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
