Royal Seduction

Oh, well. It didn’t matter to Catherine if she talked to Riley in his office or in an examination room. She only wanted to talk to him.

Although the walls were painted a peaceful shade of blue, the newness of everything lent a stark feel. She wondered if all doctors in America tended to their patients in such impersonal surroundings.

A robe had been draped on the mattress for her. But she hadn’t touched it. Catherine couldn’t imagine taking off her clothing and wrapping the flimsy fabric around her body.

She felt a sudden appreciation for the royal physician who was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for the von Husden family. Dr. Wallingford rushed to the palace to treat her father or her sisters or herself in the comfort of their own bedchambers whenever the need arose. However, house calls, as Americans would call them, were a thing of the past in this fast-paced, ultramodern society, she was sure.

Sitting on the exam table, Catherine felt her heart flutter. Her bout of nerves was caused by the brazenness of summoning Dr. Riley Jacobs, she knew. There wasn’t a darn thing wrong with her. And she wondered how he would react to that. What he would say. How he would be. But the most interesting speculation of all was whether she could make him smile.

That was her sole goal in being here.

Normally, anywhere she went she was treated with the utmost respect. Everyone she met practically fell over themselves to supply her every whim. But Dr. Jacobs didn’t know she was Princess Catherine von Husden. He’d had no idea when they’d met the day before yesterday that he’d been in the presence of royalty.

Royalty schmoyalty. What good was a gem-encrusted tiara, she wondered, if it kept you guessing whether people were treating you well simply because you were who you were, or because they truly wanted to be your friend?

She wanted Dr. Jacobs to be her friend. Heck, that wasn’t the full truth. She wanted more from him than that. She’d come to Portland seeking a naughty adventure. This vacation she’d planned would be her one and only chance to experience the sparks that flashed between a man and a woman.

All she had to do was figure out how to make his sparks flash. Catherine chuckled at the thought.

However, instinct told her that if she was going to get anywhere with the good doctor, the first thing she had to do was make him smile.

Two short raps on the door had her lifting her gaze. Dr. Jacobs pushed his way into the small exam room, his brow marred with a frown.

“So where are you hurting? You strain a muscle in the gym?”

Nothing like being direct. He was so grumpy, it was kind of cute.

“Hello to you, too,” she said.

Her bright greeting made him pause. He remained silent, just looking at her, and Catherine took full advantage of the quick second to give him a thorough once-over.

His eyes were a rich shade of brown with enticing flecks of amber. His eyelashes were thick. His hair—chestnut-brown with deep red highlights—was short and traditionally styled. She liked his clean-cut look. His smooth skin had an olive tone.

“When you were training to become a doctor,” she quipped, “you must have missed the lesson on bedside manner.”

The bedazzling smile she offered him had won over the Queen of England, herself. Surely it would charm him, too.

His frown faded, but his wide mouth didn’t curl up at the ends as she had hoped it would. Well, she’d just have to try harder.

“Just trying to get down to business.” He tossed the file onto the counter and reached for the stethoscope draped around his neck.

“I can’t say I know a thing about being a doctor,” she began, “but I’d think part of the ‘business’ of treating people is garnering their trust. Putting them at ease so they’ll feel comfortable enough to tell you about their problem.”

His jaw went tight. Apparently he didn’t take kindly to her friendly advice.

Feeling suddenly mischievous, she wondered just how far she could goad him until he caught on that he was being goaded.

“What would it hurt for you to have come into the room and greeted me with a happy hello?”

He dipped his chin just a bit. “Lady, I don’t give anyone a happy hello.”

That didn’t surprise her in the least. “Well, maybe you should. And how about asking about my day? That might be nice.”

The man looked about to implode, and Catherine could barely contain her laughter.

“Do you know,” she continued, “that we met two days ago, sat down together and talked, and you never even introduced yourself. I didn’t know your name until I asked Dr. Lassen. You’re too tense, Dr. Jacobs. Too focused.” She pinched her chin between her thumb and fingers, narrowing her gaze. “Do you think that’s a problem you might need to work on?”

A storm brewed all around him.

“I’ll have you know,” he said, “that up until a week and a half ago, I was treating real patients with real problems. I didn’t have time for happy hellos.” Annoyance tightened the muscles in his face, making the angles sharper, more defined. “The people I treated were most often unconscious and completely helpless. There wasn’t time for polite conversation.”

Wow, she’d whipped him up into a real huff. She ought to be ashamed that she’d enjoyed doing it.

Curiosity had her wondering about the previous job he’d just described, but now wasn’t the time to ask. She was too close to her goal of provoking him to his limit. She tilted her head and queried, “So you’re saying I’m not real?”

She injected the question with a jesting tone, let the humor she felt twinkle in her eyes.

Finally realizing he was being purposely prodded, he shook his head. Then he looked down at the floor, chuckling.

The sound was rich and heady. Catherine liked it. A lot.

And when he lifted his gaze to hers, he was smiling.

Smiling.

A tingling heat permeated Catherine’s entire body.

“No,” he said softly. “I’m not saying that at all. You’re perfectly real.”

He draped his stethoscope back around his neck and laced his fingers together at his waist.

“You should smile more often,” she told him.

He nodded. “You’re probably right.”

Silence hung between them, heavy and cumbersome. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn that the temperature in the room rose several degrees.

Her grin was smug. “No probably about it. That smile suits you. Loosens up everything. The tenseness in your body—” without thought, her tone lowered an octave “—in our conversation…in the very air.”

She did feel an easing of the strain in him, both physically and emotionally, and in their conversation. But the air remained dense. Deliciously thick. His irritation was no longer the culprit, she realized. What swirled around them now was something shadowy. Something both mysterious and exciting.

Catherine hoped he didn’t intend to use that stethoscope to listen to her heart any time soon, because if he did, he couldn’t miss the way it fluttered against her ribs.

“Okay, so maybe we need to start over.” He offered her his hand. “Hello. My name is Dr. Riley Jacobs.”

She slid her palm against his and curled her fingers around his hand. His skin was warm, his handshake firm.

“I’m Catherine Houston,” she told him, pleased to play along. “My family calls me Cat. But I prefer Catherine.”

“Catherine it is, then.”

The handshake ended and she felt a twinge of disappointment.

“And how are you today?” He measured each word carefully.

“Much better now.”

Much better! she thought.

“So what brings you in to see me today? Did you strain a muscle? Are you sore from overexertion?”

In a sudden quandary, Catherine remained silent. He was being pleasant now, sure. But as soon as she told him there was nothing wrong with her, he’d probably be peeved that she’d wasted his time.

“Well,” she started out haltingly, “I don’t really have a physical injury.”

“Oh?” Uncertainty clouded his eyes, yet at the same time curiosity had his brows arching the tiniest bit.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” she said, “but I’m a visitor to Portland. I came here because my cousin visited the city not too long ago and he just raved about the place.”

Her cousin Max had met his wife here in Oregon. And he’d defied convention completely when he’d married Ivy Crosby, too.

“So I thought I’d escape from…everything—” The words snagged in her throat and she gave a small cough. She needed to be careful or she was going to give away her secret. “I wanted to see what kind of fun I could find in Portland,” she finished.

“And what kind of fun have you found?”

He was giving tolerance and patience a valiant effort, but she could tell this small talk was driving him nuts.

She couldn’t help but observe, “You’re really a workaholic, aren’t you?”

Her question took him aback. There was defensiveness in his tone when he said, “I don’t know that I’d say that.”

Catherine ignored him. “You must have a reputation of working hard. How else could you land the top job at a place like this? I mean, look at you. You’re champing at the bit to do something—analyze my symptoms, diagnose my problem—so you can move on to the next crisis.”

His rigid shoulders relaxed and he actually laughed.

She’d found him appealing before, but this laid-back manner of his enthralled her.

“Sounds like I’m the one being diagnosed here. But I don’t mind reminding you that you’re the one who made this appointment. With me. The doctor. The one wearing the white coat and the stethoscope. So if we can just stick to the topic at hand…” He tossed her a pointed look.

Chagrin had her averting her gaze, and she shifted her hips until the edge of exam table pressed against the backs of her knees.

“You were explaining this nonphysical problem of yours,” he prompted.

“I was.” Bolstering herself with a deep breath, she said, “The people I’ve met here at the clinic’s gym are great, but everyone seems so busy with work or their families. No one seems to have time for a new friend. I was able to enjoy a cup of tea with Dr. Lassen. But I’ve been eating dinner alone every night. I’ve been doing a little sight-seeing, but—” she sighed dramatically “—it’s just not the same when you’re all on your own.”

With each sentence she spoke the crease between his eyebrows cut deeper into his forehead.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re suffering from loneliness?”

“Well, you don’t have to say it like that.” She tucked her arms across her chest and informed him, “It’s a perfectly legitimate ailment.”

Even though humor continued to sparkle in his chocolate eyes, he did a great job of mustering up some solemnity. “Of course it is.”

She forced her spine to straighten. “So it’s official? I’ve been diagnosed?” Without waiting for him to answer her silly questions, she barreled ahead. “Then what I’d like you to do is write me a prescription. For some company. For some conversation.” She thought a moment and then boldly announced, “I think a sight-seeing tour of Portland would be nice. Coffee and dessert would be great. Oh, and dinner, too. Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He looked quite stunned. She decided to go in for the kill before he could regain his wits.

“And if you’re truly dedicated to your profession,” she said, “you’ll volunteer to be my guide for the evening.”

Now he had that deer-caught-in-headlights expression, and it was all Catherine could do not to laugh.

“Y-you want a date?”

She flashed a huge grin at him, purposefully mistaking his question. “I’d love a date, thank you. I accept your invitation, Dr. Jacobs.”

Later that same day, Riley sat at his desk and listened as Carrie Martin explained her story.

“I had no idea who that Dr. Richie person was up there in front of that crowd.”

The woman’s eyes had taken on a haunted look, and sympathy rose up in Riley. Obviously, Carrie was reliving that awful confrontation she’d initiated during Dr. Richie’s last seminar before he’d disappeared. Up until now, he’d only heard rumor and innuendo, and he’d squelched that as quickly as he could, thinking that was best for the clinic and its reputation. But this woman had been deeply affected by the ugly incident that she, herself, had admittedly been the center of.

“I mean, he resembled the man I’d married years ago in Florida,” she continued, “but that Dr. Richie person strutting back and forth and tossing out all that overly dramatized gibberish was just too…” Her sentence trailed off and she shook her head.

Riley had never personally met Richard Strong, but having inherited the job of cleaning up the man’s mess here at the clinic—and the potential problems that could ensue—Riley had certainly learned a great deal of secondhand information about the man. Some people loved him, saw him as charismatic. He apparently had a way of garnering people’s trust. And Riley had heard it said that the man could sell ice cubes in Antarctica. And the suits in Administration had loved that “salesman” aspect of Dr. Richie’s personality. Plus, when he’d accepted the job of running the clinic, the famous guru of the Northwest had brought quite a fan following along with him.

But there were plenty of people who had their doubts about the man and his tactics.

“I just can’t believe what he’s done,” Carrie continued, amazement filling her tone to the brim. “What kind of person is he that he felt he needed to change his name?”

Riley perked up. “He changed his name?”

“Yes,” Carrie said. “He was born Strokudnowski. Richard Strokudnowski.”

A difficult name to spell, Riley decided as he attempted to jot it down.

“Well, there’s really nothing wrong with a name change,” he told her. “Lots of people do it.” Riley hoped he didn’t offend her. He only meant to offer another view. “Especially prominent people. Stars and the like. They want to be called something that makes an impact, something that’s easy to remember. Strong is much easier to remember than Strow…Strew…” His eyes grew wide when he realized that Richard Strong’s given name had slipped right out of his brain.

“Strokudnowski.” Her mouth quirked. “I see what you mean.”

“And surely you know,” he went on, “that Dr. Richie has been making a name for himself in the fitness world for some time now.”

“I’ve recently discovered his fame.” She winced as she asked, “But Dr. Richie? It sounds so lame.”

Riley shrugged. He thought the name sounded pretty silly, too, and wanted to shake his head every time he was forced to say it, but who knew how the Dr. Richie phenomenon got started?

“Sometimes a person grows larger than life,” he suggested, “and the fans are the ones who do the choosing.”

Her expression told him she hadn’t thought of that possibility before this moment.

“Dr. Jacobs, I need to find him.” She scooted to the edge of the seat. “I feel so bad about what I did, about what I said in that seminar. I need him to know that. Can you tell me where he’s gone? Did he move out of the state? Did he take a job at another clinic?”

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, truly empathizing with the woman. “I don’t know where he is. Actually, we’re looking for him, too.”

Her eyes grow round. “Is he in trouble? Did I—”

“He’s not in trouble,” he assured her. “We’ve decided to do some testing on his weight-loss treatment.”

“NoWait.”

Riley nodded.

“I was asked to go give back my bottle,” she said.

Again, he nodded. “We’re hoping to collect as much of it as we can.”

“I’m relieved.”

Her response startled him into silence. Most of the clinic’s clients were upset about having to surrender their NoWait.

“Dr. Jacobs,” she said in a lower tone, “I’ve been visiting the clinic for weeks now. Since that oil was introduced, people around here have been acting like a bunch of horny toads ready to dry-hump anything that stands still long enough.” Her jaw dropped open and the color drained from her face. “I can’t believe I said that to a perfect stranger. I tend to let down my guard with people way too quick. Please forgive me.”

Riley cleared his throat, quashing his urge to chuckle, and attempted to remain unruffled. “It’s quite all right. This is an, uh, unusual situation we find ourselves in. We’re all a little off-kilter.” He rushed to get the conversation back to the testing. “There’s quite a bit of money being made today in specialty medicines meant to treat sexual disorders. If—and that’s a big if—Richard Strong has come up with a topical treatment made of natural ingredients, the results could be far reaching. But testing needs to be done. We’re going to get it started, but we’d like Dr. Richie to head up the effort.”

Once she’d regained her composure, Carrie said, “I feel I really need to be frank here. The man I married wasn’t—” She stopped, uncertainty shadowing her face. Then she tried again. “Although the Richard I attended college with was very caring and wanted very much to help people, there was no way I’d allow him to prepare any kind of remedy for me. He wasn’t a detail-oriented person, if you know what I mean, and formulating substances wasn’t one of his strongest talents.”

Ah, Riley thought, so the man’s less-than-scholarly reputation wasn’t just a myth.

“Don’t worry,” Riley assured her. “He’d have chemists and lab assistances at his disposal. However, judging from the amorous behavior we’ve witnessed, it seems he’s on to something significant.”

Carrie took a deep breath. “So you’re trying to find him?”

“Very discreetly. We know he’s still in town. He’s been seen. But he’s not answering his phone or returning calls. The staff here has to be very careful. It’s not like he’s missing, or in danger. He has a right not to be found if that’s what he wants.”

The woman nodded. “But I can look for him, right? I won’t be breaking any laws if I look for him myself?”

“I don’t believe so.” He flattened his palms out on the desktop. “If you do find him, please have him come to see us. Or tell him at least to call.”

Regret rounded her shoulders, and she clutched the handbag on her lap. “The way he left the conference room that day,” she said, “I’m sure he’s feeling very embarrassed.”

Riley agreed but he didn’t allow himself to nod. He didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she already did.

“Dr. Jacobs, was there ever a time when you wished you could relive a day in your life? Just one day? Just one hour? Heck, I’d take reliving just one minute. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could reach out and snatch back the words we say that hurt someone else?”

“Everyone has had that wish at one time or another.”

But Carrie hadn’t heard him. He could tell. She was too wrapped up in her misery.

She stared, unseeing, at a spot just over his left shoulder as she whispered, “What I wouldn’t give to be able to take it all back.”

Riley walked through the plush lobby with Catherine on his arm, still dumbfounded that one, he’d allowed himself to be bamboozled into a date, and two, that the bamboozler was the innocent-looking yet heart-stoppingly gorgeous woman at his side.

He’d spent the whole afternoon trying to figure out just how she’d gotten him to agree to take her to dinner. She hadn’t threatened or harassed. She hadn’t even pestered him, really. She’d lulled him into some sort of trancelike state—the same turmoil that had frightened the bejesus out of him the first time they’d met—and then she’d swooped in to exploit his weakened condition.

Riley prayed to high heaven that she hadn’t really realized he’d been suffering with a helpless fragility due to his oh-too-physical reaction to her, and that he’d merely agreed to treat the outlandish illness she’d labeled as lonesomeness by taking her out on the town.

But he wasn’t certain the town of Portland was ready for the likes of Catherine Houston. He cut her a quick sidelong glance.

She was a stunner. The black dress she wore clung to the curves of her luscious body. Her stiletto heels accentuated about a mile’s worth of firm and shapely legs. She was enough to make a man salivate.

“So what do you have planned?”

Her voice sounded like a soft caress.

Normally well grounded in realism, Riley was not a fanciful thinker. Relating her question to a soft touch was out-of-character for him. But even that realization didn’t keep the hair on his arms from standing on end. Riley shook his head and inhaled a lungful of mind-clearing oxygen.

“It’s a surprise,” he told her, holding open the heavy glass door for her. “We still have some daylight left. I have something I want to show you. One of my favorite places. We won’t get to stay long because they close at six. But you’ll get to experience a little of it, at least.”

Portland’s Classical Chinese Garden was a walled oasis. Located smack-dab in the center of “old town,” the gardens encompassed a full block of serpentine walkways, open colonnades and Asian architecture. The landscape was meticulously arranged with rare and unusual plants, mosaic stone paths and a small bridged lake.

Delight shined from Catherine’s eyes when they entered, and Riley told her, “Believe it or not, this used to be a parking lot. Back in the eighties, Portland became a sister city with Suzhou, China. Not long after, this land was donated and construction began on the garden.”

For several long moments they walked in silence, simply enjoying the sights, sounds and scents of nature.

Closing her eyes, she tipped up her chin and inhaled. “Mmmm,” she murmured. “I just love jasmine. Always have.”

Riley let his gaze trail down the long length of her milky throat. He envisioned himself pressing his nose to her heated, silky skin.

Realization suddenly struck. “That’s what you smell like. Jasmine.”

Her blue eyes sparked with appreciation, and warmth rushed to his face. He had no idea why he felt embarrassed over his remark. This woman made him react in the most peculiar ways.

“I—I couldn’t place the flowery scent in your perfume before,” he stammered. “But now I know. It’s jasmine.”

Her wide mouth curled softly. Deliciously. He got the distinct sense that she was grateful he’d noticed. The expression on her lovely face caused a repositioning of the warmth that had been in his face and neck, and the heat raced right to the pit of his gut.

“A French perfumery makes this scent just for me,” she said, and as soon as the words slipped from her lips, she looked annoyed.

“What is it?”

One wavy blond tress fell over her shoulder when she shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she told him.

“Of course it’s something. Your brow is knitted tighter than the wool scarf my mother sent me for my birthday.” He stopped, deciding not to take another step on the stone pathway until she answered his question.

She halted a couple steps ahead and then had to turn to face him. Evidently realizing she’d have to confess, she shrugged. “It’s just that I’m not a good liar.”

He chuckled. “And that’s a bad thing because…?”

“Well, I wanted to spend my time in Portland as any other average, ordinary woman.” Irony tightened one corner of her mouth. “But average, ordinary women don’t have perfume specially blended in France, do they?”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about her query. But one thing was clear. Faye had been correct; Catherine was a cut above. Just how far above, he had no idea.

“Catherine,” he began, “even without your small slipup, there’s no way that I’d ever think you were average. There’s not one thing about you that’s ordinary.”

Her countenance only became more glum and that made him chuckle out loud. But he quickly checked himself. People visiting the gardens liked the quiet. It was what they came here for.

“Stop that frowning,” he ordered. “Sticking out in a sea of standard isn’t a bad thing, Catherine. Some people can’t help it. And you’re one of them.”