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Enthusiasts spilled over balconies and crammed rooftops as far as the eye could reach. The grandstands were chock-full, the area where the die-hard fans had camped from the night before roared with impatience, and huge TV screens placed for optimal viewing flickered to life. It was a scene that usually enthralled him, excited his blood. And it would. Any second now. It had to.
His attention veered to the starting grid, cluttered with pit crew and paddock girls flaunting their wares, and then muttered a curse when not one of them managed to catch his eye. No, no. The only woman who monopolised his thoughts was his ruby red-headed boss!
Talk about a simple meeting of mouths backfiring with stunning ferocity. Instead of pushing her away, he’d stoked her curiosity—and how the devil he’d managed to step away, not to devour her, he’d never know.
Good thing he was an expert at disposing of the opposite sex. He’d just have to try harder, wouldn’t he? With a touch of St George luck, Serena would make herself scarce today.
He snorted in self-irritation. Now he was lying to himself. He might need her at the far ends of the earth but he wanted her here, didn’t he? Why was that? She was sarcastic, she had a sharp, spiky temper, and she was beautiful but not that beautiful—he’d dated catwalk models, for God’s sake. Yeah, and found them dull as dishwater. And on top of all that just looking at her made him feel guilty.
Self-castigation, he decided. Penitence dictating that he had to make himself suffer by hanging around with a woman who wanted him dead.
He rubbed at his temple and thrust the same hand through his damp hair. Where on earth was she? Some boss she was turning out to be—
He chuffed out a breath. Boss? Doubtful. Babysitter, more like. She had spunk—he’d give her that.
Suddenly the crowd erupted and in the nick of time he realised he’d stepped into the blazing sunlight. Up came his arm in the customary St George wave as the pandemonium reached fever pitch. On cue, he whipped out his legendary smile, even as the movement of his torso pulled his driver’s suit to chafe against his scarred back and black despair churned in his stomach with a sickening revolt.
Keep it together, Finn.
‘There you are. Playing to your adoring audience, I see.’
Whoa—instantaneous body meltdown. The woman held more firepower than the midday sun.
‘How nice of you to turn up, Miss Scott,’ he drawled, keeping his focus on the crowd for a few seconds longer. Let her think he was inflating his ego—the worse she thought of him the better—but Finn knew how far his fans had travelled, the huge expense. He’d spoken to hundreds of them over time after all.
‘I would’ve been here sooner if I hadn’t detoured to that floating bordello of yours, looking for you. I much prefer today’s security man, by the way. New shift?’
He shrugged. Made it indolent, couldn’t-care-less. ‘Probably.’
Alternatively Finn might have shown the other man the error of his ways the minute Miss Scott had stepped off his... What did she call it? Oh, yes—his floating bordello. Naturally Finn would have used his most amiable, charming voice. The one he used to express how tedious a situation had become, how boredom had set in. The very one which ensured that people made the terrible mistake of underestimating him. Shame, that.
If that had happened the man in question might have been escorted from the premises in a not so dignified manner, with a reference that not so subtly informed the world that he’d never work in the industry again. Together with the unequivocal, downright irrefutable notion that to meet Finn in a dark alley any time soon would be a very, very bad idea.
Would he tell her any of this highly amusing tale? God, no.
Why ruin a perfectly good reputation as a callous, no-good heartbreaker when it was security money couldn’t buy. Women had more sense than to expect more than he could give, so there was no fear of broken hearts or letting anyone down. What you saw was what you got.
And Miss Scott was no exception. Not now. Not ever.
Rousing a nonchalance he really didn’t feel, he glanced to where she stood beside him; hands stuffed into the back pockets of her skin-tight jeans, the action up-tilting her perky breasts, and his pulse thrashed against his cuffs.
Then his heart turned over, roaring to life as he checked out her white T-shirt, embellished with a woman clad in a slinky black catsuit and the words ‘This Kitty Has Claws’ stroking across her perfect C’s.
How beautifully apt.
‘Lucky kitty,’ he drawled, stretching the word as if it had six syllables. ‘Can I stroke it?’
A shiver rustled over her sweet body and his smile warmed, became bona fide, as she slicked her lips with moisture. ‘If you need all ten fingers to drive I wouldn’t advise it.’
