Finn's Pregnant Bride. Sharon Kendrick

is available…though his diary is very full today.’

      Which Catherine suspected was a gentle way of telling her that it was unlikely the great man would deign to speak to her. Regretting ever having shown Miranda his photo, or having foolhardily agreed to get on a plane in the first place, she pressed the receiver to her ear.

      Another click.

      ‘Catherine?’

      It was the lilting voice of honey pouring over shaved gravel which she remembered so well. ‘Hi, Finn—it’s me—remember?’

      Of course he remembered. He’d remembered her for several sweat-sheened and restless nights. A few nights too long. And that had been that. He’d moved on, hadn’t expected to hear from her again. Nor, it had to be said, had he particularly wanted to. The completion of one deal made room for another, and he had the devil of a project to cope with now. Finn dealt with his life by compartmentalising it, and Catherine Walker belonged in a compartment which was little more than a mildly pleasing memory. The last thing he needed at the moment was feminine distraction.

      ‘Of course I remember,’ he said cautiously. ‘This is a surprise.’

      A stupid, stupid surprise, thought Catherine as she mentally kicked herself. ‘Well, you did say to get in touch if I happened to be in Dublin—’

      ‘And you’re in Dublin now?’

      ‘I am.’ She waited.

      Finn leaned back in his chair. ‘For how long?’

      ‘Just the weekend. I…er…I picked up a cheap flight and just flew out on a whim.’

      Maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing in the world, but he could do absolutely nothing about his body’s reaction. And his body, it seemed, reacted very strongly to the sound of Catherine Walker’s crisp English accent, coupled with the memory of her soft, curved body pressed against his chest.

      ‘And you want a guide? Am I right?’

      ‘Oh, I’m quite capable of discovering a city on my own,’ answered Catherine. ‘Your secretary said that you were busy.’

      He looked at the packed page in front of him. ‘And so I am,’ he breathed with both regret and relief, glad that she hadn’t expected him to suddenly drop everything. ‘But I’m free later. How about if we meet for dinner tonight? Or are you busy?’

      For one sane and sensible moment Catherine felt like saying that, yes, she was busy. Terribly busy, thank you very much. She need not see him, nor lay herself open to his particular brand of devastating charm. In fact, she could go away and write up Miranda’s article, and…