But of course he wouldn’t. It wasn’t that kind of deal. This was, to use her own expression—and it was one which had the power to make her giggle in a slight hysteria which she put down to hormones—a marriage of convenience. Modern or otherwise.
‘Are you wishing it was Peter?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Peter?’ To her horror she actually had to pause and think who he was talking about.
He heard the tone of her voice and his mouth thinned. That said a lot about her level of commitment, didn’t it? ‘Yeah, Peter—the man you went out with for—how long was it, Catherine? Four years?’
‘Three.’ She heard his disapproval and she couldn’t bear that he might think she had just leapt from Peter’s bed into his. ‘We hadn’t seen each other for six months before he ended it,’ she said slowly. ‘And I accepted that it was over.’ She turned wide green eyes up to his. ‘There was certainly no motive of getting my own back.’
‘I see.’ But he felt his body relax a little.
‘And besides, what about you?’ she challenged. ‘Are you sorry that it’s not Deirdra you’re marrying?’
There was a pause. ‘Deirdra’s history.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Finn.’
He supposed it didn’t. ‘It happened a long time ago.’ He shrugged. ‘We were both seventeen and discovering sex for the first time. It burnt itself out and then she went to Hollywood. End of story.’
He was describing first love, thought Catherine with a pang. And maybe for him—as for so many people—no one would ever live up to that idealised state. First love. There was nothing like it—even hard-bitten Miranda had said that.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said slowly.
He looked at her assessingly. ‘Back out now, if you want to, Catherine.’
‘No, I’m happy to go ahead with it,’ she said.
‘Well, you don’t look it,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll have to work harder than that to convince anyone.’
She fixed a smile to her glossy lips. ‘How’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ he answered, feeling an ache in his groin which he knew would not be satisfied by a traditional post-wedding night.
For directly after the ceremony they were taking the first flight back to Ireland. A car would be waiting at the airport and he was driving her to Greystones, to settle her into the house.
And after the weekend he would return to Dublin.
Alone.
Finn thought how vulnerable she looked on the plane, shaking her head and refusing his offer of a glass of champagne, her face telling him that she had nothing to celebrate.
He had to keep telling himself not to be sucked in by a pair of green eyes and a rose-pink mouth, tell himself instead that Catherine Walker had a bewitching power which hid her true nature. And that beauty combined with burgeoning life could fool a man into thinking she was something different. And, while she might not have conspired to humiliate him publicly, she had still deliberately kept from him the fact that she was a journalist.
‘Won’t your mother think it strange that you didn’t tell her about the wedding?’ he asked, as the car left Dublin and began to eat up the miles leading towards the coast.
‘Lots of people go away and get married without telling anyone these days.’
‘She won’t pry?’
‘I’ll have to tell her the truth—that I’m pregnant,’ she said flatly. ‘She’ll understand.’ Oh, yes—her mother would understand that all right.
‘And when are you going to inform her that you’ve acquired a husband?’
Acquired a husband! He made it sound like something from a Victorian novel! ‘When I’m…settled.’
‘Soon?’ he demanded.
She nodded. ‘Once I’ve been at Greystones for a couple of days.’ Catherine stole a look at Finn’s dark profile. ‘Have you told your aunt, or any of your friends?’