The Woman Sent to Tame Him. Victoria Parker

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.’

      ‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that.’

      Fired up, she was a whole lot of beautiful. Which he supposed was why he’d always tumbled into the thrust and parry of verbal swords with her. Sparks truly did fly when he was duelling with Miss Scott.

      Now she was breathing in short, aggravated bursts, her breasts pushing against her rumpled T, and his fingers itched to climb beneath the hem. She’d be sooo lusciously soft, one hundred per cent organic and berry-like delicious against his tongue as he sucked her nipple between his lips…

      Heat scrambled up his legs, heading straight for his groin… Until she crossed her arms over her chest, jerking his attention to the red blotches that marred her delicate wrist.

      ‘What are those marks?’ Closing the gap, he leaned in for a better look. ‘What is that?’

      ‘That is a gift from your security detail, keeping the hordes at bay.’

      Hordes at bay? ‘Let me see.’

      ‘No!’ Tucking her hands tighter into the creases of her underarms, she regarded him as if he were ten kinds of crazy.

      ‘Come on. Stop being a girl. It doesn’t suit you.’

      ‘You know, that’s the first truth you’ve uttered since I got here.’

      As he gently tugged her hand free his knuckles brushed over her soft breast. Holy… More heat raced south, pleasure and pain moving through him at full throttle.

      Oh, man, the last thing he needed was his first hard-on in almost a year to be for this woman. It was an inconceivable prospect that was swiftly overtaken by the dark bruising marring her wrist, and his insides shook with anger as he remembered the sight and sensation of torn wrists, shredded skin, blood dripping from shackles.

      ‘Finn?’ she breathed. ‘What are you…?’

      With deliberate and infinite care he brushed the backs of his fingers down one side of her forearm and up the other. ‘I…’ I’m sorry he hurt you. I’ll make him pay. I swear it.

      ‘Finn?’

      Tilting her head, she frowned. Cutely. The action softened the often harsh yet no less cataclysmic impact of her beauty.

      Seraphina Scott wasn’t pretty in the normal sense of the word. She was no delicate English rose. No, no. She was a wild flower. Tempestuous and striking. Made in technicolour. Hardy, tough. Weathering every storm, only to survive more beautiful than ever before.

      And she was clearly waiting for him to expand. Trying to work him out.

      Such a small thing, that softening. It made her appear vulnerable. From nowhere more words sped through his brain. I’m sorry…I’m sorry. So very sorry I took Tom away from you. I would do anything. Anything to bring him back.

      How he wished he could tell everyone the truth. Let the world know what had truly gone down in Singapore. But with an ongoing investigation