‘Yes, I know. His condition hasn’t changed. I’ve updated Russell. He’ll pass it on to the team.’
He didn’t want to talk about his brother. Because speaking of Rafael would only remind him of why this woman who made the best sandwich he’d ever tasted was sitting in front of him.
‘How is your father holding up?’
He didn’t want to talk about his father either.
Recalling his father’s desolation, Marco shoved away his plate. ‘He watched his son crash on live TV. How do you think he’s doing?’
A flash of concern darkened her blue eyes. ‘Does he … does he know about me?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Does he know the cause of his son’s crash is the same person taking his seat?’ He laughed. ‘Not yet.’
He wasn’t sure why he’d kept that information from his father. It certainly had nothing to do with wondering if his brother’s version of events was completely accurate, despite Rafael’s voice ringing in his head … She’s the one, Marco.
Sasha’s gaze sought his, the look into them almost imploring. ‘I didn’t cause him to crash, Marco.’
Frustrated anger seared his chest. ‘Didn’t you?’
She shook her head and the knot finally gave up its fight. Dark, silky tresses cascaded over her naked shoulders and everything inside Marco tightened. It was the first time he’d seen it down, and despite the fury rolling through him the sudden urge to sink his fingers into the glossy mass, feel its decadent luxury, surged like fire through his veins.
‘Then what did? Something must have happened to make him imagine that idiotic move would stick.’
Her lips pursed. The look in her eyes was reluctant. Then she sighed. ‘I saw him just before the race. He was arguing with Raven.’
Marco frowned. ‘Raven Blass? His physio?’
She nodded. ‘I tried to approach him but he walked away. I thought I’d leave him to cool off and talk to him again after the race.’
Marco’s muttered expletive made her brows rise, but he was past caring. He strode into the alcove that held his extensive wine collection. ‘I need a drink. White or red?’
‘I shouldn’t. I had a beer earlier.’ She tucked a silky strand behind one ear.
Watching the movement, he found several incredibly unwise ideas crowding his brain. Reaching out, he grabbed the nearest bottle. ‘I don’t like drinking alone. Have one with me.’
Her smile caused the gut-clenching knot to tighten further. ‘Is the great Marco de Cervantes admitting a flaw?’
‘He’s admitting that his brother drives him loco.’ He grabbed two crystal goblets.
‘Fine. I was going to add another twenty minutes to my workout regime to balance out the incredible tapas I had earlier. I’ll make it an even half-hour.’
Marco’s gaze glided over her. ‘You’re hardly in bad shape.’
Another sweet, feminine laugh tumbled from her lips, sparking off a frenzied yearning.
‘Charlie would disagree with you. Apparently my body mass index is way below acceptable levels.’
Marco uncorked the wine, thinking perhaps Charlie needed his eyes examined. ‘How long is your daily regime?’
‘Technically three hours, but Charlie keeps me at it until I’m either screaming in agony or about to pass out. He normally stops once I’m thoroughly dripping in sweat.’
His whole body froze, arrested by the image of a sweat-soaked Sasha, with sunshine glinting off her toned body.
Dios, this was getting ridiculous. He should not be feeling like this—especially not towards the woman who was the every epitome of Angelique: ruthlessly ambitious, uncaring of anything that got in her way. Sasha had nearly destroyed his brother the way Angelique had destroyed Marco’s desire ever to forge a lasting relationship.
And yet in Barcelona he’d found himself thinking of Sasha … admitting to himself that his sudden preoccupation with her had nothing to do with work. And everything to do with the woman herself. The attraction he’d felt in Budapest was still present … and escalating.
Which was totally unacceptable.
He took a deep breath and wrenched control back into his body. While his brother was lying in a coma, the only thing he needed to focus on was winning the Constructors’ Championship. And teaching Sasha Fleming a lesson.
He poured bold red Château Neuf into one glass and set it in front of her. ‘I’ve seen the testing reports. You’ll need to find another three-tenths of a second around Eau Rouge to give yourself a decent chance or you’ll leave yourself open to overtaking. Belgium is a tough circuit.’
She took a sip and his gaze slid to the feline-like curve of her neck. Clenching fingers that itched to touch, he sat down opposite her.
‘The DSII will handle the corners better.’
His eyes flicked over her face, noting her calm. ‘You don’t seem nervous.’
Another laugh. A further tightening in his groin.
Madre di Dios. It had been a while since he’d indulged in good, old-fashioned, no-holds-barred sex. Sexual frustration had a habit of making the unsavoury tempting, but this … this yearning was insane.
Mentally, he scanned through his electronic black book and came up with several names. Just as fast he discarded every one of them, weariness at having to disentangle himself from expectation dampening his urge to revisit old ground.
Frustration built, adding another strand of displeasure to his already seething emotions.
‘Believe me, I get just as nervous as the next racer. But I don’t mind.’
‘Because winning is everything, no matter the cost?’ he bit out.
Her eyes darkened. ‘No. Because nerves serve a good purpose. They remind you you’re human; they sharpen your focus. I’d be terrified if I wasn’t nervous. But eighteen years of experience also helps. I’ve been doing this since I was seven years old. Having a supportive father who blatantly disregarded the fact that I wasn’t a boy helped with my confidence too.’
‘Not a lot of parents agree with their children racing. You were lucky.’
She smiled. ‘More like pushy. I threw a tantrum every time he threatened to leave me with my nanny. I won eventually. Although I get the feeling he was testing me to see how much I wanted it.’
‘And you passed with flying colours.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘Bravo.’
Unsettlingly perceptive blue eyes rested on him. ‘Oops, do I detect a certain cynicism there, Marco?’
He
