Royal Seduction

by Donna Clayton

  “He was a good man,” she assured Richard. “I know that your raising Jason would probably have been the best-case scenario. But since that wasn’t possible, Ralph did a darned good job of loving our son and bringing him up to be a fine young man.”

  Richard looked pensive. “I’ll always be grateful to Ralph Martin for being there for Jason when I wasn’t, Carrie. Because I don’t know what kind of a father I’d have been to the boy.”

  “Oh, now—”

  Richard cut her off with a lift of his hand. “No, now’s not the time for lies. I’ve been trying lately to face the cold hard facts about who and what I was…who and what I am.” He paused, then added, “Who and what I want to be.”

  Carrie wasn’t sure what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

  “We both know I was pretty self-centered.” He barked out a single, humorless laugh. “I was headstrong, too. I didn’t want to settle down. I wanted one thing: to make a name for myself. I didn’t care about anything else. I didn’t care about you. I didn’t care about our marriage. At least, not enough. And because of that—”

  His dark eyes latched on to hers and Carrie felt something akin to electric current thrum in the air.

  “—I lost the best thing I ever had.” He moistened his lips. “You.”

  Some kind of magnetic energy held her spellbound. She hadn’t felt this kind of awareness in many, many years.

  Oh, she’d loved Ralph. They’d had a wonderful marriage filled with many happy and fulfilling years. But there had always been a part of her that had missed Richard. He had a charismatic way about him, a compelling charm that was captivating. He made her tingle from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

  “I wouldn’t have been good for Jason,” Richard said. “If you think about it, if you let yourself honestly remember the kind of person I was back then, you’ll have to agree.”

  He shook his head in derision. “Back then, nothing! I’m still a no-good son of a bitch. Just today at the clinic I was suggesting to Dr. Jacobs that if NoWait turns out to be a true aphrodisiac, it could very well make me a famous man.” Anguish bit into his brow. “What is wrong with me, Carrie?”

  “There is nothing wrong with being ambitious.” Without thinking about it, she reached out and took his hand in hers. “You happen to be very motivated, determined to make something of yourself. I think that’s…admirable.”

  She’d been about to use a more intimate word, but caught herself. Feeling drawn by Richard’s charisma might be beyond her control, but she didn’t have to act on it. He’d given her several looks that had seemed to communicate some warm and luscious messages. But this man had hurt her. No, he’d crushed her. She had to remember that and keep her heart as safe as possible.

  Of course, she realized that she’d had a hand in the failure of their marriage all those years ago, but still, there was no need to reveal the attraction buzzing inside her—bare her soul, so to speak—until he made plain his intentions.

  The silent vibrations seemed to whir at a higher resonance, and there was no mistaking the fact that Richard noticed it, too.

  He gently tightened his hold on her hand, his palm secure against hers. “Carrie, we were so young back then. I messed things up royally—”

  “We messed things up,” she corrected. Immediately, she regretted her rashness and wondered if she’d revealed too much. No, she quickly decided, she was only telling him the truth.

  The weighty pause that followed seemed crucial and gave them both some needed time to reflect.

  “So much time has passed.” Richard’s voice sounded rusty and grating. “And I know it probably isn’t fair of me to bring this up. But I can’t help it. All the time that I was away from the clinic, I was going over and over things. My whole life has been filled with a constant stream of empty relationships. I kept remembering when we were together. How dedicated you were, how devoted, how committed—”

  “Stop, Richard. You’re making me sound like a saint.” She tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “And I was no saint. Believe me.”

  He was clearly bewildered.

  “I got pregnant on purpose,” she blurted. “I intentionally stopped taking my birth control pills. I was trying to force your hand. I thought a baby would make you settle down.” Guilt and anguish tightened her throat until she thought she’d suffocate. “I knew I was pregnant the night I gave you that ultimatum. And I almost told you.” The magnitude of her angst had her repeating, “I almost told you. But you were so angry, and I couldn’t believe how everything was falling apart.”

  He slid closer and took her in his arms. There was nothing sexual in his caress, and she gratefully rested her head against his shoulder.

  “Oh, Carrie,” he crooned. “We are a pair, aren’t we?”

  She didn’t bother answering what she knew was a rhetorical question.

  Her voice was small as she said, “We need to start out slowly. Very slowly.”

  He smiled. She didn’t have to see his face to know it; she felt it.

  “As you said, so much time has passed,” she told him. “We need to get to know each other. We need to become friends…first.”

  She’d wanted to say they needed to become friends before they could become lovers, but she couldn’t get those words out.

  “There are so many problems.” She flattened her palm against his chest and lifted her head to look up into his handsome face. “There are six hundred miles between San Francisco and Portland. I have a teaching job I have to return to, Richard. And then there’s—”

  “Shhh.” The touch of his index finger was tender against her mouth. “We’ll work all that out, Carrie. As you said, we’ll take it slow.”

  The phone jangled and made her jump. She got up to answer it.

  Carrie listened to the voice on the line, horror pervading her as her whole world rolled off-kilter.

  Realizing something was very wrong, Richard went to her. “What is it, Carrie? What’s the matter?”

  “The taxi Jason hired was involved in an accident.” She dropped the phone receiver into its cradle. “Our son’s been taken to Portland General.”

  Riley shook his head. “I just don’t get it.”

  Morgan’s Pub was located in downtown Portland. Riley had brought Catherine here because this had been one of his favorite haunts for years. The food was tasty and the owners prided themselves on their draft beer, the variety of which was unequaled in the city.

  The atmosphere was as comfortable as an old, worn shoe, but Riley was too preoccupied to enjoy it tonight. Catherine had spent the past thirty minutes trying to make him understand her life as a royal. But he was quickly coming to the conclusion that he’d never appreciate what she was trying to explain.

  Her title of princess offered her a world that was privileged, yes. But it also seemed restrictive. Sectarian. And terribly exclusionary.

  No wonder Catherine had felt the need to flee Lextanya. If he’d been the one carrying the scepter, he’d have run away long ago. He was just surprised she’d held out so long.

  Despondence weighed down the sigh Catherine exhaled. “Sitting here telling you this, even I think it sounds crazy. But it all seems so normal when you’re living it. I was born into this, Riley. I’ve heard my mother refer to my father as ‘The Prince’ for as long as I can remember. If I wanted to visit my grandmother, I’ve always had to call her secretary and schedule an appointment.”

  “That sounds so cold.” His comment sounded overly critical, but the thought had been voiced before he could stop it.

  “But it’s not,” she insisted. “My grandmother loves me very much. It’s just that she’s got duties and responsibilities.” Again, Catherine sighed.

  The call of nature had Riley excusing himself. That and the fact that he could also use a moment to think. He got up from the table and weaved through the crowd toward the rear of the establishment.

  He’d been surprised to hear Catherine tell him she’d packed and was ready
for that midnight flight out of Portland. It’s not that he expected her never to return home, but he didn’t like the idea that she was pretty much being dictated to by her father.

  Catherine had said she didn’t intend to marry the man her father had waiting. But she’d also said that her father would only find someone else. Eventually, she’d have to marry one of the aristocratic Lotharios her father selected for her.

  The rest-room door issued a loud squeak when he pushed it open.

  She was going to shackle herself to a loveless marriage. For what?

  He nodded absently at the heavyset man who was washing his hands at the sink. The guy swayed on his feet when he tipped his chin in greeting. Evidently the small movement threw off his balance and he lurched backward violently.

  “Whoa, there!” Riley reached out to steady him. But rather than being appreciative of the help, the drunk swung out his arm.

  “Get off, man.”

  The words were spoken slow and thick, and the stench of beer was so dense, Riley couldn’t help but grimace.

  “Whatever you say.” Riley turned away, only to hear a scuffle. He twisted back around just in time to hear an “oof,” the impact with the sink knocking the breath out of the guy. In an instant, Riley knelt at his side where the man had landed in a heap on the floor.

  Before Riley could ask any questions, the drunk pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Riley helped him to stand.

  “I tol’ you to mine yer own biz wax, buddy.”

  “Seems like you’ve had more than your share tonight. Maybe you should go home and sleep it off.”

  That bit of advice elicited a vulgar response, and then the drunk pulled open the door and was gone. Riley just shook his head.

  Back at the table, he slid onto the wooden bench across from Catherine. He’d only had about half of his beer, but his encounter in the rest room had spoiled his taste for the stuff and he slid it a few inches away.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked. “Oh, yes. I was about to give you the lecture of a lifetime.”

  She grinned, sliding her fingers over the condensation on the outside of her glass. “I’m ready,” she told him.

  “You don’t want to go home,” he began with the flat-out fact of the matter. “I can see it in your eyes. So why go? You’re a beautiful woman, Catherine. You’re intelligent. You could marry any man you want.” The feelings rushing through him were strange—dismay, sadness, distress, even anger. His gaze slid to the lit candle on the table, as he blurted out, “I don’t understand why this is bugging me to this degree. You need to do what you feel is right for you. But if things were different—”

  He nearly choked. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d reminded himself over and over again that Catherine wasn’t the woman for him. Or rather, that he wasn’t the man for her.

  “Don’t say anything more.”

  Her soft but urgent voice tugged at his attention and he lifted his eyes to hers. Oh, she needn’t worry about that! He had no intention of saying more. No sir, he didn’t.

  “I have something to confess,” she said. “Something about last night.”

  The abrupt about-face of the conversation took him aback. He was truly stumped as to what she might be going to say.

  Catherine nibbled on her bottom lip, emotion clouding her features. “There’s no easy way to say this, Riley. But my conscience is bothering me, so I just have to find a way. I have to be honest with you.”

  Her delicate shoulders rounded in what looked a lot like shame, and that only confused him more.

  “As I told you, Riley, I’ve realized that I came to Portland looking for something. At first, I didn’t even know what it was but now I know I wanted acceptance from someone who didn’t know who I was.”

  “Acceptance?” Man, had she ever used the wrong word. His response was sharp as he continued, “This morning you were pretty clear that you wanted someone to want you, as in physical desire. Someone who was ignorant of your identity. Well, you succeeded on both counts, Catherine.”

  “But not without help.”

  Riley rested his forearms on the edge of the table and stared in silence. Not even the ruckus at a nearby table was enough to make him break eye contact with her.

  Without another word, Catherine reached into her purse and pulled out a small blue vial and set it next to the salt and pepper shakers.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s NoWait.”

  “No, it isn’t. NoWait comes in two-ounce brown bottles and has a label that was designed by Dr. Strong. I’ve seen them.”

  Reluctantly, she declared, “This came from the lab. I went there and found trays of these. And black, leather-bound laboratory notebooks were sitting on the counter. NoWait was typed out on—”

  “Catherine! What did you do?”

  “I needed more time, Riley. I just needed more time. But I knew I had to leave—”

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Riley couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t been in the lab for days. He’d read the protocol, but he’d left most everything to Faye. He knew nothing about testing procedures. He knew the technicians were setting up the apparatus needed to begin the experiments, getting the oil ready to be tested. They must have measured out the NoWait into tiny blue vials like the one sitting on the table.

  “You used that stuff? When I was at your hotel last night? Dammit, Catherine, you knew the oil was off-limits. I know for a fact that you knew it because I was the one who told you.”

  Her blue eyes glistened with tearful regret. She whispered, “I know you did.”

  Barraged with emotion, Riley sat there, stunned. Betrayed. Lied to. Misled. He felt all of those things. And anger. No, the heat rampaging through him wasn’t mere anger, it was fury.

  “You manipulated me, Catherine.”

  The sound of cutlery and dishes crashing to the wood floor drew all eyes toward a table on the far side of the pub. A woman let out a scream and a frightened waiter gaped toward the floor, shouting, “Sir? Sir?”

  Riley sprang from his seat and hurried across the pub. He was vaguely aware that Catherine followed close on his heels.

  Even before he reached the commotion, he began surveying the situation.

  The man lying on the floor looked to be unconscious. Riley realized it was the heavyset drunk he’d met in the rest room just a few minutes before. The man didn’t seem to be breathing.

  The face of the young waiter was a ghostly white. He was obviously scared to death. When he caught sight of Riley, the kid seemed relieved that someone intended to offer help. A woman sat at the table, wailing and distraught.

  “I’m a doctor,” Riley announced.

  “I thought he was choking,” the waiter said. “I tried the Heimlich maneuver.”

  “He was conscious at the time?” Riley asked, getting down on his knees to get a closer look.

  “Barely. But he was already turning blue.”

  “Was any food expelled?” Riley asked.

  “No, sir. And he seemed to get worse. Quick.” A tremor quivered his voice as he asked, “I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

  A man in a suit arrived. “I’m the manager. I’ve called nine-one-one.”

  “Good.” Riley grasped the plackets of the man’s shirt and gave a good yank. Buttons went flying.

  Questions raced through Riley’s head.

  “Ma’am,” he called out loudly over the woman’s sobs, “does he have a heart condition?” When she didn’t answer, he raised his voice louder. “Does he have other medical conditions that you know of? Is he currently taking medications?”

  The woman was obviously too hysterical to help. The man’s white T-shirt rolled up over his belly easily. Signs of an ugly bruise were clear high on the man’s ribs where he’d hit the sink earlier.

  Then Riley noticed something peculiar. Only one side of the man’s chest showed signs of movement. He checked the man’s pulse.

  Rapid heartbeat. Bluish co
lor. Distended neck veins.

  “When I brought him that last double shot of bourbon a couple of minutes ago,” the waiter offered, “I heard him complain that he had difficulty breathing. And then just a second ago when I was passing the table, he was turning blue.”

  Having seen the heavyset drunk fall in the rest room, Riley suspected he knew what the problem was, and he feared the kid’s treatment for choking had only worsened the crisis. Palpation of the man’s chest resulted in a spongy feeling beneath Riley’s fingers. Respiratory emergencies called for immediate action.

  “We’ve got to restore full oxygen flow to the heart and brain,” Riley said, standing and scanning the tables around him, “or this guy’s going to be in deep trouble.”

  He snatched up a clean steak knife and napkin from an unoccupied table. Then he picked up the cocktail glass from where his patient had been sitting. Riley glanced at the waiter. “Bourbon, you said?”

  “That’s right,” the young man told him.

  “You got a pen?”

  The waiter plucked one from the pocket of his black apron.

  The manager moved closer. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to help him breathe.”

  Working as swiftly as he could, Riley crouched and tucked one edge of the napkin under the man’s side, arranging it to make himself a small work area. He placed the crude, makeshift scalpel on the white linen. He unscrewed the pen, setting the empty tube on the napkin and tossing aside the extraneous parts. He then poured about a half shot of the bourbon into his cupped palm and rubbed his hands together.

  “Anything I can do?” the manager asked.

  “Give me a sec. Then you can lend a hand.” From the look on the manager’s face, Riley suspected he was sorry he’d offered.

  Riley splashed alcohol on the unconscious man’s skin. Then he poured some bourbon on both the knife and the pen tube. “Here, take this.” He handed the glass to the manager.

  Carefully choosing a spot several inches below the man’s armpit, Riley felt for the position of the ribs. With a confident and steady hand, he cut a small incision.