The Honeymoon Arrangement

She had amused him, she remembered, and that was okay. He’d looked as if he needed to laugh more. And, more worryingly, those hours she’d spent with him were the last she’d spent in any concentrated, one-on-one time with a man.

Maybe she was losing her mojo.

‘So, how long are you in the country for this time?’

Rowan changed the subject and Callie sighed with disappointment. She wanted to gossip a bit more about the luscious Finn.

As a fashion buyer for an upmarket chain of fashion stores Callie was rarely in the country, constantly ducking in and out of the fashion capitals of Europe and in New York and LA. Trips back home were rarely for more than a week or two—three if she was at the end of a three-month rotation. Wasn’t she due for a three-week break soon? Hmm … she’d have to check.

‘I’m flying out to Paris in a little while and will be away for a week.’

‘Aren’t you sick of it, Cal? The airports, the travelling, the craziness?’ Rowan asked. ‘I could never imagine going back to my old lifestyle, kicking it around the world.’

‘But, honey, you stayed in grotty hostels and hotels. I travel the easy way—business class seats, expensive hotels, drivers, upmarket restaurants and clubs.’

Rowan had been a backpacker—a true traveller. Callie wasn’t half as adventurous as her friend; unlike Rowan she’d never visited anywhere that wasn’t strictly First World.

Upmarket First World. She was that type of girl.

Callie frowned. Rowan had a look in her eye that told her that she was about to say something she wouldn’t like. She’d been on the receiving end of that dark-eyed look many times since her childhood and she leaned back in her chair, resigned. ‘I know that look. What’s wrong?’

Rowan pulled in a long breath. ‘I don’t know … I’m just concerned. Worried about you.’

Callie fought the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Why?’

Rowan stared down at her hands. ‘Because … um …’

‘Jeez—just spit it out, Rowan,’ Callie said, impatient.

Rowan’s eyes flashed at her command. ‘Well, okay, then. Seb and I are concerned because we think you might be becoming … what’s the word? … brittle, maybe.’

What? ‘Why?’

‘You gobble up life, Cal, like nobody else. You love people and you talk to anyone. Within two seconds everyone adores you and wants to be your best friend. You are the only person I know who can walk into a party and within half an hour have everyone doing shots and then the conga. Men want you and girls want to be you.’

Well, that was an exaggeration—but it was nice that Rowan thought so. ‘So where does the worry and the brittle part come into it?’

‘Being bubbly and funny and outrageous has always been a part of you, but we sort of feel like you’ve been acting lately. It’s almost as if you’re trying a bit too hard …’

‘I am not!’

Callie instantly denied the accusation. Except that Rowan’s words stung hard enough for her to know it was the truth. And hadn’t her recent actions shown her how hard she now had to work to dredge up the flirty, party-hearty girl when it had used to be constantly and consistently easy for her?

Maybe she was getting old. Or bored. Or maybe she just needed sex. Or all three.

Rowan traced the pattern of a bold flower on the tablecloth with her finger. ‘I read an article the other day about people feeling out of sorts as they approach thirty,’ Rowan explained. ‘Maybe you’re wondering if you’re on the right path, whether your life makes sense.’

‘Of course my life makes sense,’ Callie retorted.

She earned spectacular money doing a job she could do with her eyes closed, she was constantly meeting new people, buzzing from cosmopolitan city to cosmopolitan city. Dinner in Paris … lunch in Rome. Looking at beautiful clothes and making the decisions on what to buy and for whom. She dated cosmopolitan, successful men.

She loved her job. She’d always loved her job. She still loved her job … okay, mostly loved her job. She’d been doing it for a long time—she was allowed to feel iffy about it occasionally.

Over the last six months the designers seemed to have become a lot more diva-ish, the cities a bit grimier, the hotel rooms even more soulless than normal. The men more man-scaped than she liked and a great deal more bland.

Maybe she needed a holiday. Or an affair …

‘And how’s your love-life, Cal? Who’s the lucky guy of the moment?’

There Rowan went again—reading her mind. When you’d been friends with someone for more than a quarter of a century it happened. Often.

Callie sipped her wine before answering. ‘I’m currently single …’

‘You’re always single,’ Rowan corrected her.

‘Okay, if you’re going to be pedantic then I’ll say that I’m currently not sleeping with anyone. Is that better?’

She dated lots of different men and slept with very few of them. Despite her party-girl, flirt-on-two-legs reputation she was very careful who she took into her bed. And she usually found out, during dinner or drinks, that they were married, bi, involved, arrogant or narcissistic. So she normally went to bed alone.

‘Marginally. So why aren’t you tearing up the sheets with some hunk?’ Rowan asked.

Callie twisted her lips. ‘Not sure, actually. Nobody has interested me for a while.’

Rowan shoved her tongue into her cheek. ‘How long is a while? A week? A month?’

Callie looked at Rowan and tried to ignore the flash of hurt. She knew that Ro was teasing, but saying it like that made her sound like a slut—and she wasn’t. She really wasn’t. She didn’t bed-hop or treat sex casually, but neither was she a nun.

‘I haven’t slept with anyone for about five, maybe six months,’ she admitted quietly.

Rowan instantly looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to sound judgemental. Teasing, maybe—judgy, no.’ Rowan waited a beat before speaking again. ‘Why not, Cal? You like men and men like you.’

Callie wished she could answer her but she couldn’t—not really. Like her avoiding the party scene and her occasional dissatisfaction with her job there was no reason—nothing she could put her finger on. She just hadn’t met anyone lately whom she wanted in her bed … in her body. Nobody she liked enough to make the effort.

She just couldn’t put her finger on why, and she was getting a bit tired of her self-imposed celibacy. She liked sex—she needed sex.

‘I genuinely don’t know, Ro. It just hasn’t happened lately and I refuse to force it.’ Callie shrugged before sitting up straight and putting a smile of her face. ‘Anyway, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll find someone sooner or later who I’ll want to tumble with. In the meantime I have a great, interesting life.’

Rowan bit her lip—a sure sign that she was about to say something that Callie might not like.

‘Is it possible that your life is too great?’

‘Huh? What?’ Callie wrinkled her nose, puzzled.

‘Your life is so busy, so crazy, and you are so virulently independent—do you have any room in it for a man? A lover? Someone who might be something more than a temporary arrangement? Can it be, darling Cal, that you’re too self-sufficient and busy for your own good? Or is it a defence mechanism?’

Okay, had Rowan acquired a psychology degree along with her engagement ring? What was this all about?

‘What is wrong with you? I came out for a drink—not to be analysed.’

Rowan pulled a face. ‘We both had screwed-up childhoods, Cal. My parents and their inability to see me—your mum leaving when you were a little girl. Our push-the-envelope crazy antics got worse and worse the older we got and ended up with you writing off your car when you were eighteen. I landed in jail shortly afterwards.’

‘Just for a weekend.’

‘That was long enough. That was a hell of year, wasn’t it?’ Rowan shook her head at the memory.

It had been a hell of a year, indeed, Callie agreed silently.

‘After both incidents we … settled down, I suppose. We’re so much better adults than we were kids,’ Rowan continued.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Callie muttered. All she knew for sure was that she’d felt more alive when she was a kid and a wild teenager than she did now. Right now she just felt … blah. Not brittle—just blah. As if she was a cardboard cut-out of herself.

Rowan sent her a quick, worried look. ‘While we’re on the subject of your mother, I need to tell you that …’

They were on the subject of her mother? Since when? And, oh, hell no—they were not going to go there. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Her mother was long, long gone and not worth wasting time and energy discussing. They most certainly were not on this subject and would never be …

Good try, Ro.

Callie quickly shook her head. ‘Don’t.’

Rowan held her stare and Callie knew that she was debating whether to get pushy and pursue the topic. Luckily Rowan’s mobile rang and she scooped it up off the table. Judging by the soft look on her face, she quickly deduced that it was her brother Seb on the other end, cooing into her ear. She genuinely loved the fact that Seb and Rowan were so unabashedly happy, but their sappiness frequently made her feel queasy.

She couldn’t imagine acting like that—being so intertwined, so in tune with another person. It just wasn’t her.

Callie looked up when a hand touched her shoulder and saw Jim, the owner of the bar, smiling down at her. He bent to kiss one cheek and then the other, and when he was done she allowed his big fingers to hold her chin.

‘Where have you been, hun?’

‘Here and there.’

‘We’ve missed you,’ Jim stated.

Callie grinned. ‘You’ve missed me starting tequila shooter competitions which invariably turn into massive parties which lead to your till feeling very full at the end of the evening.’

‘That too.’ Jim dropped his hand and tipped his head, his expression enquiring. ‘Listen, I’ve got guys at the bar wanting to buy you a drink. You up for company or must I tell them you’re not interested?’

Callie didn’t bother looking at the bar. She just wanted to talk to Rowan and, if she was lucky, say hi to Finn Banning again. She shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood, Jim—and, besides, I told Rowan that I’d keep a low profile tonight and behave myself.’

‘Why do I suspect that that is very difficult for you to do?’

Callie heard the deep, dark voice and whipped her head around to look up and into Finn’s face. Tired, she thought, but still oh, so sexy. Purple shadows were painted beneath his eyes and his face looked drawn and thinner. His back and shoulders were taut with tension and his mouth was a slash in his face. She wanted to kiss him and cuddle him at the same time. And she thought that he needed the cuddling a lot more than he needed the kissing.

The last couple of days had clearly put him through the wringer. Experiencing that kind of pain, Callie thought, being that miserable, was why she never got emotionally involved. She’d experienced emotional devastation once before and it wasn’t something she ever wanted to deal with again.

However, despite looking like a love refugee, he still looked good. Sage and white striped shirt over faded blue jeans and flat-soled boots. Curls that looked wild from, she guessed, fingers constantly being shoved into them, and a four-day beard. Tough, hard, stoic—and more than a smidgeon miserable.

Yeah, there was that tingle, that bounce in her heart’s step, the womb-clench and the slowly bubbling blood. This was what pure attraction—lust—felt like, she remembered. This crazy, want-to-lick-you-silly feeling she’d been missing.

Jim melted away and Finn looked at her with those sexy light eyes. She felt her face flush, her breath hitch.

Sexy, hot, sad man. What she wouldn’t do to make him smile—she needed to make him smile.

‘Now, why would you think that?’ Callie asked him, projecting as much innocence as she could.

He slapped his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at her and she hoped he couldn’t tell that her heart was thumping in excitement. He pulled his lips up into a smile which tried but didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

‘The passage to the bathroom facilities is covered in framed photographs of the parties that have happened here. Not so strangely, you are in most of them—front and centre. Oh, yeah, you’re just trouble looking for a place to happen.’

Callie batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes inviting him to laugh with her … at her. ‘My daddy told me that talent shouldn’t ever be wasted.’

‘Your daddy is probably on Prozac.’ The smile lifted higher and brushed his eyes.

Progress, she thought.

He shook his head, bemused. ‘Trouble. With a capital T. In flashing neon lights.’

Callie left Rowan and Finn discussing the dissolution of all his wedding plans—his eyes had gone back to being flat and miserable, dammit!—and went to sit on a small table on the outside deck, overlooking the harbour. On the mountain behind her lights from the expensive houses twinkled and a cool breeze skittered over the sea, raising goosebumps on her bare arms.

She tucked herself into her favourite corner, out of sight of the bar patrons, and put her feet up on the railing. The sea swished below her feet.

The noise from the bar had increased in volume and, as Finn had observed earlier, usually she’d be in the thick of the action—calling for shots, cranking up the music, and dancing … on the floor, on a bar stool or on the bar itself.

Nobody could ever call her a wallflower, and if they had to then she’d be an exotic one—climbing the wall with her brightly coloured petals and holding a loud hailer.

Where had she gone, that perfect party girl, loud and fearless? She’d cultivated the persona after the car accident—after she’d made a promise to her father and brother to pull herself away from the edge of destruction. It was the only way she’d been able to find the attention she’d craved and she’d got it—especially from men.

She got a lot of attention from men. Apparently it was because, as a previous lover had once told her, men felt good when they were with her: stronger, bolder, more alpha.

Whatever.

But Rowan was wrong. She didn’t need a man in her life. Her life was fine—perfect, almost. She had absolutely nothing to complain about. She loved her life, loved her job, the world was her oyster and her pearl and the whole damn treasure chest. She liked her life, liked being alone, being independent, answerable only to herself. Her life was super-shiny. It didn’t need additional enhancement.

Besides, as she had learned along the way, to a lot of the men she dated she was a prize to be conquered, a body to possess, a will to be bent. They loved the thrill of the chase and then, because, she didn’t do anything but casual, they ended up getting competitive—thought they could be the one to get her to settle down, to commit. That they were ‘the man’—had the goods, the bigger set of balls.

They tried to get her to play the role of lover or girlfriend and she always refused. And when their attention became a bit too pointed—when they showed the first signs of jealousy and possessiveness—she backed off. All the way off.

She’d never met a man she couldn’t live without, couldn’t leave behind. And if she ever had the slightest inkling that she might feel something deeper for someone she was dating she called it quits. She told him that her life was too hectic, too crazy for a relationship, and that wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

She always left before she could be left. It was that simple and that complicated.

Thanks, Mother.

Callie rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, noticing that a headache that was brewing. Too much thinking, Callie. Maybe you do need a good party after all.

A brief touch on her shoulder had her jumping and she whirled around. Finn. She put her hand on her heart and managed a smile.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you—you were miles away.’ He held a beer bottle loosely in his hand; his other was in the pocket of his jeans. He had a couple of masculine leather and bead bracelets on one wrist and a high-tech watch on the other.

‘Hi.’ Callie waved him to an empty chair at her table and looked past him into the restaurant. ‘Where’s Rowan?’

‘She met someone she knew at the bar.’ Finn yanked the chair out and sat down, stretching his longs legs out in front of him. ‘You okay?’

‘Shouldn’t I be asking that of you?’ Callie replied. She leaned forward and asked softly, gently, ‘What happened with your fiancée?’

Pain flickered in and out of his eyes. ‘You are the nosiest woman I’ve ever met,’ he complained, after taking a long pull of his beer.

‘I am—but that doesn’t mean I’m not deeply sorry that it happened. Besides, men usually love talking about themselves,’ Callie replied.

‘Not this one,’ Finn replied.

Okay. Back off now, Hollis. Give him some space. ‘Can Rowan help you sort out the mess of cancelling the wedding?’

‘Luckily, she can. I was just going through the final non-arrangements with her; people are sympathetic but they still need to be paid. Understandable, since pretty much everything that needed to be ordered has already been ordered.’

‘I bet Rowan refused to be paid,’ Callie said on a small smile. ‘She has a heart as big as the sun.’

Finn nodded. ‘She did, but she will be—just like everyone else. It’s not her fault that things went pear-shaped.’

Pear-shaped? Callie lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Pretty tame word for being jilted. ‘So, what happened?’ she probed again. Yeah, she was nosy—but this man needed to talk … he needed a friend. Who wouldn’t, in his situation? She might be nosy but she could also be a damn good listener.

Finn shook his head. ‘I know that you use your eyes as weapons of interrogation, but I’m not going to go there with you.’

Fair enough, Callie thought. He had a right to his secrets. She just hoped that he had someone to talk to—to work this through with.

Finn rolled his head in an effort to release some of the tension in his shoulders. He tapped his index finger against his thigh. ‘I can tell you that my biggest hassle is that I landed a pretty sweet gig—writing articles about the best honeymoon destinations in Southern Africa. Liz and I were going to spend three weeks travelling … a few days at each destination. My publisher is not going to be happy that I’m doing it solo.’

Callie leaned forward and made a performance of batting her eyelashes. ‘Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’

Finn managed a small grin. ‘I’m violently allergic to the word “wife”—even a pretend one.’

‘Well, at least you’d be miserable in comfort.’

‘If I end up keeping the assignment—which I very well might not.’ Finn ran his hands over his short hair and blew out his breath. ‘So, tell me why you’re sitting here in the dark instead of causing chaos in the bar?’

Callie could clearly see that he’d closed the door on any further discussion about his non-wedding. She looked down into her drink and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not in the mood to be …’

‘Hit on all night?’

‘That too. And someone walked in about fifteen minutes ago who I kind of said I might call. We made plans to have supper, then I had to fly to Milan on short notice—’

‘Fashion-buying emergency?’

Callie lifted her nose at him in response to his gentle sarcasm. ‘Something like that. And I lost his number, and I’m …’

‘Not that interested any more?’

She bit her lip. ‘Yeah. Not that interested.’ She looked out across the ocean to the silver moon that hung low in the sky. She saw the craters, picked out the shape of the rabbit, and sighed.

When she dropped her head her eyes met Finn’s and impulsively she reached out and tangled her fingers in his. She ignored the flash of heat, the rocketing attraction. It wasn’t the time or the place.

‘I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m so sorry for whatever happened that’s put such sadness in your eyes.’

Finn licked his lips before staring at the ocean. ‘Well, it’s not rocket science. I was supposed to be getting married in less than two weeks.’

Callie shook her head, knowing that whatever it was that had mashed up his heart it was more than just losing his ex. ‘I think that getting over her will be a lot easier than getting over whatever else has happened.’

Finn’s eyes widened and she was surprised when he managed a low, harsh chuckle. He picked at the label on his bottle, not meeting her eyes. ‘We changed our minds, decided that marriage wasn’t what we wanted—that’s all that happened.’

No, it wasn’t. But Callie wasn’t going to argue with him. ‘Well, I am so, so sorry—because it’s hurt you badly.’

And for some strange reason the thought of you being hurt makes me feel physically ill.

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

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.’