Pregnant!: Prince and Future...Dad? / Expecting! / Millionaire Cop & Mum-To-Be. Christine Rimmer
Elli had implied more than once to Liv, had been deeply stigmatized, a living hell.
‘‘Have you?’’ Finn asked yet again.
She gave him his answer, grudgingly. ‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Then you have some idea,’’ Finn said, ‘‘of what it’s like to grow up a fitz in this country. No man would willingly do that to his own child.’’
A shiver ran beneath her skin—this time one that hadn’t a thing to do with sex. He looked so determined. She never would have imagined Finn Danelaw would be determined about anything.
The first time she saw him—it would be exactly a week ago tonight—he had been dancing. With a beautiful woman, Lady Something-Or-Other. Liv couldn’t recall her name at the moment. The lady had looked up at him dreamily as she whirled in his arms. Liv could have sworn that the woman’s feet had never once touched the ballroom floor.
An hour later, Liv was the one in his arms. They danced several dances. And they talked—flirtatious talk. As a rule, Liv Thorson didn’t flirt. What was the point of it? If she liked a man, they had things that mattered to talk about: politics, corruption in big business, recent Supreme Court decisions and how they would impact the practice of law in courtrooms all over America.
Flirting, as far as she was concerned, was a little silly. Definitely lightweight. Fine for other women, if that was how they chose to spend their time.
But with Finn…
Well, somehow, he made flirting feel exciting and fun, not a waste of time at all. When Finn Danelaw flirted, it was the next thing to an art form.
She’d asked—flirtatiously—if a prince had to work for a living.
He’d chuckled. ‘‘Depends on the prince.’’
‘‘Well, you, for example.’’
‘‘If I did work, I would never admit it while dancing with you.’’
Brit had danced with him later. And much later, when the sisters were alone in their rooms, they’d agreed he was a total charmer, killer handsome, yum-yum and all of that. Eye candy. Ear candy. Easy on the senses all the way around.
But someone to be taken seriously? Someone who would ever be very determined about anything?
Uh-uh. No way.
Somehow, he had managed to take possession of her hand again. His thumb slid very gently back and forth, caressing the cove of her palm, creating lovely ripples of sensation, making her think of the other night when he had—
Liv cut off the dangerous thought before it could go where her thoughts had no right at all to be wandering. She reclaimed her hand. Where were they?
Oh, yes. On the subject of growing up a fitz, which was a terrible thing. In Gullandria. ‘‘But Finn, I don’t live in Gullandria. I’m an American and in America there are lots of happy children raised in single-parent homes. Now, I’m not saying it’s usually the best choice for a woman to bring up her baby on her own. But there are times when it can’t be helped.’’
He was doing it again, leaning in close, listening as if her voice was the only thing that mattered in the world. More men should listen like that….
She drew herself up. ‘‘And you know, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves here. As I keep trying to remind everyone, we can’t be sure I’m pregnant. Yes, I’ve shown the family signs. But what is that? Superstitious nonsense, really. I will not start stewing over what to do about being pregnant until I’ve taken a nice, safe, dependable home test and know for a fact I’ve got something to stew about. And, well, I can’t take a home test for a while yet.’’
He asked, a look of great interest on his wonderful, sensitive face, ‘‘How long is a ‘while’?’’
‘‘Well, I’m not sure. I’ve never taken one—and I doubt I’ll be taking one anytime soon.’’
One corner of his mouth quirked up—in amusement, or maybe in a sort of gentle impatience. ‘‘But if you find you do have to take one…’’
‘‘I would guess a couple of weeks, at least. Maybe more.’’
‘‘A couple of weeks.’’ He said the words so thoughtfully. Imagine that. Finn Danelaw, thoughtful. Too, too strange.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said, and wondered why it mattered.
A second later, she had her answer. His eyes lit up and his face became suddenly so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. ‘‘Then come with me. For two weeks. Until you know. Let me show you Balmarran, my family home. You’ll love it there, I know you will. You’ll meet my family—what there is of it, and we can—’’
She couldn’t let him continue. ‘‘No, Finn.’’
The music on the radio played on and the newscaster kept talking, but still, at that moment, the silence seemed deafening.
Finally he said very quietly, ‘‘No?’’
‘‘Well, you have to see, there’s no point in my running off to your family castle with you. Oh, Finn. I have a life, important work that I need to get back to. Even if I am pregnant, I won’t be marrying you.’’ She expected him to cut in about then and argue with her. It didn’t happen. Vaguely nonplussed by his sudden complete lack of resistance, she babbled on. ‘‘A marriage between us would never work. I mean, honestly, we hardly know each other. We come from truly, uh, diverse backgrounds. There’s no…commonality. Is there, really?’’ He didn’t answer, so she did it for him. ‘‘None at all. We had a lovely, um, summer fling. I truly did, er, enjoy it. But really, what happened between us on Midsummer’s Eve is hardly a basis for marriage, now, is it?’’
For several uncomfortable seconds, he didn’t say anything. There was a lull—in the music on the radio, in the news on the TV. The ticking of the gilded French clock on the mantel seemed to rise up loud and gratingly insistent.
She was just about to ask him what kind of scheme he was hatching now, when the music swelled again and the newsmen began chatting and Finn inquired softly, ‘‘What will you do?’’
She almost asked, You mean, if I am pregnant? But she stopped the words just in time, drawing back, thinking, I will not start making plans that probably won’t even be necessary.
She told him in a tone that allowed no room for argument, ‘‘I’m going home, Finn. Today. And no matter what results I get, if it turns out I have to take that pregnancy test, I’m not going to marry you.’’
He rose—a portrait of purest male grace. ‘‘I see.’’
She looked up at him, narrow eyed. ‘‘What is that? ‘I see.’ What does that mean?’’
In lieu of an answer, he offered his hand. Warily she laid hers in it. He gave a gentle tug and she was on her feet beside him.
He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, just the faintest, most incredibly seductive brush of his lips against her skin. ‘‘Necessity, Fate and Being,’’ he whispered. ‘‘May the three Norns of destiny show you the way.’’
Lovely, she thought. Yet another of those archaic Gullandrian sayings. She’d heard a lot of them in the past week. What, exactly did he mean by this one? Damned if she was going to ask him.
And really, men didn’t kiss women’s hands anymore. Yet, when Finn did it, it seemed so perfectly natural, so right.
He was such an anomaly: kissing her hand, whispering baroque Norse axioms; determined to win her to his way one minute, bowing himself out the next. She simply could not figure him out.
And so what? It didn’t matter. It was okay. Let Finn Danelaw remain a mystery to her, a tender, naughty memory to bring a secret smile now and then as the years went by.