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Finn stood up abruptly and Callie turned to see Rowan approaching them. Finn surprised her when he bent down and kissed her cheek, taking a moment to whisper in her ear.
‘Callie, you are part witch and part angel and all sexy. I’m leaving before I say or do anything stupid around you.’
Callie inhaled his aftershave and couldn’t help rubbing her cheek against his stubble. ‘Like …?’
‘Like suggesting that you come home with me.’
His comment wasn’t unexpected, and she knew men well enough to know that he was looking for a distraction—a way to step out of the nightmare he was currently experiencing.
Ah, dammit! She wanted to say yes, but she wasn’t going to be any man’s panacea for pain—even one as sexy as this. If they slept together she wanted it to be because he wanted her beyond all reason and not just to dull the pain, to forget, to step outside his life.
She had to be sensible and she forced the words out. ‘Sorry, Finn, that’s really not a good idea.’
Finn raked his hand through his hair. ‘I know …’He held her eyes and shrugged. ‘I really do know. Rowan, hi—I was just leaving …’
CHAPTER TWO (#u61a40592-06dd-53ef-8430-bd7125703f6e)
A HALF HOUR LATER Finn tossed down the keys to his house and stared at the coffee-coloured tiles beneath his feet for a moment. Blowing air into his cheeks, he walked through the hall and down the passage to the kitchen, yanked open the double-door fridge and pulled out a beer.
Looking over to the open-plan couch area, he saw the pillow and sheet he’d left on the oatmeal-coloured couch. He’d spent the last few nights on that couch, not sleeping. He couldn’t sleep in the bedroom—and not only because he no longer had a mattress on the bed.
Finn rubbed his forehead with the base of the cold bottle, hoping to dispel the permanent headache that had lodged in his brain since last week. Tuesday.
Along with the headache, the same horror film ran on the big screen in his mind …
God, there had been so much blood. As long as he lived he’d remember that bright red puddle on the sheets, Liz grunting beside him, as white as a sheet. He remembered calling for an ambulance and that it had seemed to take for ever to come, remembered Liz sobbing, more blood. The white walls of the hospital, the worried face of the obstetrician. Being told that they had to get Liz into surgery to make sure they didn’t lose her too.
It had taken a while for that statement to make sense, and when it had pain had ricocheted through his body and stopped at his heart. Their baby was gone. He also remembered their final conversation as he’d perched on a chair next to her bed, knowing that she was awake but not wanting to talk to him.
‘I lost the baby,’ she’d said eventually.
‘Yeah. I’m so sorry.’
Liz had shrugged, her eyes sunken in her face. ‘I feel … empty.’ She’d turned her head to look at the flowers he’d bought for her in the hospital gift shop. ‘I want to go home, Finn.’
‘The doctors say in a day or two. They want to keep an eye on you. You lost a lot of blood. Then I’ll take you home.’
Liz shook her head. ‘I want to go home—back to Durban, to my folks. We didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant so I don’t need to explain.’
She fiddled with the tape holding a drip into her vein. When she wouldn’t look at him—at all—he knew what she was about to say.
‘I don’t want to get married any more. We’ve lost the reason we were both prepared to risk it. We loved the baby but we don’t love each other—not enough to get married.’
He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘God, Liz. Why don’t we take some time to think about that?’
‘We don’t have time, Finn. And you know that I’m right. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant we would’ve split. You know it and I know it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ Liz looked at him then, finally, with pain and sadness and, yes, relief vying for control of her expression. ‘Can you cancel the wedding? Sort out the house?’
‘Sure.’ It was the least he could do.
‘And, Finn? I don’t want anyone to know that I lost the baby. Just say that we called it quits, okay?’
Now, four days later, he was sad and confused and, to add hydrochloric acid to an open wound, stuck with all the bills for a wedding that wouldn’t happen.
Finn wrestled with the dodgy lock of the door that led out to the balcony and stepped out onto the huge outdoor area. He loved this house—mostly for the tremendous view. From most rooms he had endless views of False Bay, the wildness of the Peninsular, the rocking, rolling Atlantic Ocean. Out here on the balcony he felt he could breathe.
Liz loved the house too, and because she’d spent more time here than he had it seemed as if it was more hers than his. His name might be on the mortgage agreement, but she’d furnished and decorated the place—filled it with the things that made it a home. He supposed that he’d have to go through the place and pack up her stuff—which was pretty much everything. The house would be empty. But to him it felt mostly empty anyway.
They’d tried so hard to play the part of a happy family, but innate honesty had him admitting that, while he was devastated at the loss of their child, he wasn’t heartbroken about the wedding being called off. Losing Liz didn’t feel like something that had derailed his world, and shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t he be feeling—more? More pain? More confusion? More broken-hearted?
Instead of mourning the loss of his lover he was mourning not being able to hold his child, not being a dad. Although most of his and Liz’s conversations lately had revolved around the wedding, they had obviously talked about the birth. They’d been excited—well, he’d been excited, Liz had been less so. They’d talked about what type of birth she wanted, had tossed a couple of names around, and he’d been in the process of moving his gym equipment from the third bedroom to the garage so that they could use the room as a nursery.
He felt lousy—as if his world had been tipped upside down. Was it crazy to feel so crap over losing a half-formed, half-baked person to whom he’d contributed DNA but whom he’d never met? Was this normal? Was his grief reasonable? God, he just didn’t know.
And how much of his grief was over the baby and how much of it was the residue of the pain he felt about losing James? It felt as if his heart was wrapped in a dull, grey, icy, soggy blanket. The only time he’d felt as if it had lifted—even a little bit—was earlier this evening, when he’d been talking to Callie. For some reason that crazy flirt had managed to lift his spirits. It had been a brief respite and one he’d badly needed.
Finn drank again, leaned his forearms on the railing and stared hard at his feet. He knew that most people thought that because he was a travel journalist that he was a free spirit—that he was a laid-back type of individual—but nothing could be further from the truth. He was a Third Dan black belt in Taekwondo, held a black belt in Jiu-jitsu and, like the other two, his Krav Maga also demanded immense amounts of control and discipline.
But no amount of control, self-discipline or philosophising could rationalise this pain away. Because he’d tried. He really had.
He needed time, he decided—a lot of it—to sort out his head and his heart. Time to think through all he’d recently lost. His baby, his dreams of a family, even his stepdad. He needed time to get back on his feet, to make solid decisions, to work through the emotion of the last couple of weeks, months, years.
And even though he’d been so tempted to ask Callie to come home with him—sleeping with her would have been the perfect way to step out of his head—he knew that he needed to be alone for a while, to keep women at a distance, to work through what had gone wrong with Liz and how.
Ten days, he told himself, and he would be on a plane to Kruger National Park for the first leg of his Southern Africa trip. Ten days and he could get some distance from this house, from the memory of the blood, Liz’s ashen face, from the craziness of cancelling the wedding. Ten days and he would have an excuse to avoid all the calls from his friends and family. He wouldn’t have to open the door to any of his three brothers who were taking turns to check up on him, making sure that he was okay.
Finn sighed. Ten more days. A part of him wished he was hiring a kitted-out Land Rover with rooftop tents and heading out into wild, crazy Africa. But visiting upmarket honeymoon destinations wouldn’t be a kick in the pants either.
As Callie had said, there was something to be said for licking his wounds in luxury.
If he actually got to keep the job.
The travel magazine had forked out a shedload of cash, and some of the hotels had sponsored his stay in exchange for an honest review of their honeymoon experience. He would be writing the story but he was supposed to take his wife’s opinions into consideration as he did so … except now he didn’t have a wife to take.
He had to talk to Mike, his editor—and sooner rather than later.
Tomorrow Rowan would send out a blanket email to the wedding guests on his behalf and Mike, as a guest, would receive said email and soon put two and two together. Finn scrunched up his face, annoyed that he hadn’t contacted Mike sooner. Cape Town was a small city and he might even have heard already.
Finn glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. A bit late to call, but that couldn’t be helped. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and looked up Mike’s number, sighing as he pushed the green button.
‘I wondered when you’d get around to calling me,’ Mike answered without any preamble.
Finn rubbed his forehead. ‘Yeah, it’s been a bit mad. I presume you’ve heard that the wedding is off?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
Finn heard Mike clearing his throat and jumped in before he could speak again.
‘I’d still like to do the assignment.’
‘It’s a bit pointless without a wife,’ Mike said.
‘Can’t I leave the honeymoon bit out and just write on the lodges themselves?’
‘It’s scheduled to be part of the honeymoon issue, Finn, with honeymoon and wedding advertising. The article has to concentrate on the honeymoon aspect.’
Finn swore.
Mike’s voice in his ear sounded worried and frustrated. ‘Tell me about it. I’m in a Catch-22 situation. The publisher agreed to foot the bill, as did many of the hotels, because you were writing the article. One of the world’s best adventure and travel journalists writing on honeymoons. They loved the idea. And the promo people have already started working on the edition. You’re part of that.’
Finn swore again.
‘Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’
He almost smiled, remembering Callie’s words from earlier.
Wait, hold on … What had she said?
‘Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’
Could that possibly be a solution? Taking Callie or someone else with him?
‘Can I take someone else?’ he asked Mike.
Mike’s long pause strained Finn’s patience. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not like anyone is going to ask for your wedding certificate or proof that you’re married. The two of you would just need to be seen to be having fun. Enjoying the experience. Got anyone in mind?’
He did, actually. Someone who was vivacious, charming, loud, flirtatious, possibly crazy. ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Is she someone I know?’ Mike asked slyly.
‘Judging by the way she talks to everyone and anyone, you probably do.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Let me talk to her first and see if her coming with me is an option,’ Finn said, cautious.
Instinctively he knew that taking Callie—inviting Callie—would be a very good move for him. He’d get to keep this plum assignment and he’d have the company of someone who was a bundle of fun. On that flight back from New York they hadn’t stopped talking, and Finn could see why men dropped their tongues to the floor around her. She had a surfer’s body—broad shoulders, toned arms, flat stomach and that long, curly blonde hair. But when you looked past the body and face to the brain beyond it you got the shock of your life—because the woman was bright, knowledgeable, and as sharp as a spear-tip.
At her core, she had a lust for life that was contagious. And best of all—unless something had radically changed recently—she had absolutely no interest in relationships and commitment and would be an entertaining companion. She’d be distracting enough to keep him from feeling too sorry for himself.
‘Well, talk to her and come back to me. And if you don’t take her you’ll have to take someone else to complete the assignment,’ Mike told him before disconnecting.
Finn slapped his mobile in his hand, considering all his options. He tried to be honest with himself. He had to admit that he was attracted to Callie. If they were spending time in close proximity to each other—he didn’t think that honeymoon suites came with twin beds—he’d want to sleep with her. Hell, he wanted to sleep with her now. So sue him. His heart might be battered and bruised, but his junk was in perfectly good working order.
So sleep with her. It’s not like you haven’t had flings before. She could be your rebound girl—your way to get over and through this bleak time.
She wouldn’t say yes …
How do you know unless you try?
Finn, thinking he might be going off his head, scrolled through his contacts on his mobile. Rowan would have her number and after sweet talking her out, he had Callie’s mobile number. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the green phone icon.
‘Hey, how do you feel about being my fake wife?’
The next morning Callie rushed around her apartment, trying to get ready. It was crazy that when she was travelling for work she was super-organised but when she was back home all her wheels fell off. This morning wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten to set her alarm, and now she was late for work. So she’d be late? She worked long enough and hard enough that nobody would make a fuss.
Callie pulled a pale yellow dress over her head and scrambled in her cupboards for the pair of nude sandals she wanted to wear with it. Finding them eventually—she really needed to clean out her overflowing cupboards—she smiled as she remembered the very odd conversation she’d had with Finn last night about being his fake wife.
She’d always thought that the ‘wife for hire’ premise in romance novels was odd, because she couldn’t conceive of a situation in the twenty-first century when a fake wife would ever be needed.
But gorgeous Finn needed a wife. She was sorry that she couldn’t help him out, but thanks to the eye-watering mortgage she paid each month on this flat, her job—even when she wasn’t crazy about it—always came first. Which was a shame, because she could totally see herself swanning around five-star resorts, drinking cocktails and snuggling up to her husband’s hot bod—fake … real … who cared?
With her hair and make-up done, Callie headed to the kitchen. She pulled open her fridge door with more hope than expectation and twisted her lips at the bare shelves. There was absolutely nothing to eat and she was starving.
But she knew of a house where there would be blueberry muffins and a hot pot of coffee. The downside was that she’d be even later for work than normal, but maybe she’d take the morning off, or even the day. The house was only a couple of minutes away, and a large part of the reason why she’d bought this expensive flat in this gated community.
Awelfor, red-bricked and old, was her childhood home. In it were her favourite people; Seb, her brother, her best friend and almost sister-in-law Rowan, and Yasmeen, their housekeeper.
But she was so much more than a housekeeper, Callie thought ten minutes later, when she stood in the big, bright sunny kitchen at Awelfor, bending over to hug Yasmeen. This tiny, fiery Malay woman was her north star, her homing beacon. Awelfor would not be home without her.
Yasmeen pulled away and lifted her hand to Callie’s face. Her black eyes narrowed. ‘You’re too skinny and you look tired. When are you going to spend more time on land than you do in the air? And when are you going to find a man and have some babies?’
Situation normal, Callie thought. It was fine for Yasmeen to be a spinster, but not her. Do as I say and not as I do was Yas’s position on this subject.
Callie rolled her eyes and snagged a muffin—choc chip, not blueberry, yum!—from the plate in the middle of the wooden table that dominated the kitchen.
‘Don’t nag me—nag them,’ Callie retorted, gesturing to Seb and Rowan who had walked into the kitchen, both of them wearing that just-had-spectacular-wake-up-sex look.
Lucky rats. Callie wrinkled her nose when Finn’s gorgeous face flashed onto her eyeballs. She’d love to wake up to morning sex with him.
Seb crossed the kitchen to where she perched on the corner of the table, munching her muffin. As usual, he kissed her temple and gave her a quick hug. Her brilliant, nice brother. She was so happy that he’d found Ro—that they’d found each other.
It almost, but not quite, made her believe in true love. If it existed then Seb and Ro had the best chance of experiencing it.
Callie was startled out of her musings by Yasmeen’s hand slapping her thigh. She yelped and looked at her accusingly. ‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Have you ever been allowed to sit on the table instead of at it?’ Yasmeen demanded, hands on her hips. ‘That’s what chairs are for.’
Callie pulled a face at Rowan, who was laughing at her, but jumped off the table and pulled a chair out to sit down. ‘Yas …?’ she wheedled, using her best little-girl voice.
‘Yes, I know—you want a stuffed omelette,’ Yasmeen replied, heading to the fridge.
‘You know me so well,’ Callie purred.
‘I should. You’ve had me wrapped around your little finger since you were a baby,’ Yas retorted, pulling items out of the fridge. ‘Make yourself useful and grate some cheese.’
