Taming the Beast (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 3)

by Lucy King

  “Have you done that?”

  “I hope so. The first thing I did with the modicum of responsibility I was eventually given was to bring in some new root stock and some good people. Then I set about expanding our operations, modernizing production and streamlining our processes. I travelled, attended conferences and met with distributors. As a result of all that networking and the increasing quality of our wines I built up our global brand and quadrupled our exports.” And now she was sounding like some kind of promotional video. “I think I’ve done OK,” she said with a tiny shrug.

  “All that in ten years?”

  “More or less.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Not really because actually I’ve loved every minute of it and it’s easy to do stuff when you love it. The vineyard is possibly my favorite place on earth.” Although his bed came a close second. “There’s something intoxicating about the smell of the soil at dawn. At least for me. And the view at sunset is heavenly. It’s impossible not to love it. My only regret is missing out on a proper education. This is my chance to experience that.”

  “Why New York?”

  “Because Stern’s one of the best and they accepted me.”

  “Sensible of them.”

  “I like to think so,” she said, ignoring the faint glow that bloomed inside her at his words because the only glow she was interested in was a post-orgasmic one.

  “And how’s it going?”

  “It’s tough. But I’m relishing the challenge.”

  “You have admirable ambition.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “So what do you do, Seb, in that big old office of yours?” When not screwing women on his desk, although hopefully he didn’t make a habit of that.

  “I run the Madison Foundation,” he said.

  “Which involves what?”

  “Deciding on how to spend huge sums of money, largely. The Foundation designs and funds national and international initiatives. We offer grants and we help charities. The Madison Trust manages the investment side of things, and I develop the strategy to use the money it makes.”

  “It’s a big job.”

  “It’s a big business.”

  That was an understatement. According to the last report she’d read, the Madison Foundation, which was over one hundred years old, had ten billion dollars under management. Its main areas of interest were improving world health and education, eliminating poverty and protecting human rights. The Madison name adorned institutions across the globe. “Did you walk straight into it?” Mercy asked.

  Seb shook his head. “No, although naively I’d planned to. But I was only twenty-three and knew nothing so the board and trustees had other ideas. I did stints in various departments to get to know how it operated before taking up the reins.”

  “It sounds challenging.”

  “It is.”

  “But does it match up to the excitement of a career in the French Foreign Legion, I wonder?” she asked, thinking about the tattoo between his shoulder blades, which consisted of a circle, about three inches in diameter and contained a vertical dagger with some kind of flame thing around it to the right, all of which she found unbelievably sexy, more so because it seemed so at odds with his cool, aloof exterior.

  “Actually, that wasn’t as exciting as it sounds,” said Seb idly.

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Did it work? Did you find absolution? No. Way too personal. And she didn’t want to know any of that anyway. Really, she didn’t. “What was it like?”

  “It was fine. It was a job.”

  Just a job? Or an escape, his own personal Lethe, a refuge… Agh. Stop it. “Were you good at it?”

  “They offered me a medal.”

  Mercy scrambled up at that, clutching the sheet to her chest, her eyes widening. “A medal? What for?”

  Seb frowned, his expression suddenly shuttered. “Bravery,” he said, making it sound like a four letter word.

  And, oh dear, there went her soppy, melting heart. “How come? What did you do? Can you even say?”

  “It’s in the public domain.”

  So she could look it up, but – “Save me some time?”

  Seb looked as if he was going to tell her to forget it, but then he seemed to decide otherwise. “We were operating in a square in a remote town in Mali,” he said. “My platoon was under attack and we were outnumbered. There were women and children around. I saved a mother and child from a hail of bullets.”

  She stared at him. “Wow.”

  He shrugged. “Anyone would have done the same. I just happened to be there.”

  Yeah, right.

  “The timing of it was fortuitous though,” he said, “because it made my superiors more lenient when it came to having to take time out to deal with my wayward, troublesome sister.”

  “Does she know about the medal?” Because Zel had never mentioned it.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I turned it down.”

  Mercy gaped at him. He’d done what? “Why?”

  “I didn’t deserve it.”

  “But –”

  “I didn’t deserve it.”

  Oh. Right. No. Clearly he’d still been riddled with guilt and self-hatred at the time. Well. On to easier, happier subjects. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

  He gave her a faint smile. “Not that time.”

  “But others?”

  “I was a soldier in the 2nd parachute regiment, Mercedes. I operated in some of the most hostile, most dangerous, most lawless environments on the planet. What do you think?”

  She thought he was brave. Insanely brave. And not just because of the medal, although that was pretty swoon-worthy. It had taken guts to admit he’d been wrong about Zelda, and the process of getting there must have been pretty traumatic, so she thought too that he was strong, admirable and worthy of respect.

  She also thought he was still a bit broken, wounded and hurting. And possibly in need of help, both on the relationship with his sister front and the army front because the latter, in particular, must have been brutally tough.

  Not that it mattered what she thought. Just because she recognized that Seb was perhaps in trouble it didn’t mean she was intending to do anything about it. Because she wasn’t. She totally wasn’t. It wasn’t part of the deal.

  “Does your time in the army bother you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had counselling?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should.” And maybe she wasn’t talking about it only in relation to his spell as a soldier.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “You have nightmares.”

  “Only the one. And we both know that didn’t have anything to do with my experiences in the Legion.”

  “Do you speak French?”

  “Oui. Couramment. We all had to learn. It was a condition of conscription.”

  Mercy shivered because, hmm, it was sexy, that accent… “Want me to teach you how to swear in Spanish?” Because that could be fun.

  “I already know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Spanish corporal in my platoon.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with anyone from back then?”

  “No.”

  She tilted her head and looked at him closely. “Do you have any friends at all, Seb?”

  “One or two.”

  Or none, she thought, something deep inside her aching. Muscles she’d never known she had which had been put to use extremely thoroughly, most likely. “What about Ty?”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you met him?”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “You should. I think you’d like him. He has integrity. Intelligence. Loyalty. He’d be a good friend, I think, if you got to know him and let him get to know you.”

  “I’ll bear
it in mind,” he said, but something in his tone made her doubt he would.

  “Don’t you get lonely?” She would, without her friends, without hi-. No.

  Seb’s smile faded and a taut stillness came over him. “Now that is a personal question,” he said carefully.

  Yes, it was. Way too personal, actually, and what did it matter to her whether he got lonely or not? All she was interested in was the things he could do to her body, talking of which…

  “So distract me,” she said, lying back and shooting him a do-me-now look, whereupon Seb did – at length and very effectively.

  And when he left her apartment later that afternoon, and she checked her responses against her scenarios, she was pleased to learn that despite their earlier conversation, this thing between them was still just sex.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  The next Saturday Seb rolled off Mercy and flopped back on the pillows, his heart pumping like a steam train and his breathing all over the place in the aftermath of what had to have been the most exhilarating sexual experience of his life – which was saying something given how hard they’d been going at it over the last few weekends – and wished he’d never started with the whole conversation thing, because, apparently, if he gave it an inch it took a mile.

  The point he’d made last week had been perfectly valid. He and Mercy had to talk about something while they caught their breath, and the cautious small talk they’d been engaging in up to then had been driving him nuts.

  But still.

  Why had he told her about his medal? Why had he done that? He hadn’t told anyone. And why, when she’d asked if he ever got lonely had he been tempted to confess that he did, on occasion? The medal was no big deal and of course he wasn’t lonely. There weren’t enough hours in the day for him to do all the things he needed to do as it was. He certainly didn’t have time to be lonely.

  It had occurred to him that controlling their conversation was a lot harder than controlling the sex. That was easy because Mercy seemed quite happy to let him take the lead and he was hardly going to object when it so greatly appealed to the alpha male in him.

  However, she had a quick, perceptive mind and didn’t miss a trick. With very little effort on her part, she could have him spilling out things he’d really rather not. So he had to take care. Greater care. Although that ought to present little problem since he’d had half a lifetime of taking extremely great care.

  “For someone who hasn’t has sex for five years,” he murmured, figuring she’d now be expecting the conversation he’d told her was a good idea and deciding it wouldn’t hurt to emphasize exactly what they were doing here, “you’re very good at it.”

  Mercy looked at him, startled, as well she might because perhaps that was a bit personal. And perhaps just a little bit insulting.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, levering herself up, leaning back against the headboard of her bed and drawing her knees up. Something flickered in her eyes and her chin came up in a way that never failed to thrill – no, amuse – him. “Before you came along and messed things up, I’d had plenty of practice.”

  The amusement faded. Oh. Right. Well. He had asked. “Not all that busy with the vineyard, then.”

  “I made time.”

  But not now. Not for him. Which was fine. Just the way he wanted it. “How many boyfriends have you had?”

  “Three.”

  “Any serious?”

  “Only one.”

  “What happened?” Not that he wanted to know particularly. No. He was merely following the conversational convention of expanding a subject. It was the polite thing to do.

  “He had commitment issues,” said Mercy with a sigh. “I thought I could change him but realized after a year that I couldn’t.”

  Idiot. The boyfriend. Not her. She was very much not an idiot. “You’re keen on fixing people, aren’t you?”

  She frowned at him. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

  It was, if she was ever thinking of applying it to him. “Where does it come from?”

  “My childhood, I suspect. When I was eight I was given a pony. Her name was Dulcinea and I adored her. One day we were out riding, just the two of us. We jumped a ditch. We fell. I was fine, but she broke her two front legs. There was nothing I could do. She was shot.” Mercy shrugged, although her eyes clouded over for a second. “It affected me badly. I think I’ve been making up for my failure to help her ever since.”

  Something deep inside Seb ached. He ignored it. “Lucky I don’t need fixing, then, isn’t it?”

  She gave him a look that suggested she wasn’t too impressed by his insensitivity. “Indeed.” A pause. “How many lovers have you had, Seb?”

  “A handful more than you,” he said, although, since the accident none of them had been anything more than a warm body. And none of them, either before or after, had been anything like Mercy…

  “Ever been in love?”

  “No.” And never going to be. The idea of it, of being responsible for someone else’s happiness, scared him witless.

  “So how’s it going between you and Zel?” she said after a beat of silence, and whether or not the change in subject was deliberate he was glad of it.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Some,” she said. “Although when we get together we tend to avoid you as a topic of conversation.”

  Why? “Are you ashamed?”

  She stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head. “What? No. Not at all. Just discreet. And you were the one who told me not to shout it from the rooftops, were you not?”

  Of course he had been. How could he have forgotten? What was wrong with him today anyway?

  “It’s going fine,” he said, switching his attention to the least baffling woman in his life right now and thinking that ‘fine’ was actually quite an understatement. Things were going better than he could have hoped for. He and Zel were talking – really talking – and he was learning just what a great, strong, brave, fascinating sister he had. She’d been through hell – not only because of him, she’d said, although he wasn’t entirely sure he believed that – but now she was out the other side, and not just surviving, but thriving. She’d ditched the modelling she was famous for and was thinking about putting her innate talent for languages to use in the field of translation, which was why she’d just gone to St. Petersburg for a couple of weeks to brush up on her Russian. She really was incredible and he tried not to think too much about how close he’d come to losing her.

  “I was thinking of inviting Ty and Zel over for dinner when she gets back from Russia,” he said, steering his train of thought away from that before it could take hold. “It’s probably time I met him. For Zel’s sake.”

  Mercy’s eyes widened for a second, then she smiled. “That’d be nice.”

  Hmm. ‘Nice’ might be stretching it. He hadn’t had anyone other than Mercy over for dinner in years, although actually since they rarely got out of bed to eat possibly even that didn’t count, and he didn’t know how to do the ‘friend’ thing. The entire evening would probably be a disaster.

  But maybe he could invite Mercy too, it occurred to him suddenly. She’d ease the way and smooth over all the awkward silences that were bound to arise with her beguiling charm and talent for conversation. And then he could show his appreciation in the best way he knew.

  Or not, he thought, pulling up short at the direction his thoughts were going in. No. Definitely not. What on earth was he thinking? She hadn’t invited him to the Thanksgiving dinner he knew was happening this week at that pub she and her friends went to, had she? Nor to the wine awards presentation dinner she’d mentioned was taking place in ten days or so. And that was fine. Invitations out weren’t part of their arrangement. Thanksgiving fell on a Thursday anyway.

  What Mercy got up to when she wasn’t with him was none of his business in any case. The times he’d picked up his cell, not to arrange a time to meet but just to see how she w
as doing, had been very few and far between and entirely down to fatigue, because every single one of those calls he hadn’t made had occurred around midnight, minutes after he’d arrived back in his dark, empty apartment.

  “How’s your Russian?” said Mercy, dragging him out of his violently swinging, vaguely disturbing thoughts.

  “Poor,” he said, looking at her and thinking that while what she got up to when she wasn’t with him wasn’t any of his business, what she got up to when she was with him very much was, speaking of which… “My Spanish, though, is excellent. Want me to try some of it out on you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He leaned forwards, pulled her down and covered her with his body. “Quiero follarte hasta el fin del mundo,” he murmured into her ear.

  “Really?” she said softly. “Until the end of time?”

  He tensed for a moment, his blood thundering in his ears. Yes. No. Shit. Definitely no. “Just an expression I picked up,” he murmured, forcing himself to relax. “How do you say ‘all night long’?”

  “Toda la noche.”

  Better. Much better. Because ‘forever’ this certainly was not. “Quiero follarte toda la noche.”

  “Well, then,” said Mercy with a smile as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him down, “what are you waiting for?”

  *

  When Seb had said he wanted to have sex with her until the end of time, Mercy had known he hadn’t really meant it. But that hadn’t stopped her wondering over the last couple of days how long she wanted what they had to last, and it hadn’t stopped her from suspecting, worryingly, that the answer might indeed be until the end of time.

  That couldn’t be so. Although they hadn’t put a time limit on their arrangement she knew perfectly well that it wasn’t permanent. And that was OK because she didn’t want permanent. Nevertheless, what with the whole conversation aspect – which meant she and Seb now talked lightly about all manner of general interest things and which had led to a sort of well, camaraderie, she supposed – she could feel herself possibly becoming a bit…entangled.

  Take today for example. Thanksgiving. Here she was, setting the long wide table in Sully’s – which was closed for the day – in preparation for an early dinner. The weather was abysmal but the fire was blazing and music was playing, and it promised to be an evening of warmth and love and laughter as well as excellent food and, seeing as it was being provided by her, even more excellent wine. Everyone except Zel, who was in Russia, would be in attendance: JP, Faith, Ty, Dawn and Finn and finally, Casey and Ronan, also the Sullivan brothers, these two twins.