Pregnant!. Charlotte Hughes

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      ‘‘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 mouth curved lazily. ‘‘I took it.’’

      She knew she should yank it away or demand he give it back. But what good would that do? He’d only capture it again. He’d keep capturing it and capturing it until she finally gave in and let him have it.

      Might as well just cut to the chase and let him have it now.

      He said, ‘‘You need a drink.’’

      ‘‘I’ll never drink again, and besides, what if I am pregnant? It wouldn’t be good for the baby.’’

      ‘‘Ah. You may be right. But do you have whiskey?’’

      ‘‘Yeah. On the sideboard in the dining room.’’

      ‘‘May I have some?’’

      She grumbled her answer. ‘‘Oh, I suppose.’’

      ‘‘Which way?’’

      ‘‘Let go of my hand and I’ll show you.’’

      ‘‘Never. Lead the way.’’

      So she took him through the sitting room into the dining room and showed him the crystal carafe half-full of amber liquid. He poured two finger’s worth into a short glass with his free hand.

      ‘‘Your dexterity amazes me,’’ she remarked as he sipped.

      ‘‘Yes. It’s true I have always been…good with my hands.’’ He tipped his glass at her. ‘‘To my favorite princess.’’ He sipped again, then raised her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it, causing the usual heated thrill to shimmer through her. ‘‘Come. Let’s sit down for a moment.’’ He pulled her to the settee in the sitting room, sat and dragged her down beside him. ‘‘Now.’’ He released her hand and sat back. ‘‘Tell me all.’’

      ‘‘All?’’

      ‘‘Your terrible day. What is it that has you growling and scowling?’’

      ‘‘You don’t want to know.’’

      ‘‘Liv darling, trust me. If I don’t want to know, I won’t ask.’’

      She muttered, ‘‘They’re whispering about me at the water cooler.’’

      ‘‘This water cooler, I take it, is in the Attorney General’s Office where you work?’’

      ‘‘Exactly.’’

      ‘‘Ah. And you’ve never been whispered about before?’’

      ‘‘Oh, of course I have. But only by extension.’’

      He frowned. ‘‘By extension?’’

      ‘‘Well, I mean, because I’m a princess. Because my mother is the Runaway Gullandrian Queen. All that old garbage. Never before because of…’’ She didn’t know quite how to put it.

      He did. ‘‘Something you did yourself?’’

      ‘‘But I didn’t.’’

      He only looked at her.

      ‘‘Okay, I did do…something I shouldn’t have. But nobody knows about that—I mean, outside of you and my father and Prince Medwyn.’’ He was looking at her sideways. She made an impatient sound in her throat. ‘‘All right. And my mother and my sister and a nosy Gullandrian maid—oh, and don’t look at me like that. You’re right, I know. Since that many people know, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were others. But what we did on Midsummer’s Eve didn’t make the tabloids. Our supposed engagement did. I know my father planted that story, that he had all those reporters waiting for us at the airport Sunday night. I hate reading lies about myself, and knowing my father perpetrated those lies makes it all the worse.’’

      Finn set his empty glass on the coffee table in front of them. Then he looked at her again, an odd sort of look this time, one that made her wonder what he might be up to. Finally he asked, ‘‘Why would he do that? What would it get him?’’

      ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe he did it for spite.’’

      ‘‘I have served your father most of my life. His Majesty does nothing for spite. He will go far, it’s true, to get what he wants. He’s made it very clear he wants you to marry me. The question is, how would his lying about it to the press help him accomplish that goal? As far as I can see, it only made you more angry and unwilling, created more barriers for me to break down.’’

      ‘‘He didn’t know that when he leaked the story.’’

      ‘‘Liv. He’s not a fool. He’s spent enough time with you to see you’re not a woman to roll over and play dead when you’re crossed.’’

      Liv thought about that one for a moment, then admitted, ‘‘All right. You may have a point.’’

      ‘‘What’s that I hear? An actual concession?’’

      ‘‘Don’t expect a lot of them—and maybe he did it to…scare someone away.’’

      Finn rose, carried his glass to the sideboard and poured another drink. He didn’t speak until he’d returned to the sitting area and taken the space beside her again. ‘‘Someone like…?’’

      She thought of poor Simon, looking at her with those big, lost puppy-dog eyes. Oh, why was she telling Finn this? It didn’t seem right, somehow.

      ‘‘Liv,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Tell me. Now.’’ Beneath the velvet of his voice, there lay a hint of steel.

      ‘‘You have no right to—’’

      ‘‘Tell me.’’ He had her hand again. His grip was gentle, but she knew if she tried to shake him off, she wouldn’t succeed. There was, she kept discovering, more to the playboy prince than met the eye.

      ‘‘Simon.’’ She said the name grudgingly. ‘‘Simon Graves. I think I mentioned him to you before, didn’t I? He’s a law student at Stanford. Third year. We’ve been…together, for about eighteen months.’’

      ‘‘And you think your father…’’

      ‘‘Maybe he wanted Simon out of the picture. Maybe he thought a big tabloid spread about you, me and wedding bells would do it.’’

      ‘‘Well, did it work? Is Simon ‘out of the picture’?’’

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