Page 5 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

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Catching the glimpse of triumph in her dark, flashing eyes, Seb swore inwardly and realized he should have shut the door in her face when he had the chance because Mercedes Hernandez was trouble and always had been and how he could have forgotten that he had no idea.

Better still, he should never have answered her knock in the first place. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had. He was in no mood for company. He was in no mood for anything. The conversation his sister had insisted on having with him earlier had ensured that.

Normally he had no trouble zoning Zelda and her melodrama out. After all, he’d had thirteen years’ experience of doing exactly that. This afternoon, though, had been different. She’d found him in his rooftop rose garden where he’d been nailing a trellis to the wall and had launched into a conversation – no, a confrontation – that had been unusually harsh.

The accusations she’d flung at him… The questions she’d shot at him… And the fire with which she’d done it… He’d neither seen nor heard her like that before. It had shocked him and made him feel like he’d swallowed a ton of lead, although he didn’t have the first clue why.

Once she’d run out of steam Zel had stormed off and he’d returned his attention to the construction of the next trellis, intending to brush off everything she’d said by immersing himself in some hard physical labor. But five minutes later, after incorrectly measuring two lengths of wood and nearly hammering a nail into his thumb, he’d had to give up. He hadn’t been able to concentrate. He’d been too wired. If he’d carried on and taken up the saw, as had been the plan, he could have done some serious damage.

So he’d whipped off his tool belt, headed into his study and switched his focus to work in the hope that staring at a computer screen might give him the numbness he craved. Which, slowly but surely, it did.

Therefore he shouldn’t have wanted to be disturbed. He hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Yet mystifyingly, the minute he’d heard the rap of knuckles on oak, and the yell of his name in the voice that had once upon a time haunted his dreams, he’d leapt up, stalked down the corridor to the double door and had had to actually make himself stop, take a breath and compose himself before opening them.

When he’d seen Mercedes standing there, a burst of heat had shot through him and his pulse had spiked, and for some odd, alarming reason he’d thought, about bloody time, which should have put the fear of God into him and had him closing the door right then and there but even more alarmingly hadn’t.

And then, instead of using his brain, pretending he didn’t know who she was – as if that was possible – and closing the door, he’d looked her up and down – which had been a mistake because she was still as breathtaking as she’d ever been – and then, clearly on some kind of kamikaze mission had actually prolonged the conversation.

What was going on there he had no idea, but it was way too late for regrets now. While his brain had been busy disintegrating from the impact of her on his senses, Mercy had laid her trap and he – unsuspecting fool that he was – had fallen headlong into it, which meant there was now a situation.

And one to which there was really only one solution, because as tempting as it might be, closing the door on her was no longer an option. It would make her think she’d gotten to him when she absolutely hadn’t.

“Do come in,” he said, levering himself off the door frame, standing to one side and unfolding his arms to jam his hands in the pockets of his jeans as memories of that unexpectedly hot night five years ago slammed into his head and began to have their inevitable effect.

“Thank you.”

She flashed him a smile, and it was so annoyingly smug, so infuriatingly victorious that suddenly, irrationally, he wanted to unnerve her the way she unnerved him. “If you’re sure you can handle it,” he added softly, leaning in a little as she took a step forwards.

Mercy stopped. Turned to him. Looked at him squarely in the eye, the full force of her gaze pretty much lasering him to the spot. “And why wouldn’t I be able to?”

“Remember what happened the last time you pitched up at my door wanting to talk and asking me to let you in?”

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed. “Barely,” she said archly, although the pulse hammering at the base of her neck and the faint flush that hit her cheeks would seem to suggest otherwise. “You?”

Every single second – unfortunately. “Barely.”

“Then I think I’m prepared to risk it.”

“Brave.”

She shook her head and gave him a haughty look. “Immune.”

Yes, well, she could tell herself that if she wanted to, but despite the passage of time he suspected that she was no more immune to him than he seemed to be to her, which was, for some reason, really rather satisfying.

“Go on through,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Waving her in, Seb closed the door behind her and watched for a moment as she sashayed down the hall. The way she moved was just as captivating as it had been the last time he’d seen her. With every sensuous step her fall of thick dark wavy hair shifted, whispering against the fabric of her shirt and shimmering in the low light of the hall. The subtle swing of her hips drew his attention to her narrow waist, the curve of her bottom, and memories of how she’d felt wrapped round him, arching against him and writhing beneath him, suddenly slammed into his head.

He wanted her again. Here. Now. Up against the wall. On the floor. Anywhere. Everywhere. Again and again, until neither of them could think straight.

But that was not going to happen, he told himself, ruthlessly stamping out the dizzying, appalling, wave of desire. Memories were all he was ever going to have of Mercy. She was simply too dangerous for anything else. That night she’d turned up wanting to talk about Zelda and had instead yielded to the kiss he’d given her largely to shut her up she’d stripped him of his control. She’d brought him to his knees with the need and desire she aroused in him, and left him feeling exposed and vulnerable and wishing he was a different kind of man.

But he wasn’t a different kind of man. He hated feeling weak. And he needed control like he needed oxygen. So Hell would freeze over before he had her up against the wall, down on the floor or wherever else his imagination took him.

Mercy might have tricked her way into his apartment but he’d handle it. He’d dealt with worse. So she could come in and say what she had to say. If necessary he’d block her out. And then, when she was done, he’d simply let her go.

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