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 just have to suffer the side effects—because she was the one woman he could never, ever touch.
Not only was she the boss’s daughter, and not only did that tough outer shell conceal an uncontrollable fiery response that lured the predator inside him to prowl to the surface and claw down those walls, but he’d also made a promise to her brother—and he’d stand by it even if it killed him...
‘If I don’t get out of this alive, Finn, promise me something?’
‘Don’t talk like that, kid. I’ll get us out of here.’
‘Whatever you do, don’t tell Serena about this place. She’s been through enough. She’ll go looking for blood. You have to keep her safe. Promise me...’
His lungs drew up tight, crowding his chest until he could barely breathe. He would keep her safe. By getting her away from him.
Shuttering his eyes for a brief spell, he blocked her mesmeric pull. He’d dreaded this moment for months, he realised. Knowing she would come out fighting even as grief oozed from her very pores.
Where once she’d been a little bit curvy, now she was a little bit too thin. A stunning force of anger and sadness, beautiful and desolate. As if heartbreak had pulled the life force out of her and every morsel was tasteless.
Finn had done that to her.
Tom Scott...
Guilt lay like crude oil in the base of his stomach and every time he looked at her it churned violently, threatening to catch fire, making him ache. Ache. God, did she make him ache. Make the mourning suffocate his soul. As if it wasn’t enough that the kid was still his constant companion even in death.
He didn’t want her here. In fact he wanted her as far away from him as he could get her. Which begged the question: why was she back?
She who now eyed him expectantly and for the life of him he couldn’t remember what she’d said.
Shifting gears, he asked, ‘How’s London?’
‘Cold.’
‘How’s work?’
‘Great. Thank you for asking,’ she said, with such a guileless expression he didn’t even see the freight train barrelling down the hallway. ‘Why didn’t you come to Tom’s funeral? He worshipped you.’
His stomach gave a sickening twist.
‘Sick.’ He needed off this topic. Right. Now. ‘How’s the prototype?’
‘Spectacular. Sick how?’
‘Boring story. Is it finished?’
Say no.
Fuming