The Price of Success Page 7

  The helicopter crested another small hill and cold sweat broke out over his skin. Several feet to the side of the track a mound of whitewashed stones had been piled high in a makeshift monument. Marco’s hand tightened on the lever and deftly swerved the aircraft away from the landmark he had no wish to see up close.

  ‘Trust me, I’m not complaining. It’s a great idea. I’m just surprised other teams haven’t copied the idea. Or sold their firstborn sons to use your track.’

  ‘Offers have been made in the past.’

  ‘And?’

  He shrugged. ‘I occasionally allow them to use the track I designed. But for the whole package to come together they also need the car I designed.’

  A small laugh burst from her lips. The sound was so unexpectedly pleasing he momentarily lost his train of thought, and missed her reply.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that’s a clever strategy—considering you own the team you design for, and the only other way anyone can get their hands on a Marco de Cervantes design is by shelling out … how much does the Cervantes Conquistador cost? Two million?’

  ‘Three.’

  She whistled—another unexpected sound that charged through his bloodstream, making him even more on edge than he’d been a handful of seconds ago.

  She leaned forward into his eyeline. He’d been wrong about the shirt being functional. Her pert breasts pressed against the cotton material, her hands on her thighs as she peered down.

  Marco swallowed, the hot stirrings in his abdomen increasing to uncomfortable proportions. Ruthlessly he pushed them away.

  Sasha Fleming was bad news, he reminded himself.

  Rafael had got involved with her to his severe detriment. Marco had no intention of following down the same road. His only interest in her was to make sure she delivered the Constructors’ Championship. Now he knew what she really wanted—the Drivers’ Championship—he had her completely at his mercy.

  Control re-established, he brought the helicopter in to land, and yanked off his headphones. Sasha jumped down without his help and Marco caught the puzzled look she flashed him. Ignoring it, he strode towards Luke Green. His chief engineer had travelled ahead to supervise the initial training arrangements.

  Sasha drew closer and her scent reached his nostrils. Marco’s insides clenched in rejection even as he breathed her in. His awareness of her was becoming intolerable. Even her voice as she greeted Luke bit into his psyche.

  ‘Is everything in order?’ he asked.

  Luke nodded. ‘We’re just about to offload the engine. The mechanics will check it over and make sure it hasn’t been damaged during the flight.’

  ‘It takes three hours max to assemble the car, so it should be ready for me to test this afternoon, shouldn’t it?’ Sasha asked, her attention so intent on the tarpaulin-covered engine Marco almost enquired if she yearned to caress it.

  ‘No. You’ll begin training tomorrow morning,’ he all but growled.

  Her head snapped towards him, her expression crestfallen. ‘Oh, but if the car’s here …’

  ‘The mechanics have been working on getting things ready since dawn. This engine hasn’t been used since last December. It’ll have to go through rigorous testing before it’s race-ready. That’ll take most of the day—at least until sundown.’

  He turned back to Luke. ‘I want to see hourly engine readouts and a final telemetry report when you’re done testing.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  Grabbing Sasha’s arm, he steered her away from the garage. Several eyes followed them, but he didn’t care. He was nothing like his brother. He had no intention of ever making a fool of himself over a woman again.

  Opening the passenger door to his Conquistador, he thrust her into the bucket seat. Rounding the hood, he slid behind the wheel.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re angry with me?’ she directed at him.

  Marco slammed his door. ‘It’s not a feeling.’

  The breath she blew up disturbed the thick swathe of hair slanting over her forehead. ‘What did I do?’ she demanded.

  He faced her and found her stunning eyes snapping fire at him. The blue of her gaze was so intense, so vivid, he wanted to keep staring at her for ever. The uncomfortable erotic heat he’d felt in her Budapest hotel room, when she’d strutted into view wearing that damned T-shirt that boldly announced ‘Bite Me’, rose again.

  For days he’d been fighting that stupid recurring memory that strayed into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.

  Even here in Leon, where much more disturbing memories impinged everywhere he looked, he couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of those long, coltish legs and the thought of how they would feel around his waist.

  Nor could he ignore the evidence of Sasha’s hard work and dedication to her career. Every night since her arrival in Spain he’d found her poring over telemetry reports or watching footage of past races, fully immersed in pursuing the only thing she cared about.

  The only thing she cared about …

  Grabbing the steering wheel, he forced himself to calm down.

  ‘Marco?’

  When had he given her permission to use his first name? Come to think of it, when had he started thinking of her as Sasha instead of Miss Fleming?

  Dios, he was losing it.

  With a wrench of his wrist the engine sprang to life, its throaty roar surprisingly soothing. Designing the Espiritu race cars had been an engineering challenge he’d relished. The Cervantes Conquistador had been a pure labour of love.

  Momentarily he lost himself in the sounds of the engine, his mind picking up minute clicks and torsion controls. If he closed his eyes he would be able to imagine the aerodynamic flow of air over the chassis, visualise where each spark plug, each piston, nut and bolt was located.

  But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. His grip tightened around the wheel.

  Her gaze stayed on him as he accelerated the green and black sports car out of the parking lot. The screech of tyres drew startled glances from the mechanics heading for the hangar. Marco didn’t give a damn.

  After a few minutes, when he felt sufficiently calm, he slowed down. ‘It’s not you.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Shrugging, he indicated the rich forest surrounding them. ‘It’s this place.’

  ‘This place? The race track or Casa de Leon?’

  His jaw clenched as he tried in vain to stem the memories flooding him. ‘This is where my mother died eight years ago.’

  Her gasp echoed in the car. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should’ve said something.’

  He slowed down long enough to give her a hard look. ‘It isn’t common knowledge outside my family. I’d prefer it to remain that way.’ He wasn’t even sure why he’d told her. Whatever was causing him to act so out of character he needed to cauterise it.

  She gave a swift nod. ‘Of course. You can trust me.’ Her colour rose slightly at her last words.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. He only had himself to blame if she decided to spill her guts at the first opportunity. Flooring the accelerator, he sent the car surging forward as his other reason for wanting to escape the memories of this place rose.

  Sasha remained silent until he pulled up in front of the villa. Then, lifting a hand, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked softly.

  Releasing his clammy grip on the steering wheel, Marco flicked a glance at the villa door. He knew he’d find no respite within. If anything, the memories were more vivid inside. He didn’t need to close his eyes to see his mother laughing at Rafael’s shameless cajoling, her soft hazel eyes sparkling as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel moments before rushing out of the villa.

  ‘For his twenty-first birthday my father bought Rafael a Lamborghini. We celebrated at a nightclub in Barcelona. Afterwards I flew down here in the helicopter with my parents. Rafael chose to drive
from Barcelona—five hours straight. He arrived just after breakfast, completely wired from partying. I tried to convince him to get some sleep, but he wanted to take my parents for a spin in the car.’

  The familiar icy grip of pain tightened around his chest.

  ‘Rafael was my mother’s golden boy. He could do no wrong. So of course she agreed.’ Marco felt some of the pain seep out and tried to contain it. ‘My father insisted later it was the sun that got in Rafael’s eyes as he turned the curve, but one eyewitness confirmed he took the corner too fast. I heard the crash from the garage.’ Every excruciating second had felt like a lifetime as he sped towards the scene. ‘By the time the air ambulance came my mother was gone.’

  ‘Oh, Marco, no!’

  Sasha’s voice was a soft, soothing sound. The ache inside abated, but it didn’t disappear. It never would. He’d lost his mother before he’d ever had the chance to make up for what he’d put her through.

  ‘I should’ve stopped him—should’ve insisted he get some sleep before taking the car out again.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  He shook his head. ‘But I should have. Except when it comes to Rafael everyone seems to develop a blind spot. Including me.’

  Vaguely, Marco wondered why he was spilling his guts. To Sasha Fleming, of all people. With a forceful wrench on the door, he stepped out of the car.

  She scrambled out too. ‘And your father? What happened to him?’

  His fist tightened around the computerised car key. ‘The accident severed his spine. He lost the use of his body from the neck down. He’s confined to a wheelchair and will remain like that for the rest of his life.’

  Sasha looked after Marco’s disappearing figure, shocked by the astonishing revelation.

  Now Marco’s motives became clear. His overprotective attitude towards Rafael, his reaction to the crash, suddenly made sense. Watching his mother die on the race track he’d built had to be right up there with enduring a living hell every time he stepped foot on it.

  So why did he do it?

  Marco de Cervantes was an extraordinary engineer and aerodynamicist, who excelled in building astonishingly fast race cars, but he could easily have walked away and concentrated his design efforts on the equally successful range of exclusive sport cars favoured by Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.

  So what drove him to have anything to do with a world that surely held heart-wrenching memories?

  She slowly climbed the stairs and entered the house, her mind whirling as she went into her suite to wash off the heat and sweat of the race track.

  After showering, she put on dark jeans and a striped blue shirt. Pulling her hair into a neat twist, she secured it with a band and shoved her feet into pair of flat sandals.

  She met Marco as she came down the stairs. The now familiar raking gaze sent another shiver of awareness scything through her. He stopped directly in front of her, his arresting face and piercing regard rendering her speechless for several seconds.

  ‘Lunch won’t be ready for a while, but if you want something light before then, Rosario can fix you something.’

  The matronly housekeeper appeared in the sun-dappled hallway as if by magic, wiping her hands on a white apron.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

  With a glance, he dismissed the housekeeper. His gaze returned to her, slowly tracing her face. When it rested on her mouth she struggled not to run her tongue over it, remembering how his eyes had darkened the last time she’d done that.

  ‘I have a video call with Tom Brooks, my press liaison, in five minutes. Can I use your study?’

  His eyes locked on hers. ‘Why’s he calling?’

  ‘He wants to go over next month’s sponsorship schedule. I can give you a final printout, if you like.’

  She deliberately kept her voice light, non-combative. Something told her Marco de Cervantes was spoiling for a fight, and after his revelations she wasn’t sure it was wise to engage him in one. Pain had a habit of eroding rational thought.

  Being calmly informed by the doctor that she’d lost the baby she hadn’t even been aware she was carrying had made her want to scream—loudly, endlessly until her throat gave out. She’d wanted to reach inside herself and rip her body apart for letting her down. In the end the only thing that had helped was getting back to the familiar—to her racing car. The pain had never left her, but the adrenaline of racing had eased her aching soul the way nothing else had been able to.

  Looking into Marco’s dark eyes, she caught a glimpse of his pain, but wisely withheld the offer of comfort on the tip of her tongue. After all, who was she to offer comfort when she hadn’t quite come to terms with losing her baby herself?

  Silently, she held his gaze.

  For several seconds he stared back. Then he indicated his study. ‘I’ll set it up for you.’

  She followed him into the room and drew to a stunned halt. The space was so irreverently, unmistakably male that her eyes widened. An old-style burgundy leather studded chair and footrest stood before the largest fireplace she’d ever seen, above which two centuries-old swords hung. The rest of the room was oak-panelled, with dusty books stretching from floor to ceiling. The scent of stale tobacco pipe smoke hung in the air. It wouldn’t have been strange to see a shaggy-haired professor seated behind the massive desk that stood under the only window in the room. Compared to the contemporary, exceedingly luxurious comfort of the rest of the villa, this was a throwback to another century—save for the sleek computer on the desk.

  Marco caught the look on her face and raised an eyebrow as he activated the large flat screen computer on the immense mahogany desk.

  ‘Did your designer fall into a time warp when he got to this room?’

  ‘This was my father’s study—his personal space. He never allowed my mother to redesign it, no matter how much she tried. He hasn’t been in here since she died, and I … I feel no need to change things.’

  A well of sympathy rose inside Sasha for his pain. Casting a look around, she stopped, barely suppressing a gasp. ‘Is that a stag’s head on the wall?’ she asked, eyeing the large animal head, complete with gnarled, menacing antlers.

  ‘A bull stag, yes.’

  She turned from the gruesome spectacle. ‘There’s a difference?’

  The semblance of a smile whispered over his lips. Sasha found she couldn’t tear her gaze away. In that split second she felt a wild, unfettered yearning to see that smile widen, to see his face light up in genuine amusement.

  ‘The bull stag is the alpha of its herd. He calls the shots. And he gets his pick of the females.’

  ‘Ah, I see. If you’re going to display such a monstrosity on your wall, only the best will do?’

  He slanted her a wry glance. ‘That’s the general thinking, yes.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  He caught her shudder and his smile widened.

  Warmth exploded in her chest, encompassed her whole body and made her breathless. Sasha found she didn’t care. The need to bask in the stunning warmth of his smile trumped the need for oxygen. Even when another voice intruded she couldn’t look away.

  When Tom’s voice came again she roused herself with difficulty from the drugging race of her pulse, carefully skirted a coffee table festooned with piles of books, and approached the desk as the screen came to life.

  ‘Hello? Can you hear me, Sasha?’ Tom’s voice held its usual touch of impatience, and his features were pinched.

  Marco’s smile disappeared.

  Sasha mourned the loss of it and moved closer to the screen. ‘I’m here, Tom.’

  He huffed in response, then his eyes swung over her shoulder and widened.

  ‘Sit down,’ Marco said from behind her, pushing the massive chair towards her.

  She sat. He reached over her shoulder and adjusted the screen. Then he remained behind her—a heavy, dominating presence.

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Uh, I didn’t know you’d be joining us, Mr d
e Cervantes.’

  ‘A last-minute decision. Carry on,’ Marco instructed.

  ‘Um … okay …’

  She’d never seen Tom flounder, and she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.

  ‘Sasha, you have a Q&A on the team’s website next Friday. I’ve e-mailed the questions to you. I’ll need it back by Wednesday, to proofread and get it approved by the lawyers. On Friday night you have the Children of Bravery awards in London. Tuesday is the Strut footwear shoot, followed by the Linear Watches shoot in Barcelona. On Sun— Is there a problem?’ he asked testily when she shook her head.

  ‘That’s not going to work. I can’t take all that time off just for sponsorship events.’

  ‘This is the schedule I’ve planned. You’ll have to deal with it.’

  ‘Seriously, I think it makes more sense to group everything together and get it done in the shortest possible time—’

  ‘I’m in charge of your schedule. Let me work out what makes sense.’

  ‘Miss Fleming is right.’ Marco’s deep voice sounded from behind her shoulder. ‘You have several events spaced out over the period of a week. That’s a lot of time wasted travelling. Do you not agree?’

  ‘But the sponsors—’

  ‘The sponsors need to work around her schedule, not the other way round. They can have Thursday to Saturday next week. Otherwise they’ll have to wait until the end of the month. Miss Fleming gets Sundays off. Your job is to manage her time properly. Make it happen.’

  Marco reached past Sasha and disconnected the link. Although it was a rare treat to see Tom get his comeuppance, a large part of her tightened with irritation.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own schedule, thank you very much.’

  ‘It didn’t seem that way.’

  ‘Only because you didn’t give me half a chance.’ She craned her neck to gaze up at him, feeling at a severe disadvantage.

  His head went back as he glared down his arrogant nose at her. ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,’ he declared.