"He isn't yours," Francesca thundered, with more vehemence than she would have expected from herself. It was surprising because she wasn't even jealous of this woman, she didn't think. She didn't want Finlay to have written her love letters or have interrupted her day begging for more sex. She certainly didn't want Finlay alive again, if this was how he had been carrying on behind her back — if he had respected her so little and betrayed her so completely. No, her reaction wasn't about Finlay; it was about the sheer audacity of Miss Fogg to call him my Finlay to her, knowing who she was.
