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  She moved around the kitchen, her movements quick, efficient. In less than five minutes she’d set a loaded plate and a bottle of mineral water before him. He took a bite, chewed.

  ‘This is really good.’

  Her look of pleasure sent another bolt of heat through him.

  He waited until she sat opposite him before taking another bite. ‘So, how long have you lived on your own?’

  ‘Since...’ She hesitated. ‘Since my father died four years ago.’

  She looked away, but not before he caught shadows of pain within the blue depths.

  ‘And your mother? Is she not around?’

  She shook her head and picked up her sandwich. ‘She died when I was ten. After that it was just Dad and me.’

  The sharp pain of losing his own mother surfaced. Ruthlessly, he pushed it away.

  ‘The team are wondering how Rafael is,’ Sasha said, drawing him away from his disturbing thoughts.

  ‘Just the team?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’re all concerned.’

  ‘Yes, I know. His condition hasn’t changed. I’ve updated Russell. He’ll pass it on to the team.’

  He didn’t want to talk about his brother. Because speaking of Rafael would only remind him of why this woman who made the best sandwich he’d ever tasted was sitting in front of him.

  ‘How is your father holding up?’

  He didn’t want to talk about his father either.

  Recalling his father’s desolation, Marco shoved away his plate. ‘He watched his son crash on live TV. How do you think he’s doing?’

  A flash of concern darkened her blue eyes. ‘Does he...does he know about me?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘Does he know the cause of his son’s crash is the same person taking his seat?’ He laughed. ‘Not yet.’

  He wasn’t sure why he’d kept that information from his father. It certainly had nothing to do with wondering if his brother’s version of events was completely accurate, despite Rafael’s voice ringing in his head... She’s the one, Marco.

  Sasha’s gaze sought his, the look into them almost imploring. ‘I didn’t cause him to crash, Marco.’

  Frustrated anger seared his chest. ‘Didn’t you?’

  She shook her head and the knot finally gave up its fight. Dark, silky tresses cascaded over her naked shoulders and everything inside Marco tightened. It was the first time he’d seen it down, and despite the fury rolling through him the sudden urge to sink his fingers into the glossy mass, feel its decadent luxury, surged like fire through his veins.

  ‘Then what did? Something must have happened to make him imagine that idiotic move would stick.’

  Her lips pursed. The look in her eyes was reluctant. Then she sighed. ‘I saw him just before the race. He was arguing with Raven.’

  Marco frowned. ‘Raven Blass? His physio?’

  She nodded. ‘I tried to approach him but he walked away. I thought I’d leave him to cool off and talk to him again after the race.’

  Marco’s muttered expletive made her brows rise, but he was past caring. He strode into the alcove that held his extensive wine collection. ‘I need a drink. White or red?’

  ‘I shouldn’t. I had a beer earlier.’ She tucked a silky strand behind one ear.

  Watching the movement, he found several incredibly unwise ideas crowding his brain. Reaching out, he grabbed the nearest bottle. ‘I don’t like drinking alone. Have one with me.’

  Her smile caused the gut-clenching knot to tighten further. ‘Is the great Marco de Cervantes admitting a flaw?’

  ‘He’s admitting that his brother drives him loco.’ He grabbed two crystal goblets.

  ‘Fine. I was going to add another twenty minutes to my workout regime to balance out the incredible tapas I had earlier. I’ll make it an even half-hour.’

  Marco’s gaze glided over her. ‘You’re hardly in bad shape.’

  Another sweet, feminine laugh tumbled from her lips, sparking off a frenzied yearning.

  ‘Charlie would disagree with you. Apparently my body mass index is way below acceptable levels.’

  Marco uncorked the wine, thinking perhaps Charlie needed his eyes examined. ‘How long is your daily regime?’

  ‘Technically three hours, but 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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘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 he took her arm the feeling intensified, then morphed into a different kind of warmth as another sensation altogether enveloped her—one of feeling protected, cherished...

  She applied mental brakes as her brain threatened to go into meltdown. Forcing herself away from thoughts she had no business thinking, she drew in a shaky breath and tried to project a calm, poised demeanour.

  ‘For once I agree with the paparazzi. Smile. Your face looks frozen,’ Marco drawled, completely at ease with being the subject of intense scrutiny.

  He seemed perfectly okay with hundreds of adoring female fans screaming his name from behind the barriers, while she could only think about the ceremony ahead and the memories it would resurrect.

  Pushing back her pain, she forced her lips apart. ‘That’s probably because it is. Besides, you’re one to talk. I don’t see you smiling.’

  One tuxedo-clad shoulder lifted in a shrug. ‘I’m not the star on show.’ He peered closer at her. ‘What’s wrong with you? You didn’t say a word on the way over here and now you look pale.’

  ‘That’s because I don’t like being on show. I hate dressing up, and make-up makes my face feel weird.’

  ‘You look fine.’ His gaze swept over her. ‘More than fine. The stylist chose well.’

  ‘She didn’t choose this dress. I chose it myself. If I’d gone with her choice I’d be half naked with a slit up to my cro—’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why did you send me a stylist anyway?’

  When she’d opened the door to Marco’s Kensington penthouse apartment to find a stylist with a rack of designer gear in tow, Sasha had been seriously miffed.

  ‘I didn’t want to risk you turning up here in baggy jeans and a hippy top.’

  ‘I’d never have—!’ She caught the gleam of amusement in his eyes and relaxed.

  Another photographer screamed her name and she tensed.

  ‘Relax. You chose well.’ His gaze slid over her once more. ‘You look beautiful.’

  Stunned, she mumbled, ‘Thank you.’

  She smoothed a nervous hand over her dress, thankful her new contract had come with a lucrative remuneration package that meant she’d been able to afford the black silk and lace floor-length Zang Toi gown she wore.

  The silver studs in the off-the-shoulder form-fitting design flashed as the cameras went off. But even the stylish dress, with its reams of material that trailed on the red carpet, couldn’t stem the butterflies ripping her stomach to shreds as the media screamed out for even more poses. Nor could it eliminate the wrenching reason why, on a night like this, she couldn’t summon a smile.

  ‘Stop fidgeting,’ he commanded.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. Anyway, why are you here? I don’t need a keeper.’ Nor did she need the stupid melting sensation in her stomach every time his hand tightened around her arm.

  ‘I beg to differ. This event is hosting many sport personalities, including other drivers from the circuit. Your track record—pardon the pun—doesn’t stand you in good stead. The one thing you do need is a keeper.’

  ‘And you’re it? Don’t you have better things to do?’

  When he’d pointed out after they’d landed this morning that it was more time-efficient for her to stay with him in London, than to come to the ceremony from her cottage in Kent, she hadn’t bargained on the fact that he’d appoint himself her personal escort for the evening.

  His rugged good looks lit up in sharp relief, courtesy of another photographer’s flash, but he hardly noticed how avidly the media craved his attention. Nor cared.

  ‘The team has suffered with Rafael’s absence. It’ll be good for the sponsors to see me here.’

  The warmth she’d experienced moments ago disappeared. She felt his sharp gaze as she eased her arm from his grasp.

  ‘How long do we have to stay out here?’ The limelight was definitely a place she wasn’t comfortable in. However irrational, she always feared her deepest secret would be exposed.

  ‘Until a problem with the seating is sorted out.’

  She swivelled towards him. ‘What problem with the seating?’

  Relief poured through her as he steered her away from the cameras and down the red carpet into
the huge marble-floored foyer of the five-star hotel.

  The crowd seemed to pause, both men and women alike staring avidly as they entered.

  Oblivious to the reaction, Marco snagged two glasses of champagne and handed one to her. ‘Some wires got crossed along the line.’

  Sasha should have been used to it by now, but a hard lump formed in her throat nonetheless. ‘You mean I was downgraded to nobody-class because my surname is Fleming and not de Cervantes?’

  He gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why should your name matter?’

  ‘Come on. I may have missed school the day rocket science was taught, but I know how this works.’ Even when the words weren’t said, Sasha knew she was being judged by her father’s dishonour.

  ‘Your surname has nothing to do with it,’ Marco answered, nodding greetings to several people who tried to catch his eye. ‘When the awards committee learned I would be attending, they naturally assumed that I would be bringing a plus one.’

  A sensation she intensely disliked wormed its way into her heart. ‘Oh, so I was bumped to make room for your date. Not because...?’

  He raised a brow. ‘Because?’

  Shaking her head, Sasha took a hasty sip of her bubbly. ‘So why didn’t you? Bring a date, I mean?’ When his brow rose in mocking query, she hurried on. ‘I know it’s certainly not for the lack of willing companions. I mean, a man like you...’ She stumbled to a halt.

  ‘A man like me? You mean The Ass?’ he asked mockingly.

  Heat climbed into her cheeks but she refused to be cowed. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. The other you—the impossibly rich, successful one, who’s a bit decent to look at....’ Cursing her runaway tongue, she clamped her mouth shut.

  ‘Gracias...I think.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Women scale skylights, risk life and limb to be with you, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘Skylight-scaling is a bit too OTT for me. I prefer my women to use the front door. With my invitation.’ His gaze connected with hers.

  Heat blazed through her, lighting fires that had no business being lit. His broad shoulders loomed before her as he bent his head. As if to... As if to... Her gaze dropped to his lips. She swallowed.