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‘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.’
