Page 38 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

“Don’t be absurd,” he muttered, and she realized with a twist of her heart that there was no ‘might’ about it.

“May I see?”

“Why not?” said Seb, and she didn’t know what to make of the faint bitterness in his tone. “You’ve seen everything else.”

He led her towards the far end of the cellar. Through the door that he’d had such trouble identifying. Down a passageway and through another door, and then they were in the garage, full, as he’d implied, of the most gorgeous cars she’d ever seen.

There had to be a dozen of them, she thought, dazzled by the sight. Some vintage, some modern, all highly polished, the metal and chrome gleaming beneath the dim light that spilled down. She was no expert, she had to admit as she walked further into the garage and looked round, but even she could recognise an Aston Martin, a Porsche and a Ferrari when she saw them.

“This is quite a collection, Seb.”

“I like beautifully constructed things,” he said, stroking his hand over the gleaming red hood of a Mustang although he was looking at her.

“But you don’t actually drive them.”

“Not often.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t practical in Manhattan.”

Nonsense. These weren’t ‘practical’ cars. “Do you drive at all?”

Seb shrugged. “I can.”

“But you don’t.”

“I don’t need to. I have a driver.”

Right. “Ever sit at the wheel of one of these things?” she asked casually.

He winced at that, although whether it was in response to the idea of it or her reference to ‘these things’ she didn’t know. “Not recently.”

Or ever, she surmised. “Want to try it?”

“Mercy,” he said warningly.

She went round, pulling gently on the handles until one of them gave. The car was a silver one. An old one. A soft-top. A Mercedes, she noted, spying the badge on the front as she walked over to the driver’s side. Appropriate. “Come on,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him and seeing that he was standing just behind her, unnaturally still.

“What are you doing?”

“Playing.”

His face darkened. “This isn’t a game.”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”

Because a game wouldn’t be tearing at her heart like this. Seb was in trouble and he was hurting – he had been for years – and she hated to think of him in pain.

Especially when she might be able to do something about it, because ‘just sex’ arrangement be damned, she wanted to. How could she not?

“Let me help you, Seb.”

His jaw set. “I don’t need help.”

“You have a wine collection you’re hanging on to when it should be sold and a garage full of cars you never drive.”

“So?”

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