As a female driver in a predominantly male sport, she was used to being the cynosure of male eyes. There were those who searched for signs of failure as a driver, ready to use any shortcomings against her. Then there were the predators who searched for weaknesses simply because she was a woman, and therefore deemed incapable. The most vicious lot were those who bided their time, ready to rip her apart because she was Jack Fleming's daughter. Those were the ones she feared the most. And the ones she'd sworn to prove wrong.
Marco de Cervantes's gaze held an intensity that combined all of those qualities multiplied by a thousand. And then there was something else.
Something that made her breath grow shallow in her lungs. Made her palms clammy and the hairs bristle on her nape.
Recalling the sheer intensity of the look he'd directed into the camera earlier, she felt her heartbeat accelerate.
'Get in the car,' he bit out, his tone bone-chilling.
Sasha glanced into the dark, luxurious interior of the limo and hesitated. The feelings this man engendered in her weren't those of fear. Rather, she sensed an emotional risk-as if, given half a chance, he would burrow under her skin, discover her worst fears and use them against her. She couldn't let that happen.
'If you want me to hear you out you'll get in the car. Now,' he said, his tone uncompromising.
She hesitated. 'I can't.'
'Can't isn't a word I enjoy hearing,' he growled, his patience clearly ebbing fast.
'My bike.' He quirked one brow at her. 'I'd rather not leave it here.'
His glance towards the battered green and white scooter leaning precariously against the car park wall held disbelief. 'You came here on that?'
'Yes. Why?'
'You're wearing the most revolting pair of jeans I've ever seen and a scarf that's seen better days. Add that to the oversized sunglasses and I don't need to be a genius to guess you were trying some misguided attempt to escape the paparazzi. I am right?' At her nod, he continued. 'And yet you travelled on the slowest mode of motorised transport known to man.'
She raised her chin. 'But there's the beauty-don't you see? I managed to ride straight past the paparazzi without one single camera lens focusing on me. You, on the other hand... Tell me-how did they react when you rocked up in your huge, tinted-windowed monstrosity of a car?'
His jaw tightened and he glared at her.
'Exactly. I'm not leaving my bike.'
'Security here is-'
'Inadequate, according to you. After all, I managed to get through, didn't I?' She threw his words back at him.
One hand gripped the door of the car. 'Get in the car or don't. I refuse to argue with you over a pile of junk.'
'It's my junk and I won't leave it.'
With a stifled curse, Marco held out his hands. 'Keys?'
'Why?'
'Romano will return the scooter to your hotel.'
Sasha's eyes widened. Romano weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. The thought of what he'd put her poor scooter through made her wince.
'And before you comment on Romano's size I'd urge you to stop and think about his feelings,' Marco added mockingly.
Touché, she conceded silently.
Digging into her satchel, she reluctantly handed over her keys. Marco lobbed them to his bodyguard, then raised an imperious eyebrow at her.
With a resigned sigh, Sasha slid past his imposing body and entered the limo.
The door shut on them, enclosing them in a silent cocoon that threatened to send her already taut nerves into a frenzied tailspin.
As the car glided out of the car park it occurred to her that she had no idea where Marco was taking her. She opened her mouth to ask, then immediately shut it when she saw his gaze fixed on the small box.
Despite his bleak expression, his profile was stunningly arresting. The sculpted contours of his face held enough shadow and intrigue to capture the attention of any red-blooded female with a pulse-a fact attested to by the regular parade of stunning women he was photographed with.
His strong jaw bore the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow, and an even stronger, taut neck slanted onto impossibly broad shoulders. Under the discreetly expensive cotton shirt those shoulders moved restlessly. She followed the movement, her gaze sliding down over his chest, past the flat stomach that showed no hint of flab. Her eyes rested in his lap. The bulge beneath his zipper made heat swirl in her belly.
'Have you seen enough? Or would you like me to perform a slow striptease for you?'
Her cheeks burned. Her neck burned. In fact for several seconds Sasha was sure her whole body was on fire. Mortified, she hastily plucked her sunglasses from atop her head and jammed them onto her face.
'I... You didn't say where we were going.'
'I've called a meeting with Russell and the chief engineer. I'm handing over the reins temporarily so I can concentrate on making arrangements for Rafael to be evacuated home to Spain.'
'You're moving him?'
'Not yet, but the medical team is on standby. He'll be moved the moment it's deemed safe.'
'I see.'
Sharp eyes bored into her. 'Do you? You've talked your way into a last-chance meeting and yet you're wasting time exhibiting false concern for my brother.'
She sucked in a breath. 'My concern isn't false. I'd give anything for Rafael not to be in that place.'
Sasha watched, fascinated, as his hand tightened around the box. 'In my experience anything tends to arrive with a very heavy price tag and a carefully calculated catch. So be very careful with your choice of words.'
Sasha licked her lips, suddenly unable to breathe at the expression in his eyes. 'I'm sure I don't know what you mean.'
The look in his eyes hardened. 'You really should try a different profession. Your acting skills are highly commendable.'
'Driving suits me just fine, thanks. Where are we going, exactly?'
Keeping his gaze on her, he relaxed back in his seat. 'My hotel.'
'Your hotel?' she repeated dully. Her senses, still reeling after she'd been caught staring at Marco de Cervantes's man package, threatened to go into freefall. The thought of being alone with him-truly alone-made anxiety skitter over her skin. 'I don't think that's a good idea.'
'You don't have a choice. You wanted this meeting.'
Desperation lent her voice strength. 'The rest of the team will be wondering where I am. Maybe I should let them know.' Tom had asked where she was going after the press conference, but she'd been deliberately evasive.
'The team will be out doing what they do after every Sunday race. Bar hopping and trying it on with the local girls.'
'I don't think they'll be doing that tonight. Not with Rafael...' She bit her lip, unable to continue as she glimpsed the flash of pain in those hazel eyes.
But he merely shrugged. 'Call them if you want. Tell them where you're going. And why.'
Not expecting her bluff to be called, Sasha floundered. The circumstances of her past made it impossible to make friends with anyone on her team. The constant whispers behind her back, the conversations that stopped when she walked into a room, made it hard to trust anyone.
Tom only cared as far as her actions impacted upon his career. The only one who had cared-really cared-had been Rafael. A wave of pain and regret rushed through her. Until their row last night she'd foolishly let herself believe she could finally trust another human being.
Feigning nonchalance, she shrugged. 'I'll tell them later.'
Unable to stomach the mockery in Marco's eyes, she turned away.
Absently she stroked the armrest, silently apologising for calling the Bentley Continental a monstrosity. Amongst the luxury, sometimes vacuous, creations car manufacturers produced, the Bentley was one of the more ingenious styles. It had been her father's favourite non-racing car-his pride and joy until he'd been forced to sell it to defend himself.
'We're here.'
They were parked beneath the pillared portico of the Four Seasons. A liveried doorman stepped forward and opened the door on Marco's side, his bow of deference deep to the point of being obsequious.
Casting her gaze past him, Sasha felt her mouth drop open at the sheer opulence of the marbled foyer of the stunning hotel. The whole atmosphere glittered and sparkled beneath a super-sized revolving chandelier, which was throwing its adoring light on sleekly dressed patrons.
Sasha remained in her seat, super-conscious of how inappropriate her old hipster jeans and worn top were for the gold-leaf and five-star luxury spread before her. She was pretty sure she would be directed to the tradesman's entrance the moment the doorman saw her scuffed boots.
'Come out. And lose the glasses and the scarf. No one cares who you are here.'
She hesitated. 'Can't we just talk in the car?' she ventured.
He held out a commanding hand. 'No, we can't. We both know you're not shy, so stop wasting my time.'
She could argue, defend her personal reputation against the label Marco had decided to pin on her, but Sasha doubted it would make a difference. He, like the rest of the world, believed she was soiled goods because of her past and because she was a Fleming.