His Ultimate Prize(40)

What good would protesting do?

The only weapon she had to fight with was her talent behind the steering wheel.

Her father's time had been cruelly cut short, stamped out by vicious  lies that had destroyed him and robbed her of the one person who had  truly loved and believed in her.

Sasha was damned if she would let history repeat itself. Damned if she would give up her only chance to prove everyone wrong.

Gritting her teeth, she ignored his hand and stepped out of the car.

* * *

Marco strode across the marble foyer, the box clutched firmly in his  grip. Its contents were a vivid reminder, stamped onto his brain.

Behind him he heard the hurried click of booted heels as Sasha Fleming struggled to keep up with him.

He didn't slow down. In fact he sped up. He wanted this meeting over with so he could return to the hospital.

For a single moment Marco thanked God his mother wasn't alive. She  couldn't have borne to see her darling son, the miracle child she'd  thought she'd never have, lying battered and bruised in a coma.

It was bad enough that she'd had to live through the pain and suffering  Marco had brought her ten years ago. Bad enough that those horrendous  three weeks before and after his own crash had caused a rift he'd never  quite managed to heal, despite his mother's reassurances that all was  well.

Marco knew all hadn't been well because he had never been the same since that time.

Deep shame and regret raked through him at how utterly he'd let his  mother down. At how utterly he'd lost his grip on reality back then.  Foolishly and selfishly he'd thought himself in love. The practised  smile of a skilful manipulator had blinded him into throwing all caution  to the wind and he'd damaged his family in the process.

His mother was gone, her death yet another heavy weight on his  conscience, but Rafael was alive-and Marco intended to make sure  lightning didn't strike twice. For that to happen he had to keep it  together. He would keep it together.                       
       
           



       

'Um, the sign for the bar points the other way.'

Sasha Fleming's husky voice broke into his unwelcome thoughts.

He stopped so suddenly she bumped into him. Marco frowned at the  momentary sensation of her breasts against his back and the unsuspecting  heat that surged into his groin. His whole body tightened in furious  rejection and he rounded on her.

'I don't conduct my business in bars. And I seriously doubt you want our conversation to be overheard by anyone else.'

Turning on his heel, he stalked to the lift. His personal porter pushed  the button and waited for Marco to enter the express lift that serviced  the presidential suite.

Sasha shot him a wary look and he bit back the urge to let a feral smile  loose. Ever since Rafael's crash he'd been pushing back the blackness,  fighting memories that had no place here within this chaos.

Really, Sasha Fleming had chosen the worst possible time to make herself  his enemy. His hands tightened around the box and his gaze rested on  her.

Run, he silently warned her. While you have the chance.

Her eyes searched every corner of the mirrored lift as if danger lurked  within the gold-filigree-trimmed interior. Finally she rolled her  shoulders. The subtle movement was almost the equivalent of cracking  one's knuckles before a fight, and it intrigued him far more than he  wanted to admit.

'We're going to your suite? Okay...'

She stepped into the lift. Behind her, Marco saw the porter's gaze drop  to linger on her backside. Irritation rose to mingle with the already  toxic cauldron of emotions swirling through him. With an impatient  finger he stabbed at the button.

'I see the thought of it doesn't disturb you too much.' He didn't bother  to conceal the slur in his comment. The urge to attack, to wound, ran  rampage within him.

Silently he conceded she was right. As long as Rafael was fighting for  his life he couldn't think straight. The impulse to make someone pay  seethed just beneath the surface of his calm.

And Sasha Fleming had placed herself front and centre in his sights.

He expected her to flinch. To show that his words had hit a mark.

He wasn't prepared for her careless shrug. 'You're right. I don't really  want our conversation to feed tomorrow's headlines. I'm pretty sure by  now most of the media know you're staying here.'

'So you're not afraid to enter a strange man's suite?'

'Are you strange? I thought you were merely the engineering genius who  designed the Espíritu DSII and the Cervantes Conquistador.'

'I'm immune to flattery, Miss Fleming, and any other form of coercion running through your pretty little head.'

'Shame. I was about to spout some seriously nerd-tastic info guaranteed to make you like me.'

'You'd be wasting your time. I have a team specially selected to deal with sycophants.'

His barb finally struck home. She inhaled sharply and lowered her gaze.

Marco caught himself examining the determined angle of her chin, the  sensual line of her full lips. At the base of her neck her pulse  fluttered under satin-smooth skin. Against his will, another wave of  heat surged through him. He threw a mental bucket of cold water over it.

This woman belonged to his brother.

The lift opened directly onto the living room-a white and silver design  that flowed outside onto the balcony overlooking the Danube. Marco  bypassed the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows, strode to the antique  desk set against the velvet wall and put the box down.

Recalling its contents, he felt anger coalesce once more within him.

He turned to find Sasha Fleming at the window, a look of total awe on  her face as she gazed at the stunning views of the Buda Hills and the  Chain Bridge. He took a moment to study her.

Hers wasn't a classical beauty. In fact there was more of the rangy  tomboy about her than a woman who was aware of her body. Yet her face  held an arresting quality. Her lips were wide and undeniably sensual,  and her limbs contained an innate grace when she moved that drew the  eye. Her silky black hair, pulled into a loose ponytail at the back of  her head, gleamed like a jet pool in the soft lighting. His gaze  travelled over her neck, past shoulders that held a hint of delicacy and  down to her chest.

The memory of her breasts against his back intruded. Against him she'd  felt decidedly soft, although her body was lithe, holding a whipcord  strength that didn't hide her subtle femininity. When he'd held her  wrist in Rafael's hospital room her skin had felt supple, smooth like  silk...

Sexual awareness hummed within him, unwelcome and unacceptable.  Ruthlessly he cauterised it. Even if he'd been remotely interested in a  woman such as this, flawed as she was, and without a moral bone in her  body, she was the reason his brother had crashed.

Besides, poaching had never been his style.

'So, what would it take to convince you to keep me on?' She addressed him without taking her eyes from the view.

Annoyance fizzled through him.

'You're known for having relationships with your team mates.'

Her breath caught and she turned sharply from the window. Satisfaction oozed through him at having snagged her attention.

Satisfaction turned to surprise when once again she didn't evade the question. 'One team mate. A very long time ago.'

'He also crashed under extreme circumstances and lost his drive, I believe?'

A simple careful nod. 'He retired from motor racing, yes.'

'And his seat was then given to you?'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Your extrapolation is way off base if you think it has any bearing on what has happened with Rafael.'

'Isn't it curious that you bring chaos to every team you join? Are you an unlucky charm, Miss Fleming?'

'As a former racer yourself, I'm sure you're familiar with the  facts-drivers crash on a regular basis. It's a reality of the sport. In  fact, wasn't a crash what ended your racing career?'

For the second time in a very short while the reminder of events of ten  years ago cut through him like the sharpest knife. Forcing the memories  away, he folded his arms. 'It's your circumstances that interest me, not  statistics. You dumped this other guy just before a race. This seems to  be your modus operandi.'

Her chest lifted with her affronted breath. He struggled not to let his  gaze drop. 'I resent that. I thought you ran your team on merit and  integrity, not rumour and hypothesis.'

'Here's your chance to dispel the rumours. How many other team mates have you slept with?'

'I had a relationship with one. Derek and I went out for a while. Then it ended.'

'But this...relationship grew quite turbulent, I believe? So much so  that it eventually destroyed his career while yours flourished?'

She snorted. 'I wouldn't say flourished, exactly. More like sweated and blooded.'

'But you did start out being a reserve driver on his team. And you did dump him when his seat became available to you?'

Marco watched her lips tighten, her chin angling in a way that drew his eyes to her smooth throat.

'It's obvious you've done your homework. But I didn't come here to  discuss my personal life with you-which, as it happens, is really none  of your business.'

'When it relates to my brother and my team it becomes my business. And  your actions in the past three months have directly involved Rafael.' He  reached for the box on the table. 'Do you know what's in this box?' he  asked abruptly.