Finn's Twins!

by Anne McAllister

  The world shattered around her at the same time Finn shattered within her, her name on his lips. And then he collapsed in her arms, his head buried against her shoulder as he shuddered with his release.

  Izzy felt like a butterfly, emerging warm and wet from a cocoon to a new being, a new life. She felt both weak and stronger than she'd ever been, fragmented and more wholly herself than she'd felt in her entire life.

  So this was love. Real love. The deep, abiding love of a woman for a man. Timeless. Elemental. Not like the love she'd felt for Sam. Nothing at all.

  A sob shook her. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. The emotion simply overpowered her.

  He must feel it, too. He had to. Surely he couldn't have shared such intimacy with her unless he loved her the way she loved him. Oh, God, thank you, thank you. And then she was shaken by another sob.

  On top of her Finn went completely still. He almost seemed to stop breathing. Only the hard fast beat of his heart against hers and the sudden tension of his body pressing her into the mattress reassured her.

  Then slowly, carefully, he pulled back, looking down at her. She let her hands fall and she folded them across her breasts. He looked at them, then up again at her, his expression dark and grave.

  Izzy gulped, then sniffled and lifted her left hand to wipe the tears from her cheek, feeling a fool. She gave him a watery smile.

  His jaw was locked, his expression shuttered. He mut­tered something indecipherable under his breath. Izzy frowned.

  Then he said, "I'm sorry."

  Sorry? He was sorry?

  Izzy stared at him, stricken, but he averted his gaze, pulling back, not slowly at all now, almost fumbling in his haste to get away from her. His movements were jerky as he stood up, then reached down and snagged his clothes from the floor.

  Izzy didn't move. Couldn't. She simply watched, feeling something akin to horror welling up inside her.

  How could he be sorry? But he was. He'd said so. The words echoed over and over in her head. I love you, she wanted to shout at him. I'm not sorry.

  She couldn't say a word.

  He'd pulled on his jeans and was buttoning his shirt by the time she found the ability to move. He tossed her panties and her dress at her, not once looking her way as he started toward the door.

  "You can shower if you want," he said, jerking his head toward the bathroom. "I'll do… the washing up."

  What was she then? Dessert? Izzy sat on the bed, shaking, clutching her basic black dress against her breasts.

  Take a shower? Wash away the remnants of their lovemaking?

  Lovemaking? There was a laugh. A bitter half laugh, half sob caught in her throat.

  She was a fool, all right.

  She'd have the memory of this night with Finn just as she'd thought she wanted. But she'd had no idea how bad—or how quickly—it was going to hurt.

  It would have been a night to remember—loving Izzy—if it wasn't a night he desperately wanted to forget.

  Finn's head pounded and his gut twisted with remorse as he drove back down the mountainside to the hotel. Beside him Izzy sat motionless—and clearly miserable. She hadn't said a word since they'd made love. She'd only sobbed.

  Sobbed. Because she'd betrayed Sam.

  And it was his fault, damn it.

  Finn knew he shouldn't have tempted her. He'd had no right. None. She was engaged—in love—with someone else. And in his arrogance he'd done his best— and succeeded—in getting her to betray her fiancé and go to bed with him.

  What a guy. You really have a lot to be proud of, he told himself bitterly. In fact he'd never been so ashamed in his entire life. And his ridiculous apology—I'm sorry, for God's sake!—didn't bear thinking about.

  He dared to slant her a glance now. Her skin was col­orless in the moonlight, her cheeks bleached of all that wonderful peachy tone that was so much a part of who Izzy was. Inside was she as changed as well?

  No doubt.

  And it was all his fault.

  He felt sick. Sick and remorseful and contrite. Aware that he'd ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him. Why in heaven's name hadn't he simply told her how he felt, confessed that he'd fallen in love with her and—

  Fallen in love with her?

  His hands started to shake so hard he had to grip the steering wheel like a vise to control them. Fallen in love with her? Was that what he had done?

  He took a careful breath, then concentrated on drawing it in slowly, holding it, and releasing it equally slowly while he considered the notion.

  Love itself had always baffled him. He'd never known it—not the way other people seemed to. Of course, they'd had experience with it. He remembered being aban­doned, not loved. And if he loved Meg, it was more of a duty than anything else. The same sort of duty he'd shouldered when she'd dumped the girls on him, though he was learning from them about a different kind of love.

  It was Izzy, now that he thought about it, who'd helped him learn a different way of loving them. It was Izzy, who hadn't had any duty at all, and yet who had will­ingly given herself to caring for them who had shown him the generosity of real love—love that was a joy, not simply a burden.

  And how had he repaid her?

  By making her betray the man she loved. By taking her virginity, her innocence. And God knew—and Finn knew—that he, of all people, had no right to that.

  And giving her what in return? His sordid empty self.

  He wasn't surprised she had nothing to say even as he pulled up in front of the hotel.

  "I'll go park. You go on in." He didn't expect her to wait.

  She didn't. She got out and walked into the hotel, not once looking back. He watched her safely in, then found a parking spot for the car.

  As he got out, he stared up into the clear, cloudless night. The heavens were vast enough to make a man feel very small and insignificant in the course of the uni­verse—as if what he did or didn't do wouldn't matter at all.

  He wished to God that was true. He knew in his heart it wasn't. What he'd done tonight had mattered a great deal. He had destroyed relationships tonight—his and Izzy's, for certain. Perhaps even hers and Sam's.

  And for what? For love?

  He wished to God Izzy would believe him if he told her that.

  She didn't see him when she left. She gave Rorie a sheaf of instructions and a state-of-the-art pep talk about her responsibilities toward the girls. She gave the girls in­structions, too, and a state-of-the-art pep talk about how proud she was of them and how she expected them to show Rorie just how wonderful they were.

  They said, "Don't go! You're not going, are you, Izzy? Not really!"

  But Izzy had no choice.

  "I'll write to you," she promised, brushing a hand over their coppery curls.

  "But—"

  "I will. I love you," she told them.

  "But…what about Uncle Finn?" they wailed.

  I love him, too, Izzy thought. But she didn't say that. There was no future in loving Finn when he didn't love her—and a world of pain in staying around any longer now that she knew it.

  He was sorry he'd loved her. What else was there to say?

  She gave each of the girls a hug and a kiss, then she went down the stairs and didn't look back. In her mind, even though she desperately wanted to, she couldn't seem to turn away.

  She had a ticket on a late-afternoon flight to San Francisco. First she stopped to see Sam.

  He was working, so at least she didn't have to con­front him in his apartment. But interrupting him at his office wasn't much easier. Still, his secretary greeted her cheerfully enough and sent her right in.

  He looked up and grinned and Izzy felt like pond scum, hating herself for what she was about to do.

  "Sam." She knotted her fingers together and tried to keep her voice from trembling.

  He stood and came around the desk and she knew he was going to put his arms around her. She backed up, wishing she dared dart around and pu
t the desk between them once again.

  "Oh, Sam!" So much for trying to keep her voice steady. She sounded like a banshee, and, oh heavens, those weren't tears, were they? The ultimate disgrace! She swiped at her cheeks desperately. "I'm sorry!" she gabbled. "So sorry. I didn't mean it to happen! I didn't want it to!"

  He did put his arms around her then, and she gave up and watered his shirtfront with her tears. He patted her back, making soothing noises, and she remembered him holding her like this when her grandfather had died. He didn't say anything until she finally managed to get herself under control, ruining, no doubt, every bit of the makeup she'd so carefully put on this morning. So much for Finn's makeover!

  "It's not that bad, is it?" Sam chided gently once she'd stopped sobbing all over the front of him.

  "Worse," she gulped. "I can't… can't marry you." She tried to look at him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not, at least, until he touched her chin with his fingers and tipped her face up so that she had no choice.

  Warm brown eyes looked down at her with deep concern. "You can't?" There was nothing censorious in his voice. He sounded kind, gentle. Exactly the sort of man she wanted to marry! Damn it!

  She started to cry again.

  "Why not? You don't have a…communicable disease, do you?" he asked her tentatively after a moment.

  Izzy shook her head and sniffed. "N-no. Nothing like that. Or not exactly," she corrected herself. "Sometimes it feels like it," she muttered.

  "What feels like it?"

  "Being… in love with Finn."

  There, she'd said it. As she did so, she twisted her head away so she wouldn't have to look at him then. She didn't want to see the censure in Sam's eyes.

  "In love with Finn." He repeated the words softly and with a certain inevitability.

  She shook her head desperately. "I don't want to be!" she said, her voice rising in desperation. "It's the last thing I want, believe me! I'd rather marry you!"

  "But you can't." His voice was soft and even, still not censorious, just kind of sad. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her face with it. "You look like a raccoon," he told her, a corner of his mouth quirking.

  "I feel like a weasel. I never meant—"

  "I know that. I understand." He kept mopping.

  "You do?"

  He nodded slowly. "I'm not blind, you know. I could see it that day out at East Hampton. Among others," he added after a moment.

  "Then?" Izzy was aghast.

  "Before then. The way you looked at him." He shrugged. "You devoured him."

  "I never—"

  "Well, you sure never looked at me that way."

  Izzy ducked her head, embarrassed, knowing full well it was true, hating herself for having been so transparent to him when she was still lying to herself. "I'm a fool," she said sadly.

  "No. You're human." He stuffed the handkerchief into her hand. "Here. Hang onto this. You might need it."

  "I will need it," she admitted. "I'll probably cry all the way home."

  "You're going home? But I thought—"

  Izzy shook her head. "The feeling isn't mutual."

  "The devouring wasn't one-sided."

  "Yes, well, let's just say, devouring and loving aren't the same thing."

  Sam's jaw tightened and he gave her a gentle squeeze. "Then he's the one who's the fool."

  Izzy didn't know about that. It was simply a part of who he was. But she couldn't explain to Sam the way Finn felt about loving people or about the experience he'd had of family life. It wasn't her place or Sam's business. She gave a light shrug.

  He seemed to accept that. "So you're going home to try to get over him?"

  She nodded.

  "You wouldn't consider staying here? I wouldn't pressure you."

  "I can't. I wish I could, Sam. I do love you, just not the way…"

  "I know." He sighed. "I think I've always known. It was too easy. Too good to be true. The rapport we felt from the very beginning, like we'd always known each other…"

  "Like brother and sister." Then Izzy's eyes widened when she realized what she'd said.

  "Exactly. Like brother and sister." He smiled wryly as she slipped off her engagement ring and tucked it into the palm of his hand. His fingers closed over it. "I love you, too, Izzy," he said softly, then dropped a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You'll be a hard act to follow."

  Izzy hiccupped. "Hardly." She took another swipe at her eyes with his handkerchief, then she lifted her gaze to meet his and even managed a smile. "You're the best friend a girl could have, Sam."

  A ghost of a grin flickered across his mouth. "I think they call that damning with faint praise."

  "Hell and damnation!" Finn kicked the film canister across the studio floor and slammed his hand against the cabinet.

  Strong didn't even look up.

  He supposed he couldn't blame her. She was probably shell-shocked. He'd been ranting and raving and swearing ever since he'd come back from Wyoming five days before. He'd been banging and slamming his way through the office all afternoon. It was almost five-thirty now, and he was sure Strong was counting the seconds until he put her out of her misery and let her go home.

  There was no getting away from his own misery. Neither at home nor in the studio. Once he had been able to find refuge in his work. No more.

  Maybe it was because all his work for the first three days back was sorting through the film he'd taken in Jackson Hole. Or the film the girls had taken.

  It had seemed like a great idea at the time, equipping them with cameras and turning them loose to shoot things from their perspective. He hadn't considered how much of their perspective included Izzy.

  He'd snuck enough shots of her on his own. He was expecting to face them. He wasn't expecting all the ones Tansy and Pansy had taken. They had taken dozens—many good ones of the elk in the meadow, long shots of Mount Moran, close-ups of their faces with moose decals stuck to their cheeks—and scores more of lakes, rivers, mountains, boats and hiking trails—all of which seemed to contain Izzy.

  Gareth, a misguided romantic if ever there was one, had even blown up a giggling Izzy to sixteen by twenty inches and had hung her on the studio wall.

  "It captures her perfectly," Strong had said to Finn that first morning, the one on which he had left the apartment fearing she'd be gone when he came back. "Don't you just love it?"

  It tore his heart out.

  He'd spent the rest of the day making prints—and seeing more of Izzy—aching to call home and talk to her, to convince her not to go to Sam.

  When he got home, she was gone.

  "She was in sort of a rush," the new nanny, Rorie, was apologizing nervously. "But she said you'd under­stand and she gave me lots of instructions."

  Finn understood, all right. He managed a grunt. It was all he was capable of. His fingers tightened on the doorknob, strangling it.

  "But if you want me to do anything any particular way," Rorie went on quickly, "you just tell me. After all," she added cheerfully, "you're the boss."

  "Yeah." Some boss. He looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Tansy and Pansy appeared, looking at him, distraught.

  "Izzy left!"

  "She's gone, Uncle Finn!"

  And they flew at him, tears streaming down their faces. They flung themselves into his arms and Finn scooped them up, catching Rorie's helpless look as he did. She felt helpless? How the hell did she think he felt?

  "Damn it," he muttered, burying his face in their carroty curls. "Oh, damn."

  He'd said it a lot more during the following five days. And he felt as helpless now as he had then.

  The phone rang and Strong answered it, then held it out to him. "Your sister," she said.

  "Hi, Finn! How's things?" Meg sounded on top of the world. She didn't even let him reply, just went right on. "We had a marvelous time, Roger and I. You were absolutely right. We needed to spend that time together— to get to know each other really, really well. And now tha
t we have, we're more in love than ever."

  "Great," he said tunelessly.

  "We actually got married, just like I hoped we would." She sounded almost amazed. "And now we're back." Her voice rose as she said the words—a prelude, apparently.

  Finn hadn't realized that it was possible to feel sicker than he already was.

  "We had a simply wonderful honeymoon," Meg went on cheerily. "Just the two of us in a little grass hut on a tiny island near Bora Bora. So quaint and completely beautiful. Awesome. You'd love it."

  Finn didn't say a word. Strong was looking at him sympathetically.

  "The girls would have loved it, too," Meg rabbited on. "How are the girls?"

  "Fine," Finn said through clenched teeth.

  There was a tiny hesitation in her voice now. "You aren't mad at me, are you, Finn darling? For sending them to you that way? I knew you'd take good care of them. You and Izzy." He could hear the smug smile in her voice. He wanted to throttle her. "It was so much better than taking them with me." She gave a happy little laugh.

  Finn wondered if she could feel the heat of his anger through the phone wire.

  There was another pause, then she said, "I want to talk to you about that." Her voice was more serious all of a sudden.

  Finn exploded. "You're not getting them back!"

  "Not—"

  "You gave them to me! You signed them over, like they were parcels. Well, they're not. They're kids. My kids! I don't know if it's legal, what you did, but it damned sure is binding. They're mine, Meg. I love them a damn sight more than you do and they love me. I'll make it legal. You try to take them back and, I don't care if you're my sister, I'll fight you in every damned court in the land! Understand?"

  Strong applauded silently and gave him a thumb's-up sign.

  "Goodness." Meg took a shaky breath and gave a little nervous laugh. "You always were the passionate one, weren't you?"

  Was he? Apparently he was.

  "Well, I'm certainly glad I was right," she said. "Don't worry, darling. And you don't need to be quite so testy. I wasn't going to take them back."