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
