Page 3 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

For Zelda.

Not for herself.

For Zelda.

As long as she remembered that she’d be fine. And she would remember that because this time, unlike the last time she’d tried to make Seb see what was happening to his sister, she was not going to let him distract her. This evening, she’d stay strong, say her long overdue piece, and if she was convincing enough, firm enough, she might even achieve the impossible and actually get through to him. She might make him realize what a shit he was to humanity in general, what a cold, callous cabrón he’d been – and was still being – to Zelda in particular, and persuade him to make amends before it was too late.

And, yes, pigs might fly, but they hadn’t taken off yet, so, as the thud of approaching footsteps reached her ears, Mercy pulled herself together and rallied her thoughts.

Focus, she instructed herself, her pulse picking up and her head buzzing with a sudden flurry of unbidden and unwelcome memories. Do not think about the last time you saw him, the last time you were here. Do not remember the scalding heat of his touch, the dark intensity of his eyes, the feel of his body beneath your hands. Or the spectacular all-night-long sex.

That is not what this is about.

If you have to, remember instead that he took advantage of your pathetic teenage crush on him and used that spectacular all-night-long sex as a weapon to avoid a discussion he did not want to have.

Remember that the following morning you woke up alone, riddled with guilt and self-disgust, and then, burning with mortification and remorse, had to creep out of the house making sure you weren’t seen.

Most of all, though, focus on the misery he’s inflicted on your best friend, because that’s why you’re here.

The steps stopped and Mercy set her jaw. The handle turned and she straightened her spine. So when the door swung open she was more than braced for the sight of him, standing there and filling the space, tall, lean and still so darkly, staggeringly handsome he’d rob her of her wits again if she let him.

But there was no danger of that, she assured herself, sweeping her gaze up and over a chest that appeared to have broadened since she’d last seen him, letting it linger for a moment on the still sexy scar at the corner of his mouth and then looking up into eyes so deep and dark you could drown in them.

She was older. Wiser. No longer a hormonal sixteen-year-old with a crush, nor an impressionable twenty-one year old with good intentions but weak willpower. No. She’d gotten over her ridiculously ill-judged obsession with him years ago. She’d moved so far on she could hardly remember where she’d started. She was now confident, successful, mature.

And above all, immune.

“Hello,” she said, and cleared her throat which had strangely gone all rough.

“Mercedes,” said Seb.

A shiver rippled down her spine that obviously came from a draft and had nothing to do with the sound of his sexy cut-glass British accent and she blinked because she really hadn’t expected recognition. “You remember me?”

“Of course,” he said, his dark, unfathomable gaze roaming slowly over her. “How are you?”

How was she?

Taken aback and tingly. That was how she was, now he asked. Getting hotter by the second. Sort of melting inside. Suddenly keenly aware of him and actually feeling a little woozy, because those eyes, that mouth, and his scent… Dios, his scent… It was still woody, still soapy, and still so deliciously intoxicating that she wanted to lean in, press up close and inhale. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, stroke him and lick him and –

Mercy froze.

What the hell was she thinking? What was she doing? Had she actually started moving?

No. Impossible. She was immune. Immune.

Blinking to clear the fog in her head and swallowing hard to get some moisture into her desperately dry mouth, she pulled herself together and made herself think of the skiing holiday she’d been on last year. Bariloche. August. That had been ass-freezingly mind-numbingly cold. There’d been blizzards. Relentless sub-zero blizzards.

“Fine,” she said, as the heat and the dizziness and the madness dissipated. “I’m fine. You?”

“Couldn’t be better. It’s good to see you.” Was it? Why? “How long have you been back in New York?”

“Four months.”

“Work?”

“A bit. Mostly, though, an MBA.”

His eyebrows rose. “What happened to making wine?”

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