The Price of Success (6 page)

When his eyes returned to hers, the breath snagged in her lungs. His hazel eyes had darkened to burnt gold with dark green flecks; the clench of his jaw was even more pronounced. He seemed to be straining against an emotion that was more than a little bit frightening.

She stepped back. He followed her in and shut the door. The luxury hotel suite that had seemed so vast, so over the top, closed in on her. She took another step back. He followed, eyes locked on her.

Her phone fell from her fingers, thankfully cushioned by the shag-pile carpet. Mouth dry, she kept backing up. He kept following.

‘I make it a point not to credit rumours, but it seems in this instance the rumours are true, Sasha Fleming.’

The way he said her name—slowly, with a hint of Latin intonation—made goosebumps rise on her flesh. Her nipples peaked and a sensation she recognised to her horror as desire raked through her abdomen, sending delicious darts of liquid heat to the apex of her thighs.

‘What exactly do you think is true about me?’

‘Sex is your weapon of choice,’ he breathed, his eyes lingering on the telltale nubs beneath her T-shirt. ‘The only trouble is you wield it so unsubtly.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she squeaked as the backs of her legs touched the side of the bed. ‘Did you just say—?’

‘You need to learn to finesse your art.’

‘What in heaven’s name are you blathering about? Are you sure
you’re
not the one who’s high?’ she flung back.

‘No man likes to be bludgeoned over the head with sex. No matter how … enticing the package.’

‘You’re either loopy or you’ve got me confused with someone else. I don’t bludgeon and I don’t entice.’

He kept coming.

She leaned back on the bed and felt the hem of her shirt riding up her thighs. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop!’

He stopped, but his gaze didn’t. It continued its destructive course over her, leaving no part of her untouched, until Sasha felt sure she was about to combust from the heat of it.

Desperate, she let her tongue dart out to lick her lips. ‘Look … Derek—I presume that’s where you got your little morsel from—said a lot of unsavoury things about me when we broke up. But I’m not who … whatever you think I am.’

‘Even though I can see the evidence for myself?’ he rasped in a low voice.

She scrambled over the side of the bed and grabbed the robe she’d dropped on the floor last night. With shaking fingers, and a mind scrambling to keep pace with the bizarre turn of the conversation, she pulled the lapels over her traitorous body.

Having pursued her profession in fast cars financed by billionaires with unlimited funds, Sasha knew there was a brand of women who found the whole X1 Premier Racing world a huge turn-on: women who used their sexuality to pursue racers with a single-mindedness that bordered on the obsessive.

She’d never considered for a second that she would ever be bracketed with them—especially by the wealthiest, most sought-after billionaire of them all. The idea would have been laughable if the sting of Derek’s betrayal still didn’t have the ability to hurt.

‘Well, whatever it is you
think
you see, there’s no truth to the rumour. Now, can we please get back to the reason you came here in the first place?’

Her words seemed to rouse him from whatever dark, edgy place he’d been in. He looked up from her thighs, slowly exhaled, and looked around the room, taking in the rumpled bed and the contents of her satchel strewn on the floor.

When he paced to the window and drew back the curtain she took the opportunity to tie the robe tighter around her, hoping it would dispel the electricity zinging around her body.

He turned after a minute, his face devoid of expression. ‘I’ve decided not to recruit a new driver. Doing so mid-season is not financially viable. Besides, they all have contracts and sponsorship commitments to fulfil.’

Hope grew so powerful it weakened her legs. Sinking down onto the side of the bed, she swallowed. ‘So, does that mean I have the seat for the rest of the season?’

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze fixed squarely on her. ‘You’ll sign an agreement promising to honour every commitment the team holds you to. Half of the sponsors have agreed to let you fulfil Rafael’s commitments.’

He hadn’t given a definite
yes
, but Sasha’s heartbeat thundered nonetheless. ‘And the other half?’

‘With nowhere to go, they’ll come round. My people are working on them.’

Unable to stem the flood of emotion rising inside, she pried her gaze from his and stared down at her trembling hands. She struggled to breathe.

Finally
. The chance to wipe the slate clean. To earn the respect that had been ruthlessly denied her and so callously wrenched from her father. Finally the Fleming name would be spoken of with esteem and not disdain. Jack Fleming would be allowed to rest in peace, his legacy nothing to be ashamed of any more.

‘I … thank you,’ she murmured.

‘You haven’t heard the conditions attached to your drive.’

She shook her head, careless of the hair flying about her face as euphoria frothed inside her. ‘I agree. Whatever it is, I agree.’ She wouldn’t let this opportunity slip her by. She intended to grab it with both hands. To prove to anyone who’d dared to naysay that they’d been wrong.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Yesterday you promised to give
anything
not to have Rafael in hospital. Today you’re agreeing to conditions you haven’t even heard. Are you always this carefree with your consent? Perhaps I need to rethink making you lead driver. I shudder to think what such rashness could cost me on the race track.’

‘I … Fine—name your conditions.’

He quirked a mocking brow.
‘Gracias
. Aside from the other commitments, there are two that I’m particularly interested in. Team Espiritu
must
win the Constructors’ Championship. We’re eighty points ahead of the next championship challenger. I expect those points only to go up. Understood?’

A smile lit up her face. ‘Absolutely. I intend to wipe the floor with them.’

‘The second condition—’

‘Wait. I have a condition of my own.’

His lips twisted.
‘Déjà vu
overwhelms me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’

Sasha ignored him, the need to voice a wish so long denied making her words trip from her lips with a life of their own. ‘If
… when
I secure you the Constructors’ Championship, I want my contract with Team Espiritu to be extended for another year.’

When his eyes narrowed further, she rushed to speak again.

‘You can write it into my contract that I’ll be judged based on my performance during the next three months. If we win the Constructors’ you’ll hire me for another year.’

‘Winning a Drivers’ Championship means that much to you?’

His curiously flat tone drew her gaze, but his expression remained inscrutable. Her heart hammered with the force of her deepest yearning. ‘Yes, it does.’

His eyelids descended, veiling his gaze. The tension in the room increased until she could cut the atmosphere with a butter knife. But when he looked back up there was nothing but cool, impersonal regard.

‘Very well. Win the Constructors’ Championship and I’ll extend your contract for another year.’

She couldn’t believe he’d agreed so readily. ‘Wow, that was easy.’

‘Perhaps it’s because I don’t believe in talking every subject to death. My time is precious.’

‘Yes, of course …’

‘As I was saying, before you interrupted, my second condition is more important, Miss Fleming, so listen carefully. You’ll have no personal contact with any male member of the team; you will go nowhere near my brother. Any hint of a non-professional relationship with another driver or anyone within the sport, for that matter, will mean instant dismissal. And I’ll personally make it my mission to ensure you never drive another racing car. Do we understand each other?’

‘I
F YOU
’
VE
finished your breakfast, I’ll take you on the tour of the race track.’

Sasha looked up from her almost empty plate of scrambled eggs and ham to find Marco lounging in the doorway that connected the vast living room to the sun-drenched terrace of
Casa de Leon
.

She’d been here three days, and she still couldn’t get her head round the sheer vastness of the de Cervantes estate. Navigating her way around the huge, rambling two-storey villa without getting lost had taken two full days.

With its white stucco walls, dark red slate roofs and large cathedral-like windows,
Casa de Leon
was an architect’s dream. The high exposed beams, sweeping staircases and intricately designed marble floors wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace. Every piece of furniture, painting and drape looked as if it cost a fortune. Even the air inside the villa smelled different, tinged with a special rarefied, luxurious quality that made her breath catch.

Outside, an endless green vista, broken only by perfectly manicured gardens, stretched as far as the eye could see … It was no wonder the countless villa staff travelled around in golf buggies.

Realising Marco was waiting for an answer, she nodded, drawing her gaze from the long, muscular legs encased in dark grey trousers. ‘Sure. I’ll just finish my coffee. Aren’t you having
anything?’ She indicated the mouth-watering spread of seasonal fruit, pastries and ham slices on the table.

Disengaging himself from the doorway, he came towards her, powerfully sleek and oozing arrogant masculinity. ‘I’ll have a coffee, too.’

When he sat and made no move to pour it himself, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, boss. Three bags full, boss?’

His hazel eyes gleamed and Sasha had the distinct feeling he was amused, although not a smile cracked his lips. In fact he looked decidedly strained. Which wasn’t surprising under the circumstances, she reminded herself.

Feeling the mutiny give way, she poured him a cup. ‘Black?’

‘
Sí
. Two sugars.’

She looked up, surprised. ‘Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the two-sugars type.’

‘And how
would
you have pegged me?’

‘Black, straight up, drunk boiling hot without a wince.’

‘Because my insides are made of tar and my soul is black as night?’ he mocked.

She shrugged. ‘Hey, you said it.’ She added sugar and passed it over.

‘Gracias.’
He picked up a silver spoon and stirred his drink, the tiny utensil looking very delicate in his hand.

Sasha found herself following the movement, her gaze tracing the short dark hairs on the back of his hand. Suddenly her mouth dried, and her stomach performed that stupid flip again. Wrenching her gaze from the hypnotic motion, she picked up her cup with a decidedly unsteady hand.

‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

‘Do you really want to know?’

The speed with which Marco had whisked her from Budapest to Spain after she’d signed the contract had made her head spin. Of course his luxury private jet—which he’d piloted himself—had negated the tedium of long airport waits and might have had something to do with it. They’d flown to Barcelona, then transferred by helicopter to his estate in Leon.

He took another sip. ‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You should know by now that I never say anything I don’t mean.’

Now she felt surly. Her suite was the last word in luxury, complete with four-poster bed, half a dozen fluffy pillows and a deep-sunken marble bath to die for. Just across from where she sat, past the giant-sized terracotta potted plants and a barbecue area, an Olympic-sized swimming pool sparkled azure in the dappling morning light. She’d already sampled its soothing comfort, along with the sports gym equipped with everything she needed to keep her exercise regime on track. In reality, she wanted for nothing.

And yet …

‘It’s fine. I have everything I need. Thank you,’ she tagged on waspishly. Then, wisely moving on before she ventured into full-blown snark, she asked, ‘How is Rafael?’

Marco’s gaze cooled.

Sasha sighed. ‘I agreed to stay away from him. I didn’t agree to stop caring about him.’

‘The move from Budapest went fine. He’s now in the care of the best Spanish doctors in Barcelona.’

‘Since you’ll probably bite my head off if I ask you to send him my best, I’ll move on. How far away is the race track?’

‘Three miles south.’ Lifting his cup, he drained it.

‘Exactly how big is this place?’

When Marco had announced he was bringing a skeleton team to Spain to help her train for her debut at the end of August, she’d mistakenly thought she would be spending most of her time in a race simulator. The half an hour it’d taken to travel from Marco’s landing strip to his villa had given her an inkling of how immense his estate was.

His gaze pinned on her, he picked up an orange and skilfully peeled it. ‘All around? About twenty-five square miles.’

‘And you and Rafael own all of it?’

‘Sí.’
He popped a segment into his mouth.

Sasha carefully set her cup down, her senses tingling with warning. That soft
sí
had held a slight edge to it that made her wary. His next words confirmed her wariness.

‘Just think, if only you’d said yes all this would’ve been yours.’

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Affecting a light tone, she toyed with the delicate handle of her expensive bone china cup. ‘Gee, I don’t know. The race track would’ve been handy, but what the hell would I do with the rest of the … What else is there, anyway?’

His gaze was deceptively lazy—deceptive because she could feel the charged animosity rising from him.

‘There’s a fully functioning vineyard and winery. And the stables house some of the best Andalucian thoroughbreds in Spain. There’s also an exclusive by-invitation-only resort and spa on the other side of the estate.’

‘Well, there you have it, then. My palate is atrociously common—not to mention that if I drink more than one glass of wine I get a raging headache. As for thoroughbreds—I couldn’t tell you which end of the horse to climb if you put me next to one. So, really, you’re way better off without me in your family. The spa sounds nice, though. A girl could always do with a foot rub after a hard day’s work—although I have a feeling the amount of grease I tend to get under my nails would frighten your resort staff.’

A tiny tic appeared at his temple. ‘Are you always this facetious, or do you practice?’

‘Normally I keep it well hidden. I only show off when asked really, really nicely,’ she flung back. Then she stood. ‘From the unfortunate downturn of this conversation, I take it the offer of a tour is now off the table?’ She tilted her chin, determined not to reveal how deep his barbs had stung.

‘As much as I’m tempted to reward your petulance with time on the naughty step, that will only prove counterproductive.’ Wiping his hands on a napkin, he rose to tower over her. ‘You’re here to train. Familiarising yourself with the race track is part of that training. I’ll leave the naughty step for another time.’

Wisely deciding to leave the mention of the naughty step alone, Sasha relaxed her grip on the back of the chair. ‘Thank you.’

Sasha followed him into the villa, staunchly maintaining her silence. But not talking didn’t equate to not looking, and, damn it, she couldn’t help but be intensely aware of the man beside her. His smell assailed her nostrils—that sharp tang of citrus coupled with the subtle undertones of musk that shifted as it flowed over his warmth.

Against the strong musculature of his torso his white polo shirt lovingly followed the superb lines of a deep chest and powerful shoulders. All that magnificence tapered down to a trim waist that knew not an ounce of fat.

Judging by his top-notch physicality, she wasn’t surprised Marco had been the perfect championship-winning driver ten years ago.

‘Why did you give up racing? You resigned so abruptly, and yet it’s obvious you recovered fully after your crash.’

She saw his shoulders tense before he rounded on her. The icy, forbidding look in his eyes made her bite her lip.

Nice one, Sasha
.

‘That is not a subject up for discussion, Miss Fleming. And before you take it into your head to go prying I caution you against it. Understood?’

He barely waited for her nod before he wrenched open the front door.

Outside, two golf buggies sat side by side at the bottom of the steps. She headed towards the nearest one.

‘Where are you going?’ he bit out.

She stopped. ‘Oh, I thought we were going by road.’

He nodded to the helipad, where a black and red chopper sat gleaming in the morning sun. ‘We’re touring by helicopter.’

It was a spectacularly beautiful machine—the latest in a long line of beautiful aircraft.

‘Any chance you’ll let me fly it?’

He flashed a mirthless grin at her. ‘I don’t see any pigs flying, do you?’

‘Wow, this is incredible! How long have you had this race track?’ Marco glanced up from the helicopter controls, then immediately
wished he hadn’t. It was bad enough hearing her excitement piped directly into his headphones. The visual effects were even more disturbing.

When he’d offered her an aerial tour of the race track he hadn’t taken into account how she was dressed. In most respects, her white shorts could be described as sensible—almost boyish. He’d been out with women who wore far less on a regular basis. Her light green shirt was also plain to the point of being utilitarian.

All the same, Marco found the combination of her excitement and her proximity …
aggravating
. Even more aggravating were the flashbacks he kept having of her leaning back on the bed in her hotel room, her T-shirt riding up to reveal skin so tempting it had knocked his breath clean out of his lungs …

Her naked ambition and her sheer drive to succeed were living things that charged the air around her. Marco knew only too well the high cost of blind ambition, and yet knowing the depths of Sasha Fleming’s ambition and what she would do to achieve her goals didn’t stop him from imagining how it would have felt to lift her T-shirt higher … just a fraction …

He was also more than a little puzzled that she’d made no attempt to gain his attention since that episode in her room. Women flaunted themselves at him at every opportunity—used every excuse in the book to garner his interest. Some even resorted to …
unconventional
means. Most of the time he was happy to direct them Rafael’s way. He’d long outgrown the paddock bunny phase; had outgrown it even before Angelique, the most calculating of them all, had stepped into his orbit and turned his world upside down.

Marco sobered, seething at himself for the memories he suddenly couldn’t seem to dispel so easily. Focusing on the controls, he banked the chopper and followed the straights and curves of the race track hundreds of metres below.

‘I built it ten years ago,’ he clipped out in answer to her question.

‘After you retired?’ she asked, surprised.

‘No. Just before.’ His harsh response had the desired effect
of shutting her up, but when he glanced at her again, he noted the spark of speculation in her eyes. Before he could think about why he was doing so, he found himself elaborating. ‘I thought I’d be spending more time here.’ He’d woven foolish dreams about what his life would be like, how perfect everything had seemed. He’d had the perfect car; the perfect woman.

‘What happened?’

The crushing pain of remembrance tightened around his chest. ‘I crashed.’

She gave a sad little understanding nod that made him want to growl at her. What did she know? She was as conniving as they came.

Forcing his anger under control, he flew over the track towards the mid-point hill.

Sasha pointed to six golf buggies carrying mechanics who hopped out at various points of the track. ‘What are they doing?’

‘The track hasn’t been used for a while. They’re conducting last-minute checks on the moveable parts to make sure they’re secure.’

‘I can’t believe this track can be reshaped to simulate other tracks around the circuit. I can’t wait to have a go!’

Excitement tinged her voice and Marco couldn’t help glancing over at her. Her eyes were alight with a smile that seemed to glow from within. His hands tightened around the controls.

‘The track was built before simulators became truly effective. One concrete track would’ve served only to make a driver expert at a particular track, so I designed an interchangeable track. The other advantage is experience gained in driving on tarmac, or as close to tarmac—as you can get. Wet or dry conditions can make or break a race. This way the driver gets to practise on both with the right tyres. Electronic simulators and wind tunnels have their places, but so does this track.’

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.