The Price of Success (3 page)

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.

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 Espiritu 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.