‘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, she gripped the rail on both sides. Then a tidal wave of apprehension crashed over her and she stood soaked with a keen embarrassment. She was about as comfortable with this scene as she would be treading water in the company of killer sharks.
You don’t belong here, Serena. Surrounded by sex and women who exuded femininity. Don’t think about it. Just get in there, find Finn, and make him clean the decks himself!
Hovering a few feet from the top, she inhaled a deep wave of saltwater air to reel back her bravado.
In every direction—whether it was left, towards the luxurious seating area abounding with plush gold chairs, or right, towards the outer dining suites—there were bodies, bodies and more bodies. Wearing as little clothing as possible.
She shivered, chilly just looking at them.
One step further and still no one seemed to notice the impromptu arrival of an uninvited guest. No ravaging lips ceased to kiss. No fervent hands slowed their bold caresses of sun-kissed flesh. No flutes of champagne paused on their way to open mouths and the laughter rolled on in barks of joyful humour that only served to remind her of the last time she’d laughed—which made a scream itch to peal up her throat.
Why should Finn and his entourage be laughing when she was still unable to cry? Unable to shed one solitary tear? Because boys don’t cry…
Indignation launched her the final few feet and out of nowhere a sinister-looking figure loomed and grabbed her wrist in a manacled grip.
‘Ow!’ Pain shot up her arm and she flipped her hand in an attempt to dislodge the hold—even as she was flung back in time and any lingering panic was ramped up into bone-shattering fear. ‘Get off me!’
Except the more she struggled, the tighter the hold became—until the knife-edge of terror scored her heart and her vision swam in the blackest waters…
A rough yet familiar voice shattered the obsidian glaze. ‘Hey, let her go. She’s okay.’
Mr Manacle released her so fast she stumbled backwards. Her only conscious thought was that she was taking up self-defence classes again. Pronto.
Righting her footing, she glanced at the owner of that masculine rumble.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, her voice disgustingly fragile as she rubbed at her wrist to ease the throb of muscle and friction burn.
‘You okay, Serena?’
Vision clearing, she focused on the handsome, boyish face of one uneasy chocolate-haired Jake Morgan. Scott Lansing protégé and an apparent star in the making. She’d never watched him drive. For some reason he always got a bit tongue-tied around her, and the fact that he was Tom’s replacement gave her heart a pang every time she looked at him. Not his fault, Serena. Let it go.
‘Peachy. Since when does Finn have security?’
‘Had them on and off all season. Mainly for parties when there’s a big crowd.’
Translation: when he needed to fend off gatecrashing bombshells.
‘Where is your dissolute host?’ she asked, somewhat surly and unable to care. She was shaking so hard she had to cross her arms over her chest to stop her bones rattling.
‘Not