bath mat beneath her bare feet.

The sound of the door shutting downstairs brought her up straight.

Finn must have left.

She sighed and let her shoulders droop again. In a while, later today, she’d give him a call. Ask him to come back over. They’d talk about it, about…

Well, she wasn’t sure exactly what yet. She was on overwhelm right at the moment.

She got up and went back to the bedroom. She climbed into the bed and pulled the sheet over herself and told herself she’d feel better about everything in a little while.

The ringing of the phone woke her. She almost let her service get it, but then realized it might be Finn.

She fumbled on the nightstand and brought it to her ear. ‘‘Yeah? Hello.’’

‘‘Liv, are you sleeping?’’ It was Ingrid, in a thoroughly accusatory mood. ‘‘You sound like you’re sleeping.’’

Liv scrambled to a sitting position and raked her hair back out of her eyes. ‘‘Mother, what’s the—’’

‘‘Finn has gone back to Gullandria. He simply packed his bags and left.’’

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