Page 5 of Daring to Love

2

Finlay

Women don’t tend to run away from me. It’s usually the opposite – they run towards me instead.

But as I watch the small frame with a mass of wild curls disappear from my sight, I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t realise that’s exactly what’s happening. I shake my head in wonder as my eyes linger on her butt, her movements lithe and graceful, and I bite my lip. If she was any other woman instead of my next story, I’d run after her and ask for her phone number, because the minute those doe-like eyes met mine, attraction sizzled between us and I had to work hard not to let it show.

Now, what the fuck do I do?

Annoyed, I ruffle through my pocket and find my mobile. Still frowning in the direction Amelie Winters ran off, I swipe the screen to unlock it. When at last I can’t spot her anymore, I glance down and find my editor in my contacts. I breathe in the crisp air – Scottish spring is fickle, and today is no different – and phone him, thinking quickly of an excuse not to run after the elusive fairy.

“What now, Jensen?” Erik sighs in my ear.

I frown at his less than enthusiastic voice.

“She ran away,” I clip.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

His chuckle grates on my nerves.

“Then you best run after her.”

“I don’t chase after little rich girls. You know that.”

“You know the deal,” he warns.

“There must be something else I can do to make up for what happened.”

“No.”

I look to the sky, cursing inwardly.

“What do you want from me? Do you want me to beg?”

“Aye, that’d be a sight, wouldn’t it?” he snorts. I open my mouth, but I don’t get another word in. “Listen, Jensen, you fucked up, and you know what’s on the line: your job. Write the best, fucking story you can about the real Amelie Winters, we’ll run it, and that’s that.”

“I’m an investigative journalist.” I barely manage a civil tone, my temper rising. “She already made it crystal clear that she refuses to speak with me. I don’t…”

“You don’t have a choice,” he bites, his German accent ringing loudly in my ear. “Either you get this story, or you’re done working here. Are we clear?”

Closing my eyes, I hang my head and let the silence speak for me.

“That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “Now, go after the young lady, charm her knickers off – figuratively speaking, I might add – and do what you have to do within reason to get her to talk. You have two weeks.”

Once again, I’m prevented from getting another word in, because he hangs up on me, the low click humming loudly in my ear. I force my fingers to release their tight hold on my mobile, pocketing it briskly, and turn in the direction she disappeared.

Then I start walking, hoping the air will do me good. But instead of coming up with a plan of action, my mind wanders in a thousand directions, leaving me with an unusual conundrum. What am I supposed to do? I could try to find another job, but no one wants to hire me after the crap that went down a couple of months ago. It’s a miracle Erik hasn’t fired me, to be honest, but this? This is taking punishment to an extreme level, at least to me.

How the blooming hell did I get into this?

Ah, yes…my weakness for the opposite sex, that’s what. Being caught with my tongue down the throat of a prominent politician’s wife by her husband wasn’t meant to happen, for obvious reasons, but I never thought my editor would strike a blow the likes of this: demoted to write three consecutive stories for the high society pages.

My skin crawls as if it was attacked by an army of ants.

I’m not a cheater, and I don’t want my women to be taken, but when the woman in question practically pushed down my pants and freed my cock within half an hour of meeting her, I stopped thinking. What guy wouldn’t? Ugh. I couldn’t think, or I’d have stopped things from going as far as they did.