Читать книгу The Price Of Desire - Сандра Мартон - Страница 11

‘IF YOU’VE finished your breakfast, I’ll take you on the tour of the race track.’

Sasha looked up from her almost empty plate of scrambled eggs and ham to find Marco lounging in the doorway that connected the vast living room to the sun-drenched terrace of Casa de Leon.

She’d been here three days, and she still couldn’t get her head round the sheer vastness of the de Cervantes estate. Navigating her way around the huge, rambling two-storey villa without getting lost had taken two full days.

With its white stucco walls, dark red slate roofs and large cathedral-like windows, Casa de Leon was an architect’s dream. The high exposed beams, sweeping staircases and intricately designed marble floors wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace. Every piece of furniture, painting and drape looked as if it cost a fortune. Even the air inside the villa smelled different, tinged with a special rarefied, luxurious quality that made her breath catch.

Outside, an endless green vista, broken only by perfectly manicured gardens, stretched as far as the eye could see … It was no wonder the countless villa staff travelled around in golf buggies.

Realising Marco was waiting for an answer, she nodded, drawing her gaze from the long, muscular legs encased in dark grey trousers. ‘Sure. I’ll just finish my coffee. Aren’t you having anything?’ She indicated the mouth-watering spread of seasonal fruit, pastries and ham slices on the table.

Disengaging himself from the doorway, he came towards her, powerfully sleek and oozing arrogant masculinity. ‘I’ll have a coffee, too.’

When he sat and made no move to pour it himself, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, boss. Three bags full, boss?’

His hazel eyes gleamed and Sasha had the distinct feeling he was amused, although not a smile cracked his lips. In fact he looked decidedly strained. Which wasn’t surprising under the circumstances, she reminded herself.

Feeling the mutiny give way, she poured him a cup. ‘Black?’

‘Sí. Two sugars.’

She looked up, surprised. ‘Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the two-sugars type.’

‘And how would you have pegged me?’

‘Black, straight up, drunk boiling hot without a wince.’

‘Because my insides are made of tar and my soul is black as night?’ he mocked.

She shrugged. ‘Hey, you said it.’ She added sugar and passed it over.

‘Gracias.’ He picked up a silver spoon and stirred his drink, the tiny utensil looking very delicate in his hand.

Sasha found herself following the movement, her gaze tracing the short dark hairs on the back of his hand. Suddenly her mouth dried, and her stomach performed that stupid flip again. Wrenching her gaze from the hypnotic motion, she picked up her cup with a decidedly unsteady hand.

‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

‘Do you really want to know?’

The speed with which Marco had whisked her from Budapest to Spain after she’d signed the contract had made her head spin. Of course his luxury private jet—which he’d piloted himself—had negated the tedium of long airport waits and might have had something to do with it. They’d flown to Barcelona, then transferred by helicopter to his estate in Leon.

He took another sip. ‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You should know by now that I never say anything I don’t mean.’

Now she felt surly. Her suite was the last word in luxury, complete with four-poster bed, half a dozen fluffy pillows and a deep-sunken marble bath to die for. Just across from where she sat, past the giant-sized terracotta potted plants and a barbecue area, an Olympic-sized swimming pool sparkled azure in the dappling morning light. She’d already sampled its soothing comfort, along with the sports gym equipped with everything she needed to keep her exercise regime on track. In reality, she wanted for nothing.

And yet …

‘It’s fine. I have everything I need. Thank you,’ she tagged on waspishly. Then, wisely moving on before she ventured into full-blown snark, she asked, ‘How is Rafael?’

Marco’s gaze cooled.

Sasha sighed. ‘I agreed to stay away from him. I didn’t agree to stop caring about him.’

‘The move from Budapest went fine. He’s now in the care of the best Spanish doctors in Barcelona.’

‘Since you’ll probably bite my head off if I ask you to send him my best, I’ll move on. How far away is the race track?’

‘Three miles south.’ Lifting his cup, he drained it.

‘Exactly how big is this place?’

When Marco had announced he was bringing a skeleton team to Spain to help her train for her debut at the end of August, she’d mistakenly thought she would be spending most of her time in a race simulator. The half an hour it’d taken to travel from Marco’s landing strip to his villa had given her an inkling of how immense his estate was.

His gaze pinned on her, he picked up an orange and skilfully peeled it. ‘All around? About twenty-five square miles.’

‘And you and Rafael own all of it?’

‘Sí.’ He popped a segment into his mouth.

Sasha carefully set her cup down, her senses tingling with warning. That soft sí had held a slight edge to it that made her wary. His next words confirmed her wariness.

‘Just think, if only you’d said yes all this would’ve been yours.’

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Affecting a light tone, she toyed with the delicate handle of her expensive bone china cup. ‘Gee, I don’t know. The race track would’ve been handy, but what the hell would I do with the rest of the … What else is there, anyway?’

His gaze was deceptively lazy—deceptive because she could feel the charged animosity rising from him.

‘There’s a fully functioning vineyard and winery. And the stables house some of the best Andalucian thoroughbreds in Spain. There’s also an exclusive by-invitation-only resort and spa on the other side of the estate.’

‘Well, there you have it, then. My palate is atrociously common—not to mention that if I drink more than one glass of wine I get a raging headache. As for thoroughbreds—I couldn’t tell you which end of the horse to climb if you put me next to one. So, really, you’re way better off without me in your family. The spa sounds nice, though. A girl could always do with a foot rub after a hard day’s work—although I have a feeling the amount of grease I tend to get under my nails would frighten your resort staff.’

A tiny tic appeared at his temple. ‘Are you always this facetious, or do you practice?’

‘Normally I keep it well hidden. I only show off when asked really, really nicely,’ she flung back. Then she stood. ‘From the unfortunate downturn of this conversation, I take it the offer of a tour is now off the table?’ She tilted her chin, determined not to reveal how deep his barbs had stung.

‘As much as I’m tempted to reward your petulance with time on the naughty step, that will only prove counterproductive.’ Wiping his hands on a napkin, he rose to tower over her. ‘You’re here to train. Familiarising yourself with the race track is part of that training. I’ll leave the naughty step for another time.’

Wisely deciding to leave the mention of the naughty step alone, Sasha relaxed her grip on the back of the chair. ‘Thank you.’

Sasha followed him into the villa, staunchly maintaining her silence. But not talking didn’t equate to not looking, and, damn it, she couldn’t help but be intensely aware of the man beside her. His smell assailed her nostrils—that sharp tang of citrus coupled with the subtle undertones of musk that shifted as it flowed over his warmth.

Against the strong musculature of his torso his white polo shirt lovingly followed the superb lines of a deep chest and powerful shoulders. All that magnificence tapered down to a trim waist that knew not an ounce of fat.

Judging by his top-notch physicality, she wasn’t surprised Marco had been the perfect championship-winning driver ten years ago.

‘Why did you give up racing? You resigned so abruptly, and yet it’s obvious you recovered fully after your crash.’

She saw his shoulders tense before he rounded on her. The icy, forbidding look in his eyes made her bite her lip.

Nice one, Sasha.

‘That is not a subject up for discussion, Miss Fleming. And before you take it into your head to go prying I caution you against it. Understood?’

He barely waited for her nod before he wrenched open the front door.

Outside, two golf buggies sat side by side at the bottom of the steps. She headed towards the nearest one.

‘Where are you going?’ he bit out.

She stopped. ‘Oh, I thought we were going by road.’

He nodded to the helipad, where a black and red chopper sat gleaming in the morning sun. ‘We’re touring by helicopter.’

It was a spectacularly beautiful machine—the latest in a long line of beautiful aircraft.

‘Any chance you’ll let me fly it?’

He flashed a mirthless grin at her. ‘I don’t see any pigs flying, do you?’

‘Wow, this is incredible! How long have you had this race track?’ Marco glanced up from the helicopter controls, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was bad enough hearing her excitement piped directly into his headphones. The visual effects were even more disturbing.

When he’d offered her an aerial tour of the race track he hadn’t taken into account how she was dressed. In most respects, her white shorts could be described as sensible—almost boyish. He’d been out with women who wore far less on a regular basis. Her light green shirt was also plain to the point of being utilitarian.

All the same, Marco found the combination of her excitement and her proximity … aggravating. Even more aggravating were the flashbacks he kept having of her leaning back on the bed in her hotel room, her T-shirt riding up to reveal skin so tempting it had knocked his breath clean out of his lungs …

Her naked ambition and her sheer drive to succeed were living things that charged the air around her. Marco knew only too well the high cost of blind ambition, and yet knowing the depths of Sasha Fleming’s ambition and what she would do to achieve her goals didn’t stop him from imagining how it would have felt to lift her T-shirt higher … just a fraction …

He was also more than a little puzzled that she’d made no attempt to gain his attention since that episode in her room. Women flaunted themselves at him at every opportunity—used every excuse in the book to garner his interest. Some even resorted to … unconventional means. Most of the time he was happy to direct them Rafael’s way. He’d long outgrown the paddock bunny phase; had outgrown it even before Angelique, the most calculating of them all, had stepped into his orbit and turned his world upside down.

Marco sobered, seething at himself for the memories he suddenly couldn’t seem to dispel so easily. Focusing on the controls, he banked the chopper and followed the straights and curves of the race track hundreds of metres below.

‘I built it ten years ago,’ he clipped out in answer to her question.

‘After you retired?’ she asked, surprised.

‘No. Just before.’ His harsh response had the desired effect of shutting her up, but when he glanced at her again, he noted the spark of speculation in her eyes. Before he could think about why he was doing so, he found himself elaborating. ‘I thought I’d be spending more time here.’ He’d woven foolish dreams about what his life would be like, how perfect everything had seemed. He’d had the perfect car; the perfect woman.

‘What happened?’

The crushing pain of remembrance tightened around his chest. ‘I crashed.’

She gave a sad little understanding nod that made him want to growl at her. What did she know? She was as conniving as they came.

Forcing his anger under control, he flew over the track towards the mid-point hill.

Sasha pointed to six golf buggies carrying mechanics who hopped out at various points of the track. ‘What are they doing?’

‘The track hasn’t been used for a while. They’re conducting last-minute checks on the moveable parts to make sure they’re secure.’

‘I can’t believe this track can be reshaped to simulate other tracks around the circuit. I can’t wait to have a go!’

Excitement tinged her voice and Marco couldn’t help glancing over at her. Her eyes were alight with a smile that seemed to glow from within. His hands tightened around the controls.

‘The track was built before simulators became truly effective. One concrete track would’ve served only to make a driver expert at a particular track, so I designed an interchangeable track. The other advantage is experience gained in driving on tarmac, or as close to tarmac—as you can get. Wet or dry conditions can make or break a race. This way the driver gets to practise on both with the right tyres. Electronic simulators and wind tunnels have their places, but so does this track.’

The helicopter crested another small hill and cold sweat broke out over his skin. Several feet to the side of the track a mound of whitewashed stones had been piled high in a makeshift monument. Marco’s hand tightened on the lever and deftly swerved the aircraft away from the landmark he had no wish to see up close.

‘Trust me, I’m not complaining. It’s a great idea. I’m just surprised other teams haven’t copied the idea. Or sold their firstborn sons to use your track.’

‘Offers have been made in the past.’

‘And?’

He shrugged. ‘I occasionally allow them to use the track I designed. But for the whole package to come together they also need the car I designed.’

A small laugh burst from her lips. The sound was so unexpectedly pleasing he momentarily lost his train of thought, and missed her reply.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that’s a clever strategy—considering you own the team you design for, and the only other way anyone can get their hands on a Marco de Cervantes design is by shelling out … how much does the Cervantes Conquistador cost? Two million?’

‘Three.’

She whistled—another unexpected sound that charged through his bloodstream, making him even more on edge than he’d been a handful of seconds ago.

She leaned forward into his eyeline. He’d been wrong about the shirt being functional. Her pert breasts pressed against the cotton material, her hands on her thighs as she peered down.

Marco swallowed, the hot stirrings in his abdomen increasing to uncomfortable proportions. Ruthlessly he pushed them away.

Sasha Fleming was bad news, he reminded himself.

Rafael had got involved with her to his severe detriment. Marco had no intention of following down the same road. His only interest in her was to make sure she delivered the Constructors’ Championship. Now he knew what she really wanted—the Drivers’ Championship—he had her completely at his mercy.

Control re-established, he brought the helicopter in to land, and yanked off his headphones. Sasha jumped down without his help and Marco caught the puzzled look she flashed him. Ignoring it, he strode towards Luke Green. His chief engineer had travelled ahead to supervise the initial training arrangements.

Sasha drew closer and her scent reached his nostrils. Marco’s insides clenched in rejection even as he breathed her in. His awareness of her was becoming intolerable. Even her voice as she greeted Luke bit into his psyche.

‘Is everything in order?’ he asked.

Luke nodded. ‘We’re just about to offload the engine. The mechanics will check it over and make sure it hasn’t been damaged during the flight.’

‘It takes three hours max to assemble the car, so it should be ready for me to test this afternoon, shouldn’t it?’ Sasha asked, her attention so intent on the tarpaulin-covered engine Marco almost enquired if she yearned to caress it.

‘No. You’ll begin training tomorrow morning,’ he all but growled.

Her head snapped towards him, her expression crestfallen. ‘Oh, but if the car’s here …’

‘The mechanics have been working on getting things ready since dawn. This engine hasn’t been used since last December. It’ll have to go through rigorous testing before it’s race-ready. That’ll take most of the day—at least until sundown.’

He turned back to Luke. ‘I want to see hourly engine readouts and a final telemetry report when you’re done testing.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Grabbing Sasha’s arm, he steered her away from the garage. Several eyes followed them, but he didn’t care. He was nothing like his brother. He had no intention of ever making a fool of himself over a woman again.

Opening the passenger door to his Conquistador, he thrust her into the bucket seat. Rounding the hood, he slid behind the wheel.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re angry with me?’ she directed at him.

Marco slammed his door. ‘It’s not a feeling.’

The breath she blew up disturbed the thick swathe of hair slanting over her forehead. ‘What did I do?’ she demanded.

He faced her and found her stunning eyes snapping fire at him. The blue of her gaze was so intense, so vivid, he wanted to keep staring at her for ever. The uncomfortable erotic heat he’d felt in her Budapest hotel room, when she’d strutted into view wearing that damned T-shirt that boldly announced ‘Bite Me’, rose again.

For days he’d been fighting that stupid recurring memory that strayed into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.

Even here in Leon, where much more disturbing memories impinged everywhere he looked, he couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of those long, coltish legs and the thought of how they would feel around his waist.

Nor could he ignore the evidence of Sasha’s hard work and dedication to her career. Every night since her arrival in Spain he’d found her poring over telemetry reports or watching footage of past races, fully immersed in pursuing the only thing she cared about.

The only thing she cared about …

Grabbing the steering wheel, he forced himself to calm down.

‘Marco?’

When had he given her permission to use his first name? Come to think of it, when had he started thinking of her as Sasha instead of Miss Fleming?

Dios, he was losing it.

With a wrench of his wrist the engine sprang to life, its throaty roar surprisingly soothing. Designing the Espiritu race cars had been an engineering challenge he’d relished. The Cervantes Conquistador had been a pure labour of love.

Momentarily he lost himself in the sounds of the engine, his mind picking up minute clicks and torsion controls. If he closed his eyes he would be able to imagine the aerodynamic flow of air over the chassis, visualise where each spark plug, each piston, nut and bolt was located.

But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. His grip tightened around the wheel.

Her gaze stayed on him as he accelerated the green and black sports car out of the parking lot. The screech of tyres drew startled glances from the mechanics heading for the hangar. Marco didn’t give a damn.

After a few minutes, when he felt sufficiently calm, he slowed down. ‘It’s not you.’

She didn’t answer.

Shrugging, he indicated the rich forest surrounding them. ‘It’s this place.’

‘This place? The race track or Casa de Leon?’

His jaw clenched as he tried in vain to stem the memories flooding him. ‘This is where my mother died eight years ago.’

Her gasp echoed in the car. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should’ve said something.’

He slowed down long enough to give her a hard look. ‘It isn’t common knowledge outside my family. I’d prefer it to remain that way.’ He wasn’t even sure why he’d told her. Whatever was causing him to act so out of character he needed to cauterise it.

She gave a swift nod. ‘Of course. You can trust me.’ Her colour rose slightly at her last words.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He only had himself to blame if she decided to spill her guts at the first opportunity. Flooring the accelerator, he sent the car surging forward as his other reason for wanting to escape the memories of this place rose.

Sasha remained silent until he pulled up in front of the villa. Then, lifting a hand, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked softly.

Releasing his clammy grip on the steering wheel, Marco flicked a glance at the villa door. He knew he’d find no respite within. If anything, the memories were more vivid inside. He didn’t need to close his eyes to see his mother laughing at Rafael’s shameless cajoling, her soft hazel eyes sparkling as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel moments before rushing out of the villa.

‘For his twenty-first birthday my father bought Rafael a Lamborghini. We celebrated at a nightclub in Barcelona. Afterwards I flew down here in the helicopter with my parents. Rafael chose to drive from Barcelona—five hours straight. He arrived just after breakfast, completely wired from partying. I tried to convince him to get some sleep, but he wanted to take my parents for a spin in the car.’

The familiar icy grip of pain tightened around his chest.

‘Rafael was my mother’s golden boy. He could do no wrong. So of course she agreed.’ Marco felt some of the pain seep out and tried to contain it. ‘My father insisted later it was the sun that got in Rafael’s eyes as he turned the curve, but one eyewitness confirmed he took the corner too fast. I heard the crash from the garage.’ Every excruciating second had felt like a lifetime as he sped towards the scene. ‘By the time the air ambulance came my mother was gone.’

‘Oh, Marco, no!’

Sasha’s voice was a soft, soothing sound. The ache inside abated, but it didn’t disappear. It never would. He’d lost his mother before he’d ever had the chance to make up for what he’d put her through.

‘I should’ve stopped him—should’ve insisted he get some sleep before taking the car out again.’

‘You couldn’t have known.’

He shook his head. ‘But I should have. Except when it comes to Rafael everyone seems to develop a blind spot. Including me.’

Vaguely, Marco wondered why he was spilling his guts. To Sasha Fleming, of all people. With a forceful wrench on the door, he stepped out of the car.

She scrambled out too. ‘And your father? What happened to him?’

His fist tightened around the computerised car key. ‘The accident severed his spine. He lost the use of his body from the neck down. He’s confined to a wheelchair and will remain like that for the rest of his life.’

Sasha looked after Marco’s disappearing figure, shocked by the astonishing revelation.

Now Marco’s motives became clear. His overprotective attitude towards Rafael, his reaction to the crash, suddenly made sense. Watching his mother die on the race track he’d built had to be right up there with enduring a living hell every time he stepped foot on it.

So why did he do it?

Marco de Cervantes was an extraordinary engineer and aerodynamicist, who excelled in building astonishingly fast race cars, but he could easily have walked away and concentrated his design efforts on the equally successful range of exclusive sport cars favoured by Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.

So what drove him to have anything to do with a world that surely held heart-wrenching memories?

She slowly climbed the stairs and entered the house, her mind whirling as she went into her suite to wash off the heat and sweat of the race track.

After showering, she put on dark jeans and a striped blue shirt. Pulling her hair into a neat twist, she secured it with a band and shoved her feet into pair of flat sandals.

She met Marco as she came down the stairs. The now familiar raking gaze sent another shiver of awareness scything through her. He stopped directly in front of her, his arresting face and piercing regard rendering her speechless for several seconds.

‘Lunch won’t be ready for a while, but if you want something light before then, Rosario can fix you something.’

The matronly housekeeper appeared in the sun-dappled hallway as if by magic, wiping her hands on a white apron.

‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

With a glance, he dismissed the housekeeper. His gaze returned to her, slowly tracing her face. When it rested on her mouth she struggled not to run her tongue over it, remembering how his eyes had darkened the last time she’d done that.

‘I have a video call with Tom Brooks, my press liaison, in five minutes. Can I use your study?’

His eyes locked on hers. ‘Why’s he calling?’

‘He wants to go over next month’s sponsorship schedule. I can give you a final printout, if you like.’

She deliberately kept her voice light, non-combative. Something told her Marco de Cervantes was spoiling for a fight, and after his revelations she wasn’t sure it was wise to engage him in one. Pain had a habit of eroding rational thought.

Being calmly informed by the doctor that she’d lost the baby she hadn’t even been aware she was carrying had made her want to scream—loudly, endlessly until her throat gave out. She’d wanted to reach inside herself and rip her body apart for letting her down. In the end the only thing that had helped was getting back to the familiar—to her racing car. The pain had never left her, but the adrenaline of racing had eased her aching soul the way nothing else had been able to.

Looking into Marco’s dark eyes, she caught a glimpse of his pain, but wisely withheld the offer of comfort on the tip of her tongue. After all, who was she to offer comfort when she hadn’t quite come to terms with losing her baby herself?

Silently, she held his gaze.

For several seconds he stared back. Then he indicated his study. ‘I’ll set it up for you.’

She followed him into the room and drew to a stunned halt. The space was so irreverently, unmistakably male that her eyes widened. An old-style burgundy leather studded chair and footrest stood before the largest fireplace she’d ever seen, above which two centuries-old swords hung. The rest of the room was oak-panelled, with dusty books stretching from floor to ceiling. The scent of stale tobacco pipe smoke hung in the air. It wouldn’t have been strange to see a shaggy-haired professor seated behind the massive desk that stood under the only window in the room. Compared to the contemporary, exceedingly luxurious comfort of the rest of the villa, this was a throwback to another century—save for the sleek computer on the desk.

Marco caught the look on her face and raised an eyebrow as he activated the large flat screen computer on the immense mahogany desk.

‘Did your designer fall into a time warp when he got to this room?’

‘This was my father’s study—his personal space. He never allowed my mother to redesign it, no matter how much she tried. He hasn’t been in here since she died, and I … I feel no need to change things.’

A well of sympathy rose inside Sasha for his pain. Casting a look around, she stopped, barely suppressing a gasp. ‘Is that a stag’s head on the wall?’ she asked, eyeing the large animal head, complete with gnarled, menacing antlers.

‘A bull stag, yes.’

She turned from the gruesome spectacle. ‘There’s a difference?’

The semblance of a smile whispered over his lips. Sasha found she couldn’t tear her gaze away. In that split second she felt a wild, unfettered yearning to see that smile widen, to see his face light up in genuine amusement.

‘The bull stag is the alpha of its herd. He calls the shots. And he gets his pick of the females.’

‘Ah, I see. If you’re going to display such a monstrosity on your wall, only the best will do?’

He slanted her a wry glance. ‘That’s the general thinking, yes.’

‘Ugh.’

He caught her shudder and his smile widened.

Warmth exploded in her chest, encompassed her whole body and made her breathless. Sasha found she didn’t care. The need to bask in the stunning warmth of his smile trumped the need for oxygen. Even when another voice intruded she couldn’t look away.

When Tom’s voice came again she roused herself with difficulty from the drugging race of her pulse, carefully skirted a coffee table festooned with piles of books, and approached the desk as the screen came to life.

‘Hello? Can you hear me, Sasha?’ Tom’s voice held its usual touch of impatience, and his features were pinched.

Marco’s smile disappeared.

Sasha mourned the loss of it and moved closer to the screen. ‘I’m here, Tom.’

He huffed in response, then his eyes swung over her shoulder and widened.

‘Sit down,’ Marco said from behind her, pushing the massive chair towards her.

She sat. He reached over her shoulder and adjusted the screen. Then he remained behind her—a heavy, dominating presence.

Tom cleared his throat. ‘Uh, I didn’t know you’d be joining us, Mr de Cervantes.’

‘A last-minute decision. Carry on,’ Marco instructed.

‘Um … okay …’

She’d never seen Tom flounder, and she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.

‘Sasha, you have a Q&A on the team’s website next Friday. I’ve e-mailed the questions to you. I’ll need it back by Wednesday, to proofread and get it approved by the lawyers. On Friday night you have the Children of Bravery awards in London. Tuesday is the Strut footwear shoot, followed by the Linear Watches shoot in Barcelona. On Sun— Is there a problem?’ he asked testily when she shook her head.

‘That’s not going to work. I can’t take all that time off just for sponsorship events.’

‘This is the schedule I’ve planned. You’ll have to deal with it.’

‘Seriously, I think it makes more sense to group everything together and get it done in the shortest possible time—’

‘I’m in charge of your schedule. Let me work out what makes sense.’

‘Miss Fleming is right.’ Marco’s deep voice sounded from behind her shoulder. ‘You have several events spaced out over the period of a week. That’s a lot of time wasted travelling. Do you not agree?’

‘But the sponsors—’

‘The sponsors need to work around her schedule, not the other way round. They can have Thursday to Saturday next week. Otherwise they’ll have to wait until the end of the month. Miss Fleming gets Sundays off. Your job is to manage her time properly. Make it happen.’

Marco reached past Sasha and disconnected the link. Although it was a rare treat to see Tom get his comeuppance, a large part of her tightened with irritation.

‘I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own schedule, thank you very much.’

‘It didn’t seem that way.’

‘Only because you didn’t give me half a chance.’ She craned her neck to gaze up at him, feeling at a severe disadvantage.

His head went back as he glared down his arrogant nose at her. ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,’ he declared.

Her heart lurched, then swung into a dive as a wave of warmth oozed through her. Sasha berated herself for the foolish feeling, but as much as she tried to push it away it grew stronger.

Despite the alien feeling zinging through her, she tried for a casual shrug. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’

A frown creased his forehead. ‘Why not?’

Her bitter laugh escaped before she could curb it. Rising, she padded several steps away, breathing easier. ‘Probably for the same reasons you don’t. He doesn’t think I have any business being a racing driver. He believes I’ve made him a laughing stock by association.’

‘Because of your gender or because of your past indiscretions?’

‘According to you they’re one and the same, aren’t they?’ she retorted.

The hands gripping the back of the chair tightened. ‘I told you in Budapest your gender had nothing to do with my decision to fire you. Your talent as a full-time racing driver is yet to be seen. Prove yourself as the talented racing driver you claim to be and you’ll earn your seat. Until then I reserve my judgement.’

‘You reserve your judgement professionally, but you’re judge, jury and executioner when it comes to my personal life?’

A cold gleam had entered his eyes, but even that didn’t stop her from staring into those hypnotising depths.

‘We agreed that you will have no personal life until your contract ends, did we not? You wouldn’t be thinking of reneging on that agreement so soon, would you?’

Sasha just stopped herself from telling him she already had no personal life. That she hadn’t had one since Derek’s lies and the loss of her baby had put her through the wringer. Rafael had been her one and only friend until that had headed south.

‘Sasha.’

The warning in the way he said her name sent a shiver dancing down her spine. She glanced up at him and bit back a gasp.

When had he drawn so close? Within his eyes she could see the flecks of green that spiked from his irises. And the lashes that framed them were long, silky. Beautiful. He had beautiful eyes. Eyes that drew her in, wove spells around her. Tugged at emotions buried deep within her …

Eyes that were steadily narrowing, demanding an answer.

She sucked in a breath, her brain turning fuzzy again when his scent—lemony, with a large dose of man—hit her nostrils. ‘No, Marco. No personal life. Not even a Labradoodle to cuddle when I’m lonely.’

A frown deepened. ‘A what?’

‘It’s a dog. A cross between a Labrador and a poodle. I used to have one when I was little. But it died.’

‘Pets have no place on the racing circuit.’

She glared at him. ‘I wasn’t planning on bringing one to work. Anyway, it’s a moot point, since my schedule isn’t conducive to having one. I detest part-time pet owners.’

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out and activated it. Seeing the promised e-mail from Tom, she turned to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.

She faked a smile to hide the disturbing emotions roiling through her body. ‘Oh, I thought the inquisition was over. Only Tom has sent the Q&A and I want to get it done so I don’t take up valuable race testing time.’

Her snarky tone didn’t go unmissed. His jaw clenched as he sauntered over to her. She held her breath, forcing herself not to move back.

‘The inquisition is over for now. But I reserve the right to pursue it at a later date.’

‘And I reserve the right not to participate in your little witch hunt. I read the small print and signed on the dotted line. I know exactly what’s expected of me and I intend to honour our agreement. You can either let me get on with it, or you can impede me and cause us both a lot of grief. Your choice.’

She sailed out of the room, head held high. Just before the door swung shut Sasha suspected she heard a very low, very frustrated growl emitted by a very different bull stag from the one hanging on the wall.

Her smile widened as she punched the air.

Marco didn’t come back for dinner. Even after Rosario told her he’d gone to his office in Barcelona Sasha caught herself looking towards the door, half expecting him to stride through it at any second.

Luke had dropped off the engine testing results, which she’d pored over half a dozen times in between listening out for the sound of the helicopter.

Catching herself doing so for the umpteenth time, she shoved away from the table, ran upstairs to her suite and changed into her gym clothes.

Letting herself out of the side entrance, she skirted the pool and jogged along the lamplit path bordering the extensive gardens. Fragrant bougainvillaea and amaranth scented the evening air. She breathed in deeply and increased her pace until she spotted the floodlights of the race track in the distance. Excitement fizzed through her veins.

A few hours from now she’d start her journey to clear her father’s name. To prove to the world that the Fleming name was not dirt, as so many people claimed.

Fresh waves of sadness and anger buffeted her as she thought of her father. How his brilliant career had crumbled to dust in just a few short weeks, his hard work and sterling dedication to his team wiped away by vicious lies.

The pain of watching him spiral into depression had been excruciating. In the end even his pride in her hadn’t been enough …

Whirling away from her thoughts, and literally from the path, she jogged the rest of the way to the sports facility half a mile away and spent the next hour punishing herself through a strenuous routine that would have made Charlie, her physio, proud.

Leaving the gym, Sasha wandered aimlessly, deliberately emptying her mind of sad memories. It wasn’t until she nearly stumbled into a wall that she realised she stood in front of a single-storey building. Shrouded in darkness, it sat about half a mile away from the house, at the far end of the driveway that led past the villa.

About to enter, she jumped as the trill of her phone rang through the silent night.

Hurriedly, she fished it out, but it went silent before she could answer it. Frowning, she returned it to her pocket, then rubbed her hands down her arms when the cooling breeze whispered over her skin.

Casting another glance at the dark building, she retraced her steps back to the villa. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floors.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

Marco’s voice was amplified in the semi-darkness, drawing her to a startled halt. He stood half hidden behind one of the numerous pillars in the vast hallway.

‘I went to the gym, then went for a walk.’

His huge frame loomed larger as he came towards her. ‘The next time you decide to leave the house for a long stretch have the courtesy to inform the staff of your whereabouts. That way I won’t have people combing the grounds for you.’

There was an odd inflection in his voice that made the hairs on her neck stand up.

‘Has something happened?’ She stepped towards him, her heart taking a dizzying dive when he didn’t answer immediately. ‘Marco?’

‘Sí, something’s happened,’ he delivered in an odd, flat tone.

He stepped into the light and Sasha bit back a gasp at the gaunt, tormented look on his face.

‘Rafael … It’s Rafael.’