So what could have been his motivation?
She, at least, could blame her reeling emotions on having been dropped by Peter. But—dear God—had Finn Delaney spent the whole time imagining that she was someone else?
Her ego, already severely punctured, underwent a complete deflation.
When he’d told her she was beautiful, and how it was a crime against society for a body like hers to be seen wearing any clothes at all, had he been thinking about Deirdra? When he’d driven deep inside her, had he been pretending that it was another woman’s soft flesh he was penetrating?
Inwardly she crumpled as she realised just what she had done. But most of all what he had done. He had used his Irish charm in the most manipulative and calculating way imaginable. He had guided her into his bed with all the ease of a consummate seducer, had made love to her and then let her walk out of his flat without a care in the world.
He hadn’t even asked for her phone number, she remembered bitterly.
She came out of her painful little reverie to find Miranda’s eyes fixed on her thoughtfully—with something approaching kindness in them. And Catherine was badly in need of a little kindness right then.
‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’ Miranda suggested softly.
Maybe if she’d eaten breakfast, or maybe if her body hadn’t still been aching with the sweet memories of his lovemaking which now seemed to mock and wound her, then Catherine might have given a more thoughtful and considered response.
But memories of betrayal—her mother’s and now her own—fused into a blurred, salty haze before her eyes, and she nodded, biting her lips to prevent her voice from disintegrating into helpless sobs.
‘Oh, Miranda!’ she gulped. ‘I’ve been so stupid.’
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
She needed to tell someone about it. To unload her guilt. To make some kind of sense of it all. She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Try me.’
Distractedly, Catherine began voicing her thoughts out loud. ‘Maybe it was a reaction to Peter—I don’t know—I just know that I behaved in a way which was completely alien to me!’
‘You slept with him?’
Catherine nodded. She supposed that was one way of putting it. ‘Yes, I slept with him! I fell into his arms like the ripest plum on the tree. I spent the night with him. Me! Me! I still can’t believe it!’ Her voice rose in disbelief. ‘I went out with Peter for three years and never even looked at another man.’ But then, no man like Finn Delaney had come along for her to look at, had he? ‘And before that there was only one significant other. I was too busy building up my career to be interested in men. And I’ve certainly never—never—been quite so free and easy. Not even with Peter.’
Especially not with Peter. Quite the opposite, in fact. Peter had been surprised that she had held out so long before letting them get intimate. He’d said it was a refreshing change to find a woman who played hard to get. But it hadn’t been a game—it had been a necessity. Born out of a need for self-respect which her mother had drummed into her and a desire to have him respect her.
Which made her wonder what Finn Delaney must be thinking about her now.
‘Maybe he has something special—this Finn Delaney.’
‘Oh, he has something special all right!’ burst out Catherine. ‘Bucketfuls of charm and sex-appeal—and the ability to pitch it at just the right level to make himself irresistible to women!’
Miranda, not normally given to looking fazed, raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s some testimony, Catherine,’ she murmured. ‘I take it that he was a good lover?’
‘The best,’ said Catherine, before she had time to think about it. And with those two words she seemed to have managed to invalidate everything she had had with Peter, too. ‘He was unbelievable.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’ll get over it,’ said Miranda at last.
Catherine raised a defiant face, but her green eyes were full of a tell-tale glittering. ‘I’ll have to,’ she said staunchly. ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’
His face almost obscured by the creamy bloom of flowers and dark green foliage, Finn narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the names next to the doorbells.
Walker. Flat 3. He shifted the flowers onto one shoulder, as if he was winding a baby, and jammed his thumb on the bell.
Inside the flat, the bell pealed, and Catherine frowned, then stifled a small groan. Bad that someone should call unannounced after this week when she had lost almost everything. What had remained of her self-respect. Her pride. And now her job.
Miranda hadn’t even had the grace to look ashamed when Catherine had marched straight into her office and slammed the latest copy of Pizazz! on her desk.