He let out a barely perceptible sigh. ‘There’s enough food to sink a battleship. I asked Aisling to come in and stock up on groceries. We don’t have to go out all weekend, if we don’t want to.’
Catherine’s smile faded and she couldn’t quite work out whether she felt excitement or terror. What did that mean? she wondered, with a slight tinge of hysteria. That play-acting as honeymooners was going to extend as far as the bedroom?
‘Go and sit down, Catherine,’ he commanded softly. ‘And I’ll bring this through.’
His face was unreadable in the dying light of the day, and rather dazedly Catherine obeyed him, sinking down onto one of the squashy sofas while she struggled not to project too much. There was no point in working out what she would do if he suggested bed when the circumstance might never arise!
He brought the tea in and poured her a cup.
‘Is today a sugar day, or not?’ he asked gravely.
She bit back a smile, stupidly pleased that he had remembered. ‘Not. My cravings seem to have settled down into something approaching a normal appetite.’ She waited until she had drunk some of the tea, then put the cup down. ‘Finn?’
‘Catherine?’
‘How often do you come to stay here?’
‘Not often enough,’ he admitted. ‘I keep meaning to spend weekends here, to get a breath of sea-air and a bit of simple living to blow the cobwebs away, but…’ His words tailed off.
‘But?’
‘Oh, you know what it’s like. Life seems to get in the way of plans.’
Yes, she knew what it was like—or rather what it had been like. But she was beginning a whole new life now, and a whole new future. And not just in terms of the baby. She was going to be living in Finn’s cottage as his quasi-wife and she didn’t have a clue about what role she was supposed—or wanted—to fulfil! Make up the rules as we go along, he had said, but surely that was easier than he suggested?
But for the baby’s sake she cleared her thoughts of concern and settled down to drink her tea.
He saw the softening of her face, and the look of serenity which made a Madonna of her, and found himself wondering how many different masks she wore. Or was her pregnancy just making him project his own idealised version of her as the future mother of his child? That she was soft and caring and vulnerable…rather than the cynical and go-getting journalist.
Life is evidence-based, Finn, he reminded himself grimly. Just think of the evidence. She wears different masks, that’s all. Just as all women do.
He stood up. ‘I’ll light the fire,’ he said shortly.
Catherine felt unreal and disconnected as he created a roaring blaze from the logs in the basket, and warmth and light transformed the room just as dusk crept upon the early evening air. The flames cast
shadows which flickered over the long, denim-clad thighs and she remembered their powerful strength in different guises. Running through a Greek sea. Naked and entwined with hers.
He looked up to find her watching him, her slim body sprawled comfortably on the sofa, and the temptation to join her and to kiss her almost overwhelmed him. He knew that in her arms he could forget all his doubts and misgivings about the bizarre situation they had created for themselves.
But wouldn’t being intimate with her tonight make a bizarre situation even more so? Confuse and muddy the waters?
He caught her eye but she quickly looked away, as if uncomfortable, and Finn was forced to acknowledge that things had changed, that there was no guarantee that Catherine wanted him in that way any more. Not after everything that had happened.
Later she unpacked, and Finn cooked them supper, and afterwards they listened to Irish radio until she began to yawn and escaped to her bedroom. Her senses and thoughts were full of him. All she could think about was how much she wanted him.
And how much easier everything would be if she didn’t.
But, after a surprisingly sleep-filled night alone on the big, soft feather mattress, the morning dawned bright and sunny. After breakfast Finn took her down to the beach to look at the boats and to walk along the sand, then afterwards to meet his aunt.
Her heart was beating nervously as they approached the house. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Finola.’
‘I bet she’ll take an instant dislike to me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Catherine—she’s hardly going to hate a woman I bring home and introduce as my wife, now, is she? She loves me; she wants me to be happy.’
Happy? What an ironic choice of word.