The Price of Success Page 5

  ‘So far, no.’

  ‘He’s a grown man. When are you going to cut the apron strings?’

  ‘When he’s proved to me that he won’t kill himself without them.’

  ‘And are you so certain you can save him every single time?’

  ‘I can put safety measures in place.’

  She laughed at his sheer arrogance. ‘You’re not omnipotent. You can’t control what happens in life. Even if you could, Rafael will eventually resent you for controlling his life.’

  Marco’s lips firmed, his eyelids descending to veil his eyes.

  She gave another laugh. ‘He already does, doesn’t he? Did you two fight? Was that why you weren’t at the track this weekend?’

  He ignored her questions. ‘What I do, I do for his own good. And you’re not good for him. My offer still stands.’

  Just like that they were back to his sleazy offer of a buy-off. Distaste filled her.

  She looked around the sleekly opulent room at the highly polished surfaces, the velvet walls, the bespoke furniture and elegant, sweeping staircases that belonged more in a stately home than in a hotel. Luxurious decadence only people like Marco de Cervantes could afford. The stamp of power and authority told her she wouldn’t find even the smallest chink in the de Cervantes armour.

  The man was as impenetrable as his wealth was immeasurable.

  In the end, all she could rely on was her firm belief in right and wrong.

  ‘You can’t fire me simply to keep me out of Rafael’s way. It’s unethical. I think somewhere deep down you know it too.’

  ‘I don’t need moral guidance from someone like you.’

  ‘I disagree. I think you need a big-ass, humongous compass. Because you’re making a big mistake if you think I’m going to go quietly.’

  His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Rafael told me you were feisty.’

  What else had Rafael told him? Decidedly uncomfortable at the thought of being the subject of discussion, she shrugged. ‘I haven’t reached where I am today without a fight or three. I won’t go quietly,’ she stressed again.

  Several minutes of silence stretched. Her nerves stretched along with them. Just when she thought she’d break, that she’d have to resort to plain, old-fashioned, humiliating begging, he hitched one taut-muscled thigh over the side of the desk and indicated the chair in front of it.

  ‘Sit down. I think a discussion is in order.’

  Marco watched relief wash over her face and hid a triumphant smile.

  He’d never had any intention of firing Sasha Fleming. Not immediately, anyway. He’d wanted her rattled, on a knife-edge at the possibility of losing what was evidently so precious to her.

  The bloodthirsty, vengeance-seeking beast inside him felt a little appeased at seeing her shaken. He also wanted to test her, to see how far she would go to fight for what she wanted. After all, the higher the value she placed on her career, the sweeter it would be to snatch it away from her. Just as he’d had everything wrenched from him ten years ago.

  He ruthlessly brushed aside the reminder of Angelique’s betrayal and focused on Sasha as she walked towards him.

  Again his senses reacted to her in ways that made his jaw clench. The attraction—and, yes, he was man enough to admit to it—was unwelcome as much as it was abhorrent. Rafael was in a coma, fighting for his life. The last thing Marco wanted to acknowledge was a chemical reaction to the woman in the middle of all this chaos. To acknowledge how the flare of her hips made his palms itch to shape them. How the soft lushness of her lower lip made him want to caress his finger over it.

  ‘Regardless of the state of the team, I have a responsibility towards the sponsors.’

  His office had already received several calls, ostensibly expressing concern for his brother’s welfare. In truth the sponsors were sniffing around, desperate to find out what Marco’s next move would be—specifically, who he would put in Rafael’s place and how it would affect their bottom line.

  She nodded. ‘Rafael was scheduled to appear at several sponsored engagements during the August hiatus. They’ll want to know what’s happening.’

  Once again Marco was struck by the calm calculation in her voice. This wasn’t the tone of a concerned lover or a distraught team mate. Her mind was firmly focused on Team Espiritu. In other circumstances, her single-mindedness would have been admirable. But he knew first-hand the devastation ambition like hers could wreak.

  Before he could answer a knock sounded on his door. One of his two butlers materialised from wherever he’d been stationed and opened the door.

  Russell Latchford, his second-in-command, and Luke Green, the team’s chief engineer, entered.

  Russell approached. ‘I’ve just been to see Rafael—’ He stopped when he saw Sasha. ‘Sasha. I didn’t know you were here.’ His tone echoed the question in his eyes.

  Sasha returned his gaze calmly. Nothing ruffled her. Nothing except the threatened loss of her job. The urge to see her lose that cool once again attacked Marco’s senses.

  ‘Miss Fleming’s here to discuss future possibilities in light of Rafael’s accident.’

  As team principal, it was Russell’s job to source the best drivers for the team, with Marco giving final approval. Marco saw his disgruntlement, but to his credit Russell said nothing.

  ‘Have you brought the shortlist I asked for?’ Marco asked Russell.

  Sasha inhaled sharply, and he saw her hands clench in her lap as Russell handed over a piece of paper.

  ‘I’ve already been discreetly approached by the top five, but every driver in the sport wants to drive for us. It’ll cost you to buy out their contracts, of course. If you go for someone from the lower ranking teams it’ll still cost you, but the fallout won’t be as damaging as poaching someone from the top teams.’

  Marco shook his head. ‘Our sponsors signed up for the package—Rafael and the car. I don’t want a second-class driver. I need someone equally talented and charismatic or the sponsors will throw hissy fits.’

  Luke spoke up. ‘There’s also the problem of limited in-season testing. We can’t just throw in a brand-new driver mid-season and expect him to handle the car anywhere near the way Rafael did.’

  Marco glanced down at the list. ‘No. Rafael is irreplaceable. I accept that the Drivers’ Championship is no longer an option, but I want to win the Constructors’ Championship. The team deserves it. All of these drivers would ditch their contract to drive for me, but I’d rather not deal with a messy court battle. Where do we stand on the former champion who retired last year? Have you contacted him?’

  Russell shook his head. ‘Even with the August break he won’t be in good enough shape when the season resumes in September.’

  ‘So my only option is to take on a driver from another team?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Sasha’s voice was low, but intensely powerful, and husky enough to command attention.

  Marco’s eyes slid to her. Her stance remained relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, but in her eyes he saw ferocious purpose.

  ‘You have something to add?’

  Fierce blue eyes snapped at him as she rolled her shoulders. As last time, he couldn’t help but follow the movement. Then his eyes travelled lower, to the breasts covered by her nondescript T-shirt. Again the pull of desire was strong and sharp, unlike anything he’d experienced before. Again he pushed it away and forced his gaze back to her face.

  A faint flush covered her cheeks. ‘You know I do. I know the car inside out. I’ve driven it at every Friday Practice since last season. The way I see it, I’m the only way you can win the Constructors’ Championship. Plus you’d save a lot of money and the unnecessary litigation of trying to tempt away a driver mid-season from another team. In the last few practices my runtimes have nearly equalled Rafael’s.’

  Marco silently admitted the truth of her words. He might not sit on the pit wall for every single minute of a race—the engineer and aerodynamicist in him preferred the ha
rd facts of the telemetry reports—but he knew Sasha’s race times to the last fraction.

  He also knew racing was more than just the right car in the right hands. ‘Yes, but you’re yet to perform under the pressure of a Saturday practice, a pole position shoot-out and a race on Sunday. I’d rather have a driver with actual race experience.’

  Russell fidgeted and cleared his throat. ‘I agree, Marco. I think Alan might be a better option—’

  ‘I’ve consistently surpassed Alan’s track times,’ she said of the team’s second driver. ‘Luke will confirm it.’

  Luke’s half-hearted shrug made Marco frown.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  The other man cleared his throat. ‘Not a problem, exactly, but I’m not sure how the team will react to … you know …’

  ‘No, I don’t know. If you have something to say, then say it.’

  ‘He means how the team will react to a woman lead driver,’ Sasha stated baldly.

  Recalling her accusation of sexism, he felt a flash of anger swell through him. He knew the views of others when it came to employing women as drivers. The pathetically few women racers attested to the fact that it was a predominantly male sport, but he believed talent was talent, regardless of the gender that wielded it.

  The thought that key members in his team didn’t share his belief riled him.

  He rose. ‘That will be all, gentlemen.’

  Russell’s surprise was clear. ‘Do you need some time to make the decision?’

  His gaze stayed on Sasha. Her chest had risen in a sharp intake of breath. Again he had to force himself not to glance down at her breasts. The effort it took not to look displeased him immensely.

  ‘I’ve requested figures from my lawyers by morning. I’ll let you know my decision.’

  His butler led them out.

  ‘Mr de Cervantes—’ Sasha started.

  He held up a hand. ‘Let me make one thing clear. I didn’t refuse you a drive because of your gender. Merely because of your disruptive influence within my team.’

  Her eyes widened, then she nodded. ‘Okay. But I want to—’

  ‘I need to return to my brother’s bedside. You’ll also find out my decision tomorrow.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Please. I … need this.’

  The raw, fervent emotion in her voice stopped him from leaving the room. Returning to her side, he stared down at her bent head. Her hands were clenched tighter. A swathe of pure black hair had slipped its knot and half covered her face. His fingers itched to catch it back, smooth it behind her ear so he could see her expression.

  Most of all, he wanted her to look at him.

  ‘Why? Why is this so important to you?’ he asked.

  ‘I … I made a promise.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Marco frowned. ‘A promise? To whom?’

  She inhaled, and before his eyes she gathered herself in. Her spine straightened, and her shoulders snapped back until her whole body became poised, almost regal. Then her eyes slowly rose to his.

  The steely determination in their depths compelled his attention. His blood heated, rushing through his veins in a way that made his body clench in denial. Yet he couldn’t look away.

  Her gaze dropped. Marco bit back the urge to order her to look at him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is if you give me a chance I’ll hand you the Constructors’ Championship.’

  Sasha heard the low buzzing and cursed into her pillow. How the blazes had a wasp got into her room?

  And since when did wasps make such a racket?

  Groaning, she rolled over and tried to burrow into a better position. Sleep had been an elusive beast. She’d spent the night alternately pacing the floor and running through various arguments in her head about how she would convince Marco to keep her on the team. In the end exhaustion had won out.

  Now she’d been woken by—

  Her phone! With a yelp, she shoved off the covers and stumbled blindly for the satchel she’d discarded on the floor.

  ‘Huhn?’

  ‘Do I take it by that unladylike grunt that I’ve disturbed your sleep?’ Marco de Cervantes’s voice rumbled down the line.

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘What time is it?’ She furiously rubbed her eyes. She’d never been a morning person.

  Taut silence, then, ‘It’s nine-thirty.’

  ‘What? Damn.’ She’d slept through her alarm. Again.

  Could anyone blame her, though? Being part of Team Espiritu meant staying in excellent accommodation, but this time management had excelled itself—the two thousand thread-count cotton sheets, handmade robes, the hot tub, lotions and potions, the finest technology and her personal maid on tap were just the beginnings of the absurd luxury that made the crew of Marco’s team the envy of the circuit. But her four-poster bed and its mattress—dear Lord, the made-by-angels mattress—was the reason—

  ‘Do you have somewhere else to be, Miss Fleming?’

  ‘Yes. I have a plane to catch back to London at eleven.’ Thankfully she didn’t have a lot of things to pack, having put her restless energy to good use last night. And the airport was only ten minutes away. Still, she was cutting it fine.

  ‘You might wish to revise that plan.’

  She froze, refusing to acknowledge the thin vein of hope taking root deep within her. ‘And why would I need to do that?’

  ‘I have a proposition for you. Open your door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open your door. I need to look into your eyes when I outline my plan so there can be no doubt on either part.’

  ‘You’re here?’ Her eyes darted to her door, as if she could see his impressive body outlined through the solid wood.

  ‘I’m here. But I’ll soon be a figment of your imagination if you don’t open your door.’

  Sasha glanced down at herself. No way was she opening the door to Marco de Cervantes wearing a vampire T-shirt that declared ‘Bite Me’ in blood-red. And she didn’t even want to think of the state of her hair.

  ‘I … Can you give me two minutes?’ If she could get in and out of a race suit in ninety seconds, she sure as hell could make herself presentable in a fraction of that time.

  ‘You have five seconds. Then I move on to my next call.’

  ‘No. Wait!’ Keeping the phone glued to her ear, she rushed to the door. Pulling it open, she stuck her head out, trying her best to shield the rest of her body from full view.

  And there he stood. Unlike the casual clothes of yesterday, Marco was dressed in a bespoke suit, his impressive shoulders even more imposing underneath the slate-grey jacket, blue shirt and pinstriped tie, his long legs planted in battle stance. His hair was combed neatly, unlike the unruly, sexy mess it’d been yesterday. The strong desire to see it messy again had her pulling back a fraction.

  Eyes locked on hers, he lowered his phone. ‘Invite me in.’

  ‘Why? Are you a vampire?’ she shot back, then swallowed a groan.

  Frown lines creased his brow. ‘Excuse me? Are you high?’

  Sasha silently cursed her morning brain. ‘Hah—I wish. Oh, never mind. I’m … I’m not really dressed to receive guests, but I didn’t want you to leave, so unless you want to extend that five-second ultimatum this will have to do.’

  His frown deepened. ‘Are you in the habit of answering your hotel door naked?’

  Heat crawled up her neck and stung her face. ‘Of course not. I’m not naked.’

  ‘Prove it’ came the soft challenge.

  ‘Fine. See?’ Belatedly she wondered at her sanity as she stepped into his view and felt the dark, intense force of Marco’s gaze as it travelled over her.

  When his eyes returned to hers, the breath snagged in her lungs. His hazel eyes had darkened to burnt gold with dark green flecks; the clench of his jaw was even more pronounced. He seemed to be straining against an emotion that was more than a little bit frightening.

  She stepped back. He followed her in an
d shut the door. The luxury hotel suite that had seemed so vast, so over the top, closed in on her. She took another step back. He followed, eyes locked on her.

  Her phone fell from her fingers, thankfully cushioned by the shag-pile carpet. Mouth dry, she kept backing up. He kept following.

  ‘I make it a point not to credit rumours, but it seems in this instance the rumours are true, Sasha Fleming.’

  The way he said her name—slowly, with a hint of Latin intonation—made goosebumps rise on her flesh. Her nipples peaked and a sensation she recognised to her horror as desire raked through her abdomen, sending delicious darts of liquid heat to the apex of her thighs.

  ‘What exactly do you think is true about me?’

  ‘Sex is your weapon of choice,’ he breathed, his eyes lingering on the telltale nubs beneath her T-shirt. ‘The only trouble is you wield it so unsubtly.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she squeaked as the backs of her legs touched the side of the bed. ‘Did you just say—?’

  ‘You need to learn to finesse your art.’

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you blathering about? Are you sure you’re not the one who’s high?’ she flung back.

  ‘No man likes to be bludgeoned over the head with sex. No matter how … enticing the package.’

  ‘You’re either loopy or you’ve got me confused with someone else. I don’t bludgeon and I don’t entice.’

  He kept coming.

  She leaned back on the bed and felt the hem of her shirt riding up her thighs. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop!’

  He stopped, but his gaze didn’t. It continued its destructive course over her, leaving no part of her untouched, until Sasha felt sure she was about to combust from the heat of it.

  Desperate, she let her tongue dart out to lick her lips. ‘Look … Derek—I presume that’s where you got your little morsel from—said a lot of unsavoury things about me when we broke up. But I’m not who … whatever you think I am.’

  ‘Even though I can see the evidence for myself?’ he rasped in a low voice.

  She scrambled over the side of the bed and grabbed the robe she’d dropped on the floor last night. With shaking fingers, and a mind scrambling to keep pace with the bizarre turn of the conversation, she pulled the lapels over her traitorous body.