Royal Seduction (10 page)

Riley seemed to stare at her, unseeing. His brow creased
with a thought. “When you knew Richard before,” he asked, “when the two of you were married, what kinds of things did he like to do? Where did he enjoy hanging out? When I'm upset, I always go to the Chinese Gardens here in town. Did Richard have a certain place he'd hole up when he was young? A place that might have helped him to think?”

Her half-hearted laugh contained no humor. “Nearly twenty years have come and gone since we were married.”

He nodded. “Think about it, though. You might come up with something. He's got to be somewhere.”

“That he does.” She sighed again. “I see you requested a table for two. Should I seat you now, or would you like to wait in the bar?”

“I'll wait at the table, thanks.”

Carrie nodded, reaching for two menus. “Right this way, then.”

 

Deep trouble. That was what Riley realized he was in the moment Catherine entered the dining room. And he was in it up to his waist. No, up to his neck.

The interior of La Grenouille Dorée could easily be spotlighted in
Architectural Digest,
or some fancy interior design magazine. The cut-crystal chandeliers reflected the light in small splashes of prismatic color. The rich wood paneling covering the walls had an old-world beauty. The carpet underfoot was plush enough to sink into.

It was one of Portland's classiest spots. And Catherine fitted in as if she'd been born right, smack-dab in the middle of these lavish surroundings.

First off, she walked in as if she owned the place. Her head was held high, her shoulders square. And the dress she wore knocked the damned breath out of him.

She looked hot in red. The fabric looked almost slick, the sheen inviting a man to reach out and smooth his fingertips against it. However, there was nowhere that he could touch that would have been safe.

The dress was an off-the-shoulder getup. A sheath, he thought the fashion industry would call it. The dress hugged her body in a way that actually had him feeling downright jealous.

Her shoes were narrow wisps of leather strapping ultra-high heels to her dainty feet. The tips of her toes, her fingernails, even her evening purse were the same shade of cherry as the rest of her outfit. Riley saw quite a few heads turn when Catherine made her entrance.

“You look lovely,” he said, standing and offering her a quick kiss on the cheek. He wanted to say more, do more, but he was keeping his libido and all the urges brimming from it under strict control.

Catherine smiled. “Thank you, Riley.”

She knew she looked good, and the poise she displayed, that confidence, was extremely alluring to him.

Looking around him, though, at the opulent surroundings and at the almost too-beautiful woman sitting across from him, Riley quickly found his own confidence waning. A bout of insecurity set in, and as the evening progressed, the feeling refused to budge.

The abundant choices on the menu made him nervous, but Catherine wasn't daunted in the least.

She suggested they begin their meal with an aperitif, and when he shot her a look of bewilderment, she explained that the Lillet listed on the menu was a light predinner drink made from a blend of wine, brandy, fruits and herbs and was thought to stimulate the appetite.

Something had him suggesting that she go ahead and
order their meals for them, and she didn't hesitate accepting what she evidently took as an exciting challenge.

A mild intimidation set in when Catherine rattled off the foreign names of the wines offered as if she'd personally visited each and every country of origin. Whether the wine was French, Italian, German—even Russian—she confidently pronounced the name to the wine steward. The two of them discussed vintage, producer, body, aroma.

Riley had never thought of himself as a country bumpkin. Portland was a great city in which to be born and raised. In the past, when he'd heard people talk in what he would judge as esoteric jargon, Riley had silently snickered at their pomposity. However, he didn't detect a single ounce of arrogance in Catherine throughout the process of choosing a pre-dinner drink, or appetizer, entrée, wine or anything else for that matter. She was simply intent on ordering the food and drink that would make their evening most pleasurable.

Several times Riley resisted the urge to loosen his necktie and give himself some breathing room. He'd been much more comfortable carting a mustard-slathered hot dog around at the airport last weekend.

It was clear, however, that tonight Catherine was in her element.

Trouble was, she'd also been in her element while they were sharing grilled hot dogs and watching airplanes do spirals in the sky.

This woman was a contradiction…and she was the most intriguing person he'd ever met.

The waiter cleared their table of china and cutlery, slipping away in well-trained silence.

Catherine's contented sigh drew Riley's attention.

“How about a digestif?” she asked. “I'm too full for des
sert, but a pousse-café would be very nice, don't you think?” Before Riley could respond, the waiter appeared and Catherine made her request.

Riley frowned, not because he hadn't a clue what she'd just suggested—which he hadn't—and not because he was the least put out that she'd ordered for him, but because the question whispering across his brain became so damned vexing that he couldn't keep himself from voicing it.

“What is it you're looking for, Catherine?”

The pleasure that had relaxed her features just a moment before wilted and she suddenly looked pensive.

“What do you mean?”

“From me,” he said. “From your trip to Portland.”

Up until now, he'd tried to respect her privacy. He'd taken her out to eat, shown her his city and, he hoped, provided her a good time. All without asking a lot of personal questions. Because that was what he thought she wanted. Because she'd led him to believe from the very first that she was hiding from something or someone and she didn't want to be questioned. But, for some reason, tonight's experience had simply put Riley over the top and he could remain silent no longer.

When she didn't respond, he continued, “I don't mean any offense, Catherine. Honestly, I don't. I told you at the air show that I've realized some things about you. About your…circumstances. I've tried not to ask a lot of questions. I thought that I understood that you're trying to escape from something. And I'd thought that something might be a…well, a certain lifestyle. That you were looking for—I don't know—something simpler. Something more down to earth. You said you wanted to be ‘ordinary.'” He felt he wasn't explaining himself very well. “That you wanted to experience the life of a normal Joe.

“But tonight…” Riley paused. He felt as if he were digging a hole for himself, that he was about to say something that just might hurt Catherine's feelings, and he certainly didn't want to do that. But this experience tonight had ripped him out of his own element—his own comfortable world—and had plunked him down in an overt lavishness that made him very uncomfortable.

“Tonight, what?” she prompted him. “I'd like to know what's on your mind. I want you to feel free to say whatever it is you want to say.”

There was no turning back, he realized.

“I feel as if you dragged me into your world,” he said plainly. There, it was out. “And I'm confused because this kind of—I don't know—extravagance is what I thought you wanted to escape. But you've enjoyed yourself this evening. With aperitifs and
bocconcini Fiorentina
—” he knew he'd hacked up the pronunciation, but he plowed ahead “—and pousse-café—”

As if right on cue, the waiter brought cups of dark-brewed coffee that were accompanied by tiny glasses of some thick, current-hued cordial.

Troubled shadows crept into her beautiful blue eyes.

Riley attempted to chuckle but didn't quite succeed. “I mean, you have to admit that this is a far cry from hot dogs at Hillsboro Airport.”

She sat up straight, leaned forward and reached out to touch the sleeve of his dinner jacket.

“Riley, I never meant to make you feel—”

“No, no,” he assured her, suddenly desperate for her not to put a name to the emotion raging through him. “I've had a good time tonight. I have. Just watching you has been quite an experience.” He paused long enough to swallow. “But, Catherine, it's so obvious to me that you belong
here. In this kind of setting, this kind of atmosphere. That you truly enjoy this kind of thing. That you've done it a thousand times before, and that you plan to do it a thousand times more. And that leads me to believe that I had it all wrong. That I had you all wrong. And if that's so,” he said, shaking his head, “then it brings me back to my original question: What are you looking for? Why are you in Portland? Why are you with me?”

The expression on her beautiful face was inscrutable.

“I'm a regular Joe, Catherine,” he said. “Just as regular as they come. My parents were working-class people. For thirty years, my dad drove a forklift for a warehouse right here in Portland. And he worked a second job that was just as blue-collar. Mom was a part-time checkout clerk at a grocery store. She quit working when I was born, but then went back to her old job as soon as I started school.

“I was damned lucky to get into college,” he pressed on. For more reasons than money, he thought. But she didn't have to know that. “And I graduated up to my ears in debt. I haven't really been anywhere. I haven't experienced much. I'm not suave or sophisticated or the least bit worldly.” He stopped and leveled his gaze on her. “I guess I'm just a little confused about why an obvious debutante like you would want to hang out with a hot-dog-and-soda kind of guy like me.”

The whole room seemed to go very still. Maybe the restaurant had been quiet all along and Riley simply hadn't noticed it.

The longer Catherine was silent and staring, the more his curiosity grew.

She relaxed in her seat and consciously inhaled deeply. He got the impression that she was gathering up her courage to reveal all.

However, before she could speak, Carrie Martin approached the table.

“I'm so sorry to bother you,” she said, directing her apology at Catherine before turning her attention to Riley.

Although this wasn't the greatest moment, Riley introduced the two women, and Catherine told Carrie, “I've seen you at the clinic.”

Carrie nodded. “I try to drop by every day.” She once again directed her gaze at Riley. She wrung her hands, her agitation evident as she told Riley, “I came to thank you for what you said when you arrived.”

Taken aback, he went over their conversation in his head, trying to remember what he'd said to her.

“I told you I didn't know where to look for Richard,” she reminded him. “And you told me to think about when I knew him before.” Her eyes danced. “I hadn't thought to do that before. And now I know where to look for him. Or I think I do, anyway.”

“That's great. Really.”

More hand-wringing. “I wanted to let you know that I'll tell him to come see you.”

“That would be wonderful,” he told her. “And I want you to know it's going to be all right for him. Everyone at the clinic is interested in his work. You can tell him I said so.”

“I will, Riley.” She backed away. “Thank you again.”

He smiled, and she turned away.

Looking across the table at Catherine, Riley said, “Carrie is Richard Strong's ex-wife. He was a mainstay of the clinic before your arrival. He was better known as Dr. Richie.”

“I read about him in the newspaper.”

“He left the Healthy Living Clinic suddenly and hasn't
been in touch with anyone since. Carrie hopes to find him.” He glanced in the direction Carrie had gone. “I hope she does. We could use his help at the clinic.”

He lifted his gaze back to Catherine. Softly he said, “I'm sorry for the interruption. We should drink our coffee before it gets cold.”

He reached for the cream pitcher, but Catherine stopped him by taking his hand.

“I need to tell you something, Riley.”

Something in her tone made him lace his fingers with hers. She seemed to need some support.

“You're right,” she hesitantly began. “There are certain…aspects of my life that I'm trying to escape. But I— I—” She stammered to a stop, seemingly unsure of exactly how to phrase her thoughts.

“Please try to understand,” she tried again, “that I do have what I think are very good reasons for remaining secretive about what I'm going through.”

He nodded. So she wasn't going to tell him what he wanted to know. He didn't like secrets, but he knew the importance of them. He had a few of his own. He could see the relief sweeping through her, easing her tense facial muscles.

“As for why I want to be with you…”

Her head dipped timidly, and Riley felt something in his gut tighten.

“I like you, Riley. I enjoy being with you. And I think you enjoy being with me. Can't that be enough?”

With her free hand, she picked up the crystal cordial glass, lifting it several inches.

“To friends.”

Riley studied her face—each feature classic and lovely. The Catherine he'd come to know was a strong woman.
But there was a fragility there, as well. A vulnerability that stirred in him a compulsion to protect. Even if that meant protecting her from his own curiosity.

He might not know what she was running from. But at this moment in time, she certainly wasn't asking too much of him, was she?

The crystal was cool against his fingertips as he raised his glass and touched the rim to hers.

“To friends.”

“M
om, are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Carrie Martin listened to the sound of her son's voice as it crackled over the cell phone. Since the death of his stepfather, Jason had become overly protective of her, and it warmed Carrie's heart to hear the concern in his tone.

He continued, “I don't like the idea of you driving around Portland at all hours of the night.”

“Honey, you know I work late at the restaurant,” she said. “I'm out driving nearly every night, anyway.”

“Yes,” Jason balked, “but around pool halls? They're not much different from bars, really. And if you're going to search out all the places with pool tables, you'll have to go into quite a few bars. People drinking and smoking. Loud music and fights breaking out.”

Her “mother's antenna” perked right up. “And just how do you know that?” she asked pointedly. “You're only
nineteen, Jason. You haven't been going out to bars with your friends, have you?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You know me better than that.”

And she did. Carrie smiled as she cradled the telephone next to her ear. Her son was a good kid.

“You really think you'll find him playing pool somewhere?” he asked.

Carrie was worried that Jason hadn't called Richard anything except “him” and “he” since she'd told her son she intended to come to Portland in search of his father.

“You can call him your dad, you know.”

“Can I?” Jason asked. “Can we be sure how he's going to react to that?”

Jason had a point. She had no idea how Richard would react to the news that he had a son.

“Doesn't change the fact that he's your father. Getting back to the original topic,” she said, “I have no idea if I'll find him shooting pool. But I can't think of any place else to look.”

After a moment, her son said, “You never told me he liked to shoot pool.”

The slight accusation edging Jason's words roused feelings of guilt in Carrie. “There never really seemed a proper time to talk about—”

“I know,” he said, gently cutting her off. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that. I just…I'm curious, you know?”

It was completely natural for a young man to be curious about the father he'd never met. Why hadn't Carrie opened up this subject before? Her guilt grew like the mammoth, inky Blob from that dreadful science-fiction movie.

“When your father was upset,” she told her son, “he used to spend hours and hours playing pool. It was a relief valve for him, I guess.” Her voice softened as she remembered, “He was quite good, as I recall.”

The line went quiet for quite some time, and then Jason asked, “You're sure you want to go through with this? With finding him, I mean? You don't have to, you know. You can always just go back to San Francisco and act as if this summer never happened.”

“I can't, honey. I've made a complete mess of things here for Richard. I have to fix it. At the very least, I have to try. I really need to explain things to him.”

How she would do that was beyond her, though. The feelings raging through her were conflicting to the highest degree. Her anger over how they had parted waged a constant war with the sympathy she felt for her ex-husband, with the heartwarming memory of the good times they'd shared so many years ago.

“And you're really going to tell him about me?” Jason asked.

Her son's question expressed hope…and a terrific trepidation.

“He deserves to know. And you deserve for him to know.”

“What do you think he'll say? What do you think he'll do? Do you think he'll want to—”

Carrie stopped him, “Jason, I don't have answers to any of those questions. I have to find him first.”

After a moment of silence, he asked, “You'll call me?”

“You know I will.”

“Love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

Carrie snapped the cell phone closed and slipped it into
her purse. The lights illuminating the restaurant's parking lot cast a yellow glow in her car's interior. She'd worked long and hard tonight. All she wanted to do was go home, soak in a hot tub and then hit the hay.

But her conscience wouldn't let her.

She stared down at the list of pool halls she'd copied out of the telephone book. The names of at least a dozen businesses were printed on the slip of paper she held. Visiting them all tonight would be impossible. But she could check out at least two of them. Maybe even three.

If the other employees returned to work tomorrow, as planned, she might even be able to leave a little early.

Carrie started the engine of her car and backed out of the parking space. She felt optimistic that she'd find Richard. But what would she say to him once she did?

 

What is it you're looking for?

Riley's words echoed through Catherine's head as she lay on the bed, wide-awake and staring at the ceiling.

Of course, she had known that the conversations they'd had, the clues and innuendoes she'd offered him, would have him guessing about her circumstances.

I've tried not to ask a lot of questions.

She slid her hand over her stomach, the silk of her nightgown cool against her palm, and she smiled. Riley was probably the nicest guy she'd ever met in her life. Of course, he was curious about how she came to be in Portland. It was only natural that he was wondering, yet he'd refrained from asking her questions.

I understood that you're trying to escape from something.

Oh, but Riley had no idea just how badly she'd love to escape the fate that life had handed her. However, there was
no escape. She couldn't evade reality forever. She knew that. This vacation might offer a short reprieve. But walking down the aisle—to meet a man of her father's choosing, a man she didn't know and didn't love—would be inevitable.

So what was she looking for? Why had she gotten on that plane in Lextanya? Why had she flown thousands of miles across the ocean to Portland, Oregon, where she knew no one and no one knew her?

She'd told herself she wanted a little naughty fun. So why was she so willing simply to spend time with Riley? Why was she so willing to let their relationship progress on its own?

Catherine rolled over onto her side, plumped up the pillow and tried to get comfortable, but the discomfort she felt had little to do with the firmness of the mattress or the softness of the bed linens.

Restlessly, she flopped over onto her back and stared again at the faint shadows on the smooth white ceiling.

She'd told Riley she wanted to spend time with him because she liked him. And that was the honest truth of the matter.

The truth was that she was desperate to be liked.

That sounded damned pathetic to her.

But as pathetic as it sounded, could that be the real reason she'd left Lextanya? So that she could find some friends, people who liked her, who enjoyed being around her simply because of the kind of person she was.

Not because she was wealthy. Not because she was a princess. Not because her last name happened to be von Husden. Not because—

The jangling of the bedside phone startled a gasp out of her.

Reaching over, she picked up the receiver and offered a tentative greeting.

“Cat, I'd like to know just how long this little escapade of yours is going to continue.”

The sound of her father's voice struck her mute.

“It's time for you to come home,” he said.

Uttering the profane phrase that ricocheted in her brain would have been inexcusable. Her father might be stuffy and insufferable, but he was still her father and he deserved her respect.

She was finally able to work her tongue and ask, “How did you find me?”

His harsh chuckle grated across the phone line. “Don't be silly, Cat. You used your credit card at a dress shop. Granted, there was only one purchase, but that was enough to have you tracked down. You should know you can't hide from me. Not for long, anyway. You're not smart enough to outwit me.”

Wasn't that the truth? She was quickly learning she wasn't smart enough to outwit anyone, and she only got herself into trouble when she tried.

Stifling a groan, Catherine thought back to when she might have slipped up. She'd been so careful to use cash to pay for everything. It must have been during her shopping excursion with Faye. The two of them had chattered like chipmunks all day long. She guessed she'd become preoccupied and had pulled out her card without thinking. Even now she couldn't remember in which store she'd used it.

“Father, I've truly been enjoying myself. I need more time. I want to savor a little more of this vacation.”

“But your whole life has been a vacation.”

She bristled at his words. She'd done some really good
work with the needy children of Lextanya. Why couldn't he recognize her contribution?

“Come home,” he ordered.

“I will not.”

“Cat—”

“At least, not yet.”

Tension shimmered in the silence that followed.

“Father, I know what is required of me. I understand everything that you expect. And I know I must return home. Eventually.”

She feared that her voice quivered with the unexpected emotions that seemed to well up from nowhere—anxiety, despair, desperation. However, if her father detected what she was feeling, he didn't acknowledge it.

“You promised to come home. Your sister has been very patient and—”

“Please.” She cut him off, her tone rising slightly. “Just a little more time.” She pressed her lips together, attempting to garner control. Her voice was small as she pleaded, “I'm not asking for much.” Catherine swallowed the tears threatening to spill. She wouldn't cry. “Please, Father.”

The stillness became nerve-racking, but she was determined not to say another word. She needed to win this small battle of wills. It wasn't as if she were asking the world. She feared she sounded farcical. Yvonne was the one who usually resorted to melodrama. But Catherine felt desperate.

“One week. Please give me one more week.”

Her plea met with silence.

Finally, her father said, “You may have till the weekend. I have big plans then. There will be a party on Saturday evening, honoring you and Étienne. Your engagement will be announced at Sunday's formal luncheon. I'm looking at flight schedules now. There's one leaving Portland
at midnight Friday. A ticket will be waiting at the gate for you. Be on that plane, Cat.”

The line went dead.

With a trembling hand, Catherine replaced the receiver in its cradle. She exhaled, unaware that she'd even been holding her breath.

She hated that her father could make her feel like a frightened six-year-old. His cowering Fat Cat. A terrified child who, desperately wanting her father's love and attention, had silently suffered his taunts and teasing. Heckling that, like strong acid, had ultimately corroded away every semblance of her self-esteem.

No wonder she'd wanted to slip out of her royal persona. She didn't much like Cat von Husden. The oldest von Husden princess was weak and had no confidence whatsoever.

Catherine Houston was another story altogether. She walked with her head held high. She'd made friends who really cared about her.

She thought of Faye Lassen. They had become fast friends. Faye had even taken Catherine's advice on wardrobe and makeup and hairstyle because Faye trusted Catherine's sense of style.

Helping Faye to break out of her shell made Catherine feel pretty damned good. Simply knowing Faye was her friend made her feel good, too.

Then there was Riley.

I'm just a regular Joe.

His description of himself at dinner tonight whispered through her head.

A regular Joe was just what she'd been looking for in a friend.

Catherine slid down onto the mattress and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

Who was she kidding? She wasn't looking for a friend.

She wanted a regular Joe to like her, yes. But she wanted much more from Riley than that.

Images of Riley—with his dark good looks, intelligent smile and quick wit—passed through her thoughts. Then she thought of Étienne. The man her father wanted her to marry might be handsome, but no amount of striking features could make up for a deficient character.

At twenty-six, she was looking down a long, loveless road if she respected her father's wishes. Absently, her hand slid down the cool, cotton sheet, over the swell of her breast, coming to rest on her flat tummy.

A loveless, passion-less road.

Many a von Husden had traveled it. And most of them had survived. Many of them had even succeeded in finding some semblance of satisfaction in their lives. They had learned to be content with their lot.

Could she get her mind-set to the place it needed to be in order to be content with her lot?

She closed her eyes, surprised to feel a single hot tear roll from the corner and slip down her temple.

I'm a regular Joe.

Again, Riley's words resonated in her head.

She did want more from Riley than mere friendship. She had to force herself to ponder the idea, to grasp it, to twist and turn it over in her mind and truly examine the idea.

She wanted Riley—a regular Joe who was ignorant of her true identity—to know her, to like her….

To want her.

 

Thursday found Catherine racing on the treadmill, sweat dampening her brow and underarms. She felt as
though she'd been in a pressure cooker since taking that call from her father, and each sunrise only seemed to bring the strain of more steam.

She was running out of time!

The gym was turning out to be a great release valve for her. Physical exertion released endorphins that gave her a runner's high. She felt good, at least for a little while. And the exercise helped to clear her mind so she could think better.