‘You could come and live here, in Dublin.’
She stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I don’t think that my thinking could be described as normal, no. Though that’s hardly surprising, given the topic,’ he answered drily. ‘But it’s certainly rational. Consider it,’ he said, seeing her begin to mouth another protest.
‘I have, and it took me all of three seconds to reject it!’ she answered crossly, despising the sudden rapid race in her heart-rate.
‘Listen,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘Dublin is a great city—’
‘That’s hardly the point! I can’t live here with you, Finn—surely you can see that would be impossible?’
There was a long, rather strange pause. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you live here with me, Catherine.’
Oh, if only the floor could have opened up and swallowed her! ‘Well, thank God for that,’ she said, rather weakly, and hoped that her voice didn’t lack conviction. ‘Where did you have in mind, then? Is there some home for unmarried mothers on the outskirts of the city?’
He had the grace to wince. ‘I have a cottage by the sea. It’s in Wicklow, close to Glendalough and a relatively short drive away. Fresh air and village life. It would be perfect for you. And the baby.’
It sounded like an oasis. ‘I don’t know.’
He heard her indecision and, like a barrister moving in for the kill with his closing argument, fluently outlined his case. ‘You live on your own in London—what’s the difference? And I can come and see you at weekends.’
Once again, she despaired at the sudden race of her pulse. He meant grudging duty visits, nothing else. She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘There are other factors, too, Catherine.’
She looked up, wishing that it wasn’t such painful pleasure to stare into the eyes of the man who had fathered her child. ‘Such as?’
‘I have some friends who live there—Patrick and Aisling. I can introduce you to Aisling—she’d love to meet you, I’m sure. They’ve three children of their own—it would be good to have someone like that around.’
Aisling?
The name rang a bell and Catherine remembered the morning she had left Finn’s flat. A woman called Aisling had been talking on the answer-machine, asking where the hell he had been. She had assumed that it was someone he had stood up because he’d had a better offer.
‘Do you know more than one Aisling?’ she asked.
‘No. Why?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
He carried on trying to sell the delights of Greystones, knowing that if she could see the place for herself she’d be sold. ‘And my aunt lives there, too.’
‘Your aunt?’
‘That’s right. She’s…well, she’s a very special lady.’
Catherine swallowed. She could just imagine what a protective relative would have to say about some conniving woman tricking her darling nephew into fatherhood.
‘I don’t think so, Finn,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Wouldn’t everyone find the situation a little odd?’
‘Well, of course they would. No one’s ever heard me mention you before, and suddenly here you are—pregnant with my child!’
‘Could do your street-cred a lot of harm?’ she hazarded sarcastically.
‘It’s not my reputation I’m thinking about, Catherine,’ he said softly. ‘It’s yours.’ His eyes glittered as the spectre of responsibility reared its head. He did not balk it, but faced it head-on. ‘There is, of course, one solution which would guarantee you all the respect a woman in your condition warrants.’
Utterly confused now, she stared at him in perplexity. ‘What solution?’
‘Marry me.’
There was a long, deafening silence and Catherine’s heart clenched in her chest. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she demanded hoarsely.
He shook his head. ‘Think about it, Catherine—see what sense it makes. It gives you security, for a start. And not just for you, for the baby.’
Perhaps someone else might have considered that offer in a purely mercenary way, but that someone else was not Catherine, with Catherine’s experience of the world.
She had never thought about her own mortality much, but right now it was foremost in her mind. New life automatically made you think of the other end of the spectrum.
What would happen to her if she died suddenly? Who would look after and care for the baby? Not her mother, that was for sure.
But if she married Finn…
She stared at him with clear, bright eyes. ‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘Can’t a clever journalist like you work it out?’ he answered flippantly, but then his voice sobered. ‘As an ex-lover I can be sidelined, but as your husband I would have a say in the baby’s life. It legitimises everything.’ His eyes met hers with sudden understanding. ‘And didn’t you say that you didn’t want what you had to endure yourself for your baby? Whatever happens, Catherine, this child will have my name—and one day will inherit my wealth.’
‘An old-fashioned marriage of convenience, you mean?’
‘Or a very modern one,’ he amended quietly.
It was a deliberately ambiguous statement. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means whatever you want it to mean. We can make the rules up as we go along.’
‘And how long is this marriage supposed to last—presumably not for life?’
‘Presumably not.’
‘And if you want out?’
‘Or you do?’ he countered coolly.
‘Either. If the situation between us is untenable in any way, then—’
‘Aren’t you jumping the gun a little? Why don’t we save the big decisions until after the baby is born?’
He gave the glimmer of a smile, and Catherine felt her stomach turn over. Did he have any idea how that smile could turn a normally sensible woman’s head? In spite of everything.
‘What do you say, Catherine?’
She thought of going through it all alone, and suddenly felt the first tremblings of fear. For a moment she felt small and helpless and vulnerable—though surely that was natural enough?
While Finn was big and strong and dependable. It didn’t matter what his feelings for her were, he would protect her, instinct told her that. And instinct was a very powerful influence where pregnant women were concerned.
She looked at him. He had stated that she didn’t really have the luxury of choice, and in a way he was right. For what right-minded and responsible woman in her situation could give any answer other than the one which now came from between her dry lips.
‘Very well, Finn. I’ll marry you.’
Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
AS WEDDINGS went, it was bizarre. The ceremony had to be quick and it had to be discreet—any sign of a hugely pregnant bride would have the press sniffing around in droves, and Finn didn’t want that. Neither did Catherine.
And organising a wedding wasn’t as easy as they made out in the films.
‘Ireland’s out,’ he’d said grimly, as he replaced the telephone receiver. ‘You need three months’ written notice.’
‘You didn’t know that?’ The question came out without her thinking.
‘Why would I?’ His eyes had sparked icy blue fire. ‘I’ve never got married before.’
And wouldn’t be now, she’d reminded herself painfully. Not if he hadn’t been in such an invidious situation.
‘It’ll have to be in England, and I have to be resident for seven days prior to giving notice,’ he’d said flatly. ‘It’s fifteen days minimum after that.’
He’d made it sound as if he was to undergo a protracted kind of operation. Catherine had turned away.
They’d flown back to England, where Finn had booked in to a hotel, and by some unspoken agreement they had not seen one another until the day of the wedding itself—although they’d had a
few brief, uncomfortable conversations.
Catherine had spent the three weeks trying to be- have as normally as possible—seeing her friends, trying to write—even once visiting her mother. And all the while her great big secret had burned so strongly within her that she was astonished no one else noticed.
When the day of the wedding finally dawned, her most overwhelming emotion was one of relief—that soon the subterfuge would be over.
Catherine glanced at her watch as she waited for her reluctant husband-to-be. She hadn’t bought anything new—because that also seemed to go against the mood of the arrangement. Her favourite clingy violet dress made her look voluptuous, and she was grateful for the long jacket which covered most of the evidence.
But when she opened the door to him, her face drawn and tense, Finn felt his heart miss a beat.
‘Smile for me, Catherine,’ he whispered.
Obediently she curved her lips upwards into a smile, trying not to be enticed by the blue gleam of his eyes.
‘You look like a gypsy,’ he observed softly, as she pinned two large silver hoops to her ears.
‘Is that bad, or good?’
‘It’s good,’ he replied evenly, but he had to force himself to walk away and stare sightlessly out of the window. The trouble was that he still wanted her, and yet there now seemed to be an unbreachable emotional gulf which made intimacy out of the question. He glanced down at his watch. ‘Almost ready to go?’
Nerves assailed her for the hundredth time that morning. He looked so devastating in his dark suit and snowy shirt that she was having difficulty remembering that this was all make-believe. He wasn’t a real groom any more than she was a real bride. ‘Finn, it’s still not too late to back out, you know.’
‘You want to?’
Of course she did. Part of her would have loved to be able to wave a magic wand and wish her old life back. While another part wished that this gorgeous man would sweep her into his arms and kiss all her make-up off and tell her that he couldn’t bear not to marry her.
But of course he wouldn’t. It wasn’t that kind of deal. This was, to use her own expression—and it was one which had the power to make her giggle in a slight hysteria which she put down to hormones—a marriage of convenience. Modern or otherwise.
‘Are you wishing it was Peter?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Peter?’ To her horror she actually had to pause and think who he was talking about.
He heard the tone of her voice and his mouth thinned. That said a lot about her level of commitment, didn’t it? ‘Yeah, Peter—the man you went out with for—how long was it, Catherine? Four years?’
‘Three.’ She heard his disapproval and she couldn’t bear that he might think she had just leapt from Peter’s bed into his. ‘We hadn’t seen each other for six months before he ended it,’ she said slowly. ‘And I accepted that it was over.’ She turned wide green eyes up to his. ‘There was certainly no motive of getting my own back.’
‘I see.’ But he felt his body relax a little.
‘And besides, what about you?’ she challenged. ‘Are you sorry that it’s not Deirdra you’re marrying?’
There was a pause. ‘Deirdra’s history.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Finn.’
He supposed it didn’t. ‘It happened a long time ago.’ He shrugged. ‘We were both seventeen and discovering sex for the first time. It burnt itself out and then she went to Hollywood. End of story.’
He was describing first love, thought Catherine with a pang. And maybe for him—as for so many people—no one would ever live up to that idealised state. First love. There was nothing like it—even hard-bitten Miranda had said that.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said slowly.
He looked at her assessingly. ‘Back out now, if you want to, Catherine.’
‘No, I’m happy to go ahead with it,’ she said.
‘Well, you don’t look it,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll have to work harder than that to convince anyone.’
She fixed a smile to her glossy lips. ‘How’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ he answered, feeling an ache in his groin which he knew would not be satisfied by a traditional post-wedding night.
For directly after the ceremony they were taking the first flight back to Ireland. A car would be waiting at the airport and he was driving her to Greystones, to settle her into the house.
And after the weekend he would return to Dublin.
Alone.
Finn thought how vulnerable she looked on the plane, shaking her head and refusing his offer of a glass of champagne, her face telling him that she had nothing to celebrate.
He had to keep telling himself not to be sucked in by a pair of green eyes and a rose-pink mouth, tell himself instead that Catherine Walker had a bewitching power which hid her true nature. And that beauty combined with burgeoning life could fool a man into thinking she was something different. And, while she might not have conspired to humiliate him publicly, she had still deliberately kept from him the fact that she was a journalist.
‘Won’t your mother think it strange that you didn’t tell her about the wedding?’ he asked, as the car left Dublin and began to eat up the miles leading towards the coast.
‘Lots of people go away and get married without telling anyone these days.’
‘She won’t pry?’
‘I’ll have to tell her the truth—that I’m pregnant,’ she said flatly. ‘She’ll understand.’ Oh, yes—her mother would understand that all right.
‘And when are you going to inform her that you’ve acquired a husband?’
Acquired a husband! He made it sound like something from a Victorian novel! ‘When I’m…settled.’
‘Soon?’ he demanded.
She nodded. ‘Once I’ve been at Greystones for a couple of days.’ Catherine stole a look at Finn’s dark profile. ‘Have you told your aunt, or any of your friends?’
He shook his head, easing his foot down on the accelerator. ‘They’d only have wanted to join in and make a big fuss of it.’
And, presumably, turn the day into something it wasn’t.
But repeating her marriage lines after the registrar had made Catherine feel heartbreakingly wistful, and only the stirring flutter in her stomach had kept her voice steady enough to speak in a voice as devoid of emotion as Finn’s.
‘What a lovely couple you make!’ the Registrar had cooed, and then said with a twinkle, ‘You may now kiss your wife.’
Finn had looked down at Catherine, a wry smile touching the corners of his lips as he saw the startled look which widened her green eyes. ‘Mustn’t disappoint, must we?’ he’d murmured, and bent his head to brush his mouth against hers.
As kisses went, it had been almost chaste. Not deep and hungry and greedy, like the kisses they had shared before they had made love. But, in its way, the most poignant kiss of all—gentle and full of false promise. His lips were like honey and just the touch of them had sent little shivers of longing all the way down her spine. And yet it had mocked her with all that it could have been and was not.
Not for them the urgent and giggling drive to the nearest bed to consummate the marriage. Instead she would be delivered to a house which—although it sounded quite lovely—was to be hers alone during the week, while the baby grew inside her belly.
And after that?
Resisting the urge to wrap her arms around his neck, Catherine had pulled away, giving the watching registrar an awkward smile.
They arrived at Greystones late in the afternoon, through sleepy-looking streets and past stone houses. Finn’s cottage stood at the far end of the small town, an unprepossessing low stone building which looked as though it had been there since the beginning of time.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful, Finn,’ she said, breathing in the sea-air and thinking what a healthy place this was to be when she compared it to her tiny flat in London.
And she was healthy, too—the bloom of pregnancy making her face seem to glo
w from within. She looked both fragile and strong, and on an impulse Finn bent and scooped her up into his arms, his eyes glittering blue fire as he looked down into her face.
‘What the h-hell do you think you’re doing?’ she spluttered.
‘Bowing to tradition, as well as bowing my head,’ he said softly, as he bent his head to carry her through the low door. ‘By carrying you over the threshold.’
He placed her down carefully, seeming reluctant to remove his hands from her waist, and Catherine stared up into his face. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘It’ll soon get round that I’ve married you. We ought to maintain at least a modicum of pretence that it’s the real thing.’
She pulled away. It hurt just as much as it was probably intended to, and Catherine had to remind herself that she had walked into this with her eyes open. She had agreed to marry him for the sake of her baby and her baby alone—but that didn’t stop her from having the occasional foolish fantasy, did it? Didn’t stop her from wishing that they didn’t have to go through a hypocritical stage-managed act just in case anyone happened to be watching them.
In an attempt to distract herself she looked around her instead. The cottage was comfortably furnished with squashy sofas, and paintings of wild and wonderful Wicklow were hung everywhere. But the walls were surprisingly faded—indeed, the whole room looked as though it could do with a coat of paint.
‘Come through here,’ said Finn, looking at the stiff and defensive set of her shoulders. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
The smaller room which led off the sitting room looked similarly tired, but Catherine’s attention was soon drawn from the state of the walls by a desk overlooking the big garden at the back of the house. Because what was on it stood out like a sore thumb. A desk with a high-tech computer, fax and telephone and state-of-the-art printer—all obviously and gleamingly new.
‘For you,’ he said simply.
Catherine looked longingly at the computer, which made her own look as if it had been invented around the same time as the wheel, then lifted her face up to him. ‘Why?’
‘A wedding present.’
‘I’ve bought nothing for you—’
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