‘What’s the matter? Oh, my God, if you tell me I have food caught in my teeth I’ll kill you!’ she vowed feverishly.
Desperately blinking back the threatening tears, she tried to stem the painful memories that looking into Toby Latham’s face had brought. She couldn’t afford to let Marco see her pain. The pain she’d let eat her alive, consume her for years, but had never been able to put to rest.
She heard sniggers from across the table but ignored them, her attention held hostage by the savagely intense look in Marco’s eyes.
‘Your teeth are fine,’ he replied in a deep, rough voice.
‘Then what? Was my speech that bad?’ Caught in the traumatising resurgence of painful memories, she’d discarded her carefully prepared notes and winged it.
‘No. Your speech was … perfecto.’
Her heart lurched at his small pause. Before she could question him about it the MC introduced the next guest. With no choice but to maintain a respectful silence, she folded her shaking hands in her lap.
Frantically, she tried to recall her speech word for word. Marco was obviously reacting to something she’d said. Had she been wrong to mention Rafael? Had her joke been too crass? A wave of shame engulfed her at the thought.
She waited until the next award had been presented, then leaned over. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered into his ear.
His head swivelled towards her. His jaw brushed her cheek, sending a thousand tiny electric currents racing through her.
‘What for?’ he asked.
‘I shouldn’t have made that crack about Rafael skiving off. It was tasteless—’
‘And exactly what Rafael himself would’ve done had the situation been reversed. Everyone’s been skirting around the subject, either pretending it’s not happening or treating it with kid gloves. You gave people the freedom to acknowledge what had happened and set them at ease. I’m no longer the object of pitying glances and whispered speculation. It is I who should be thanking you.’
‘Really?’
‘Sí,’ he affirmed, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
‘Then why did you look so … off?’
His eyes darkened. ‘Your words were powerful. I was touched. I’m not made of stone, Sasha, contrary to what you might think.’
The reproach in his voice shamed her.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just … I thought …’
‘Forget it.’
He gave a tight smile, turned away and addressed Sophia, who flashed even more of her cleavage in triumph.
As soon as the last award was given, Sophia turned to Marco. ‘We’re going clubbing.’ She named an exclusive club frequented by young royals. ‘We’d love you to join us, Marco,’ she gushed.
Sasha gritted her teeth but stayed silent. If Marco wanted to party with the Fake Sisters it was his choice. All the same, Sasha held her breath as she waited for his answer, hating herself as she did so.
‘Clubbing isn’t my scene, but thanks for the offer.’
‘Oh, we don’t have to go clubbing. Maybe we can do something … else?’
Sasha stood and walked away before she could hear Marco’s response.
She’d almost reached the ballroom doors when she felt his presence beside her. The wave of relief that flooded her body threatened to weaken her knees. Sternly, she reminded herself that Marco’s presence had nothing to do with her personally. He was here for the team’s sake.
‘Are you sure you’d rather not be out with the Fa … Sophia? She seemed very eager to show you a good time. Seriously, I can take a taxi back.’
His limo pulled up. He handed her inside, then slid in beside her. ‘I prefer to end my evening silicone-free, gracias.’
She laughed. ‘Picky, picky! Most men wouldn’t mind.’
Perfect teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness of the limo. ‘I am not most men. No doubt you’ll add that to my list of flaws?’
His eyes dropped to her chest, abruptly cutting off her laughter.
‘You had better not be examining me for silicone. I’ll have you know these babies are natural.’
‘Trust me, I can tell the difference,’ he said, in a low, intense voice.
She swallowed hard. The thought that she was suddenly treading unsafe waters descended on her. Frantically, she cast her mind around for a safe subject.
‘So you don’t like clubbing?’
‘It’s not how I choose to spend an evening, no.’
‘Let me guess—you’re the starchy opera type?’
‘Wrong again.’
She snapped her fingers. ‘I know—you like to stay indoors and watch game shows.’
Low laughter greeted her announcement. Deep inside, a tiny part of Sasha performed a freakishly disturbing happy dance.
Encouraged, she pressed on. ‘Telemetry reports and aerodynamic calculations?’
‘Now you’re getting warm.’
‘Ha! I knew you were a closet nerd!’
He cast her a wry glance. ‘I prefer to call it passion.’
She shrugged. ‘A passionate nerd who surrounds himself with a crowd but keeps his distance.’
He stiffened. ‘You’re psychoanalysing me again.’
‘You make it easy.’
‘And you make baseless assumptions.’
‘Good try, but you can’t freeze me out with that tone. You’re single-minded to the point of obsession. I wiki-ed you. You have more money than you could ever spend in ten lifetimes and yet you don’t let anyone close. You have the odd liaison, but nothing that lasts more than a few weeks. According to your girlfriends, you never stay over. And there’s a time limit on every relationship.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read—especially in the tabloid press.’
‘Tell me which part is false,’ she challenged.
His gaze hardened. ‘I’ll tell you which part is right—every relationship ends. For ever is a concept made up to sell romance novels.’
‘Didn’t you have a long liaison once, when you were still racing? What was her name …? Angela? Ange—?’
‘Angelique,’
