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
