The Price Of Desire: The Price of Success / The Cost of Her Innocence / Not For Sale

CHAPTER FOUR

‘IF 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.

She leaned forward into his eyeline. He’d been wrong about the shirt being functional. Her pert breasts pressed against the cotton material, her hands on her thighs as she peered down.

Marco swallowed, the hot stirrings in his abdomen increasing to uncomfortable proportions. Ruthlessly he pushed them away.

Sasha Fleming was bad news, he reminded himself.

Rafael had got involved with her to his severe detriment. Marco had no intention of following down the same road. His only interest in her was to make sure she delivered the Constructors’ Championship. Now he knew what she really wanted—the Drivers’ Championship—he had her completely at his mercy.

Control re-established, he brought the helicopter in to land, and yanked off his headphones. Sasha jumped down without his help and Marco caught the puzzled look she flashed him. Ignoring it, he strode towards Luke Green. His chief engineer had travelled ahead to supervise the initial training arrangements.

Sasha drew closer and her scent reached his nostrils. Marco’s insides clenched in rejection even as he breathed her in. His awareness of her was becoming intolerable. Even her voice as she greeted Luke bit into his psyche.

‘Is everything in order?’ he asked.

Luke nodded. ‘We’re just about to offload the engine. The mechanics will check it over and make sure it hasn’t been damaged during the flight.’

‘It takes three hours max to assemble the car, so it should be ready for me to test this afternoon, shouldn’t it?’ Sasha asked, her attention so intent on the tarpaulin-covered engine Marco almost enquired if she yearned to caress it.

‘No. You’ll begin training tomorrow morning,’ he all but growled.

Her head snapped towards him, her expression crestfallen. ‘Oh, but if the car’s here …’

‘The mechanics have been working on getting things ready since dawn. This engine hasn’t been used since last December. It’ll have to go through rigorous testing before it’s race-ready. That’ll take most of the day—at least until sundown.’

He turned back to Luke. ‘I want to see hourly engine readouts and a final telemetry report when you’re done testing.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Grabbing Sasha’s arm, he steered her away from the garage. Several eyes followed them, but he didn’t care. He was nothing like his brother. He had no intention of ever making a fool of himself over a woman again.

Opening the passenger door to his Conquistador, he thrust her into the bucket seat. Rounding the hood, he slid behind the wheel.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re angry with me?’ she directed at him.

Marco slammed his door. ‘It’s not a feeling.’

The breath she blew up disturbed the thick swathe of hair slanting over her forehead. ‘What did I do?’ she demanded.

He faced her and found her stunning eyes snapping fire at him. The blue of her gaze was so intense, so vivid, he wanted to keep staring at her for ever. The uncomfortable erotic heat he’d felt in her Budapest hotel room, when she’d strutted into view wearing that damned T-shirt that boldly announced ‘Bite Me’, rose again.

For days he’d been fighting that stupid recurring memory that strayed into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.

Even here in Leon, where much more disturbing memories impinged everywhere he looked, he couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of those long, coltish legs and the thought of how they would feel around his waist.

Nor could he ignore the evidence of Sasha’s hard work and dedication to her career. Every night since her arrival in Spain he’d found her poring over telemetry reports or watching footage of past races, fully immersed in pursuing the only thing she cared about.

The only thing she cared about …

Grabbing the steering wheel, he forced himself to calm down.

‘Marco?’

When had he given her permission to use his first name? Come to think of it, when had he started thinking of her as Sasha instead of Miss Fleming?

Dios, he was losing it.

With a wrench of his wrist the engine sprang to life, its throaty roar surprisingly soothing. Designing the Espiritu race cars had been an engineering challenge he’d relished. The Cervantes Conquistador had been a pure labour of love.

Momentarily he lost himself in the sounds of the engine, his mind picking up minute clicks and torsion controls. If he closed his eyes he would be able to imagine the aerodynamic flow of air over the chassis, visualise where each spark plug, each piston, nut and bolt was located.

But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. His grip tightened around the wheel.

Her gaze stayed on him as he accelerated the green and black sports car out of the parking lot. The screech of tyres drew startled glances from the mechanics heading for the hangar. Marco didn’t give a damn.

After a few minutes, when he felt sufficiently calm, he slowed down. ‘It’s not you.’

She didn’t answer.

Shrugging, he indicated the rich forest surrounding them. ‘It’s this place.’

‘This place? The race track or Casa de Leon?’

His jaw clenched as he tried in vain to stem the memories flooding him. ‘This is where my mother died eight years ago.’

Her gasp echoed in the car. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should’ve said something.’

He slowed down long enough to give her a hard look. ‘It isn’t common knowledge outside my family. I’d prefer it to remain that way.’ He wasn’t even sure why he’d told her. Whatever was causing him to act so out of character he needed to cauterise it.

She gave a swift nod. ‘Of course. You can trust me.’ Her colour rose slightly at her last words.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He only had himself to blame if she decided to spill her guts at the first opportunity. Flooring the accelerator, he sent the car surging forward as his other reason for wanting to escape the memories of this place rose.

Sasha remained silent until he pulled up in front of the villa. Then, lifting a hand, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked softly.

Releasing his clammy grip on the steering wheel, Marco flicked a glance at the villa door. He knew he’d find no respite within. If anything, the memories were more vivid inside. He didn’t need to close his eyes to see his mother laughing at Rafael’s shameless cajoling, her soft hazel eyes sparkling as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel moments before rushing out of the villa.

‘For his twenty-first birthday my father bought Rafael a Lamborghini. We celebrated at a nightclub in Barcelona. Afterwards I flew down here in the helicopter with my parents. Rafael chose to drive from Barcelona—five hours straight. He arrived just after breakfast, completely wired from partying. I tried to convince him to get some sleep, but he wanted to take my parents for a spin in the car.’

The familiar icy grip of pain tightened around his chest.

‘Rafael was my mother’s golden boy. He could do no wrong. So of course she agreed.’ Marco felt some of the pain seep out and tried to contain it. ‘My father insisted later it was the sun that got in Rafael’s eyes as he turned the curve, but one eyewitness confirmed he took the corner too fast. I heard the crash from the garage.’ Every excruciating second had felt like a lifetime as he sped towards the scene. ‘By the time the air ambulance came my mother was gone.’

‘Oh, Marco, no!’

Sasha’s voice was a soft, soothing sound. The ache inside abated, but it didn’t disappear. It never would. He’d lost his mother before he’d ever had the chance to make up for what he’d put her through.

‘I should’ve stopped him—should’ve insisted he get some sleep before taking the car out again.’

‘You couldn’t have known.’

He shook his head. ‘But I should have. Except when it comes to Rafael everyone seems to develop a blind spot. Including me.’

Vaguely, Marco wondered why he was spilling his guts. To Sasha Fleming, of all people. With a forceful wrench on the door, he stepped out of the car.

She scrambled out too. ‘And your father? What happened to him?’

His fist tightened around the computerised car key. ‘The accident severed his spine. He lost the use of his body from the neck down. He’s confined to a wheelchair and will remain like that for the rest of his life.’

Sasha looked after Marco’s disappearing figure, shocked by the astonishing revelation.

Now Marco’s motives became clear. His overprotective attitude towards Rafael, his reaction to the crash, suddenly made sense. Watching his mother die on the race track he’d built had to be right up there with enduring a living hell every time he stepped foot on it.

So why did he do it?

Marco de Cervantes was an extraordinary engineer and aerodynamicist, who excelled in building astonishingly fast race cars, but he could easily have walked away and concentrated his design efforts on the equally successful range of exclusive sport cars favoured by Arab sheikhs and Russian oligarchs.

So what drove him to have anything to do with a world that surely held heart-wrenching memories?