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

‘I have a video call with Tom Brooks, my press liaison, in five minutes. Can I use your study?’

His eyes locked on hers. ‘Why’s he calling?’

‘He wants to go over next month’s sponsorship schedule. I can give you a final printout, if you like.’

She deliberately kept her voice light, non-combative. Something told her Marco de Cervantes was spoiling for a fight, and after his revelations she wasn’t sure it was wise to engage him in one. Pain had a habit of eroding rational thought.

Being calmly informed by the doctor that she’d lost the baby she hadn’t even been aware she was carrying had made her want to scream—loudly, endlessly until her throat gave out. She’d wanted to reach inside herself and rip her body apart for letting her down. In the end the only thing that had helped was getting back to the familiar—to her racing car. The pain had never left her, but the adrenaline of racing had eased her aching soul the way nothing else had been able to.

Looking into Marco’s dark eyes, she caught a glimpse of his pain, but wisely withheld the offer of comfort on the tip of her tongue. After all, who was she to offer comfort when she hadn’t quite come to terms with losing her baby herself?

Silently, she held his gaze.

For several seconds he stared back. Then he indicated his study. ‘I’ll set it up for you.’

She followed him into the room and drew to a stunned halt. The space was so irreverently, unmistakably male that her eyes widened. An old-style burgundy leather studded chair and footrest stood before the largest fireplace she’d ever seen, above which two centuries-old swords hung. The rest of the room was oak-panelled, with dusty books stretching from floor to ceiling. The scent of stale tobacco pipe smoke hung in the air. It wouldn’t have been strange to see a shaggy-haired professor seated behind the massive desk that stood under the only window in the room. Compared to the contemporary, exceedingly luxurious comfort of the rest of the villa, this was a throwback to another century—save for the sleek computer on the desk.

Marco caught the look on her face and raised an eyebrow as he activated the large flat screen computer on the immense mahogany desk.

‘Did your designer fall into a time warp when he got to this room?’

‘This was my father’s study—his personal space. He never allowed my mother to redesign it, no matter how much she tried. He hasn’t been in here since she died, and I … I feel no need to change things.’

A well of sympathy rose inside Sasha for his pain. Casting a look around, she stopped, barely suppressing a gasp. ‘Is that a stag’s head on the wall?’ she asked, eyeing the large animal head, complete with gnarled, menacing antlers.

‘A bull stag, yes.’

She turned from the gruesome spectacle. ‘There’s a difference?’

The semblance of a smile whispered over his lips. Sasha found she couldn’t tear her gaze away. In that split second she felt a wild, unfettered yearning to see that smile widen, to see his face light up in genuine amusement.

‘The bull stag is the alpha of its herd. He calls the shots. And he gets his pick of the females.’

‘Ah, I see. If you’re going to display such a monstrosity on your wall, only the best will do?’

He slanted her a wry glance. ‘That’s the general thinking, yes.’

‘Ugh.’

He caught her shudder and his smile widened.

Warmth exploded in her chest, encompassed her whole body and made her breathless. Sasha found she didn’t care. The need to bask in the stunning warmth of his smile trumped the need for oxygen. Even when another voice intruded she couldn’t look away.

When Tom’s voice came again she roused herself with difficulty from the drugging race of her pulse, carefully skirted a coffee table festooned with piles of books, and approached the desk as the screen came to life.

‘Hello? Can you hear me, Sasha?’ Tom’s voice held its usual touch of impatience, and his features were pinched.

Marco’s smile disappeared.

Sasha mourned the loss of it and moved closer to the screen. ‘I’m here, Tom.’

He huffed in response, then his eyes swung over her shoulder and widened.

‘Sit down,’ Marco said from behind her, pushing the massive chair towards her.

She sat. He reached over her shoulder and adjusted the screen. Then he remained behind her—a heavy, dominating presence.

Tom cleared his throat. ‘Uh, I didn’t know you’d be joining us, Mr de Cervantes.’

‘A last-minute decision. Carry on,’ Marco instructed.

‘Um … okay …’

She’d never seen Tom flounder, and she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling.

‘Sasha, you have a Q&A on the team’s website next Friday. I’ve e-mailed the questions to you. I’ll need it back by Wednesday, to proofread and get it approved by the lawyers. On Friday night you have the Children of Bravery awards in London. Tuesday is the Strut footwear shoot, followed by the Linear Watches shoot in Barcelona. On Sun— Is there a problem?’ he asked testily when she shook her head.

‘That’s not going to work. I can’t take all that time off just for sponsorship events.’

‘This is the schedule I’ve planned. You’ll have to deal with it.’

‘Seriously, I think it makes more sense to group everything together and get it done in the shortest possible time—’

‘I’m in charge of your schedule. Let me work out what makes sense.’

‘Miss Fleming is right.’ Marco’s deep voice sounded from behind her shoulder. ‘You have several events spaced out over the period of a week. That’s a lot of time wasted travelling. Do you not agree?’

‘But the sponsors—’

‘The sponsors need to work around her schedule, not the other way round. They can have Thursday to Saturday next week. Otherwise they’ll have to wait until the end of the month. Miss Fleming gets Sundays off. Your job is to manage her time properly. Make it happen.’

Marco reached past Sasha and disconnected the link. Although it was a rare treat to see Tom get his comeuppance, a large part of her tightened with irritation.

‘I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own schedule, thank you very much.’

‘It didn’t seem that way.’

‘Only because you didn’t give me half a chance.’ She craned her neck to gaze up at him, feeling at a severe disadvantage.

His head went back as he glared down his arrogant nose at her. ‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,’ he declared.

Her heart lurched, then swung into a dive as a wave of warmth oozed through her. Sasha berated herself for the foolish feeling, but as much as she tried to push it away it grew stronger.

Despite the alien feeling zinging through her, she tried for a casual shrug. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’

A frown creased his forehead. ‘Why not?’

Her bitter laugh escaped before she could curb it. Rising, she padded several steps away, breathing easier. ‘Probably for the same reasons you don’t. He doesn’t think I have any business being a racing driver. He believes I’ve made him a laughing stock by association.’