The Price of Success. Maya Blake
far more than he wanted to admit.
‘We’re going to your suite? Okay …’
She stepped into the lift. Behind her, Marco saw the porter’s gaze drop to linger on her backside. Irritation rose to mingle with the already toxic cauldron of emotions swirling through him. With an impatient finger he stabbed at the button.
‘I see the thought of it doesn’t disturb you too much.’ He didn’t bother to conceal the slur in his comment. The urge to attack, to wound, ran rampage within him.
Silently he conceded she was right. As long as Rafael was fighting for his life he couldn’t think straight. The impulse to make someone pay seethed just beneath the surface of his calm.
And Sasha Fleming had placed herself front and centre in his sights.
He expected her to flinch. To show that his words had hit a mark.
He wasn’t prepared for her careless shrug. ‘You’re right. I don’t really want our conversation to feed tomorrow’s headlines. I’m pretty sure by now most of the media know you’re staying here.’
‘So you’re not afraid to enter a strange man’s suite?’
‘Are you strange? I thought you were merely the engineering genius who designed the Espiritu DSII and the Cervantes Conquistador.’
‘I’m immune to flattery, Miss Fleming, and any other form of coercion running through your pretty little head.’
‘Shame. I was about to spout some seriously nerd-tastic info guaranteed to make you like me.’
‘You’d be wasting your time. I have a team specially selected to deal with sycophants.’
His barb finally struck home. She inhaled sharply and lowered her gaze.
Marco caught himself examining the determined angle of her chin, the sensual line of her full lips. At the base of her neck her pulse fluttered under satin-smooth skin. Against his will, another wave of heat surged through him. He threw a mental bucket of cold water over it.
This woman belonged to his brother.
The lift opened directly onto the living room—a white and silver design that flowed outside onto the balcony overlooking the Danube. Marco bypassed the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows, strode to the antique desk set against the velvet wall and put the box down.
Recalling its contents, he felt anger coalesce once more within him.
He turned to find Sasha Fleming at the window, a look of total awe on her face as she gazed at the stunning views of the Buda Hills and the Chain Bridge. He took a moment to study her.
Hers wasn’t a classical beauty. In fact there was more of the rangy tomboy about her than a woman who was aware of her body. Yet her face held an arresting quality. Her lips were wide and undeniably sensual, and her limbs contained an innate grace when she moved that drew the eye. Her silky black hair, pulled into a loose ponytail at the back of her head, gleamed like a jet pool in the soft lighting. His gaze travelled over her neck, past shoulders that held a hint of delicacy and down to her chest.
The memory of her breasts against his back intruded. Against him she’d felt decidedly soft, although her body was lithe, holding a whipcord strength that didn’t hide her subtle femininity. When he’d held her wrist in Rafael’s hospital room her skin had felt supple, smooth like silk …
Sexual awareness hummed within him, unwelcome and unacceptable. Ruthlessly he cauterised it. Even if he’d been remotely interested in a woman such as this, flawed as she was, and without a moral bone in her body, she was the reason his brother had crashed.
Besides, poaching had never been his style.
‘So, what would it take to convince you to keep me on?’ She addressed him without taking her eyes from the view.
Annoyance fizzled through him.
‘You’re known for having relationships with your team mates.’
Her breath caught and she turned sharply from the window. Satisfaction oozed through him at having snagged her attention.
Satisfaction turned to surprise when once again she didn’t evade the question. ‘One team mate. A very long time ago.’
‘He also crashed under extreme circumstances and lost his drive, I believe?’
A simple careful nod. ‘He retired from motor racing, yes.’
‘And his seat was then given to you?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your extrapolation is way off base if you think it has any bearing on what has happened with Rafael.’
‘Isn’t it curious that you bring chaos to every team you join? Are you an unlucky charm, Miss Fleming?’
‘As a former racer yourself, I’m sure you’re familiar with the facts—drivers crash on a regular basis. It’s a reality of the sport. In fact, wasn’t a crash what ended your racing career?’
For the second time in a very short while the reminder of events of ten years ago cut through him like the sharpest knife. Forcing the memories away, he folded his arms. ‘It’s your circumstances that interest me, not statistics. You dumped this other guy just before a race. This seems to be your modus operandi.’
Her chest lifted with her affronted breath. He struggled not to let his gaze drop. ‘I resent that. I thought you ran your team on merit and integrity, not rumour and hypothesis.’
‘Here’s your chance to dispel the rumours. How many other team mates have you slept with?’
‘I had a relationship with one. Derek and I went out for a while. Then it ended.’
‘But this … relationship grew quite turbulent, I believe? So much so that it eventually destroyed his career while yours flourished?’
She snorted. ‘I wouldn’t say flourished, exactly. More like sweated and blooded.’
‘But you did start out being a reserve driver on his team. And you did dump him when his seat became available to you?’
Marco watched her lips tighten, her chin angling in a way that drew his eyes to her smooth throat.
‘It’s obvious you’ve done your homework. But I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life with you—which, as it happens, is really none of your business.’
‘When it relates to my brother and my team it becomes my business. And your actions in the past three months have directly involved Rafael.’ He reached for the box on the table. ‘Do you know what’s in this box?’ he asked abruptly.
A wary frown touched her forehead. ‘No. How would I?’
‘Let me enlighten you. It contains the personal effects that were found on Rafael’s person when he was pulled out of the car.’ He opened the box. The inside was smeared with blood. Rafael’s blood.
Blood he’d spilled because of this woman.
He lifted a gold chain with a tiny crucifix at the end of it. ‘My mother gave this to him on the day of his confirmation, when he was thirteen years old. He always wears it during a race. For good luck.’
A look passed over her face. Sadness and a hint of guilt, perhaps? He dropped the chain back into the container, closed it and set it down. Reaching into his pocket, he produced another box—square, velvet.
She tensed, her eyes flaring with alarm. ‘Mr de Cervantes—’
His lips twisted. ‘You’re not quite the talented actress I took you for, after all. Because your expression tells me everything I need to know. Rafael asked the question he’d been burning to ask, didn’t he?’ he demanded.
‘I—’
He cut across her words, not at all surprised when