The words stayed in his mind as he rode up in the lift, and an odd sort of smile twisted his lips. Of course everything she said would drip with sexual innuendo—because it sure as hell was pretty much all they had really shared.
Sex.
But still he felt the unwilling burn of excitement just thinking about it.
Catherine had enough time to zip round her mouth with her electric toothbrush and then drag a comb through her long, mussed-up hair. The over-sized tee shirt which fell to an unflattering length at mid-knee she would just have to live with.
She cast a despairing glance in the mirror. At least she couldn’t be accused of being a femme fatale.
Then her face paled as she heard the lift door open, and all flippancy fled as she remembered just why he was here. Femme fatale, indeed. As if he would look at her with anything but contempt after what had happened!
She opened the door before he had time to knock, and the first thing he thought was how pale her face looked without make-up. The second was that the baggy tee shirt did absolutely nothing to conceal the tight little buds of her nipples which thrust against the soft material. He felt himself harden.
‘How lovely to see you!’ she said brightly—which was true. Because he looked heart-stoppingly gorgeous in a pair of faded jeans and a sweater in a washed-out blue colour which made his eyes seem even more intense than usual. Her heart started crashing in her chest and she tensed in expectation, wondering how he was going to express himself.
Withering contempt? she wondered. Or blistering invective? But as she waited for the storm to rage over her, her pulse began to race in response to the confusing messages she was getting. He was carrying flowers. Strange, beautiful flowers, the like of which she had never seen before. With long white-green petals and dark leaves.
Flowers?
Finn gave a rueful shrug of his shoulders. ‘Sorry. It’s a pretty unsociable hour to call, I know,’ he murmured. ‘And it looks like I just got you out of bed.’
She found herself blushing and hated herself for it. Why draw attention to a remembered intimacy which now seemed as false as a mirage? ‘No, no—I’ve been awake for hours.’ Which also was true; she certainly hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch since she had returned from her fateful trip to Dublin.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in, Catherine?’ His tone was as soft as the paw of a tiger moving stealthily through the jungle.
‘You want to come in?’ she questioned stupidly. Well, of course he did—no doubt a man of his status would object to a slanging match where the occupants of the nearby apartments were in danger of hearing!
He gave a half-smile. ‘Is this how you usually react when lovers appear on your doorstep offering you flowers?’
He handed her the flowers but she barely registered their beauty—because all her attention had focused on that one hopeful word he had uttered.
Lovers.
That didn’t sound past tense, did it? Which meant not one, but two things. That he couldn’t possibly have read the article, and that possibly—just possibly—he wanted to carry on where they had left off in Ireland. But did she?
Of course she did! Just the sight of him was making her mind take flight into a flower-filled fantasy world where it was just her and Finn. Finn and her. Uttering a silent prayer of thanks, she swallowed down her excitement as she stared at the exotic blooms.
‘They’re for me?’ she asked, even more stupidly.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you think I’d be so insensitive as to turn up here carrying flowers for someone else?’
‘I suppose not.’ She smiled, hardly daring to acknowledge the growing pleasure which was slowly warming her blood, so that she felt as if she was standing in front of a roaring fire. ‘Come in,’ she said, and drew the door open. She thrust her nose into the forgotten blooms as the most delicious and beguiling scent filled her nostrils. ‘These are absolutely gorgeous,’ she breathed. ‘Just gorgeous. And so unusual.’ She turned wide green eyes to his. ‘What are they?’
His voice was careless. ‘Mock orange blossom.’
‘You mean as opposed to real orange blossom?’ she joked.
‘Something like that.’
She’d never seen mock orange blossom on the stalls of her local flower market, but perhaps Finn Delaney had stopped to buy them in one of the more exclusive department stores. She smiled again, not bothering to hide her delight. ‘I’ll go and put them in water—please, make yourself at home.’ Did that sound too keen? she wondered as she went off to the kitchen to find a vase.
Oh, who cared? Wasn’t a man who turned up on your doorstep first thing on a Saturday morning bearing flowers being more than a little keen himself?
Maybe he felt the same as she did, deep down. That the time they had shared in Greece, and then in Dublin, hinted at a promise too good to just let go.
Humming happily beneath her breath, she filled a vase with water.
Finn prowled around the sitting room like a caged tiger, noting the decor with the eye of a man used to registering detail and analysing it.