Prince and...Future Dad

by Christine Rimmer

  "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, s
he 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. Danelaws 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

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