the dark fury riding just below his outward control.
‘The difference, Miss Fleming, is that I don’t compromise my integrity to do so. And I don’t put those I care about in harm’s way just to get what I want.’
‘What about compassion?’
His brows cleared, but the volatile tinge in the air remained. ‘I’m fresh out.’
‘You know, you’ll wake up one morning not long from now and regret your actions today.’
The lift doors glided open to reveal the underground car park. A few feet away was a gleaming black chrome-trimmed Bentley Continental. Beside it, a driver and a heavily muscled man whose presence shrieked bodyguard waited. The driver held the back door open, but Marco made no move towards it. Instead he glanced down at her, his expression hauntingly bleak.
‘I regret a lot that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours—not least watching my brother mangle himself and his car on the race track because he believed himself to be heartbroken. One more thing doesn’t make a difference.’
‘Your emotions are overwhelming you right now. All I’m saying is don’t let them overrule your better judgement.’
A cold smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘My emotions? I didn’t know you practised on the side as the team’s psychologist. I thought you’d ridden down with me to beg for your job back, not to practise the elevator pitch version of pop psychology. You had me as your captive audience for a full thirty seconds. Shame you chose to waste it.’
‘Mock me all you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re acting like—’ She bit her lip, common sense momentarily overriding her anger.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged softly. Tauntingly. ‘Acting like what?’
She shrugged. ‘Like … well, like an ass.’
His eyes narrowed until they were mere icy slits. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry. You asked.’
Anger flared in his eyes, radiated off his body. Sasha held her breath, readying herself for the explosion about to rain on her head. Instead he gave a grim smile.
‘I’ve been called worse.’ He nodded to his bodyguard, who took a step towards them. ‘Romano will escort you off the premises. Be warned—my very generous donation to this hospital is contingent on you being arrested if you set foot anywhere near my brother again. I’m sure the administrator would relish that challenge.’
Despair rose to mingle with her anger. ‘You can’t do this. If you don’t listen to me I’ll … I’ll talk to the press again. I’ll spill everything!’
‘Ah, I’m glad to finally meet the real you, Miss Fleming.’
‘Ten minutes. That’s all I want. Let me convince you to keep me on.’
‘Trust me—blackmail isn’t a great place to start.’
She bit her lip. ‘That was just a bluff. I won’t talk to the press. But I do want to drive for you. And I’m the best mid-season replacement you’ll find for Rafael.’
‘You do place a high premium on yourself, don’t you?’
Unflinching, she nodded. ‘Yes, I do. And I can back it up. Just let me prove it.’
His gaze narrowed on her face, then conducted a lazy sweep over her body. Suddenly the clothes that had served as perfect camouflage against the intrusive press felt inadequate, exposing. Beneath the thin material of her T-shirt her heart hammered, her skin tingling with an alien awareness that made her muscles tense.
As a female driver in a predominantly male sport, she was used to being the cynosure of male eyes. There were those who searched for signs of failure as a driver, ready to use any shortcomings against her. Then there were the predators who searched for weaknesses simply because she was a woman, and therefore deemed incapable. The most vicious lot were those who bided their time, ready to rip her apart because she was Jack Fleming’s daughter. Those were the ones she feared the most. And the ones she’d sworn to prove wrong.
Marco de Cervantes’s gaze held an intensity that combined all of those qualities multiplied by a thousand. And then there was something else.
Something that made her breath grow shallow in her lungs. Made her palms clammy and the hairs bristle on her nape.
Recalling the sheer intensity of the look he’d directed into the camera earlier, she felt her heartbeat accelerate.
‘Get in the car,’ he bit out, his tone bone-chilling.
Sasha glanced into the dark, luxurious interior of the limo and hesitated. The feelings this man engendered in her weren’t those of fear. Rather, she sensed an emotional risk—as if, given half a chance, he would burrow under her skin, discover her worst fears and use them against her. She couldn’t let that happen.
‘If you want me to hear you out you’ll get in the car. Now,’ he said, his tone uncompromising.
She hesitated. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t isn’t a word I enjoy hearing,’ he growled, his patience clearly ebbing fast.
‘My bike.’ He quirked one brow at her. ‘I’d rather not leave it here.’
His glance towards the battered green and white scooter leaning precariously against the car park wall held disbelief. ‘You came here on that?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You’re wearing the most revolting pair of jeans I’ve ever seen and a scarf that’s seen better days. Add that to the oversized sunglasses and I don’t need to be a genius to guess you were trying some misguided attempt to escape the paparazzi. I am right?’ At her nod, he continued. ‘And yet you travelled on the slowest mode of motorised transport known to man.’
She raised her chin. ‘But there’s the beauty—don’t you see? I managed to ride straight past the paparazzi without one single camera lens focusing on me. You, on the other hand … Tell me—how did they react when you rocked up in your huge, tinted-windowed monstrosity of a car?’
His jaw tightened and he glared at her.
‘Exactly. I’m not leaving my bike.’
‘Security here is—’
‘Inadequate, according to you. After all, I managed to get through, didn’t I?’ She threw his words back at him.
One hand gripped the door of the car. ‘Get in the car or don’t. I refuse to argue with you over a pile of junk.’
‘It’s my junk and I won’t leave it.’
With a stifled curse, Marco held out his hands. ‘Keys?’
‘Why?’
‘Romano will return the scooter to your hotel.’
Sasha’s
