Royal Seduction. Donna Clayton
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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.”
Her face brightened a little. “If anyone ever asks me, I’ll just have to say that, no matter how grumpy the good doctor can be, he certainly can give nice compliments.”
He waved off her teasing. They started off down the path, and the heel of Catherine’s shoe caught on the stones. She lurched forward. Riley caught her by the upper arm and automatically drew her securely against his chest.
He couldn’t tell if the warm scent of jasmine in the air was coming from the flowers nearby or from her skin. Her golden hair brushed his cheek like the feathers of an angel’s wing.
“I’m sorry. These shoes aren’t very good on this uneven ground.” He supported her while she lifted one knee and bent to rub her ankle.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he told her. “I should have known better than to bring you—”
“Stop,” she insisted, lowering her foot back to the ground. “I’m fine. But can we sit for few minutes?”
“Of course.”
He led her to a nearby pavilion and they sat on the bench. A waterfall gurgled just behind them, and peace seemed to permeate the very air.
“This place is just wonderful,” Catherine breathed.
“I come here often. I enjoy trying to figure out the meaning behind the poetry couplets that are scattered throughout the garden. And I like the fact that each artistic effect in the garden has an important symbolic meaning.”
She nodded. “Now I get it.”
“Get what?”
“When we first arrived,” she said, “I couldn’t understand why a man like you would even know about a place like this.”
He didn’t understand. “A man like me?” He lifted one hand, palm up. “A place like this?”
“You have to admit that you and this garden are, well, opposites. Close your eyes a second and feel it. This place is serene and stress-free, content to simply exist. Sure, I hardly know you, but from what I’ve witnessed, you’re none of those things.”
Her tongue skipped across her dusky lips, and Riley had to force himself not to stare.
“But the poetry and the symbolism,” she continued, “make this a thinking man’s garden, now don’t they?”
Riley felt discomfited. He wasn’t sure he liked being analyzed. She’d done the same thing earlier today, evaluated his character.
“You don’t have to answer.” She reached up and tucked her