Finn's Pregnant Bride Page 4

  Miranda bared her teeth in a smile. ‘Oh, don’t take things so seriously, girl! Why don’t you just go?’ she coaxed. ‘Give yourself a treat for a change.’

  ‘But I’ve only just got back from my holiday!’

  ‘We can do a feature on the city itself—the whole world loves Dublin at the moment—you know it does! The single girl’s guide! How about if we call it an assignment? And if you want to call in on Finn Delaney while you’re there—then so much the better!’

  ‘I’m not writing anything about him,’ said Catherine stubbornly, even while her heart gave a sudden leap of excitement at the thought of seeing him again.

  ‘And nobody’s asking you to—not if you don’t want to,’ soothed Miranda. ‘Tell our readers all about the shops and the restaurants and the bands and who goes where. That’s all.’

  That’s all, Catherine told herself as her flight touched down at Dublin airport.

  That’s all, she told herself as she checked into the MacCormack Hotel.

  That’s all, she told herself again, as she lifted the phone and then banged it straight down again.

  It took three attempts for the normally confident Catherine to dial Finn Delaney’s number with a shaking finger.

  First of all she got the switchboard.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Finn Delaney, please.’

  ‘Hold the line, please,’ said a pleasantly spoken girl with a lilting Dublin accent. ‘I’ll put you through to his assistant.’

  There were several clicks on the line before a connection was made. This time the female voice did not sound quite so lilting, and was more brisk than pleasant.

  ‘Finn Delaney’s office.’

  ‘Hello. Is he there, please? My name is Catherine Walker.’

  There was a pause. ‘May I ask what it is concerning, Miss Walker?’

  She didn’t want to come over as some desperado, but didn’t the truth sound a little that way? ‘I met Finn—Mr Delaney—on holiday recently. He told me to look him up if I happened to be in Dublin and…’ Catherine swallowed, realising how flimsy her explanation sounded. ‘And, well, here I am,’ she finished lamely.

  There was a pause which Catherine definitely decided was disapproving, though she accepted that might simply be paranoia on her part.

  ‘I see,’ said the brisk voice. ‘Well, if you’d like to hold the line I’ll see if Mr Delaney is available…though his diary is very full today.’

  Which Catherine suspected was a gentle way of telling her that it was unlikely the great man would deign to speak to her. Regretting ever having shown Miranda his photo, or having foolhardily agreed to get on a plane in the first place, she pressed the receiver to her ear.

  Another click.

  ‘Catherine?’

  It was the lilting voice of honey pouring over shaved gravel which she remembered so well. ‘Hi, Finn—it’s me—remember?’

  Of course he remembered. He’d remembered her for several sweat-sheened and restless nights. A few nights too long. And that had been that. He’d moved on, hadn’t expected to hear from her again. Nor, it had to be said, had he particularly wanted to. The completion of one deal made room for another, and he had the devil of a project to cope with now. Finn dealt with his life by compartmentalising it, and Catherine Walker belonged in a compartment which was little more than a mildly pleasing memory. The last thing he needed at the moment was feminine distraction.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ he said cautiously. ‘This is a surprise.’

  A stupid, stupid surprise, thought Catherine as she mentally kicked herself. ‘Well, you did say to get in touch if I happened to be in Dublin—’

  ‘And you’re in Dublin now?’

  ‘I am.’ She waited.

  Finn leaned back in his chair. ‘For how long?’

  ‘Just the weekend. I…er…I picked up a cheap flight and just flew out on a whim.’

  Maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing in the world, but he could do absolutely nothing about his body’s reaction. And his body, it seemed, reacted very strongly to the sound of Catherine Walker’s crisp English accent, coupled with the memory of her soft, curved body pressed against his chest.

  ‘And you want a guide? Am I right?’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite capable of discovering a city on my own,’ answered Catherine. ‘Your secretary said that you were busy.’

  He looked at the packed page in front of him. ‘And so I am,’ he breathed with both regret and relief, glad that she hadn’t expected him to suddenly drop everything. ‘But I’m free later. How about if we meet for dinner tonight? Or are you busy?’

  For one sane and sensible moment Catherine felt like saying that, yes, she was busy. Terribly busy, thank you very much. She need not see him, nor lay herself open to his particular brand of devastating charm. In fact, she could go away and write up Miranda’s article, and…

  ‘No, I’m free for dinner,’ she heard herself saying.

  He resisted a small sigh. She had been aloof on Pondiki, and that had whetted an appetite jaded by the acquiescence of women in general. For a man unused to having a woman say no to him, the novelty had stirred his interest. And yet here she was—as keen and as eager as the next woman.

  But he thought of her big green eyes, hair which was as black as his own, and the small sigh became a small smile.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘MacCormack’s.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up around seven.’

  Catherine waited for him to say, Does that suit you? But he didn’t. In fact, there was nothing further than a short, almost terse ‘Bye’ and the connection was severed.

  She replaced the receiver thoughtfully. He sounded different. Though of course he would. People on holiday were less stressed, more relaxed. So was the fish erman with the lazy smile and sexy eyes simply a one-day wonder?

  For her sanity’s sake, she hoped so.

  The morning she assigned to culture, and then she ate lunch in the requisite recommended restaurant. The rest of the afternoon she spent soaking up the city—marvelling at the shops in Grafton Street, studying the sparkling waters of the Liffey, just getting a feel for Ireland’s beautiful capital city—before going back to the hotel to write up her copy.

  It certainly has a buzz, she thought, as she reluctantly dragged her body from a bath which was filled right up to the top with scented bubbles.

  She dressed with more care than usual. She wanted to appear all things. Demure, yet sexy. Casual, yet smart. To look as though she hadn’t gone to any trouble, yet as though she’d stepped out from one of the pages of her own magazine! You ask too much of yourself, Catherine, she told herself sternly.

  She decided on an ankle-length dress of cream linen, stark and simple, yet deliciously cut. Understated, stylish, and not designed to appear vampish. Not in the least.

  Her black hair she caught up in a topknot, to show long jade earrings dangling down her neck, and at just gone seven she went down to the foyer with a fast-beating heart.

  He wasn’t there.

  The fast beat became a slam of disappointment, and her mind worked through a tragic little scenario.

  What if he had stood her up?

  Well, more fool her for her impetuosity!

  Catherine walked across the marbled space and went to gaze at the fish tank. The exotic striped fish swam in leisurely fashion around the illuminated waters, and she watched their graceful tails undulating like a breeze on a cornfield. How uncomplicated life as a fish must be, she thought.

  ‘Catherine?’

  She turned around, startled and yet not startled to hear the rich Irish brogue which broke into her thoughts, and there stood Finn Delaney—looking the same and yet not the same. Some impossibly beautiful and yet impossibly remote stranger. Which, let’s face it, she reminded herself, was exactly what he was.

  He was dressed similarly to the shot she had seen on the website, only the suit was darker. Navy. Which somehow emphasised the blue of his eyes. And with
a silk tie, blue as well—almost an Aegean blue. The tie had been impatiently pulled away from the collar of his shirt so that it was slightly askew—and that was the only thing which detracted from the formal look he was wearing.

  Even his hair had been cut. Not short—certainly not short—but the dark, wayward black locks had been tidied up.

  Gone was the fisherman in the clinging, faded denim and the gauze-thin shirt. And gone too was the careless smile. Instead his luscious lips were curved into something which was mid-way between welcoming and wary.

  ‘Well, hi,’ he murmured.

  Oh, hell—if ever she’d wished she could magic herself away from a situation it was now. What the hell had possessed her to come? To ring him? To arrange to meet him when clearly he was regretting ever having handed her his wretched business card in the first place?

  ‘Hi,’ she said back, trying very hard not to let the rich Irish brogue melt over her.

  He gave a little shake of his shoulders as he heard the faint reprimand in her voice. ‘Sorry I’m late—I was tied up. You know how frantic Friday afternoons can be before the weekend—and the traffic was a nightmare.’

  He was trotting out age-old excuses like an unfaithful husband! ‘I should have given you my mobile number—then you could have cancelled.’ She raised her eyebrows, giving him the opt-out clause. ‘You still could.’

  Finn relaxed, and not just because by offering to retreat she had made herself that little bit more desirable. No, the renewed sight of her had a lot to do with it. He had been regretting asking her to call by, but mainly because he hadn’t imagined that she would. Not this soon.

  Yet seeing her again reminded her of the heart-stopping effect she seemed to have on him. With an ache he remembered her in that stretchy green swimsuit, which had clung like honey to the lush curves of her breasts and hips. He remembered the heated cool of her flesh as the droplets of sea-water had dried on contact with his own. And the dark hair which had been plastered to her face, sticking to its perfect oval, like glue.

  Yet tonight, in the spacious foyer of the up-market hotel, she couldn’t have looked more different. She looked cool and untouchable and—perversely—all the more touchable just for that.

  Her hair was caught back in some stark and sleek style which drew attention to the pure lines of her features. The small, straight nose. The heart-shaped bow of a mouth which provoked him with its subtle gleam. High cheekbones which cast dark, mysterious shadows over the faintly tanned skin, and of course the enormous green eyes—fathomless as the sea itself.

  ‘What? Turn you away when you’ve travelled so far?’ he teased her mockingly.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘From London, you mean, Finn? It’s not exactly at the far end of the globe.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he smiled. ‘Well, thanks for the geography lesson!’

  His voice was so low and so rich and so beguiling that she thought he would instantly get a career in voice-overs if he ever needed money quickly. Though, judging by the information on the website, he wasn’t exactly short of cash.

  Reluctantly, she found herself smiling back. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Finn’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Do I take that to mean you don’t want Finn Delaney’s tour of Dublin’s fair city?’

  No. She meant that she was beginning to regret having come, but she understood exactly what had brought her so irresistibly. Or rather, who. In a plush Dublin hotel foyer Finn Delaney’s attraction was no less potent than when he had hauled her flailing from the sea. When she had clung to his nearly naked body on a sun-baked Greek beach.

  She swallowed. ‘I thought we were having dinner. Not playing tourist.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’ It wasn’t really the truth, nor even close to it, but she was here now, and at least dinner would provide distraction techniques. She could busy herself with her napkin and sip at her wine and hope that the buzz of the restaurant would dilute his overpowering presence. Then maybe the evening would be quickly over and she could forget all about him.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘Finn—’

  The hesitant note in her voice stilled him. ‘What?’

  ‘You must let me buy you dinner.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  She shrugged awkwardly. Surely in some small way she could repay the debt she owed him, and in doing so give herself a legitimate reason for being here? ‘I owe you. Don’t forget, you saved my—’

  ‘No!’

  The single word cut across her stumbled sentence and in that moment she got an inkling of what it would be like to cross this man, was glad that she wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m buying dinner,’ he said unequivocably. ‘I invited you and it’s my territory.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, and Catherine—it was no big deal. You had a little cramp and I pulled you out of the water, okay? Let’s draw a line under it and forget it, right?’

  She wondered if there was anything more attractive than a modest hero, but she heard the determination which underpinned the deep voice and nodded her head with an obedience which was unusual for her. ‘Right,’ she agreed.

  His face relaxed into a smile and his gaze was drawn to the direction of her feet. Flat heels, he noted. ‘You wore sensible shoes, I see.’

  He made her feel like Little Miss Frump! ‘I didn’t wear spindly stilettos in case we were walking to the restaurant!’ she returned.

  ‘Good. Good because we are walking,’ he replied evenly, though the thought of her wearing sexy high heels momentarily drove his blood pressure through the ceiling. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  They walked out into a warm summer evening, where the streets of Dublin were filled with people strolling with presumably the same purpose in mind.

  ‘Have you booked somewhere?’ asked Catherine.

  Surely it would sound arrogant to say that he didn’t need to? ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got us a table.’

  He took her to St Stephen’s Green—stunning and grand and as beautiful as anything Catherine had ever seen. And tucked away, almost out of sight of all the splendour, was a small restaurant whose lack of menu in the darkened windows spoke volumes for its exclusivity.

  But they knew Finn Delaney, all right, and greeted him like the Prodigal Son.

  ‘It’s your first time here? In Ireland, I mean, and in Dublin in particular?’ he asked, when they were seated at a window table which gave them a ringside seat for people watching. And people-watching was what Catherine normally loved to do. Normally. Except now she was finding her normal interest had waned and she was much more interested in watching just one person.

  Trying not to, she shook her napkin out over her lap instead. ‘Yes, it is.’ Did he think she had flown out especially to see him? Some kind of explanation seemed in order. She shrugged. ‘You said it was the most beautiful city in the world, and I thought I’d come and see for myself.’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘I’m flattered that you took my word for it.’ Dark eyebrows were raised, and blue eyes sizzled into hers with a mocking question. ‘And is it?’

  ‘Haven’t seen enough yet,’ she said promptly.

  ‘Haven’t you?’ His eyes were drawn to the curve of her breasts. ‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.’

  Chapter Four

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHICH was how Catherine came to be sitting in Finn Delaney’s sports-car late the following morning, with the breeze turning her cheeks to roses and the sky like a blue vault above her head.

  ‘Don’t forget to tie your hair back,’ he had murmured as he had dropped her back at her hotel and bade her goodnight.

  So she’d woven a ribbon into a tight French plait and was glad she had—because the wind from the open-top car would have left her hair completely knotted. A bit like her stomach.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she slid into the passenger seat beside him.

  He turned the ignition key and gave a sm
all smile. How cool she looked. And how perfect—with the amber ribbon glowing against her black hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a grown woman tie a ribbon in her hair, and the result was a devastating combination of innocence and sensuality. ‘To Glendalough. Ever heard of it?’

  She shook her head. The way he said the name made it sound like music.

  ‘Okay—here’s your little bit of tourist information. It’s a sixteenth-century Christian settlement about an hour outside Dublin—famous for its monastery. The name Glendalough comes from its setting—an idyllic valley in between two lakes.’

  Idyllic.

  Well, wasn’t this idyllic enough? she wondered, casting a glance at the dark profile as he looked into his driving mirror.

  Dinner had been bliss—there was no other way to describe it—though she supposed that this should have come as no surprise. Finn Delaney had been amusing, provocative, contentious and teasing, in turn. And if she had been expecting him to quiz her about her life and her loves and her career, she had—for once—been widely off the mark. He seemed more interested in the general rather than the specific.

  Maybe that was a lucky escape—for she doubted whether he would have been so hospitable if he had discovered that she was a journalist. People had so many preconceived ideas about meeting journalists—usually negative—which was the main reason why Catherine had fallen into the habit of never revealing that she was a member of a despised tribe! At least, not until she got to know someone better.

  No, it had been more like having dinner with the brightest tutor at university. Except that no tutor she had ever met looked quite as delectable as Finn Delaney. He had argued politics and he had argued religion.

  ‘Both taboo,’ she had remarked with a smile as she’d sipped her wine, though that hadn’t stopped her from arguing back.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says just about every book on social etiquette.’