Finn's Pregnant Bride

‘How very modest of you!’

‘Not modest at all. Just truthful. I certainly don’t speak it well enough to be able to discuss philosophy—but since what I know about philosophy could be written on the back of a postage stamp I’m probably wise not to try.’ He gazed at her spectacular green eyes and the way the wine sheened on her lips. ‘So tell me about yourself, Catherine Walker.’

‘Oh, I’m twenty-six. I live in London. If I didn’t then I’d own a dog, but I think it’s cruel to keep animals in cities. I like going to films, walking in the park, drinking cocktails on hot summer evenings—the usual thing.’

As a brief and almost brittle biography it told him very little, and Finn was more than intrigued. Ask a woman to tell you about herself and you usually had to call time on them! And less, in some cases, was definitely more. His interest captured, he raised his eyebrows. ‘And what do you do in London?’

She’d had years of fudging this one. People always tended to ask the same predictable question when they found out what she did: ‘Have you ever met anyone famous?’ And, although Finn Delaney didn’t look a predictable kind of man, work was the last thing she wanted to think about right now. ‘Public relations,’ she said, which was kind of true. ‘And how about you?’

‘I live and work in Dublin.’

‘As?’

Finn was deliberately vague. Self-made property millionaire sounded like a boast, even if it was true, and he had seen the corrupting power of wealth enough to keep it hidden away. Especially from beautiful women. ‘Oh, I dabble in a bit of this and a bit of that.’

‘Strictly legal?’ she shot out instinctively, and he laughed.

‘Oh, strictly,’ he murmured, fixing her with a mock-grave look so that she laughed too. The laugh drew attention to the fact that she had the most kissable lips he had ever seen. He found himself wondering why she was here on her own.

His eyes skimmed to the bare third finger of her left hand. No sign of a ring, present or recent. He could see Nico bearing down on them, carrying their food, and he leant forward so that the scent of roses and honey invaded his nostrils.

‘How long are you staying?’ he questioned.

Still reeling from the pleasure of realising that she hadn’t lost the ability to laugh, Catherine let her defences down—and then instantly regretted it. Because his proximity made her heart miss a beat she blinked, startled by her reaction to the warm bronzed flesh and dazzling blue eyes. Her emotions were supposed to be suspended, weren’t they? She wasn’t supposed to be feeling anything other than the loss of Peter. So how come desire had briefly bewitched her with its tempting promise? ‘Tomorrow’s my last day.’

Oddly enough, he felt disappointed. Had he hoped that she would be staying long enough for them to forge a brief holiday romance? He must be more stressed-out than he’d thought, if that were the case. ‘And how are you planning to spend it? A trip round the island?’

She shook her head. ‘Been there, done that. No, I’ll probably just laze around on the beach.’

‘I think I might join you,’ said Finn slowly. ‘That’s if you don’t have any objections?’

CHAPTER TWO (#u135c2c23-f88f-5e83-af0d-971ff3497518)

‘I THINK I might join you,’ he had said.

Catherine rubbed a final bit of sun-block onto her nose and knotted a sarong around the waist of her jade-green swimsuit, aware that her heart was beating as fast as a hamster’s. She was meeting Finn Delaney on the beach and was now beginning to wonder whether she should have agreed so readily.

She let a rueful smile curve her lips. She was thinking and acting like an adolescent girl! She had broken up with her long-term boyfriend, yes—but that didn’t mean she had to start acting like a nun! There was no crime in spending some time with an attractive, charismatic man, was there? Especially as she had barely any time left. And if Finn Delaney decided to muscle in on her she would politely give him the brush-off.

She scrunched her dark hair back into a ponytail and grabbed her sun-hat before setting off to find some coffee. The sun was already high in the sky, but the terrace was shaded with a canopy of dark, fleshy leaves and she took her seat, trying to imprint the scene on her mind, because tomorrow she would be back in the city.

‘I see you with Kirios Finn last night,’ observed Nico rather plaintively as he brought her a plate of figs and some strong black coffee. Every morning he tried something new to tempt her, even though she had told him that she never ate breakfast.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Catherine. ‘I was.’

‘He like you, I think—he like beautiful women.’

Catherine shook her head firmly. ‘We’re just passing acquaintances who speak the same language, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I’m going home this afternoon—remember?’

‘You like him?’ persisted Nico.

‘I hardly know him!’

‘Women like Finn Delaney.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Catherine wryly, thinking of those compelling blue eyes, the thick, unruly hair and the spectacular body. She might not be interested in him as a man, but her journalistic eye could appreciate his obvious attributes.

‘He brave man, too,’ added Nico mournfully.

Catherine paused in the act of lifting her cup and looked up. Brave was not a commonly used word, unless someone had been sick, or fought in a war, and her interest was aroused. ‘How come?’

Nico pushed the figs into her line of vision. ‘The son of Kirios Kollitsis—he nearly die. And Kirios Delaney—he save him.’

‘How?’

‘The two of them take scooters across the island and Iannis, he crash. So much blood.’ He paused. ‘I was young. They brought him here. The man from Irlandia carry him in in his arms and they wait for the doctor.’ Nico narrowed his eyes in memory. ‘Kirios Delaney had white shirt, but now it was red.’ And he closed his eyes. ‘Red and wet.’

Oh, the power of language, thought Catherine, her coffee forgotten. For some reason the stark words, spoken in broken English, conjured up a far more vivid impression of life and death than a fluent description of the accident could ever have done. She thought of the wet and bloody shirt clinging to Finn Delaney’s torso and she gave a shiver.

‘They say without Kirios Delaney then Iannis would be dead. His father—he never forget.’

Catherine nodded. No, she imagined that he wouldn’t forget. A son’s life saved was worth more than a king’s ransom. But even if he hadn’t acted as he had Finn Delaney was still an unforgettable man, she realised, and suddenly the casually arranged meeting on the beach didn’t seem so casual at all.

She should have said no, she thought.

But her reservations didn’t stop her from picking her way down the stone steps which led to the beach. When she had reached the bottom she stood motionless. And breathless.

The beach—a narrow ribbon of white bleached sand—was empty, save for Finn himself. His back was the colour of the sweetest toffee and the lean, hard body was wearing nothing but a pair of navy Lycra shorts. Catherine’s mouth felt like dust and she shook herself, as if trying to recapture the melancholy of yesterday.

What the hell was the matter with her? Peter had been her life. Her future. She had never strayed, nor even looked at another man, and yet now she felt as though this dark, beautiful stranger had the power to cast some kind of spell over her.

He was lost in thought, looking out over the limitless horizon across the sea, but he must have heard or sensed her approach, for he turned slowly and Catherine suddenly found that she could not move. As if that piercing, blue-eyed stare had turned her to stone, like one of the statues which guarded Pondiki’s tiny churches.

‘Hi!’ he called.

‘H-hello,’ she called back, stumbling uncharacteristically on the word. But didn’t his voice sound even more sensual today? Or had the discovery that another man could set her senses alight made her view him in a completely different light?

Finn watched her, thinking how perfect she looked—as though she was some kind of beautiful apparition who had suddenly appeared and might just as suddenly fade away again. A faery lady. ‘Come on over,’ he said huskily.

Catherine found moving the most difficult thing she had ever had to do, taking each step carefully, one in front of the other, like a child learning how to walk.

Still, he watched her. No, no ghost she—far too vivid to be lacking in substance. The black hair was scraped back and barely visible beneath her hat, emphasising the delicate structure of her face, the wariness in the huge emerald eyes.

The swimsuit she wore was a shade darker than those eyes, and it clothed a body which was more magnificent than he had been expecting. The lush breasts looked deliciously cuppable, and the curve of her hips was just crying out for the lingering caress of a man’s palm.

Realising that his heart was thundering like a boy’s on the brink of sexual discovery, and aware that he must just be staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before, Finn forced his mouth to relax into a smile as she grew closer.

‘Hi,’ he said again.