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 Espiritu 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.
‘I … Can you give me two minutes?’ If she could get in and out of a race suit in ninety seconds, she sure as hell could make herself presentable in a fraction of that time.
‘You have five seconds. Then I move on to my next call.’
‘No. Wait!’ Keeping the phone glued to her ear, she rushed to the door. Pulling it open, she stuck her head out, trying her best to shield the rest of her body from full view.
And there he stood. Unlike the casual clothes of yesterday, Marco was dressed in a bespoke suit, his impressive shoulders even more imposing underneath the slate-grey jacket, blue shirt and pinstriped tie, his long legs planted in battle stance. His hair was combed neatly, unlike the unruly, sexy mess it’d been yesterday. The strong desire to see it messy again had her pulling back a fraction.
Eyes locked on hers, he lowered his phone. ‘Invite me in.’
‘Why? Are you a vampire?’ she shot back, then swallowed a groan.
Frown lines creased his brow. ‘Excuse me? Are you high?’
Sasha silently cursed her morning brain. ‘Hah—I wish. Oh, never mind. I’m … I’m not really dressed to receive guests, but I didn’t want you to leave, so unless you want to extend that five-second ultimatum this will have to do.’
His frown deepened. ‘Are you in the habit of answering your hotel door naked?’
Heat
