Finn's Pregnant Bride. Sharon Kendrick
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‘I heard what you did for the son of Kirios Kollitsis.’
His face became shuttered. ‘You were discussing me? With whom?’
She felt on the defensive. ‘Only with Nico—the waiter. He happened to mention it.’
‘Well, he had no right to mention it—it happened a long time ago. It’s forgotten.’
But people didn’t forget things like that. Catherine knew that she would never forget what he had done even if she never saw him again—and she very probably wouldn’t. They were destined to be—to use that old cliché—ships that passed in the night, and, like all clichés, it was true.
He accompanied her back to the hotel, and she was glad of his supporting arm because her legs still felt wobbly. When he let her go, she missed that firm, warm contact.
‘What time are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘The taxi’s coming at three.’
He nodded. ‘Go and do your packing.’
Catherine was normally a neat and organised packer, but for once she was reckless—throwing her holiday clothes haphazardly into the suitcase as if she didn’t care whether she would ever wear them again. And she didn’t. For there was an ache in her heart which seemed to have nothing to do with Peter and she despised herself for her fickleness.
She told herself that of course a man like Finn Delaney would inspire a kind of wistful devotion in the heart of any normal female. That of course it would be doubled or tripled in intensity after what had just happened. He had acted the part of hero, and there were too few of those outside the pages of romantic fiction, she told herself wryly. That was all.
Nevertheless, she was disappointed to find the small foyer empty, save for Nico, who bade her his own wistful farewell.
No, disappointment was too bland a word. Her heart actually lurched as she looked around, while trying not to look as though she was searching for anyone in particular. But there was no sign of the tall, broad-shouldered Irishman.
Her suitcase had been loaded into the boot of the rather ramshackle taxi, and Catherine had climbed reluctantly into the back, when she saw him. Swiftly moving through the bougainvillaea-covered arch, making a stunning vision against the riotous backdrop of purple blooms.
He reached the car with a few strides of those long legs and smiled.
‘You made it?’
‘Just about.’
‘Got your passport? And your ticket?’
If anyone else had asked her this she would have fixed them with a wry look and informed them that she travelled solo most of the time, that she didn’t need anyone checking up on her. So why did she feel so secretly pleased—protected, almost? ‘Yes, I have.’
He ran his long fingers over the handle of the door. ‘Safe journey, Catherine,’ he said softly.
She nodded, wondering if her own words would come out as anything intelligible. ‘Thanks. I will.’
‘Goodbye.’
She nodded again. Why hadn’t he just done the decent thing and not bothered to come down if that was all he was going to say? She tried to make light of it. ‘I’ll probably be stuck in the terminal until next week—that’s if this taxi ever gets me there!’
He raised his dark brows as he observed the bonnet, which was attached to the car with a piece of string. ‘Hmmm. The jury’s out on that one!’
There was a moment’s silence, where Catherine thought he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. On impulse, she reached into her bag for her camera and lifted it to her eye. ‘Smile,’ she coaxed.
He eyed the camera as warily as he would a poisonous snake. ‘I never pose for photos.’
No, she didn’t imagine that he would. He was not the kind of man who would smile to order. ‘Well, carry on glowering and I’ll remember you like that!’ she teased.
A slow smile broke out like the sun, and she caught it with a click. ‘There’s one for the album!’
He caught the glimpse of mischief in her green eyes and it disarmed him. He reached into the back pocket of his snug-fitting denims. He’d never had a holiday romance in his life, but…
‘Here—’ He leant forward and put his head through the window. She could smell soap, see the still-damp black hair and the tiny droplets of water which clung to it, making him a halo.
For one mad and crazy moment she thought that he was going to kiss her—and didn’t she long for him to do just that? But instead he handed her a card, a thick cream business card.
‘Look me up if ever you’re in Dublin,’ he said casually, smacking the door of the car as if it was a horse. The driver took this as a signal and began to rev up the noisy engine. ‘It’s the most beautiful city in the world.’
As the car roared away in a cloud of dust she clutched the card tightly, as if afraid that she might drop it, then risked one last glance over her shoulder. But he had gone. No lasting image of black hair and white shirt and long, long legs in faded denim.
Just an empty arch of purple blooms.
‘CATHERINE, you look fabulous!’
Catherine stood in her editor’s office, feeling that she didn’t want to be there, but—as she’d told herself—it was her first day back at work after her holiday, so she was bound to feel like that. ‘Do I?’
Miranda Fosse gave her a gimlet-eyed look. ‘Do you?’ She snorted. ‘Of course you do! Bronzed and stunning—if still a little on the thin side of slender!’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Good holiday, was it?’
‘Great.’
‘Get Peter out of your system, did you?’
If Miranda had asked her this question halfway into the holiday Catherine would have bristled with indignation and disbelief. But the pain of losing Peter was significantly less than it had been. Significantly less than it should be she thought—with a slight feeling of guilt. And you wouldn’t need to be an expert in human behaviour to know the reason why. Reasons came in different shapes and forms, and this one had a very human form indeed.
Catherine swallowed, wondering if she was going very slightly crazy. Finn Delaney had been on her mind ever since she had driven away from the small hotel on Pondiki, and the mind was a funny thing. How could you possibly dream so much and so vividly of a man you barely knew?
The only tangible thing she had of him was his card, which was now well-thumbed and reclining like a guilty secret at the back of her purse.
‘Got any photos?’ demanded Miranda as she nodded towards the chair opposite her.
Catherine sat down and fished a wallet from her handbag. It was a magazine tradition that you brought your holiday snaps in for everyone else to look at. ‘A few. Want to see?’
‘Just so long as they’re not all boring landscapes!’ joked Miranda, and proceeded to flick through the selection which Catherine handed her. ‘Hmmm. Beautiful beach. Beautiful sunset. Close-up of lemon trees. Blah, blah, blah—hang on.’ Behind her huge spectacles, her eyes goggled. ‘Well, looky-here! Who the hell is this?’
Catherine glanced across the desk, though it wasn’t really necessary. No prizes for guessing that Miranda hadn’t pounced on the photo of Nico grinning shyly into the lens. Or his brother flexing his biceps at the helm of the pleasure-cruiser. No, the tousled black hair and searing blue eyes of Finn Delaney were visible from here—though, if she was being honest, Catherine felt that she knew that particular picture by heart. She had almost considered buying a frame for it and putting it on her bedside