Finn was lost in a warm world of sensation, inhabited by a green-eyed siren with a cascade of black hair, when his dream was punctured by a sound he could not recognise. His eyes snapped open to find Catherine gone.
Instinct immediately warned him of danger and he leapt to his feet, his blue eyes scanning the horizon until he saw the disturbed water and the thrash of limbs which told him that she was in the sea.
And in trouble.
He ran full-pelt into the sea, his muscular legs jumping the waves, breaking out into a powerful crawl which ate up the distance between them.
‘Catherine!’ he called. ‘For God’s sake, keep still—I’m on my way!’
She barely heard him, even though she registered the command somewhere in her subconscious. But her body was not taking orders from her tired and confused mind and she felt herself slipping deeper… ever deeper…choking and gagging on the sour, salty taste.
‘Catherine!’ He reached her and grabbed hold of her, hauling her from beneath the surface and throwing her over his shoulder. He slapped the flat of his palm hard between her shoulder blades and she spat and retched water out of her mouth, sobbing with relief as she clung onto him.
‘Easy now,’ he soothed. ‘Easy.’ He ran his hands experimentally down over her body until he found the stiffened and cramped leg.
‘Ouch!’ she moaned.
‘I’m going to swim back to shore with you. Just hold onto me very tightly.’
‘You c-c-can’t manage me!’ she protested through chattering teeth.
‘Shut up,’ he said kindly, and turned her onto her back, slipping his arm around her waist.
Catherine had little memory of the journey back, or of much that followed. She remembered him sinking into the sand and lowering her gently down, and the humiliation of spewing up the last few drops of salt water. And then he was rubbing her leg briskly between his hands until the spasm ebbed away.
She must have dozed, for when she came to it was to find herself still on the sand, the fine, white grains sticking to her skin, leaning back against Finn’s chest.
‘You’re okay?’ he murmured.
She coughed, then nodded, a sob forming in her throat as she thought just how lucky she had been.
He felt her shudder. ‘Don’t cry. You’ll live.’
She couldn’t move. She felt as if her limbs had been weighted with lead. ‘But I feel so…so stupid!’ she choked.
‘Well, you were a little,’ he agreed gently. ‘To go swimming straight after you’d eaten. Whatever made you do that, Catherine?’
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t possibly tell him that the sight of his near-naked body had been doing things to her equilibrium that she had wanted to wipe clean away. She shook her head.
‘Want me to carry you back to the lounger?’
‘I’ll w-walk.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ he demurred. ‘Come here.’ And he rose to his feet and picked her up as easily as if she’d been made of feathers.
Catherine was not the type of woman who would normally expect to be picked up and carried by a man—indeed, she had never been the recipient of such strong-arm tactics before. The men she knew would consider it a sexist insult to behave in such a way! So was it?
No.
And no again.
She felt so helpless, but even in her demoralised state she recognised that it was a pleasurable helplessness. And the pleasure was enhanced by the sensation of his warm skin brushing and tingling against hers where their bodies touched. Like electricity. ‘Finn?’ she said weakly.
He looked down at her, feeling he could drown in those big green eyes, and then the word imprinted itself on his subconscious and he flinched. Drown. Sweet Lord—the woman could have drowned. A pain split right through him. ‘What is it?’ he whispered, laying her gently down on the sun-bed.
She pushed a damp lock of hair back from her face, and even that seemed to take every last bit of strength she had. But then it wasn’t just her near escape which was making her weak, it was something about the way the blue eyes had softened into a warm blaze.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered back, thinking how inadequate those two words were in view of what he had just done.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as some of the tension left him.
Some.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, his Irish accent edged with irresistible velvet. But he wished that she wouldn’t look at him that way. All wide-eyed and vulnerable, with the pale sand sugaring her skin, making him long to brush each grain away one by one, and her lips slightly parted, as if begging to be kissed. ‘Rest for a while, and then I’ll take you back up to the hotel.’
She nodded, feeling strangely bereft. She would have to pack. Organise herself. Mentally gear herself up for switching back into her role of cool, intrepid Catherine Walker—doyenne of Pizazz! magazine. Yet the soft, vulnerable Catherine who was gazing up into the strong, handsome face of her rescuer seemed infinitely more preferable at that moment.
Peter? prompted a voice in her head. Have you forgotten Peter so quickly and replaced him with a man you scarcely know? Bewitched by the caveman tactics of someone who just happened to have an aptitude for saving lives?
She licked her bottom lip and tasted salt. ‘You save a lot of lives, don’t you, Finn Delaney?’
Finn looked at her, his eyes narrowing as her remark caught him off-guard. ‘Meaning?’
She heard the element of caution which had crept into his voice. ‘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 infor
med 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.
Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
‘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 table!
‘Oh, that’s just a man I met,’ she said casually.
‘Just a man I met?’ repeated Miranda disbelievingly. ‘Well, if I’d met a man like this I’d never have wanted to come home! No wonder you’re over Peter!’
‘I am not over Peter!’ said Catherine defensively. ‘He’s just someone I met the night before I left.’ Who saved my life. And made me realise that I could feel something for another man.
Miranda screwed her eyes up. ‘He looks kind of familiar,’ she mused slowly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Finn Delaney.’
‘Finn Delaney…Finn Delaney,’ repeated Miranda, and frowned. ‘Do I know the name?’
‘I don’t know, do you? He’s Irish.’
Miranda began clicking onto the search engine of her computer. ‘Finn Delaney.’ A slow smile swiftly turned to an expression of glee. ‘And you say you’ve never heard of him?’
‘Of course I haven’t!’ said Catherine crossly. ‘Why, what have you found?’
‘Come here,’ purred Miranda.
Catherine went round to Miranda’s side of the desk, prepared and yet not prepared for the image of Finn staring out at her from the computer. It was clearly a snatched shot, and it looked like a picture of a man who did not enjoy being on the end of a camera. Come to think of it, he had been very reluctant to have her take his picture, hadn’t he?
It was a three-quarter-length pose, and his hair was slightly shorter. Instead of the casual clothes he had been wearing in Pondiki, he was wearing some kind of beautiful grey suit. He looked frowning and preoccupied—a million miles away from the man relaxing with his ouzo at the restaurant table with the dark, lapping sea as a backdrop.
‘Has he got his own website, then?’ Catherine asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. He hadn’t looked like that sort of person.
Miranda was busy scrolling down the page. ‘There’s his business one. This one is the Finn Delaney Appreciation Society.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope. Apparently, he was recently voted number three in Ireland’s Most Eligible Bachelor list.’
Catherine wondered just how gorgeous numbers one and two might be! She leant closer as she scanned her eyes down the list of his many business interests. ‘And he has fingers in many pies,’ she observed.
‘And thumbs, by the look of it. Good grief! He’s the money behind some huge new shopping complex with a state-of-the-art theatre.’
‘Really?’ Catherine blinked. He had certainly not looked in the tycoon class. Her first thought had been fisherman, her second had been pin-up.
‘Yes, really. He’s thirty-five, he’s single and he looks like a fallen angel.’ Miranda looked up. ‘Why haven’t we heard of him before?’
‘You know what Ireland’s like.’ Catherine smiled. ‘A little kingdom all of its own, but with no king! It keeps itself to itself.’
But Miranda didn’t appear to be listening. Instead she was continuing to read o
ut loud. “‘Finn Delaney’s keen brain and driving talent have led to suggestions that he might be considering a career in politics.” Wow!’ Her face took on a hungry look. ‘Are you seeing him again, Catherine?’
‘I—I hadn’t planned to.’ He had told her to drop by if ever she was in Dublin—but you couldn’t really get more offhand than that, could you? Besides, if he had his very own appreciation society then she was likely to have to join a very long queue indeed!
‘Did he ask you out?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘No. He just gave me his card and said to call by if I happened to be passing, but—’
‘But?’
‘I don’t think I’ll bother.’
From behind her spectacles Miranda’s eyes were boring into her. ‘And why not?’
‘Millions of reasons, but the main one being that it’s not so long since I finished with Peter. Or rather,’ she corrected painfully, ‘Peter finished with me. It went on for three years and I need to get over it properly.’ She shrugged, trying to rid her mind of the image of black hair and piercing blue eyes and that body. Trying in vain to imprint Peter’s there instead. ‘A sensible person doesn’t leap straight from one love affair to another.’
‘No one’s asking you to have a love affair!’ exploded Miranda. ‘Whatever happened to simple friendship?’
Catherine couldn’t explain without giving herself away that a woman did not look at a man like Finn Delaney and think friendship. No, appallingly, her overriding thought connected with Finn Delaney happened to be long, passionate nights together. ‘I’m not flying to Dublin to start a tenuous new friendship,’ she objected.
‘But this man could be a future prime minister of Ireland!’ objected Miranda with unaccustomed passion. ‘Imagine! Catherine, you have to follow it up! You’re an attractive woman, he gave you his card—I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you!’
Catherine narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘It isn’t like you to play matchmaker, Miranda—you once said that single people gave more to their job! Why are you so keen for me to see Finn Delaney?’
‘I’m thinking about our readers—’
Everything slotted into place. ‘Then don’t,’ warned Catherine. ‘Don’t even think about it. Even if I was—even if I was planning to call in on him—there’s no way that I would dream of writing up a piece about it, if that’s the way your devious mind is working!’
Finn's Pregnant Bride Page 3
