DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

“Marry me.”

“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, but for the baby.”

She stared at him with clear, bright eyes. “And what’s in it for you?”

“It legitimizes everything.” His eyes met hers. “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.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that we can make the rules up as we go along.”

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life . . .

Finn’s Pregnant Bride
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

AT FIRST, Catherine didn’t notice the shadowy figure sitting there. She was too busy smiling at the waiter with her practised I-am-having-a-wonderful-holiday smile, instead of letting her face fall into the crestfallen lines which might have given away the fact that her boyfriend had fallen in love with another woman.

The sultry night air warmed her skin like thick Greek honey.

‘Kalispera, Nico.’

‘Kalispera, Dhespinis Walker,’ said the waiter, his face lighting up when he saw her. ‘Good day?’

‘Mmm!’ she enthused. ‘I took the boat trip out to all the different coves, as you recommended!’

‘My brother—he look after you?’ questioned Nico anxiously.

‘Oh, yes—he looked after me very well.’ In fact, Nico’s brother had tried to take more than a professional interest in ensuring that she enjoyed the magnificent sights, and Catherine had spent most of the boat-trip sitting as far away from the tiller as possible!

‘My usual table, is it?’ she enquired with a smile, because Nico had gone out of his way to give her the best table every evening—the faraway one, which looked out to sea.

But Nico was frowning. ‘Tonight it is difficult, dhespinis. The table is already taken. For tonight the man from Irlandia is here.’

Some odd quality changed the tone of his voice as he spoke. Catherine heard reverence. Respect. And something else which sounded awfully like a grudging kind of envy. She looked at him with a lack of comprehension. The man from where? ‘Irlandia?’ she repeated.

‘Ire-land,’ he translated carefully, after a moment’s thought. ‘He arrive this afternoon and he take your table for dinner.’

It was ridiculous to feel so disappointed, but that was exactly the way she did feel. Funny how quickly you established little routines on holiday. Night after night Catherine had sat at the very end of the narrow wooden deck which made up the floor of the restaurant, so close to the sea that you felt as if you were almost floating over it.

You could look down over the railing and watch the slick black waters below as they licked against the supporting struts. And the moon would spill its shimmering silver light all across the surface—its beauty so intense that for a while Catherine was able to forget all about England, forget Peter and the always busy job which awaited her.

‘Can he do that?’ she pleaded. ‘Tomorrow is my last day.’

Nico shrugged. ‘He can do anything. He is good friend of Kirios Kollitsis.’

Kirios Kollitsis. The island’s very own septuagenarian tycoon—who owned not only the three hotels, but half the shops in the village, too.

Catherine strained her eyes to see a dark figure sitting in her chair. They said that you could judge a woman by her face and a man by his body, and, though she couldn’t see much in this light, it was easy enough to tell from the taut and muscular definition of a powerful frame that this man was considerably younger than Kirios Kollitsis. By about four decades, she judged.

‘I can give you next table,’ said Nico placatingly. ‘Is still lovely view.’

She smiled, telling herself it wasn’t his fault. Silly to cling onto a routine—even a temporary one—just because her world had shattered into one she no longer recognised. Just because Peter had gone and found the ‘love of his life’ almost overnight, leaving Catherine wondering wryly what that said about their relationship of almost three years standing. ‘That would be lovely. Thanks, Nico.’

Finn Delaney had been slowly sipping from a glass of ouzo and gazing out at the sunset, feeling some of the coiled tension begin to seep from his body. He had just pulled off the biggest deal in a life composed of making big deals. It had been fraught and tight and nail-biting, but—as usual—he had achieved what he had set out to do.

But for the first time in his life the success seemed empty. Another million in the bank, true—but even that seemed curiously hollow.

The ink had barely dried on the contract before he had driven on impulse to the airport and taken the first flight out to the beautiful empty Greek island he knew so well. His secretary had raised her eyebrows when he’d told her.

‘But what about your diary, Finn?’ she had objected. ‘It’s packed.’

He had shrugged his broad shoulders and felt a sudden, dizzying sense of liberation. ‘Cancel it.’

‘Cancel it?’ she’d repeated faintly. ‘Okay. You’re the boss.’

Yes, he was the boss, and there was a price to be paid for that position. With power went isolation. Few spoke to Finn Delaney without an agenda these days. But, in truth, he liked the isolation—and the ability to control his own destiny which went with that. It was only when you started letting people close to you that control slipped away.

He picked up his glass of ouzo and studied the cloudy liquid with a certain sense of amusement, feeling worlds and years away from his usual self. But then, this island had always had that effect on him. It had first known him when he had nothing and had accepted him with open arms. Here he was simply ‘Finn’, or Kirios Delaney.

Yet for a man known in his native Dublin as The Razor—for his sharp-cutting edge in the world of business—he would have been almost unrecognisable to his many friends and rivals tonight.

The fluid suits he normally sported had been replaced by a pair of faded jeans and a thin white shirt he had bought in one of the local shops. The top three buttons were left carelessly undone, veeing down towards the honed, tanned muscle of his chest. His thick, dark hair—as usual—was in need of a cut and his long legs were stretched out lazily beneath the table.

Tonight he felt like one of the fishermen who had dragged their silver shoals up onto the beach earlier.

It was a perfect night, with a perfect moon, and he sighed as he recognised that success sometimes made you lose sight of such simple pleasures.

‘This way, Dhespinis Walker,’ Finn heard the waiter saying.

The sound of footsteps clip-clopping against the wooden planks made him look round almost absently, and his eyes narrowed, his heart missing a sudden and unexpected beat as a woman walked into the restaurant. He put the glass of ouzo down, and stared.

For she was beautiful. Mother of all the Saints! She was more than beautiful. Yet beautiful women abounded in his world, so what was different about this one?

Her long black hair tumbled in ebony waves over her shoulders and made her look like some kind of irresistible witch, with a face as delicate as the filmy dress which hinted at ripe, firm flesh beneath.

Yes, very beautiful indeed. His eyes glinted in assessment. And irritated, too. Her mouth was set and, very deliberately, she looked right through him as though he wasn’t there. Finn experienced a moment of wry amusement. Not something which happened to him every day of the week. He spent his life fighting off women who rose to the challenge of ensnaring one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors!

He felt the stir of interest as she took her seat at the table next to his, mere inches away, and as the waiter fussed around with her napkin Finn was able to study her profile. It was a particularly attractive profile. Small, cute nose, and lips which looked like folded rose petals. Her skin was softly sheening and lightly golden, presumably from the hot Greek sun, and her limbs were long and supple.

The pulse at his temple was hammering out a primitive beat, and he felt the heated thickening of his blood. Was it the moon and the warm, lazy night air which made him look at a total stranger and wish he was taking her back to his room with him to lose himself in the sweet pleasures of the senses? Had the magic of the island made him regress to those instant clamouring desires of his late teens?

Catherine could feel the man’s eyes scanning her with leisurely appraisal, and it felt positively intrusive in view of the fact that he was inhabiting her space. She studied the menu unseeingly, knowing exactly what she was planning to have.

Finn gave a half-smile, intrigued by the forbidding set of her body and the negative vibes she was sending out. It was enough of a novelty to whet his appetite.

‘Kalispera,’ he murmured.

Catherine continued to study her menu. Oh, yes, he was Irish, all right. The soft, deep and sensual lilt which was almost musical could have come from nowhere else. His voice sounded like shavings of gravel which had been steeped in honey—a voice Catherine imagined would have women in their thousands drooling.

Well, not this one.

‘Good evening,’ he translated.

Catherine lifted her head and turned to look at him, and wished she hadn’t—because she wasn’t prepared for the most remarkable pair of eyes which were trained in her direction. Even in this light it was easy to see that they were a deep, dark blue—as wine-dark as the sea she had idly floated in earlier that day. And fringed by thick, dark lashes which could not disguise the unmistakable glint in their depths.

He had a typically Irish face—rugged and craggedly handsome—with a luscious mouth whose corners were lifted in half-amused question as he waited for her to reply.

‘Are you speaking to me?’ she asked coolly.

He hadn’t had a put-down like that in years! Finn made a show of looking around at all the empty places in the tiny restaurant. ‘Well, I’m not in the habit of talking to myself.’

‘And I’m not in the habit of striking up conversations with complete strangers,’ she said blandly.

‘Finn Delaney.’ He smiled.

She raised her brows. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The name’s Finn Delaney.’ He gave her a slow smile, unable to remember the last time he had been subjected to such an intense deep-freeze. He noticed that the smile refused to work its usual magic.

She didn’t move. Nor speak. If this was a chat-up line, then she simply wasn’t interested.

‘Of course, I don’t know yours,’ he persisted.

‘That’s because I haven’t given it to you,’ she answered helpfully.

‘And are you going to?’

‘That depends.’

He raised dark brows. ‘On?’

‘On whether you’d mind moving.’

‘Moving where?’

‘Swapping tables.’

‘Swapping tables?’

Catherine’s journalist training instinctively reared its head. ‘Do you always make a habit of repeating everything and turning it into a question?’

‘And do you always behave so ferociously towards members of the opposite sex?’

She nearly said that she was right off the opposite sex at the moment, but decided against it. She did not want to come over as bitter—because bitter was the last thing she wanted to be. She was just getting used to the fact that her relationship had exceeded its sell-by date, that was all.

She met the mockery lurking deep in the blue eyes. ‘If you really saw me ferocious, you’d know all about it!’

‘Well, now, wouldn’t that be an arresting sight to see?’ he murmured. He narrowed his eyes in question. ‘You aren’t exactly brimming over with bonhomie.’

‘No. That’s because you’re sitting at my table.’ She shrugged as she saw his nonplussed expression and she couldn’t really blame him. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve been there every night and kind of got attached to it.’

‘Not stupid at all,’ he mused, and his voice softened into a musical caress. ‘A view like this doesn’t come along very often in a lifetime—not even where I come from.’

She saw a star shoot a silver trail as it blazed across the night sky. ‘I know,’ she sighed, her voice filled with a sudden melancholy.

‘You could always come and join me,’ he said. ‘And that way we can both enjoy it.’ He saw her indecision and it amused him. ‘Why not?’

Why not, indeed? Twelve days of dining on her own had left a normally garrulous woman screaming for a little company. And sitting on her own made her all the more conscious of the thoughts spinning round in her head—of whether she could have done more to save her relationship with Peter. Even knowing that time and distance had driven impenetrable wedges between them did not stop her from having regrets.

‘I won’t bite,’ he added softly, seeing the sudden sadness cloud her eyes and wondering what had caused it.

Catherine stared at him. He looked as though he very easily could bite, despite the outwardly relaxed appearance. His apparent ease did not hide the highly honed sexuality which even in her frozen emotional state she could recognise. But that was her job; she was trained to suss people out.

‘Because I don’t know you,’ she pointed out.

‘Isn’t that the whole point of joining me?’

‘I thought that it was to look at the view?’

‘Yes. You’re right. It was.’ But his eyes were fixed on her face, and Catherine felt a moment halfway between pleasure and foreboding, though she couldn’t for the life of her have worked out why.

Maybe it was because he had such a dangerous look about him, with his dark hair and his blue eyes and his mocking, lazy smile. He looked a bit like one of the fishermen who hauled up the nets on the beach every morning in those faded jeans and a white cotton shirt which was open at the neck. A man she would never see again. Why not indeed? ‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘Thanks.’

He waited until she had moved and settled in to the seat next to his, aware of a drift of scent which was a cross between roses and honey, unprepared for the way that it unsettled his senses, tiptoeing fingers of awareness over his skin. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’

‘It’s Catherine. Catherine Walker.’ She waited, supposing there was the faintest chance that Finn Delaney was an avid reader of Pizazz! magazine, and had happened to read her byline, but his dark face made no sign of recognition. Her lips twitched with amusement. Had she really thought that a man as masculine as this one would flick through a lightweight glossy mag?

‘Good to meet you, Catherine.’ He looked out to where the water was every shade of gold and pink and rose imaginable, reflected from the sky above, and then back to her, a careless question in his eyes. ‘Exquisite, isn’t it?’ he murmured.

‘Perfect.’ Catherine, strangely disconcerted by that deep blue gaze, sipped her wine. ‘It’s not your first visit, I gather?’

Finn turned back and the blue eyes glittered in careless question. ‘You’ve been checking up on me, have you?’

It was an arrogant thing to say, but in view of her occupation an extremely accurate one—except that in this case she had not been checking up on him. ‘Why on earth should I want to? The waiter mentioned that you were a friend of Kirios Kollitsis, that’s all.’

He relaxed again, his mind drifting back to a long-ago summer. ‘That’s right. His son and I met when we were travelling around Europe—we ended the trip here, and I guess I kind of fell in love with the place.’

‘And—let me guess—you’ve come back here every year since?’

He smiled. ‘One way or another, yes, I have. How about you?’

‘First time,’ said Catherine, and sipped her wine again, in case her voice wobbled. No need to tell him that it was supposed to have been a romantic holiday to make up for all the time that she and Peter had spent apart. Or that now they would be apart on a permanent basis.

‘And you’ll come again?’

‘I doubt it.’

Her heard the finality in her voice. ‘You don’t like it enough to repeat the experience?’

She shook her head, knowing that Pondiki would always represent a time in her life she would prefer to forget. ‘I just never like to repeat an experience. Why should I, when the world is full of endless possibilities?’

She sounded, he thought, as though she were trying to convince herself of that. But by then Nico had appeared. ‘Do you know what you’re going to have?’ Finn asked.

‘Fish and salad,’ she answered automatically. ‘It’s the best thing on the menu.’

‘You are a creature of habit, aren’t you?’ he teased. ‘The same table and the same meal every night. Are you a glutton for stability?’

How unwittingly perceptive he was! ‘People always create routines when they’re on holiday.’

‘Because there’s something comforting in routines?’ he hazarded.

His dark blue eyes seemed to look deep within her, and she didn’t want him probing any more. That was her forte. ‘Something like that,’ she answered slowly.

She ordered in Greek, and Nico smiled as he wrote it down. And then Finn began to speak to him with what sounded to Catherine like complete fluency.

‘You speak Greek!’ she observed, once the waiter had gone.

‘Well, so do you!’

‘Only the basics. Restaurants and shops, that kind of thing.’

‘Mine isn’t much beyond that.’

‘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

‘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.

She felt strangely shy—but what woman wouldn’t, alone with such a man on a deserted beach? ‘Hi.’ She managed a bright smile. She wasn’t a gauche young thing but a sophisticated and successful woman who was slowly recovering from a broken romance. And as soon as the opportunity arose she would tell him that she was interested in nothing more than a pleasant and companionable last day on Pondiki.

Finn smiled, so that those big green eyes would lose some of their wariness. ‘Sleep well?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really. Too hot. Even with the air-conditioning I felt as though I was a piece of dough which had been left in a low oven all night!’

He laughed. ‘Don’t you have one of those big old-fashioned fans in your room?’

‘You mean the ones which sound as though a small plane has just landed beside the bed?’

‘Yeah.’ He wanted something to occupy himself, something which would stop him from feasting his eyes on her delicious breasts, afraid that the stirring in his body would begin to make itself shown. ‘What would you like to do?’

The words swam vaguely into the haze of her thoughts. In swimming trunks, he looked like a pinup come to life, with his bright blue eyes and dark, untidy hair.

Broad shoulders, lean hips and long, muscled legs. Men like Finn Delaney should be forbidden from wearing swimming trunks! More to distract herself than because she really cared what they did, she shrugged and smiled. ‘What’s on offer?’

Finn bit back the crazy response that he’d like to peel the swimsuit from her body and get close to her in the most elemental way possible. Instead, he waved a hand towards the rocks. ‘I’ve made a camp,’ he said conspiratorially.

‘What kind of camp?’

‘The usual kind. We’ve got shelter. Provisions. Come and see.’

In the distance, she could see a sun-umbrella, two loungers and a cool-box. An oasis of comfort against the barren rocks which edged the sand, with the umbrella providing the cool promise of relief from the beating sun. ‘Okay.’

‘Follow me,’ he said, his voice sounding husky, and for a moment he felt like a man from earlier, primitive times, leading a woman off to his lair.

Catherine walked next to him, the hot sand spraying up and burning her toes through her sandals.

The sound of the sea was rhythmical and soothing, and she caught the faint scent of pine on the air, for Pondiki was crammed full of pine trees. Through the protective covering of her sun-hat she could feel the merciless penetration of the sun, and, trying to ignore the fact that all her senses felt acutely honed, she stared down instead at the sizeable amount of equipment which lay before her.

‘How the hell did you get all this stuff down here?’ she asked in wonder.

‘I carried it.’ He flexed an arm jokingly. ‘Nothing more than brute strength!’

Memory assailed her. She thought of him carrying his wounded friend, his white shirt wet with the blood of life. Wet and red. She swallowed. ‘It looks…it looks very inviting.’

‘Sit down,’ he said, and gestured to one of the loungers. ‘Have you eaten breakfast?’

She sank into the cushions. She never ate breakfast, but, most peculiarly, she had an appetite now. Or rather, other pervasive appetites were threatening to upset her equilibrium, so she decided to sublimate them by opting for food.

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. Me neither.’

She watched as he opened the cool-box and pulled out rough bread and chilled grapes, and local cheese wrapped in vine leaves, laying them down on a chequered cloth. With what looked like a Swiss Army knife he began tearing and cutting her off portions of this and that.

‘Here. Eat.’ He narrowed his eyes critically. ‘You look like you could do with a little feeding up.’

She sat up and grabbed the crude sandwich and accepted a handful of grapes, preferring to look at the chilled claret-coloured fruit than meet that disturbing blue stare. ‘You make me sound like a waif and stray!’

He thought she was perfect, but that now was neither the time nor the place to tell her. ‘You look like you haven’t eaten much lately,’ he observed.

‘I’ve eaten well on Pondiki,’ she protested.

‘For how long—two weeks, maybe?’

She nodded.

‘But not before that, I guess,’ he mused.

Well, of course she hadn’t! What woman on the planet ate food when she had been dumped by a man? ‘How can you tell?’

It gave him just the excuse he needed to study her face. ‘Your cheeks have the slightly angular look of a woman who’s been skipping meals.’

‘Pre-holiday diet,’ she lied.

‘No need for it,’ he responded quietly, his eyes glittering as he sank his teeth into the bread.

He made eating look like an art-form. In fact, he made eating look like the most sensual act she had ever seen—with his white teeth biting into the unresisting flesh of the grapes, licking their juice away with the tip of his tongue—and Catherine was horrified by the progression of her thoughts.

When she’d been with Peter she hadn’t been interested in other men, and yet now she found herself wondering whether that had been because there had been no man like Finn Delaney around.

‘This is very good,’ she murmured.

‘Mmm.’ He gave her a lazy smile and relaxed back, the sun beating down like a caress on his skin. There was silence for a moment, broken only by the lapping of the waves on the sand. ‘Will you be sorry to leave?’ he asked, at last.

‘Isn’t everyone, at the end of a holiday?’

‘Everyone’s different.’

‘I guess in a way I wish I could stay.’ But that was the coward’s way out—not wanting to face up to the new-found emptiness of her life back home. The sooner she got back, the sooner she could get on with the process of living. Yet this moment seemed like living. Real, simple and unfettered living, more vital than living had ever been.

Finn raised his head slightly and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Something you don’t want to go back to?’ he questioned perceptively. ‘Or someone?’

‘Neither,’ she answered, because the truth was far more complex than that, and she was not the type of person to unburden herself to someone she barely knew. She had seen too much in her job of confidences made and then later regretted.

And she didn’t want to think about her new role in life—as a single girl out on the town, having to reinvent herself and start all over again. With Peter away on assignments so much, she had felt comfortable staying in and slouching around in tracksuits while watching a movie and ploughing her way through a box of popcorn. She guessed that now those evenings would no longer be guilt-free and enjoyable. There would be pressure to go out with her girlfriends. And nights in would seem as though life was passing her by.

‘I suppose I’ve just fallen in love with this island,’ she said softly. Because that much was true. A place as simple and as beautiful as Pondiki made it easy to forget that any other world existed.

‘Yeah.’ His voice was equally soft, and he took advantage of the fact that she was busy brushing crumbs from her bare brown thighs to watch her again, then wished he hadn’t. For the movement was making her breasts move in a way which was making him feel the heavy pull of longing, deep in his groin. He turned over onto his stomach. ‘It’s easy to do.’

Catherine removed a grape pip from her mouth and flicked it onto the white sand. ‘And what about you? Will you be sorry to leave?’

He thought of the new project which was already mounting back home in Ireland, and the opposition to it. And of all the demands on his time which having his fingers in so many pies inevitably brought. When had he last taken a holiday? Sat in such solitude, in such simplicity and with such a—his heart missed another unexpected beat—such a beautiful companion? He pressed himself into the sand, ruefully observing his body’s reaction to his thoughts and just hoping that she hadn’t.

Her legs were slap-bang in front of his line of vision, and he let his lashes float down over his eyes, hoping that lack of visual stimulation might ease the ache in his groin. ‘Yeah,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll be sorry.’

She heard the slurred quality of his voice and suspected that he wanted to sleep. So she said nothing further—but then silence was easy in such a perfect setting.

She feasted her eyes on the deep blue of the sea, and the paler blue of the sky above it. Remember this, she told herself. Keep it stored in your mind, to bring out on a grey wet day in England, as you would a favourite snapshot.

She flicked a glance over to where Finn lay, watching the rise and fall of his broad back as it became gradually slower and steadier. Yes, he was definitely asleep.

His dark tousled head was pillowed on hair-roughened forearms, and the image of the sleeping man was oddly and disturbingly intimate. Very disturbing. She found herself picturing his bronzed body contrasted against rumpled white sheets and the resulting flush of awareness made Catherine get abruptly to her feet. She needed to cool off!

The sea beckoned invitingly, and she pulled off her sun-hat and ran towards it, her feet sinking into the heavy wet sand by the water’s edge. She splashed her way in, waiting until she was out of her depth before she began to strike out.

The sea was as warm as milk, and not in the least bit invigorating, but the water lapped like silk over her heated skin. Catherine continued to swim quite happily in line with the shore, and was just thinking about going in when she experienced a gut-wrenchingly sharp spasm in her leg. She squealed aloud with the shock and the pain.

She tried to keep swimming, but her leg was stubbornly refusing to work. She opened her mouth to call out, but as she did salt water gushed in and she began to choke.

Don’t panic, she told herself—but her body was refusing to obey her. And the more the leg stiffened, the more water poured into her mouth, and she began to flail her arms uselessly and helplessly as control slipped away…

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 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.

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 out 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!’

Miranda bared her teeth in a smile. ‘Oh, don’t take things so seriously, girl! Why don’t you just go?’ she coaxed. ‘Give yourself a treat for a change.’

‘But I’ve only just got back from my holiday!’

‘We can do a feature on the city itself—the whole world loves Dublin at the moment—you know it does! The single girl’s guide! How about if we call it an assignment? And if you want to call in on Finn Delaney while you’re there—then so much the better!’

‘I’m not writing anything about him,’ said Catherine stubbornly, even while her heart gave a sudden leap of excitement at the thought of seeing him again.

‘And nobody’s asking you to—not if you don’t want to,’ soothed Miranda. ‘Tell our readers all about the shops and the restaurants and the bands and who goes where. That’s all.’

That’s all, Catherine told herself as her flight touched down at Dublin airport.

That’s all, she told herself as she checked into the MacCormack Hotel.

That’s all, she told herself again, as she lifted the phone and then banged it straight down again.

It took three attempts for the normally confident Catherine to dial Finn Delaney’s number with a shaking finger.

First of all she got the switchboard.

‘I’d like to speak to Finn Delaney, please.’

‘Hold the line, please,’ said a pleasantly spoken girl with a lilting Dublin accent. ‘I’ll put you through to his assistant.’

There were several clicks on the line before a connection was made. This time the female voice did not sound quite so lilting, and was more brisk than pleasant.

‘Finn Delaney’s office.’

‘Hello. Is he there, please? My name is Catherine Walker.’

There was a pause. ‘May I ask what it is concerning, Miss Walker?’

She didn’t want to come over as some desperado, but didn’t the truth sound a little that way? ‘I met Finn—Mr Delaney—on holiday recently. He told me to look him up if I happened to be in Dublin and…’ Catherine swallowed, realising how flimsy her explanation sounded. ‘And, well, here I am,’ she finished lamely.

There was a pause which Catherine definitely decided was disapproving, though she accepted that might simply be paranoia on her part.

‘I see,’ said the brisk voice. ‘Well, if you’d like to hold the line I’ll see if Mr Delaney is available…though his diary is very full today.’

Which Catherine suspected was a gentle way of telling her that it was unlikely the great man would deign to speak to her. Regretting ever having shown Miranda his photo, or having foolhardily agreed to get on a plane in the first place, she pressed the receiver to her ear.

Another click.

‘Catherine?’

It was the lilting voice of honey pouring over shaved gravel which she remembered so well. ‘Hi, Finn—it’s me—remember?’

Of course he remembered. He’d remembered her for several sweat-sheened and restless nights. A few nights too long. And that had been that. He’d moved on, hadn’t expected to hear from her again. Nor, it had to be said, had he particularly wanted to. The completion of one deal made room for another, and he had the devil of a project to cope with now. Finn dealt with his life by compartmentalising it, and Catherine Walker belonged in a compartment which was little more than a mildly pleasing memory. The last thing he needed at the moment was feminine distraction.

‘Of course I remember,’ he said cautiously. ‘This is a surprise.’

A stupid, stupid surprise, thought Catherine as she mentally kicked herself. ‘Well, you did say to get in touch if I happened to be in Dublin—’

‘And you’re in Dublin now?’

‘I am.’ She waited.

Finn leaned back in his chair. ‘For how long?’

‘Just the weekend. I…er…I picked up a cheap flight and just flew out on a whim.’

Maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing in the world, but he could do absolutely nothing about his body’s reaction. And his body, it seemed, reacted very strongly to the sound of Catherine Walker’s crisp English accent, coupled with the memory of her soft, curved body pressed against his chest.

‘And you want a guide? Am I right?’

‘Oh, I’m quite capable of discovering a city on my own,’ answered Catherine. ‘Your secretary said that you were busy.’

He looked at the packed page in front of him. ‘And so I am,’ he breathed with both regret and relief, glad that she hadn’t expected him to suddenly drop everything. ‘But I’m free later. How about if we meet for dinner tonight? Or are you busy?’

For one sane and sensible moment Catherine felt like saying that, yes, she was busy. Terribly busy, thank you very much. She need not see him, nor lay herself open to his particular brand of devastating charm. In fact, she could go away and write up Miranda’s article, and…

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