‘Look me up if ever you’re in London,’ she said, and walked out without a backward glance. She wondered who Aisling was, and where he was supposed to have been last night, before telling herself that her behaviour guaranteed nothing other than a night to remember—certainly not the right to question him.
Finn stood staring after her for a long, indefinable moment as the sound of the lift outside whirred into action, taking her out of his life just as quickly as she had burst into it.
And it occurred to him that he didn’t have a clue where she lived.
Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
CATHERINE spent the whole evening pacing the flat, tempted to smoke a cigarette—which she hadn’t done in almost three years now. She kept telling herself that it had been out of character. True. Telling herself that it had been a terrible, terrible mistake. But unfortunately the jury was still out on that one.
Because the mind could play all kinds of tricks on you, and at the moment her mind seemed very fond of sending tantalising images of black hair, a bare, bronzed body and a pair of beautiful, glittering blue eyes. Images which kicked her conscience into touch.
She didn’t want to think about him! Not when there was no future in it—and there was definitely no future in it. He hadn’t exactly been distraught at the thought of her leaving, had he? Demanding to know her phone number and asking when he could fly out to London to see her?
But what did she expect? The pay-off for acting on instinct rather than reason was never going to be love and respect.
She forced herself to go through her photo albums and look at pictures of her and Peter, but instead of pain ripping through her there was merely a kind of horrified acceptance that Finn had been able to transport her to realms of fantasy which Peter never had.
So what did that say about their long-standing relationship? More importantly, what did it say about her?
She had only just sat down at her desk on Monday when there was a telephone call from Miranda.
‘Can you get up here right now, Catherine? I want to talk to you about Dublin.’
‘Sure,’ answered Catherine, in a voice which was made calm only by sheer effort of will. ‘I’ve written the piece.’
‘Never mind about that,’ Miranda answered mysteriously. ‘Just get your butt up here!’
There was a quivering air of expectancy and excitement on the editor’s face.
‘Did you meet him?’
‘Who?’
‘Who? Who? Finn Delaney, of course!’
‘Oh, him,’ answered Catherine with monumental calm, though inside her heart was crashing painfully against her ribcage. She wondered what Miranda would say if she told her that she had spent most of her time in Dublin being made love to by Finn Delaney. Not a lot, most probably. Miranda had been a journalist for long enough not to be shocked by anything. Her throat felt too dry for her to be able to speak, but she managed. ‘Er, yes, I saw him. Why?’
‘And did he seem interested in you? I mean, like, really interested in you?’
It wasn’t just the odd way that the last question was phrased, or that it was mildly inappropriate. No, something in Miranda’s tone alerted Catherine to the fact that this was not simply idle curiosity, and she felt the first whispering of foreboding. She played for time. ‘Interested in what way, exactly?’
Miranda snorted. ‘Don’t be so dense, Catherine—it doesn’t suit you! Sexually. Romantically. Whatever you like to call it.’
‘No comment.’ But Catherine gave it away with the deep blush which darkened her cheeks.
Miranda looked even more excited. Everyone in the business knew what ‘no comment’ meant and immediately Catherine could have kicked herself for saying it. It implied guilt, and guilt was pretty close to what she was feeling.
‘So he was?’ observed Miranda.
‘No!’
‘I’d recognise that look on a woman’s face anywhere—’
‘What look?’ asked Catherine, alarmed.
‘That cat-got-the-cream look. The kind of look which speaks volumes about just how you spent your weekend!’