The Price Of Desire. Sandra Marton
Charlie keeps me at it until I’m either screaming in agony or about to pass out. He normally stops once I’m thoroughly dripping in sweat.’
His whole body froze, arrested by the image of a sweat-soaked Sasha, with sunshine glinting off her toned body.
Dios, this was getting ridiculous. He should not be feeling like this—especially not towards the woman who was the every epitome of Angelique: ruthlessly ambitious, uncaring of anything that got in her way. Sasha had nearly destroyed his brother the way Angelique had destroyed Marco’s desire ever to forge a lasting relationship.
And yet in Barcelona he’d found himself thinking of Sasha … admitting to himself that his sudden preoccupation with her had nothing to do with work. And everything to do with the woman herself. The attraction he’d felt in Budapest was still present … and escalating.
Which was totally unacceptable.
He took a deep breath and wrenched control back into his body. While his brother was lying in a coma, the only thing he needed to focus on was winning the Constructors’ Championship. And teaching Sasha Fleming a lesson.
He poured bold red Château Neuf into one glass and set it in front of her. ‘I’ve seen the testing reports. You’ll need to find another three-tenths of a second around Eau Rouge to give yourself a decent chance or you’ll leave yourself open to overtaking. Belgium is a tough circuit.’
She took a sip and his gaze slid to the feline-like curve of her neck. Clenching fingers that itched to touch, he sat down opposite her.
‘The DSII will handle the corners better.’
His eyes flicked over her face, noting her calm. ‘You don’t seem nervous.’
Another laugh. A further tightening in his groin.
Madre di Dios. It had been a while since he’d indulged in good, old-fashioned, no-holds-barred sex. Sexual frustration had a habit of making the unsavoury tempting, but this … this yearning was insane.
Mentally, he scanned through his electronic black book and came up with several names. Just as fast he discarded every one of them, weariness at having to disentangle himself from expectation dampening his urge to revisit old ground.
Frustration built, adding another strand of displeasure to his already seething emotions.
‘Believe me, I get just as nervous as the next racer. But I don’t mind.’
‘Because winning is everything, no matter the cost?’ he bit out.
Her eyes darkened. ‘No. Because nerves serve a good purpose. They remind you you’re human; they sharpen your focus. I’d be terrified if I wasn’t nervous. But eighteen years of experience also helps. I’ve been doing this since I was seven years old. Having a supportive father who blatantly disregarded the fact that I wasn’t a boy helped with my confidence too.’
‘Not a lot of parents agree with their children racing. You were lucky.’
She smiled. ‘More like pushy. I threw a tantrum every time he threatened to leave me with my nanny. I won eventually. Although I get the feeling he was testing me to see how much I wanted it.’
‘And you passed with flying colours.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘Bravo.’
Unsettlingly perceptive blue eyes rested on him. ‘Oops, do I detect a certain cynicism there, Marco?’
He clenched his teeth as his control slipped another notch. ‘Has anyone told you it’s not nice to always go for the jugular?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Was that what I was doing? I thought we were having a get-to-know-each-other conversation. At least until you went a little weird on me.’
‘Perdón. Weird wasn’t what I was aiming for.’ He took a large gulp of his wine.
‘First an admission of a flaw. Now an apology. Wow—must be my lucky night. Are you feeling okay? Maybe it would help to talk about whatever it is that spooked you?’
Perhaps it was the mellowing effect of the wine. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t had an engaging conversation like this in a while. Marco was surprised when he found himself laughing.
‘I have no memory of ever being spooked. But, just for curiosity’s sake, which hat will you be wearing for this little heart-to-heart? Diplomat or psychologist?’
Her gaze met his squarely. ‘How about friend?’ she asked.
His laughter dried up.
She wanted to be his friend.
Marco couldn’t remember the last time anyone had offered to be his friend. Betrayal had a habit of stripping the scales from one’s eyes. He’d learnt that lesson well and thoroughly.
He swallowed another gulp of wine. ‘I respectfully decline. Thanks all the same.’
A small smile curved her lip. ‘Ouch. At least you didn’t laugh in my face.’
‘That would have been cruel.’
One smooth brow rose. ‘And you don’t do cruel? You’ve come very close in the past.’
‘You were a threat to my brother.’
‘Were? You mean you’re not under that impression any more?’
Realising the slip, he started to set her straight, then paused. You can’t control what happens in life … Rafael will resent you for controlling his life … ‘I’m willing to suspend my judgement until Rafael is able to set the picture straight himself.’
Her smile faded. ‘You don’t trust me at all, do you?’
He steeled himself against his fleeting tinge of regret at the hurt in her voice.
‘Trust is earned. It comes with time. Or so I’m told.’
So far no one had withstood the test long enough for Marco to verify that belief. Sasha Fleming had already failed that test. She was only sitting across from him because of what he could give her.
She hid her calculating nature well, but he knew it was there, hiding beneath the fiercely determined light in her eyes.
‘Well, then, here’s to earning trust. And becoming friends.’
Marco didn’t respond to her toast because part of him regretted the fact that friendship between them would never be possible.
‘THIS way, Sasha!’
‘Over here!’
‘Smile!’
The Children of Bravery awards took place every August at one of the plushest hotels in Mayfair. Last year Sasha had arrived in a cab with Tom, who had then gone on to ignore her for the rest of the night.
Tonight flashbulbs went off in her face the moment Marco helped her out of the back of his stunning silver Rolls-Royce onto the red carpet.
Blinking several times to help her eyes adjust, she found Tom had materialised beside her. Before he could speak, Marco stepped in front of him.
‘Miss Fleming won’t be needing you tonight. Enjoy your evening.’
The dismissal was softly spoken, wrapped in steel. With a hasty nod, a slightly pale Tom dissolved back into the crowd.
‘That wasn’t very nice,’ she murmured, although secretly she was pleased. Her nerves, already wound tight at the thought of the evening ahead, didn’t need further negative stimulus in the form of Tom. ‘But thank you.’
‘De nada,’ he murmured in that smooth deep voice of his, and her nerves stretched a little tighter.
When