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
