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‘Look, Finn….’ She sighed softly. ‘I know you want to win this race and you’ve held the title for four years, but positioned at the back…? It’s too risky an endeavour for even you to try and take the lead. I don’t think anyone has ever done it before.’
If that wasn’t a red rag to a bull he didn’t know what was. He was also pretty sure being careful wasn’t the name of the game.
‘So just try and get a decent finish and come back here with the car in one piece, okay?’
For a second he thought he saw fear blanch her flawless complexion. Fear for him. And something warm and heavenly unfurled in his guts. Until he realised she merely wanted the car back in one piece. Idiot.
‘Yes, boss,’ he said, with a cheeky salute as he sealed up the front of his suit.
‘Good,’ she said, and the word belied the cynicism in her eyes. ‘Now, get your backside in that car and let’s see some St George magic.’
Walk away. Finn. Walk away and stop playing with her like this. You cannot have her!
‘You think I’m magic?’
‘I think you display a certain amount of talent on the track, yes.’
‘My talents—
‘If what is about to come about of your mouth has any reference to bedroom antics I will knock your block off.’
Finn cocked a mocking brow. ‘I wasn’t about to say anything of the sort. My, my—haven’t we got a dirty mind?’
‘Liar,’ she growled, long and low, like a little tigress, and he almost lost his footing as he backed out of the garage.
How did the woman do it? Make him feel alive for the first time in months. Make his smile feel mischievous and his body raw and sexual when no other woman could.
Narrowing her glare, she lifted one finger and shook it. ‘I don’t like that smile, Finn. I really don’t. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever stunt you’re about to pull…’
The scorching rays hit his nape, the crowds chanted his name and he unloaded his charismatic arsenal and licked his lips. ‘Trust me, baby.’ Slanting her a wink that made her blink, he veered towards the Scott Lansing race car. ‘Trust me.’
Finn was sure she muttered something like, Not in this millennia, and he smiled ruefully. If she had any sense she’d remember that.
Inhaling long and deep, he infused his mind with the addictive scents of hot rubber and potent fumes that stroked the air—as addictive and scintillating as the warm, delicious redhead he’d left back at the garage.
Within ten minutes he was packed tight behind the wheel, the circuit a dribble of glistening molasses ahead of him, pushing his foot to the floor until the groans and grunts of the powerful machine electrified his flesh. Oh, yeah, he was a predator, with a thirst for the high-octane side of life, the thrill of the chase. One goal—to win.
Pole position. Middle or back. Dangerous or not. Didn’t matter to him.
This race was his.
Trust him. Trust him?
‘What the blazes is he doing?’ It was, quite literally, like waiting for the inevitable car crash.
One of the engineers whistled through his teeth. ‘Look at that guy go. Phenomenal, isn’t he?’
‘Crazy, more like,’ she muttered. Zero self-preservation. Zero!
More than once she heard the pit-lane channel go silent and probably wouldn’t have thought anything of it—if she hadn’t noticed him do that thing last night and this morning. Almost phasing out as some kind of darkness haunted his gaze. It was disturbing since he was renowned for his awesome ability to concentrate with such focus that nothing else existed but his car hugging the tarmac.
A battalion of bugs crawled up her spine and she glanced back at the shaded screen hanging in the garage.
‘Grand Hotel Hairpin. Just ahead of him. Holy Toledo! It’s a pile-up.’
Her heart careening into cardiac arrest, she held her breath, waiting for the iconic red Scott Lansing car to clear the haze of dust and debris. Come on, come on. Stuff the car. Don’t you dare kill yourself. I will never forgive you.
Serena wondered at that. Decided it was because she hadn’t managed to coax the truth about Tom’s death out of him yet. Tom, who should be here. Racing in this race. Doing what he’d loved best.
A fist of sorrow gripped her heart. Too young. He’d been just too young to die. And despite everything Finn was too young to be chasing death too.
She had to swallow in order to speak. ‘Where is Jake?’ With a bit of luck he had more sense.
‘Still holding fifth.’
A cackle of relieved laughter hit her eardrum as Finn’s car flew past the devastation to take third place.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, breathless and more than a bit dizzy.
‘I do.’ Her dad stood alongside her now, his attention fixed on the same screen. ‘Whatever you said to him has obviously worked, Serena. What did you say?’
‘That I was his new boss.’
Michael Scott’s head whipped round with comical speed. ‘What?’
‘Worked, hasn’t it?’ she said, knowing full well that her impulsive mouth had nothing to do with it.
Finn danced to his own tune, had his own agenda front and foremost. Moreover, just watching him race like this—with the ultimate skill and talent—made her even more certain there was more to his crashes and sporadic losses than met the eye. But for some reason today he was mostly focused.
‘He’s taking second place with one lap to go! It’s gonna be tight, though.’
She snorted. ‘He doesn’t want to lose the Monaco title.’ Then she squeezed her eyes shut as he almost rammed into the Nemesis Hart driver, swerved to avoid a crash and clipped his front wing off instead.
‘Whoa—there goes the car coming back in one piece.’
Stomach turning over, she shoved her hands into her back pockets to watch the last minute on screen.
Heck’s teeth, he was going to do it…
Admiration and awe prised their way through the hate locked in her chest. The man was amazing.
‘Half a second. Unbelievable!’ someone yelled.
A warm shower of relief rained down from her nape and her entire body went lax.
The crowd erupted with a tremendous roar and chanted his name: ‘Fi-in Fi-in Fi-in.’ Every mechanic and engineer ran out into the scorching rays and Michael Scott—who hadn’t hugged her since she was fourteen years old, when she’d been broken and torn and his face had been etched with fury and pain—turned round, picked her up and spun her around the floor.
She imagined it was how a ballerina felt—spinning, twirling, dancing on air. Her beauty delicate, feminine. Nothing like her.
Before she even had a chance to wrap her arms around his neck, to bask in this inconceivable show of affection, to actually feel his love, he abruptly let go and jogged into the pit lane.
Swaying on her feet, she swallowed hard—told herself for the millionth time in her life not to be upset. That she mustn’t be angry with him for not wanting to be close to her. It was just the way he was. He only knew how to deal with boys.
‘Come on, Serena, get a grip, get busy, move on,’ he’d say. ‘Boys don’t cry.’
Okay, then. Get busy. Move on.
Except alone now, with the dark shadows creeping over her skin like poison ivy, she felt…lost. Grappling with the annoying sense that she was forgetting something.
Oh.
This was the part where she ran out to Tom.
Cupping her hand, she covered her mouth, gritted her teeth and tensed her midriff to stop the sob threatening to rip past her throat. No. No!
She should never have come back here. Should have stayed away—
Footsteps bounded from the pit lane and she sucked great, humongous lungfuls of air through her nose, then blew out quick breaths. Over and over.
It was a good job too, because Finn strode into the shadows—and the intense magnetism he exuded was a tangible, vibrant combination of devil-may-care and decadent sin.
Blond hair now dark with sweat tumbled over his brow and he wore an indecipherable expression on his over-warm face, almost as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. Impossible.
Bolstering her reserves, she stood tall as he drew near and threw his arms wide.
‘What did you think, baby?’
‘I think that by the end of the season I’ll be on a whole lot of medication. Good God, you’re a liability.’ A very expensive, scorching hot, stunning liability.
‘So you don’t wanna hang around with me any more?’ He clapped a hand over his left pec. ‘I think my heart’s broken.’
‘Come on, Finn, you and I both know you don’t have one. You take direction from another body part entirely.’
Standing there, smouldering with testosterone, he sneaked his tongue out to moisten his lips. When it came, his voice was a low groan. ‘You think about my body parts?’
That was it. Later she’d have no idea how she could veer from abject misery to munching on the inside of her cheek to stifle a snort of laughter. He was incorrigible. She hated him. Hated him!
‘I think about many of your body parts. Your neck, especially—the very one I’d like to wrap my hands around.’
She reminded herself that to be turned on by that cocksure smile was a gross dereliction of self-preservation.
‘Did you need something?’ she asked, thoroughly confused. ‘You’ve left your fans wailing for your return.’
‘No, I just wanted…’ He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw in an uneasy, somewhat boyish manner.
‘What?’ she murmured, distracted by a small scar she’d never noticed before—a thin white slash scoring his hairline. How on earth had he got that?
‘I wanted you to say how awesome I am.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can barely fit your head through the open cockpit as it is. Keep dreaming.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I will,’ he drawled suggestively. And just like that she was transported back to his yacht, his kiss. Then came the heat, curling low in her abdomen, licking her insides, making her shiver.
Honestly, she was certifiable. Without a doubt.
Much as earlier, he began to back out of the garage, taking his dizzying pheromones with him, and within a nanosecond fury overtook her. For the playful banter. For the way she’d allowed him to affect her so utterly.
‘By the way, I want to speak to you tonight,’ she said sharply.
Before he hit the bright light his feet froze mid-step. ‘Saying goodbye already?’
Tilting her head, Serena frowned. ‘Now, why would I do that?’
‘I won the race. I’ll charm the sponsors at dinner. Disaster averted.’
That was why he was so focused on winning? To get rid of her? Surely not. His need to win overruled all else. Unless what he was hiding was of far more importance.
Her heart flapping like a bird’s wings against a cage, she said, ‘I’m not going anywhere, Finn. I promise you that.’
Gazes locked, they engaged in some sort of battle of wills—one she had no intention of losing. She was here to stay.
‘Unfortunately, Miss Scott, I have a date this evening. With my good friend Black Jack. Unless you’d care to join us…?’
‘The Casino? I wouldn’t be seen dead there.’
And the smirk on his face told her he knew it!
‘Then I guess you’ll just have to catch me some other time, beautiful.’
Not if she could help it. The man had to get dressed on that den of iniquity, so she’d just have to corner him before he stepped foot on the harbour. There was no way on this earth she was going up to that swanky Casino, where the dress code pronounced that all women had to dress as if they were for sale. Not for love nor money. She didn’t even own a dress, for heaven’s sake.
Nope. She’d just have to catch him first.
Chapter Five
FINN DIDN’T WASTE any time calling in a favour and landing a suite at the most exclusive Casino in town—where all the glitz and glamour that made the city famous came together in a fairy-tale fantasyland of opulence and high-flyers—and ordering a tuxedo from one of the exclusive concessions in the marble and bronze foyer.
Strict dress code aside, at times he luxuriated in his debonair façade. Playing Casanova was generally more interesting than being himself. Also, as it turned out, his penthouse here had evolved into a necessity. Not only did he need somewhere to sleep with no lingering residue of the demons haunting him in the dead of night, but a gratifyingly quick sale had gone through that very afternoon. One of the members of a minor royal family reviving his Swiss bank account very nicely.
The fact he was Seraphina-free for the evening was also an added boon.
The plan was, he’d grab a couple of girls, lavish money on a few gaming tables, dance until the wee hours and then sleep. Great plan. The fact that he lacked enthusiasm…? Not so great.
Her fault. It’s all her fault.
Had he actually stormed into the garage to check on her? According to his memory banks, yes, he had.
Since when had he left the hullabaloo of the roaring crowd for a woman? Never before in his life!
Do not panic—it’s the guilt.
Knowing she missed her brother and veiled the ache with her beautiful bravado was killing him. The pain that lurked behind those incredible grey eyes was a fist to his gut. Her strength was formidable, but he couldn’t help wondering what it cost her. Of late, holding his own façade in place came at an extortionate price, but the alternative fall out would be catastrophic. As soon as he opened the door to his emotional vault the contents of Pandora’s box would be unleashed and all hell would break loose.
Now, sitting in the prestigious lounge known as the throbbing heart of the Casino, he palmed a tall glass of tequila and raised it to his lips, hopeful that the sharp kick and bite would burn the dull edges off his dark mood. For some reason the suave, elegant cut of his suit wasn’t working tonight. He felt dangerous enough to burst out of his skin.
The sensation of black eyes staring into his soul reminded him of dark, agonising days and he downed the liquor—his first drink in a week—and it slid down his throat, trailing a blaze of fire to his gut.
Gradually the muted whoosh of spinning roulette wheels, the mumble of inane chatter and the evocative beat from a small band filtered through his mind.
The singer was a stunning blend of French beauty and passionate sultry vocals, and when he felt her eyes slither over him in blatant invitation the crystal in his fist cracked with a soft clink. What was he doing here? He’d sell his soul to be someone else for one day, one night—
Between one heartbeat and the next the hair on his nape tingled, shifting his pulse into gear.
Easing his totalled glass onto the low-slung mahogany table, he glanced covertly around the room—from the impressive plaster of Paris inlays and priceless art to each and every table in between. By the time he reached the archway leading to the main gambling hall every cell in his body was on red alert and his heart had roared to life.
It was the kind of stupefying feeling he’d used to get on the starting grid. The very one he’d lost what felt like aeons ago, leaving a dull imitation in its place.
Now the cause of that incredible sensation shoved heat through his veins as he caught a flash of ruby-red hair flowing across the foyer.
Within seconds he was on his feet. What was Miss Spitfire doing in here? Looking for him? She was a determined little thing.
In the main lobby he glanced left, towards the wide entryway—seeing the line of supercars curling around the fountain beyond—and then right, to fall beneath her spell as she disappeared around a darkened corner.
By the time he caught up she was facing a door, her hand in mid-air—
‘You’ve come to the Casino to use the bathroom, Seraphina? Do you have a problem with the plumbing on your father’s yacht?’
She froze, palm flat against the hardwood panel, and Finn watched her decadent long lashes flutter downwards to whisper over her satiny cheeks. No make-up, he mused, and her natural beauty was really quite breathtaking.
With a swift inhale she spun on her feet and then crossed her arms over her knee-length black coat. She arched one delicate brow. ‘When a girl needs to go, a girl needs to go.’
‘How right you are.’ He needed to be rid of her just as badly. Because she was angry—no, she was furious—and he wanted to kiss that mulish line right off her lips.
‘You could have told me you’d sold your bordello before I stormed the place looking for you.’
Ah.
‘I would have if I’d known you were coming to visit, baby. You know how much I look forward to our little…assignations.’ He felt a smile tug at his lips. Stretching wider as her gaze loitered over his attire and a shiver racked her svelte frame.
‘Am I doing it for you tonight, Miss Scott?’ he asked, his voice a decadent purr.
She grimaced as if she were in pain. ‘If by “it” you mean making me regret the moment I ever laid eyes on you, then, yes, strangely enough you are.’
Aw, man, she was delicious. ‘How do you feel about dinner?’ It was a horrendous idea, but he suddenly had the urge to feed her. Fill out those over-slight curves.
‘You mean together?’
‘That’s a bit forward, don’t you think? But, yes, okay. I accept.’
Mouth agape, she slowly shook her head, clearly questioning his sanity. Oddly enough, that made two of them. ‘Did you attend some school specialising in becoming the most annoying and arrogant person ever?’
‘As a matter of fact—’
A tall blonde, dressed to the nines in a slinky red number, appeared from nowhere and motioned to the bathroom door. Finn stifled his irritation at her giving him the once-over and zeroed in on Serena as she clammed up, took a step back, and dipped her head until that glorious fall of hair veiled her face.
Unsure why it could be, but loathing the way she threw out distress signals, he curled his fingers around her upper arm and tugged her further along the hall to where the dim light imparted privacy.
Except every muscle in her arm tensed beneath his fingers and her gaze bounced off every surface until even he half expected someone to pounce.
‘Hey, are you okay?’
‘Peachy.’
She wrenched free and wrapped both arms across her chest. It was like watching someone erect guard rails.
Okay, so she didn’t want to be alone with him. Yet she’d been fine last night in his bedroom. What had she asked him for? Lights.
‘You don’t like the dark?’ For some reason it made him think back to that odd ramble of Tom’s—‘Protect her for me…she’s been through enough…’—and his fists tightened into hard balls of menace.
She bristled with an adorable blend of embarrassment and pique.
‘Hey, so you don’t like the dark? So what? Neither do I. When I was a kid I used to crawl into bed with my mum during power cuts, for Pete’s sake. Some hard-ass Spider-Man I was.’
She blinked over and over, until the fine lines creasing her brow smoothed. ‘Spider-Man, huh? Did you have the blue and red outfit too?’
‘Sure I did. And the cool web-maker.’
Her small smile lit the corners of the hall. Finn wanted it stronger, brighter.
‘Did you have a tutu or a Snow White dress? My baby sister had all that crap.’
She snorted. ‘I doubt Snow White wielded a wrench, and I don’t expect engine oil would wash out of a tutu very well.’
His every thought slammed to a halt.
Reared by men in a man’s world. No mother—he knew from Michael Scott that Serena’s mum had died giving birth to her. No sisters.
‘Have there been any women in your life?’
She gave a blithe shrug but he didn’t miss the scowl that pinched her mouth. ‘Only my dad’s playthings.’
‘Ah. I get it.’ The narcissistic variety. Or maybe weak, fawning versions Serena would have recoiled from. So naturally she’d kept with the boys, until, ‘You feel uncomfortable around women.’
‘No!’ She kicked her chin up defensively.
Finn cocked one brow and a long sigh poured from her lips.
‘I don’t know what to say to them, that’s all, okay? We have nothing in common.’
‘You’ve never had any girlfriends at all?’ The notion was so bizarre he couldn’t wrap his head around it.
‘Not really, no. Tom and I had long-distance schooling, and it was pretty rare to see girls hanging around the circuit.’
Finn kept his expression neutral, conscious that empathy wouldn’t sit well with her. Yet all he could think of was his sister, surrounded by girlfriends, and she’d had their mother through her formative years. He dreaded to think what Serena’s adolescence had been like. No shopping trips or coming-of-age chats, nor any of that female pampering stuff he’d used to roll his eyes at but which had made Eva fizz with excitement.
He was astonished that Serena had managed without a woman in her life. Had she been allowed to be a girl at all? And why exactly did that make anger contort his guts? They were nothing to one another; only hate coloured her world when she looked at him.
‘So you have a sister?’ she asked quietly, almost longingly, and his chest cramped with guilt. It didn’t seem fair, somehow, that he still had Eva and Serena had no one.
‘Yes, I do. Eva.’
Eva—who had suffered greatly from the demise of Libby St George. And what had he done? Turned his back on her, on both of them, and walked away to chase his dreams, his big break. Knowing what they’d go through because he’d seen it all before. He’d left Eva to cope, to watch their beautiful mother slowly fade away.
Finn had let them down. Badly. And, what was worse, he hadn’t been the only one. His father, the great Nicky St George, eighties pop-star legend, had left to find solace in many a warm bed. Looking back, Finn still found it hard to believe he’d watched a good man—his childhood hero—break so irrevocably under the weight of heartache. And, while he felt bitterly angry towards his father to this day, he could hardly hate the man when he’d felt the same pain. When he’d let them down too.
Yet still his baby sister loved him. She was all goodness while he was inherently selfish.
Eva. His mind raced around its mental track. Eva would be perfect for Serena. A great introduction to the best kind of women…
Finn stomped on the brakes of his runaway thoughts.
It would be dangerous to take Serena to Eva. Eva might get the wrong idea. Serena might get the wrong idea. He might get the wrong idea. He was supposed to be getting rid of her, not fixing her and finding ways to keep her around! What was wrong with him?
‘Through here.’ He beckoned her towards another door. One he pushed wide and held as she warily followed him into one of the small lounges where the private games of the high-flyers were often held.
‘Why do I half expect the Monte Carlo Symphony Orchestra to strike up any second?’
‘It’s the grandeur of the place. It’s pretty spectacular.’ Oppressive at times, but spectacular nonetheless.
‘If you like that kind of thing,’ she muttered, with a slick manoeuvre that brought her back flush against another wall.
Musing on why she’d cornered herself again, Finn lounged against the arm of an emerald antique sofa a few feet away and faced her. ‘So, what do you fancy for dinner?’
She sniffed, the action wrinkling her little nose. ‘I’d rather starve.’
‘You’ve changed your tune pretty quick. Is it a habit of yours? It was only this afternoon you said, “I wouldn’t be seen dead” in reference to this very establishment. What changed your mind?’