The Woman Sent to Tame Him

by Victoria Parker

  ‘Like you need any more ladies! Looks to me like you’ve had your fair share already this evening.’

  He looked well-sexed, to be sure. Hair damp, with his glorious fresh water-mint scent flirting with her senses, she guessed he’d just stepped from beneath the assault of a shower.

  ‘On the contrary, I was just about to indulge in a good workout.’

  Disgust drove her tone wild. ‘Yes, well, bedding the latest starlet or pit-lane queen is one thing—partying the night away before racing on the most dangerous circuit on the calendar is downright risky and inappropriate!’

  He gave an elaborate sigh. ‘Where is the fun in being appropriate? Even the word sounds dull, don’t you agree?’

  ‘No, I don’t—and nor do our sponsors.’ She rubbed her brow to pacify its exasperated throb. ‘I swear to God, if you don’t start pulling through for this team I will make you wish you’d never been born.’

  ‘You know, I believe you would.’

  ‘Good.’

  He brushed the pad of his thumb from the corner of his mouth down over the soft flesh of his bottom lip. ‘So if you haven’t come to indulge in some heavy petting why are you here, beautiful?’

  His voice, disturbingly low and smooth as cognac, was so potent she swayed, nigh on intoxicated.

  For an infinitesimal moment his cerulean-blue eyes held hers and a riot of sensations tumbled down the length of her spine. Pooled. Pulled. Primal and magnetic. And she hated it. Hated it!

  Beautiful?

  ‘Don’t mock me, Finn. I’m not in the mood for your games. I want this place cleared and you sober. How dare you party it up and put the team at risk while everyone sits around feeling sorry for your little soul?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that sympathy is wasted on me. Especially when there is a profusion of far more...enjoyable sensations to be experienced at my hands.’

  Ugh.

  Temper rising, implosion imminent, she felt her breasts begin to heave. ‘For someone who blew up an engine this morning—and, hey, this is a wild idea—how about you start thinking of how to salvage the situation instead of screwing around? Have you been drinking? You could get banned from the race altogether!’

  With a shake of his head he tsked at her. ‘No drinking.’

  ‘You swear?’

  One blunt finger scraped over his honed left pec. ‘Cross my heart.’

  Time stilled as she walked headlong into another wall of grief and memories slammed into every corner of her mind. The games of two children. One voice: ‘Cross my heart.’ The other: ‘Hope to die.’

  There it was. The elephant in the room.

  Tom.

  Cold. Suddenly she was so very, very cold. Only wanting to leave. To get as far away from this man as she could before the emotion she’d balled up in her chest for months punched free and she screamed and railed and lashed out in a burst of feminine pique.

  She’d tell her dad he was barking up the wrong tree. No way could she work with Finn. She felt unhinged, her body vibrating with conflicting emotions, all of them revving, striving for pole position. And that was nothing compared to the hot whirlpool of desire swirling like a dark storm inside of her. How was that even possible? How was that even fair?

  Life isn’t fair, Serena. You know that. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Makes your heart beat harder and your will indestructible.

  So before she left she was getting the answers she wanted if it was the last thing she did.

  * * *

  In all the times over the last eight months when Finn had imagined coming face-to-face with Seraphina Scott, he’d never once envisaged the tough, prickly and somewhat prissy tomboy with her ear smashed against a door panel, listening for the orgasmic finale sure to come.

  How very...intriguing.

  It had certainly made up his mind on how to handle her impromptu arrival. With one look his heart had paused and he’d stared at the sweet, subtle curve of her waist, battling with innumerable choices.

  Apologise? Not here, not now. Wrong place, wrong time. The risk that his defences would splinter equalled the prospect that she wouldn’t believe him.

  Wrap her tight in his arms because for a fleeting moment he’d sensed a keen vulnerability in her? Far too risky. If he buried his face in that heavenly fall of fire he might never come up to breathe again.

  Act the polite English gentleman? Despite popular opinion he was more than capable of executing that particular role. He could be anyone or anything any woman wanted, as long as it wasn’t himself. The problem was that kind of outlandish behaviour would only make her suspicious and no doubt she’d hang around.

  He might be responsible for the words delectable, fickle and playboy appearing in the dictionary, but he was far from stupid. Soon she’d start asking questions about her brother’s death, and he had to ensure they never came to pass those gloriously full raspberry lips. Lips he’d become riveted upon. Lips he’d do anything to smother and crush. To make love to with every pent-up breath in his taut body until she yielded beneath his command.

  Never.

  So in the end he’d settled for their habitual sparring. The usual back and forth banter that was sure to spark her every nerve and induce the usual colourful dazzling firework display. Make her hate him even more. Followed by her departure, of course.

  While a vast proportion of him had rebelled at the notion, some minuscule sensible part had won out. After all, if there were fairness and justice in the world he would be the man six feet under and not an innocent kid who’d always looked at him as if he were some kind of hero.

  What a joke.

  But 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 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 at his attempt at derailing the conversation, she breathed slow and deep. ‘Maybe. Did you know he couldn’t swim?’

  Crap. ‘No.’ Not at the time. ‘Are you staying?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Dammit. This was getting too close for comfort. ‘I think you could do with more time off,’ he said. ‘Take a holiday.’

  Suspicion narrowed her glare. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Sure. How about a nice sojourn round the Caribbean? All that sun, sea and sex would do you good. Loosen you up a little.’

  She raised one delicate dark brow. ‘Why, Finn, I didn’t know you cared.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking the exact same thing.’

  Now he remembered why he couldn’t stand the woman. ‘Anyway, I was saying. A holiday is just what you need.’

  ‘Are you saying I don’t look so good?’

  ‘Well, now you come to mention it you are a little on the thin side.’ True, most women would consider that a compliment, but Miss Scott wasn’t like other women.

  As predicted, she prickled like a porcupine. But at least she wasn’t musing about funerals and swimming any more.

  ‘Trading insults, Finn? I wouldn’t advise it. You’ve buried yourself in so much dirt over the years I’ll always come out on top.’

  A growl ripped up his throat. ‘Mmm... You on top. Now, that is something I would love to see,’ he said, sending his voice into a silken lazy caress, frankly astonished at how much effort he was expending to keep this up. For the first time in history one of their sparring sessions was stealing great chunks of his sanity.

  ‘Liar. Furthermore, I’m not one of your fans or bits of fluff, so do me a favour and keep those blues above neck level. If you’re trying to intimidate me you’ll have to do a better job than feigning interest and eying me up.’

  ‘But it’s so much fun watching you prickle.’

  ‘Some of us have a deeper meaning in life than having fun, and fickle playboys don’t bring out the best in me.’