Finn's Pregnant Bride

by Sharon Kendrick

  And Catherine closed her eyes, giving herself up to sensation instead of thought. A soft, sweet aching overwhelmed and startled her, and she wound her arms tightly around his neck, as if afraid that he might suddenly disappear. As if this—and him—might be all some figment of a fevered longing. ‘Oh, Finn,’ she sighed.

  He lifted his head and looked at her questioningly. ‘Should we be doing this?’ Her green eyes opened very wide.

  He felt like saying that this was something she should have asked herself earlier than now, that his body was growing unbearably hard.

  ‘That’s up to you, sweetheart.’ His mouth immediately stopped grazing the long line of her neck, the restraint nearly killing him. ‘It’s make-your-mind-up time. Stop me if that’s what you want.’

  Was he aware that he was asking the impossible?

  ‘Do you want to?’ he murmured.

  ‘God, no. No,’ she breathed. A thousand times no. She moved her mouth to rove over the rough shadow of his chin, her hands on the broad bank of his shoulders for support, her knees threatening to buckle.

  He gave a low, uneven laugh as the moonlight shafted through the window and illuminated the ebony strands of her hair. Her undisguised need only fuelled him further, and he gave in to the overwhelming desire to possess her. His hand reached round to snap open her brassière, as though they were old and familiar lovers, and she clung to him wearing nothing but a tiny little thong.

  ‘I want to make love to you, Catherine,’ he said urgently.

  She didn’t reply, just burrowed her hands beneath his sweater, finding the silken skin there, her fingernails tracing faint lines against it, hearing him suck in a ragged breath.

  ‘I want to make love to you,’ he repeated. ‘Come to bed.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, just led her over to the king-sized canopied bed and pulled back the cover. ‘Get in, sweetheart,’ he instructed shakily. ‘You’re shivering.’

  Shivering? She felt in a fever of need, was glad to slip beneath the duvet—glad for its protection and for the opportunity to watch him throw his clothes carelessly to the floor, until he was completely and powerfully naked. All golden skin and dark shadows and hewn, strong limbs.

  ‘Move over,’ he whispered as he climbed in beside her, encountering the soft folds of her flesh, and he moved to lie over her. ‘No, on second thoughts,’ he drawled as the warmth of her body met his, ‘stay exactly where you are.’

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  Finn opened his eyes. No, he hadn’t been asleep. He had been lying there, alternating between revelling in the sated exhaustion of his flesh and wondering what the hell he had done. ‘Not any more.’ He yawned.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ She wondered if that sounded defensive, and then swiftly made up her mind that she was not going to lie around analysing what had happened. He had made love to her and she had enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. End of story in this modern age. Not well-thought-out, not necessarily wise, but it had happened, and there was no point in trying to turn the clock back and regret it.

  Finn smiled, his reservations banished by the sight of her wide green eyes and the dark, dark hair which tumbled down in disarray over her lush, rose-tipped breasts. He gave a rueful glance down at his already stirring body. ‘Kind of.’

  Catherine swallowed as she saw the involuntary movement beneath the thin sheet and felt an answering rush of a warmth. Oh, God! How did he make her feel the way he did? And then she looked at him, every glorious pore of him, and the answer was there, before her eyes.

  To her horror she found herself asking the worst question since the beginning of time. ‘So how come you’ve never married, Finn?’

  He repressed a sigh. Silent acquiescence was what his chauvinistic heart most longed for. He reached and pulled her down against his bare chest. ‘Is that a proposal?’ he teased. ‘Because surely it’s a little early for that kind of thing?’

  She felt her breasts pressing against him, but suddenly she wanted more than this. She had spent the night making love to him. She knew his body. But what did she know of the man himself? He might have made her cry out his name time and time again, but a girl had her pride.

  ‘Are you always so evasive?’ she teased.

  ‘I am when my mind is on other things. Like now.’

  ‘Finn!’

  ‘Mmm?’

  He was stroking her bottom now, running the flat of his hand over it with the appreciation that a horse-lover might give to a particularly prize filly. And though her mind began to form a protest it was too late, because he had slid his fingers right inside her still-sticky warmth.

  Her eyes opened very wide. ‘Finn!’ she said again, only she could hear the helpless pleasure in her own voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘You don’t want me to stop it.’

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  ‘Then why are you moving your hips like that?’ he purred suggestively as his fingers continued to stroke and play with her.

  ‘You know damned well why!’ she moaned, feeling the sweet tension building, building.

  ‘Still want me to stop?’ He stilled his hand and looked at her half-closed eyes and parted lips.

  She shook her head wildly. ‘No!’ she whimpered, and just the renewed touch of him was enough to make her splinter into a thousand ecstatic pieces.

  He thrust into her warm, still-tight flesh, the sensation nearly blowing his mind, and his last thought before the earth spun on its axis was that nothing had ever felt this good. Nothing. He felt the violent beckoning of sweet release just as he heard her give another choked moan of disbelief, and then his blood thundered and he moaned.

  She rolled off his sweat-sheened body and collapsed on the bed beside him. It took a moment for her breath to return to anything approaching normality. ‘Wow,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Wow, indeed,’ he echoed drily. But he felt shaken. Was it simply because they were virtual strangers that their lovemaking had been the best of his life? He stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

  And now what? Catherine dozed for a moment or two, then opened her eyes again. ‘I guess I’d better think about going.’ She held her breath almost imperceptibly, wondering whether he would beg her to stay. She gave a half-smile. No, not beg. Men like Finn Delaney didn’t beg—didn’t ever need to beg, she would hazard.

  ‘Must you?’ he questioned idly.

  Well, there she had it in a nutshell. He wasn’t exactly kicking her out of bed, but neither was he working out a busy timetable for the rest of the day.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ she fibbed. ‘I have a plane to catch.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Five o’clock.’

  He glanced at the wristwatch he had had neither the time nor the inclination to remove last night. ‘It’s only ten now.’

  And?

  ‘You’ll have some breakfast first?’ He turned onto his side and gave a slow smile. ‘I make great eggs!’

  He made great love, too. But she was damned if she was going to go through his thanks-very-much-for-the-memory routine. Dispatched with eggs and a shower, and perhaps another bout of uninhibited sex if she was lucky. Catherine Walker might have behaved recklessly last night, but at least she still had her pride.

  And no way was she going to hang around like an abandoned puppy, desperate for affection!

  ‘I’ll skip,’ she said casually, and slid her bare legs over the mattress. ‘I never eat breakfast.’

  ‘You should,’ he reprimanded.

  Perhaps she should. Like perhaps she should have thought twice about allowing herself to get into a situation like this.

  ‘Coffee will be fine. Mind if I use the shower?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  How bizarre to be asking his permission for something like that when she had allowed him the total freedom of her body during that long and blissful night.

  Had she just been feeling love-starved and rejected? she wondered as she stood beneath the ste
aming jets of water in his typically masculine bathroom. And how often did he entertain women in such a spontaneous and intimate way?

  It was a one-off for her, sure—but maybe she was just one of a long line of willing women who were so easily turned on by his captivating blend of Irish charm and drop-dead sexuality.

  Catherine repressed a shudder as she dried herself. She didn’t want to know.

  She came out of the bathroom looking as cool and as aloof as a mannequin, and Finn blinked. To look at her now you would never have believed that she could be such a little wildcat in bed. He felt another tug of desire and despaired.

  Catherine picked up her bag and went over to where he was standing by the window, watching her with an unreadable expression. She wondered how many hearts he had broken in his time. Scores, undoubtedly—but hers would not be among them. She would extricate herself as gracefully and as graciously as possible.

  ‘What about coffee?’ He frowned.

  She shook her head. She would not cling. Last night had just happened; she must put it down to experience. And at least, she thought wryly, at least it had got Peter well and truly out of her system. ‘I’ll get some back at my hotel.’ She gave him what she hoped was a cool, calm smile. ‘Thanks for a great evening, Finn.’ She raised herself up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘A great night, I should say,’ she added, braving it out.

  ‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he murmured.

  Ruthlessly, she eradicated any trace of awkwardness or vulnerability from her voice, but it wasn’t easy—not when confronted by the glittering blue eyes which reminded her of things which were making her pulses race. Even now. ‘Bye, then.’

  Once again her coolness intrigued him, particularly in view of what had happened—she was behaving as though she had just been introduced to him at a formal drinks party! Maybe she was trying to slow the pace down, and in view of the speed with which things had happened wasn’t that the best thing to do under the circumstances? So why did he want to drag her straight back to bed?

  He was just about to suggest running her back to her hotel when the telephone began to ring. He gave a small click of irritation.

  ‘Answer it,’ she urged, as this evidence of a life of which she knew nothing drove reality home. She was eager now to make her escape, to put it all down to a wonderful never-to-be-repeated experience.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s on the Ansaphone—’

  It was also echoing out over the flat, and after his drawled and lilting message came the sound of a female voice. ‘Finn, it’s Aisling—where the hell were you last night?’

  He leaned over and clicked off the machine, but by then Catherine was by the door, her features closed and shuttered.

  ‘Look me up if ever you’re in London,’ she said, and walked out without a backward glance. She wondered who Aisling was, and where he was supposed to have been last night, before telling herself that her behaviour guaranteed nothing other than a night to remember—certainly not the right to question him.

  Finn stood staring after her for a long, indefinable moment as the sound of the lift outside whirred into action, taking her out of his life just as quickly as she had burst into it.

  And it occurred to him that he didn’t have a clue where she lived.

  Chapter Six

  CHAPTER SIX

  CATHERINE spent the whole evening pacing the flat, tempted to smoke a cigarette—which she hadn’t done in almost three years now. She kept telling herself that it had been out of character. True. Telling herself that it had been a terrible, terrible mistake. But unfortunately the jury was still out on that one.

  Because the mind could play all kinds of tricks on you, and at the moment her mind seemed very fond of sending tantalising images of black hair, a bare, bronzed body and a pair of beautiful, glittering blue eyes. Images which kicked her conscience into touch.

  She didn’t want to think about him! Not when there was no future in it—and there was definitely no future in it. He hadn’t exactly been distraught at the thought of her leaving, had he? Demanding to know her phone number and asking when he could fly out to London to see her?

  But what did she expect? The pay-off for acting on instinct rather than reason was never going to be love and respect.

  She forced herself to go through her photo albums and look at pictures of her and Peter, but instead of pain ripping through her there was merely a kind of horrified acceptance that Finn had been able to transport her to realms of fantasy which Peter never had.

  So what did that say about their long-standing relationship? More importantly, what did it say about her?

  She had only just sat down at her desk on Monday when there was a telephone call from Miranda.

  ‘Can you get up here right now, Catherine? I want to talk to you about Dublin.’

  ‘Sure,’ answered Catherine, in a voice which was made calm only by sheer effort of will. ‘I’ve written the piece.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Miranda answered mysteriously. ‘Just get your butt up here!’

  There was a quivering air of expectancy and excitement on the editor’s face.

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who? Who? Finn Delaney, of course!’

  ‘Oh, him,’ answered Catherine with monumental calm, though inside her heart was crashing painfully against her ribcage. She wondered what Miranda would say if she told her that she had spent most of her time in Dublin being made love to by Finn Delaney. Not a lot, most probably. Miranda had been a journalist for long enough not to be shocked by anything. Her throat felt too dry for her to be able to speak, but she managed. ‘Er, yes, I saw him. Why?’

  ‘And did he seem interested in you? I mean, like, really interested in you?’

  It wasn’t just the odd way that the last question was phrased, or that it was mildly inappropriate. No, something in Miranda’s tone alerted Catherine to the fact that this was not simply idle curiosity, and she felt the first whispering of foreboding. She played for time. ‘Interested in what way, exactly?’

  Miranda snorted. ‘Don’t be so dense, Catherine—it doesn’t suit you! Sexually. Romantically. Whatever you like to call it.’

  ‘No comment.’ But Catherine gave it away with the deep blush which darkened her cheeks.

  Miranda looked even more excited. Everyone in the business knew what ‘no comment’ meant and immediately Catherine could have kicked herself for saying it. It implied guilt, and guilt was pretty close to what she was feeling.

  ‘So he was?’ observed Miranda.

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’d recognise that look on a woman’s face anywhere—’

  ‘What look?’ asked Catherine, alarmed.

  ‘That cat-got-the-cream look. The kind of look which speaks volumes about just how you spent your weekend!’

  ‘Just leave it, Miranda, won’t you?’ Suddenly Catherine was feeling flustered, out of her depth. Her boss was the last person to make a value judgement about her behaviour, but what about the way she was judging herself? ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’

  ‘Well, let me show you something,’ said Miranda slowly, and picked up a clutch of photos which were lying on her desk, ‘which might just change your mind.’

  ‘If it’s photos of Finn, you’ve already shown me—remember? I know he’s loaded, and I know he’s powerful and the next-best thing to sliced bread, but if you’re looking for a kiss-and-tell story then you’re wasting your time, Miranda.’

  ‘No—look,’ said Miranda with unusual brevity, and handed her one of the photos.

  Catherine stared at it, and her blood ran cold as time seemed to suspend itself.

  For it was like looking into a mirror. Seeing herself, only not quite seeing herself. The same and yet remarkably different. She blinked. The woman in the photo had jet-black hair and huge green eyes, and a certain resemblance around the mouth, but there the similarities ended.

  It was like comparing a piece of crude mineral deposi
t to the finished, highly polished diamond it would one day become.

  Because the woman in the photo had all the pampered glamour of someone who spent absolute riches on herself. Someone who indulged, and indulged, and indulged.

  ‘Who is this?’ breathed Catherine.

  ‘Deirdra O’Shea,’ said Miranda instantly. ‘Heard of her?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Bit before your time, I guess—though I’d only vaguely heard of her myself. She’s Irish—well, the name speaks for itself, doesn’t it?—starred in a couple of forgettable films about ten years ago and has been living in Hollywood trying to make it big ever since but never quite managing it. She’s your spitting image, isn’t she?’

  Something close to fear was making breathing suddenly very difficult. ‘Why are you bothering to show me this?’

  Miranda shrugged, and thrust another photo into Catherine’s frozen fingers. ‘Just that she was Finn Delaney’s sweetheart.’

  It was a curiously old-fashioned word to use, especially about a man like Finn, and it hurt Catherine more than it had any right to. ‘What do you mean, his sweetheart?’

  ‘He was smitten, apparently—completely and ut terly smitten. They met before either of them had really made it—and you know what that kind of love is like. Fierce and elemental. Love without the trappings.’ Miranda sighed, sounding for a moment almost wistful. ‘The real thing.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what this has got to do with me!’ said Catherine crossly, but she was beginning to get a very good idea.

  ‘He’s a notoriously private man, right?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Yet he meets you on a Greek island and tells you to look him up.’

  ‘Lots of people do things like that on holiday.’

  ‘And you fly out there and have some kind of red-hot weekend with him—’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’

  ‘You didn’t have to, Catherine—like I said, I can read it all over your face.’ Miranda paused. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  Now she felt worse than reckless—she felt stupid, too. ‘I—hadn’t—planned to.’