The Price of Success. Maya Blake
now. All I’m saying is don’t let them overrule your better judgement.’
A cold smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘My emotions? I didn’t know you practised on the side as the team’s psychologist. I thought you’d ridden down with me to beg for your job back, not to practise the elevator pitch version of pop psychology. You had me as your captive audience for a full thirty seconds. Shame you chose to waste it.’
‘Mock me all you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re acting like—’ She bit her lip, common sense momentarily overriding her anger.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged softly. Tauntingly. ‘Acting like what?’
She shrugged. ‘Like … well, like an ass.’
His eyes narrowed until they were mere icy slits. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry. You asked.’
Anger flared in his eyes, radiated off his body. Sasha held her breath, readying herself for the explosion about to rain on her head. Instead he gave a grim smile.
‘I’ve been called worse.’ He nodded to his bodyguard, who took a step towards them. ‘Romano will escort you off the premises. Be warned—my very generous donation to this hospital is contingent on you being arrested if you set foot anywhere near my brother again. I’m sure the administrator would relish that challenge.’
Despair rose to mingle with her anger. ‘You can’t do this. If you don’t listen to me I’ll … I’ll talk to the press again. I’ll spill everything!’
‘Ah, I’m glad to finally meet the real you, Miss Fleming.’
‘Ten minutes. That’s all I want. Let me convince you to keep me on.’
‘Trust me—blackmail isn’t a great place to start.’
She bit her lip. ‘That was just a bluff. I won’t talk to the press. But I do want to drive for you. And I’m the best mid-season replacement you’ll find for Rafael.’
‘You do place a high premium on yourself, don’t you?’
Unflinching, she nodded. ‘Yes, I do. And I can back it up. Just let me prove it.’
His gaze narrowed on her face, then conducted a lazy sweep over her body. Suddenly the clothes that had served as perfect camouflage against the intrusive press felt inadequate, exposing. Beneath the thin material of her T-shirt her heart hammered, her skin tingling with an alien awareness that made her muscles tense.
As a female driver in a predominantly male sport, she was used to being the cynosure of male eyes. There were those who searched for signs of failure as a driver, ready to use any shortcomings against her. Then there were the predators who searched for weaknesses simply because she was a woman, and therefore deemed incapable. The most vicious lot were those who bided their time, ready to rip her apart because she was Jack Fleming’s daughter. Those were the ones she feared the most. And the ones she’d sworn to prove wrong.
Marco de Cervantes’s gaze held an intensity that combined all of those qualities multiplied by a thousand. And then there was something else.
Something that made her breath grow shallow in her lungs. Made her palms clammy and the hairs bristle on her nape.
Recalling the sheer intensity of the look he’d directed into the camera earlier, she felt her heartbeat accelerate.
‘Get in the car,’ he bit out, his tone bone-chilling.
Sasha glanced into the dark, luxurious interior of the limo and hesitated. The feelings this man engendered in her weren’t those of fear. Rather, she sensed an emotional risk—as if, given half a chance, he would burrow under her skin, discover her worst fears and use them against her. She couldn’t let that happen.
‘If you want me to hear you out you’ll get in the car. Now,’ he said, his tone uncompromising.
She hesitated. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t isn’t a word I enjoy hearing,’ he growled, his patience clearly ebbing fast.
‘My bike.’ He quirked one brow at her. ‘I’d rather not leave it here.’
His glance towards the battered green and white scooter leaning precariously against the car park wall held disbelief. ‘You came here on that?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You’re wearing the most revolting pair of jeans I’ve ever seen and a scarf that’s seen better days. Add that to the oversized sunglasses and I don’t need to be a genius to guess you were trying some misguided attempt to escape the paparazzi. I am right?’ At her nod, he continued. ‘And yet you travelled on the slowest mode of motorised transport known to man.’
She raised her chin. ‘But there’s the beauty—don’t you see? I managed to ride straight past the paparazzi without one single camera lens focusing on me. You, on the other hand … Tell me—how did they react when you rocked up in your huge, tinted-windowed monstrosity of a car?’
His jaw tightened and he glared at her.
‘Exactly. I’m not leaving my bike.’
‘Security here is—’
‘Inadequate, according to you. After all, I managed to get through, didn’t I?’ She threw his words back at him.
One hand gripped the door of the car. ‘Get in the car or don’t. I refuse to argue with you over a pile of junk.’
‘It’s my junk and I won’t leave it.’
With a stifled curse, Marco held out his hands. ‘Keys?’
‘Why?’
‘Romano will return the scooter to your hotel.’
Sasha’s eyes widened. Romano weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. The thought of what he’d put her poor scooter through made her wince.
‘And before you comment on Romano’s size I’d urge you to stop and think about his feelings,’ Marco added mockingly.
Touché, she conceded silently.
Digging into her satchel, she reluctantly handed over her keys. Marco lobbed them to his bodyguard, then raised an imperious eyebrow at her.
With a resigned sigh, Sasha slid past his imposing body and entered the limo.
The door shut on them, enclosing them in a silent cocoon that threatened to send her already taut nerves into a frenzied tailspin.
As the car glided out of the car park it occurred to her that she had no idea where Marco was taking her. She opened her mouth to ask, then immediately shut it when she saw his gaze fixed on the small box.
Despite his bleak expression, his profile was stunningly arresting. The sculpted contours of his face held enough shadow and intrigue to capture the attention of any red-blooded female with a pulse—a fact attested to by the regular parade of stunning women he was photographed with.
His strong jaw bore the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, and an even stronger, taut neck slanted onto impossibly broad shoulders. Under the discreetly expensive cotton shirt those shoulders moved restlessly. She followed the movement, her gaze sliding down over his chest, past the flat stomach that showed no hint of flab. Her eyes rested in his lap. The bulge beneath his zipper made heat swirl in her belly.
‘Have you seen enough? Or would you like me to perform a slow striptease for you?’
Her cheeks burned. Her neck burned. In fact for several seconds Sasha was sure her whole body was on fire. Mortified, she hastily plucked her sunglasses from atop her head and jammed them onto her face.
‘I … You didn’t say where we were going.’
‘I’ve called a meeting with Russell and the chief