she’d often stared at other children with their mothers, wondering what it would be like to have one of her own, to live in a normal house and walk to an actual brick-built, other-children-present school every morning, she’d just reminded herself that her life was exciting. And if she’d prayed for a mum all those years ago when her adolescence had been shattered, leaving her broken and torn, she’d comforted herself that she had Tom. Tom had been her rock.
But now he was gone. Nothing was exciting any more and there was no one to hold her hand in the dead of night when the shadows loomed. You don’t need your hand held. You’re stronger than that. Snap out of it!
She swallowed around the lump in her throat, forcing the overwhelming knot of grief to plunge into her chest. Buried so deep her stomach ached.
‘If what you say is true and there is a problem,’ she said dubiously, ‘how can I possibly help?’
‘Get him to take an interest in the prototype or work on your latest designs… I don’t know—just get him to focus on something other than women or the bottom of a bottle.’
Impossible.
‘I’m a woman.’
‘Only in the technical sense.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ As if she needed reminding.
Then again, the last thing she wanted was to be like one of Finn’s regulars. They were the skirt to Serena’s jeans. The buxom bombshells to Serena’s boyish figure. The strappy sandals to Serena’s biker boots. The super-soft, twice-conditioned spiralling blonde locks to Serena’s wild mane of a hue so bizarre it defied all colour charts.
Which was wonderful. Inordinately satisfying. Exactly the way she liked it.
‘The last thing he needs is another bedmate,’ he muttered wryly. ‘He needs a kick up the backside. A challenge. And, let’s face it, you two create enough spark to fire a twin-stroke. Therefore I am asking—no, you know what…? I am telling you to help. You’re on my payroll. You move back in here and you chip in.’
Tough love.
Then his graphite gaze turned speculative. Calculating. An expression she didn’t care for that nailed her to the wall.
‘Or you can kiss the Silverstone launch of your prototype goodbye.’
A gasp of air hit the back of her throat. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
Yeah, he probably would. He didn’t believe the racing car she’d designed would be anything special and she’d do anything to prove him wrong.
That prototype was her baby. Three years of hard work. Her and Tom’s inspiration. Launching at Silverstone had been their dream. The only tangible thing she had left of him.
‘Low, Dad,’ she choked out. ‘Really low.’
Averting his eyes, he scrubbed a palm over his face. ‘More like desperate.’
Serena sighed. Nailed. Every. Time.
‘Fine. I’ll try…something.’
Unease began to hammer at her heart—she had no idea how to handle the man. None.
‘But I know Finn will make it up. He had a slow start last year. The sponsors will forgive and forget once he starts playing to his fans. Monaco is in the bag. He always wins here. What happened in qualifying sessions today? He’s in pole position, right?’
Her father’s expression turned thunderous—one that boded only ill. ‘He screwed the engine.’
He blew the engine? ‘So he’s at the back tomorrow? In one of the slowest and hardest circuits in the world?’
‘Yep.’
Pop! Up came a vision in her mind’s eye—the scene she’d bypassed as she’d hauled her motorbike along the harbour—and her stomach fired, anger swirling like a tornado. Sparking, ready to ignite.
Raising her arm, she pointed one trembling finger in the general direction of Finn’s floating brothel. ‘And he’s along there, in that…that yacht of his. Engaging in some kind of…drunken debauched sex-fest to celebrate his latest cock-up?’
One weary hitch of those broad shoulders was all it took to light the fireball raging in the pit of her stomach.
‘What in the blue blazes is he doing? Doesn’t he care at all? In fact, don’t answer that. I already know.’
The man cared for no one but himself! And this was a newsflash? Obligation and decency had clearly been disowned in that gene pool.
‘I’ve had it with him.’
Bullet-like, Serena shot out through the door, her biker boots a clomp-clomp on the polished wooden floors as she raced through the galley. ‘I’m gonna kill him. With my bare hands.’
‘Serena! Watch your temper. I need him.’
Yeah, well, she needed her brother back—and that was about as impossible as keeping her mitts off Finn St George’s pretty-boy face. She’d had enough of that man messing with her family. Her team. Her life. Her brother was dead, the championship was heading for the toilet, and her dad was aging by the second as Finn continued to yank at his fraying tether!
How selfish could one man be?
Well, she was stopping it all. She was taking control.
Right now.
SERENA DUCKED AND dived around the loved-up couples milling on the harbour, her sole focus on the Extasea, rising from the water, formidable and majestic.
Even moored among some of the finest vessels in the world, Finn’s super-yacht was in a class of her own—a one-hundred-and-sixty-foot, three-decker palace—reminding Serena of the resplendent seven-star hotels he favoured in Dubai and certainly more regal ocean liner than bordello.
Still, opulence aside, she had the acumen to know that appearances were deceptive, and the fact that she’d been lowered to this chafed her pride raw. But there was no backing out now. She was going to say her piece and he was going to listen.
The bravado felt wonderful. Freeing. Cleansing. She should have done this months ago, she realised—had it out with him instead of letting everyone sweep her under the carpet like some bothersome gnat, as if her feelings were of no importance. Her grief had been so all-consuming that she’d allowed it to happen. Well, not any more.
Closer to the yacht now, she felt the balmy air cling to her skin and the thud of her boots become drenched by the evocative beat of sultry music. As she marched up the gangway the splash of water from the hot tub on the sun deck followed by intimate squeals of sexual delight made her trip over her size fives.
Flailing,
