Finn's Twins!

by Anne McAllister

  "Because you need to help me here," Strong told them.

  "And me," Finn said.

  Their heads whipped around and they looked at him, eyes wide. Izzy stopped halfway out the door.

  Finn gave her a defiant look, then turned his gaze back on the girls. "Come with me," he said to the twins and was gratified to hear Izzy go out.

  Pansy had done paper dolls with old prints Strong had given her the last time she was here. They were leftovers from the previous day's shooting. But if she wanted a little variety, well, he had a back room full of prints that never passed muster. He led the little girl in and waved a hand. "It's all yours," he told her and he handed her a pair of scissors.

  Pansy positively gaped.

  "You can give us a fashion show after," he said.

  "Really?" She flashed him that grin again, the one that had almost knocked him over the first time he saw it.

  "You don't want to cut out fashions," he said to Tansy. "You come with me."

  She gave him a wary look, but then shrugged and fol­lowed. He led her into the reception room and picked up the camera she'd been fiddling with on the first day. Then, taking her back into the studio, he pointed her toward a tall stool near his camera. "Sit up there."

  She sat. He got out a roll of film and opened the camera. Carefully, slowly, while Tansy watched his every move, he proceeded to load it. He didn't close the back. Then he took the film out again and held it out to her. "Now you do it."

  She stared. But when he didn't move, just kept holding out the film and camera, she tried to do what he had done. She got pretty far before she needed him to show her the next step. When he showed her, she did it. Then he said, "Close it up." She did.

  "My first shoot's going to be here in about ten minutes," he told her. "If you stay out of the way, you can shoot, too."

  Tansy's mouth dropped open.

  Finn winked at her. "Gotta start somewhere," he said.

  Finn was right about one thing—Anita knew her stuff and she wouldn't spend a dime, let alone a dollar, when a penny would do. She also took Finn's com­mission seriously.

  "He says you need to knock their socks off," she told Izzy. "Well, actually—" she giggled "—he was a little more graphic than that."

  Izzy didn't think she needed to knock anyone's socks off, unless it might be Sam's, but there was no dis­suading Anita. So she just followed along as Anita dragged her from showroom to showroom along Seventh Avenue, trying on whatever Anita told her to, sucking her stomach in, pushing her boobs out.

  "One little basic black dress," Anita decreed, studying Izzy's curves and short stature. "A knit, maybe a little skimpy, you know, to show off those curves."

  Izzy hadn't ever paid much attention to her curves.

  "Nothing boxy. No cinches at the waist. And defi­nitely no checks and plaids," Anita went on, wrinkling her nose at the plaid bermudas Izzy was wearing. "Ever."

  Izzy swallowed. "Right."

  Anita picked colors, too. Golds and russets and deep cerulean blues that both complemented Izzy's skin tones and brought out her eyes. "There. See," she said when she had Izzy decked out in a pair of jeans and blazer that did all those things and made her seem taller. "Isn't that great?"

  Izzy had to admit it was. Jeans were jeans as far as she was concerned. And a blazer—well, she'd never had one, but… "I can't spend an arm and a leg."

  "You buy a few basics," Anita said briskly. "Then we work from there."

  They finished on Seventh Avenue, then headed down to another place Anita knew near the World Trade Center. "Great prices," she confided. "You'll love it."

  Izzy's head spun, but she allowed herself to be towed. There they bought more jeans and black turtlenecks, a pair of Gucci loafers and Doc Martens combat boots.

  "Combat boots?"

  "Absolutely. Great with jeans. Hurry up. We need to run over to Soho to a jeweler I know. You need earrings. Chunky silver ones. They'll be wonderful with that hair."

  By the time Anita had finished with her, they had so many bags and boxes Izzy felt like a character in a re­gency novel just outfitted for the season—either that or a pack animal on a Himalayan trek.

  Anita helped her carry all of it back to the elevator going to the studio, but declined to come up. "Can't. Got a hot date." She flashed Izzy a grin. "Besides, you don't need me now. I did my bit. Go on up and knock 'im dead."

  Izzy barely managed to lift a finger to push the button. Her feet hurt. Her mind spun. She told herself it was exhaustion. She told herself she needed a moment to catch her breath.

  The fact was she felt nervous. Anita had told her half a dozen times in the last four hours that she was lovely, beautiful, stunning. And in the enthusiasm of the moment, Izzy had allowed herself to believe.

  Now she didn't.

  And Finn MacCauley wouldn't, either.

  She didn't know why she cared. She didn't know why it mattered.

  She might be dreaming about him, but he couldn't have cared less about her. He was only doing this be­cause of the deal they'd made. What she looked like made no difference to him at all.

  So why had she spent all afternoon picking out clothes that she thought Finn MacCauley would like?

  Deep down she knew she had done exactly that. She'd listened to Anita, considered Anita's advice, studied Anita's suggestions. But whenever she'd had to make a choice, she'd always asked herself, what would Finn like?

  What did she care what Finn MacCauley liked?

  What mattered was what Sam liked… what would make her feel comfortable when she ventured into his world.

  Just remember that, she admonished herself. Re­member that. She repeated it—like a mantra—as the el­evator door slid open and she pushed the buzzer outside Finn's studio door.

  Strong and the girls were there, Pansy surrounded by a cutout wardrobe that put Izzy's new togs to shame, and Tansy with the lineup of the San Francisco Giants in a row. They looked up expectantly.

  "You're not wearing anything new," Tansy said accusingly.

  "No," Izzy said, dragging in the first load. "I'm car­rying it. Come out and help me bring it in."

  "Not necessary," said a male voice, and she looked around to see Finn emerge from the door to his studio. "We'll just take it on home." He didn't even bat an eye at all her packages. "Give me those," he said, and swept them out of her arms. She looked up at him, startled and extremely aware of his sudden closeness. But then just as quickly, he moved away again, getting the girls to clean up their projects, then herding them toward the door.

  "It was a success, I take it," Finn said, bundling Izzy, the girls and all the parcels into a cab.

  "What do you think?" Izzy said dryly.

  Finn grinned and her stomach did a flip. "I knew I could count on Anita."

  Izzy settled back into the far corner of the cab. "She's amazing. She knows everywhere to buy everything in New York."

  "She's made shopping an art form." He looked at her curiously as the cab pulled out into traffic. "You look dead."

  "Thank you very much." She shot him a malevolent glance.

  "I'm just surprised," he admitted. "I thought you'd love it. Most women would."

  "Are you implying that I'm not normal?"

  The grin slashed across his face again. "Well, maybe just a little."

  Izzy sighed. "You're right. I'm not. It was…fun. But it wore me out."

  "Not too worn out to model for us this evening?"

  She stared at him. He gave her a hopeful look.

  "Please!" Tansy begged.

  And Pansy said, "You'll be like one of my paper dolls."

  Izzy felt her cheeks warm. "I can't. I need to cook supper."

  "I'll cook," Finn said.

  "He'll cook," Tansy said.

  Pansy nodded her head. "We'll help." All three of them smiled at her. She was stuck.

  When they got to Finn's brownstone, he chivvied her up toward the bathroom to take a shower. "I'll have supper ready when you're f
inished. Just throw on a robe. We'll have the fashion show after."

  Throw on a robe? Izzy stared at him, askance. She knew it was only in her mind that being so close to naked around Finn would be an issue. He saw far more beautiful women than she in various stages of undress all the time. But still…

  "Come on, Izzy!" the girls prompted, dragging her toward the stairs. Helpless, Izzy went with them.

  * * *

  Anita had, indeed, not let him down.

  As Izzy came slowly down the stairs in a curve-hugging knit black dress that was so simple it was stunning, Finn sucked in his breath. Used to the leggy exotic look of the models who tripped in and out of his studio all day long, Izzy's more compact, almost elfin beauty made him stand up straight. It also made him adjust the fit of his jeans.

  She stopped before she got all the way down. "There," she said, almost defiantly. "You've seen it." She started back up again.

  "Come here."

  She looked at him, her eyes wide and wary. "What? Why?"

  "Because I haven't seen it all."

  "There's not much to see. There's hardly any dress. You'd think they'd give you more material if they're going to charge these exorbitant prices." She started up the steps again.

  "Izzy! Come down here."

  She turned again, glaring at him. Then slowly, reluc­tantly she came the rest of the way down the steps, stopped and stared at him.

  He slid one hand into his pocket. "Turn around."

  She did a quick pirouette, then headed toward the stairs again.

  He reached out and caught her hand, pulling her back. Her fingers were warm and damp in his, and he hung on longer than he had any right to.

  He didn't care. He'd waited all day to get a glimpse of Isobel Rule in something other than a baggy faded T-shirt and a pair of two sizes too big Bermuda shorts. He was going to look his fill.

  He kept a hold on her, allowing her only their arms' length while he looked her over. He started at her toes and worked his way up. It was a scenic trip. His gaze lingered here and there—at the hem just above her knees, at the flare of her hips, at the indentation of her waist and the thrust of her breasts. It spent a fair amount of time at the neckline, and he found himself wishing that it plunged just a little more. His eyes met hers. Her face was flushed.

  "You're embarrassed?"

  "Yes." The word came as a hiss from between her teeth. She was still trying to pull her hand out of his grasp.

  He smiled and raised her fingers to his lips. He meant the gesture to be teasing, mocking perhaps, though whether her or himself he couldn't have said. But, re­gardless of what he'd intended, the brush of his lips against the soft warmth of her skin sent a jolt right through him. It seemed to have a definite effect on Izzy, too, for she snatched her hand away, rubbing it against the fabric of the dress.

  Goaded, Finn couldn't help taunting. "Doesn't Sam kiss you like that?"

  Still trying to pull away, she shook her head, not answering.

  "How does he kiss you?"

  Izzy ran her tongue over her lips and looked away. "None of your business."

  "How about like this?" He should have been calling himself a fool even as he did it, but he didn't stop to think. He simply pulled her into his arms, touched his lips to hers, and began to kiss her with all his con­siderable expertise, desire, and every bit of the longing that had been building for what seemed like years.

  God knew he'd been a long time without a woman in his life. He hadn't had the time—or the inclination— recently to look beyond the lens of his camera. An ap­preciation of Angelina Fiorelli's lips was as close as he'd come. All his energy had been absorbed by his work.

  But now his work wasn't enough. Maybe this niggling desire had begun with his fascination with Angelina's lips. Maybe it had started before. Or maybe it hadn't really blossomed until Isobel Rule with her peachy skin and her outrageous baggy shorts and T-shirts had turned up in his life. But whatever and however it had begun, there was no question about who it focused on now.

  And why not Izzy? She was there every day, prancing around his apartment, giggling with the girls, telling them stories, fixing meals, sprawling on the floor playing games, running her fingers through her pert new hair cut. Driving him to distraction.

  And damn it, yes, he was distracted. All day long he'd been distracted. All week long—ever since she'd come— he'd been distracted.

  So he was exorcising her. Getting her out of his system.

  But kissing Izzy didn't seem to be exorcising her at all. On the contrary, the taste of her seemed like a vortex drawing him in. He'd expected she would stiffen, tense, then pull away from him. She didn't. Her body softened, molding itself to his. Her lips parted, giving him access to the sweetness of her mouth. And Finn took ad­vantage of her willingness. His arms went around her, drawing her body tight against him. His tongue slipped between her lips to stroke against hers. And when she responded eagerly he felt a shudder run through him.

  "Ooh, look!"

  "They're kissing!"

  The childish voices jerked both of them back to earth with a thud. Izzy yanked herself out of his embrace and stared up at him with horrified eyes. Finn took a heaving breath, then another, and another.

  The twins stared down from halfway up the steps in openmouthed astonishment. Then one of them said, "I thought you were marryin' Sam."

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS the dress that had made him kiss her. Of course it was the dress! It certainly couldn't have been any at­traction he felt for her personally; Izzy knew that well enough.

  She smothered the almost hysterical laugh that threat­ened to bubble up inside her as she thought perhaps Anita could use Finn's actions as evidence of her ability as a stylist! If his reaction was anything to go by, Anita defi­nitely knew her stuff.

  Now, Izzy told herself, she hoped it had the same effect on Sam.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would see Sam.

  Only twenty-four more hours and her world would be right side up again and all the pieces would be in their appropriate places. If Finn really didn't want her to take the girls with her temporarily, she might come and keep an eye on them until he found a permanent nanny. But she wouldn't have to stay here, wouldn't have to be in danger of turning around and finding him behind her, of looking up and connecting with his deep blue gaze. If she worked it right, she wouldn't even have to see him.

  God knew she didn't want to see him.

  She sat on her bed in the dark and pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling them burn. They had been burning for the last two hours—ever since she'd felt his gaze on her as she came down the stairs in Anita's "basic black dress." Basic, Izzy thought, being the operative word. As in basic instincts. Finn's. And her own.

  She didn't know what—if anything—he'd told the girls about their kiss. She hadn't been able to come up with much of an explanation.

  In the face of their shocked expressions, she'd said, "I am marrying Sam. Your uncle and I, um, we, er…the dress…" But her voice was so shaky it didn't even sound like her own.

  The girls didn't reply. They'd only continued to stare in amazement. Finally, Pansy had run her tongue over her lips as if trying to imagine how a dress could have inspired a kiss like that.

  Izzy's own tongue traced her lips now. They trembled still with the memory of the way his lips had kissed them, tasted them—as she had tasted him.

  If she could, perhaps, blame Finn's behavior on his seeing her in the dress, her own behavior wasn't quite so comprehensible.

  She told herself she'd done it because she was missing Sam. She hadn't seen him since her grandfather's fu­neral three months before. And then he'd only been in the city overnight. Plus they'd hardly been in the mood for passion under the circumstances.

  He'd held her, comforted her, doing his best to bolster her spirits and make her look toward the future. And he'd kissed her that night and again before he left on the plane the next morning.

  But never in a mi
llion years had he kissed her the way Finn had.

  Of course he hadn't! she reminded herself. Because Sam was gentle, discreet, thoughtful. In the five years she had known him, he'd never kissed her like that— not even when they'd got engaged. He certainly wouldn't have done so the night of her grandfather's funeral or the day after.

  She wouldn't have expected him to.

  But tomorrow… Tomorrow he would.

  Izzy shut her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of Finn's lips, of his kiss, and prayed that tomorrow would hurry up and come.

  "So, what'd you think of the dress?" Anita asked him the next morning as she handed one of the models the shirt the girl was supposed to put on, then slanted Finn a sly smiling glance as she pointed the girl toward the dressing room. "Pretty snazzy, huh?"

  Finn grunted. He fiddled with his camera. He didn't need to fiddle with the camera. There was no earthly reason for him to fiddle with the camera—other than avoiding Anita's gaze.

  She smiled. "She's a peach, your Izzy. She—"

  "She's not my Izzy!" Finn snapped.

  Anita's brows lifted. She gave him a long, speculative look. "Uh-huh," she said at last. "Got you."

  He scowled. "What?"

  Anita gave him a knowing smile. "She's got you. You're interested in her."

  "She needs help. And so do I. I made a bargain with her."

  "This has nothing to do with your so-called bargain," Anita said. The model reappeared, buttoning the shirt. Anita stood up and began to adjust it, making the girl look sexier. "And you know it," she said to Finn over her shoulder.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he said stiffly. He wished she would stop messing with the shirt and let him take pictures.

  "Pull the other one while you're at it." Anita shook her head. "She's a pretty girl, Finn, and you know it. But she's more than a pretty girl. She's a nice girl."

  He snorted. "What do you know about nice?"

  "You'd be surprised," Anita said mildly. "I didn't always live in the fast lane. There's a lot of Oklahoma left in me. Enough to appreciate freshness when I see it. And your—sorry." She grinned. "Izzy is fresh and bright and fun. I can see why you're attracted."