His Ultimate Prize(43)

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 run-times 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 hard 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 Espíritu 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.