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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.
