Sharon Kendrick - Finn's Pregnant Bride

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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