death eluded him. No matter how many of life’s obstacles he faced, and no matter how many cars he crashed. He was Finn St George—dashing, death-defying racing driver extraordinaire. Death took the good and left the bad to fester—he’d seen that time and time again. Not that he deserved any kind of peace. When it finally came and he met his maker he doubted he’d hear the sweet song of angels or bask in the pearly glow of heaven. No. What waited for him was far darker, far hotter. Far more suited to the true him.
Was he worried? Hell, no. Rather, he looked forward to heading down into fire and brimstone. It couldn’t be much worse than what he’d lived with all day, every day, for the last eight months.
Ah, great. There he went again. Becoming ridiculously maudlin. Entirely too tedious. A crime in itself when faced with the delectable Miss Seraphina Scott, who never failed to coerce a rush of blood to speed past his ears.
Clink. The door behind her opened and a bikini-clad blonde shimmied past, trailing one French-tipped talon down Finn’s bare forearm. A soap opera star, if he remembered correctly, and a welcome distraction that twisted his torso as he watched her saunter down the hall with a practised sway of her voluptuous hips.
What he couldn’t quite discern was why his eyes were on one thing while his mind, his entire body, was attuned to another, riding another wavelength—one set on Seraphina’s ultra-high frequency.
Typical. Because—come on—if there was ever a more desirable time to regain some kind of sexual enthusiasm for his usual coterie of fanatics it was the precipitous return of Miss Scott.
‘One of yours, I presume?’
Derision drizzled over that strawberry and cream voice making every word a tart, sweet bite.
‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ Turning back to her, he licked his decadent mouth in a blatant taunt. ‘Yet…’
Shunning her sneer of scorn, Finn gave an unconcerned shrug. Women had been flinging themselves in his direction since he’d hit puberty. What kind of man would he be to deny their every sensual wish? Anyway, he loved women—in all their soft, scented glory. Almost as much as he loved cars. It was a shame the current state of his healing body continued to deny him full access.
Not that he was concerned. It would fix itself. He just had to make sure he was a million miles away from this woman when it happened.
‘Do you think you could refrain from thinking with your second head for one solitary minute?’
He pretended to think about that and in the silence of the hallway almost heard himself grin. ‘I could. If you made it worth my while.’
Three. Two. One. Snap.
‘You’re a selfish bastard—you know that? Anyone else would try and focus on the good of the team after we lost Tom. Or should I say after you took Tom from us?’
Strike one. Straight to his heart.
‘But not the consummate indestructible Finn St George. No, no. You think only of yourself and what slice of havoc you can cause next. If it isn’t women, it’s barely being able to keep a car horizontal.’
‘While horizontal is one of my preferred positions, I admit it doesn’t always work out that way.’
Grimacing, she moaned as if in pain. ‘Don’t you take anything seriously? You crashed a multimillion-pound car last month. One I doubt will ever see the light of day again.’
He scrubbed a palm over a jaw that was in desperate need of a shave. ‘That was unfortunate,’ he drawled. ‘I agree.’
‘Is everything a joke to you?’
‘Not in the least. I just find it tedious to focus on the depressing side of life. I’m more a cup half full kind of guy.’
‘Unfortunately that cup of yours is going to run on vapour if you don’t start winning some races.’
Yeah, well, he was having a teeny-tiny problem getting any shut-eye, thanks to the flashbacks visiting him far too often for his peace of mind. And, while his driving had always controlled the restless predator that lived and breathed inside him, of late that wildness had overtaken all else. Until even behind the wheel he felt outside of his own body. Detached. His famed control obliterated. Even as he wiped his mind he could still feel the tight scarred skin of his back rubbing against his driving suit—and then… Hello, flashback.
Luckily his body was healing. The memories would pass and he had all season to make it up to Michael Scott. Thirteen races to land the championship. Piece of cake.
‘Don’t worry about a thing, baby, the team is in safe hands with me.’
It was, of course, entirely possible Michael didn’t think him capable of pulling them out of the quagmire. Hence this visit from Little Miss Spitfire.
‘Now, why does that fail to ease my mind? Oh, yes— because these days, unlike Midas, everything you touch meets a rather gruelling end.’
Strike two, sending his heart crashing into the well of his stomach even as he managed to hide his wince with another kick of his lips. ‘You need to trust me, baby.’
She snorted. ‘When sheep fly and pigs bleat. I’m pretty sure the first step to trust is actually liking the person.’
He let his debauched mouth fire into a full-blown grin.
Finally—someone who loathed him instead of walking on eggshells and spouting blatant lies to his face that it wasn’t his fault. Michael Scott had a tendency to do just that. But Finn wasn’t blind to the turmoil in the other man’s eyes. The reality was his boss had a team to run and they were locked in a multimillion-pound contract, so Mick had no choice but to keep him around until the end of the season. The fact the man had to look at him every day left a bitter taste in Finn’s mouth. Mick was a good guy. He deserved better.
After years of driving with the best teams in the world, constantly restless, his itchy feet begging to move on, he’d hoped he could settle with Scott Lansing for a while. It was more family than moneymaking machine, and respect ran both ways. Little chance of that now, but he’d win this season if it were the last thing he did.
As long as this woman stayed out of his way.
‘Also, do me a favour, would you? Quit the baby thing. It suggests an intimacy I would rather die than pursue.’
Then again, he couldn’t see close proximity being a problem, because—oh, yeah—she wanted to stamp on his foot good and proper. He could see it in those incredible eyes. Eyes that were a sensual feast of impossibly long dark lashes acting like a decadent frame around a mesmerising blend of the calmest grey with striations of yellow-gold as if to forewarn that there was no black and white with this woman—only mystifying shades of the unknown. Ensuring he was continually intrigued by her. Bewitched by her secrets. Yet at the same time they promised peace, true tranquillity—a stark, stunning contrast to that hair.
Her hair…
A shudder ripped through his body just from looking at it, inciting pure want to move through his bloodstream like a narcotic. Because that spectacular mane of fire told him she’d been burned and lived to tell the tale. A survivor.
Shameful, reprehensible; his eyes took a long, leisurely stroll down her lithe little body, soaking up her quirky ensemble.
Clumpy biker boots which, more often than not, made him instantly hard. Skin-tight denims and an apple-green T with the words ‘It’s All Good Under the Hood’ stroking across her perfect C’s.
Ohhh, yeah, she was delicious. Lickable. Biteable.
She leaned towards a serious tomboy bent and after multiple seasons of being faced with silicone inflation, Botoxed lips and an abundance of flesh on show, looking at Seraphina Scott was dangerous to say the least. Intrigue gave way to intoxication every time. Unfortunately he’d