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Finn shot to his feet, causing the nasty congealing mess to spill onto his shoes.

Emily surveyed the damage and felt a pleasant glow of malicious satisfaction. Her only regret was that the shoes weren't the hideously expensive handmade numbers he often wore. Today he'd ditched the sharp formality of expensive tailoring in favor of the casual look.

Six feet five inches of lean, athletic muscularity, Finn looked incredible in anything he wore. The gene pool had been kind to him: along with the curly dark eyelashes and stunning blue Irish eyes he'd inherited from his mother, Finn had been blessed with his Italian grandfather's classical profile and warm, golden Mediterranean coloring.

"What is this?" The initial shock over, Finn looked fastidiously disgusted, but rigidly in control.

Antipathy flared afresh in Emily's tight chest as their eyes met and clashed. "Oysters, duck in raspberry sauce, asparagus, baby new potatoes and, oh, profiteroles ? all your favorites."

Maeve, who'd always been under the impression her ex's schoolteacher wife was boringly placid, gasped at the sheer audacity of this provocative response.

Maeve looked up to check out how Finn was taking it; she knew he was less bothered than most men by the idea of looking foolish, but even he had his limits. She was shocked and a little envious to discover that Finn's burning, distracted gaze was fixed on the area where two buttons of his wife's long shapeless coat had parted to reveal a sliver of slim pale thigh.

"Thanks, but I've already eaten," Finn returned thickly. His concentration was totally shot wondering what, if anything, Emily had on under her coat.

"It was so considerate of you to let me know."

"Something came up."

For Finn this was quite an elaborate explanation.

"So I see," Emily sneered, glaring with unambiguous animosity at the older woman, who looked embarrassed.

"Emily!" Finn's voice was harsh with warning.

Emily watched Maeve stand up; a man's woman, all sleek, slinky, and oozing sex appeal. "I'll leave you two to..."

"No, Don't go, Maeve!" Finn appealed as his ex-wife shrugged on a fur-trimmed coat.

Misery tightened like a fist around Emily's heart. He'd never begged her to do anything: Finn demanded and she, like the besotted, love-sick fool she was, gave ? and gave, and gave...

"If she doesn't go, I will," Emily, close to bursting into tears, announced belligerently.

Mouthing "sorry" to a furious looking Finn, Maeve slipped tactfully away.

"You put Maeve in an impossible position," Finn censured icily as the door closed.

"You put me in an impossible position when you carried on working with your ex-wife on a daily basis after we were married. I don't expect you not to see her," she admitted, trying to be fair. "You have a child together?"

"Not again!" Finn groaned. "I've told you, it doesn't matter to me whether or not you and I can have children." He knew from bitter experience that Emily wouldn't believe him.

Now was her chance to tell him. Emily opened her mouth and heard herself say.

"Are you sleeping with Maeve, Finn?"

To be continued...



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