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Unlike him, his brother had never been able to compartmentalise his life, to suppress superfluous emotions that led to unnecessarily clouded judgement. Rafael coalesced happiness, sadness, triumph and loss into one hot, sticky mess. Add the lethal mix of a seven hundred and fifty horsepower racing car, and once again he was left picking up the pieces.
His breath shuddered. Reaching out, he took Rafael’s unmoving hand, leaned down until his lips hovered an inch from his brother’s ear.
‘You live—you hear me? I swear on all things holy, if you die on me I’ll track you to hell and kick your ass,’ he grated out, then swallowed the thickness in his throat. ‘And I know you’ll be in hell, because you sure as heck won’t get into heaven with those looks.’
His voice caught and he forced back his tears.
Rafael’s hand remained immobile, barely warm. Marco held on tighter, desperately infusing his brother with his own life force, desperately trying to block out the doctor’s words … his brain is swelling … there’s internal bleeding … nothing to do but wait …
With a stifled curse, he whirled away from the bed. The window of the ultra-private, ultra-exclusive, state-of-the-art hospital looked out onto a serene courtyard, with discreet fountains and carefully clipped flowers meant to soothe the troubled patient. Beyond the grounds, forests stretched as far as the eye could see.
Marco found no solace in the picturesque view. He found even less to smile about when his eyes lit on the paparazzi waiting beyond the hospital’s boundaries, powerful lenses trained, ready to pounce.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned back to the bed.
A flash of green caught the corner of his eye. He focused on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall and watched Rafael’s accident replayed again in slow motion.
Bile rose to his throat. Reaching blindly for the remote, he aimed it at the screen—only to stop when another picture shifted into focus.
Anger escalated through him. Five minutes later he stabbed the ‘off’ button and calmly replaced the control.
Returning to Rafael’s bedside, his sank onto the side of the bed. ‘I know you’d probably argue with me, mi hermano, but you’ve had a lucky escape. In more ways than one.’
Jaw clenching, he thanked heaven his brother hadn’t heard the interview just played on TV. Marco had first-hand knowledge of what people would sacrifice in their quest for fame and power, and the look of naked ambition in Sasha Fleming’s eyes made his chest burn with fury and his skin crawl.
His fist tightened on the bed next to his brother’s unmoving body.
If she wanted a taste of power he would give it to her. Let her acquire a taste for it the way she’d given Rafael a taste of herself.
Then, just as she’d callously shoved Rafael aside, Marco would take utter satisfaction in wrenching away everything she’d ever dreamed of.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me which room Rafael de Cervantes is in?’ Sasha infused her voice with as much authority as possible, despite the glaring knowledge that she wasn’t supposed to be here.
The nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform looked up. The crease already forming on her brow caused Sasha’s
heart to sink.
‘Are you a member of the family?’
‘No, but I wanted to see how he was. He was … is my team mate.’ The moment the words left her lips she winced. Way to go, Sasha.
True to form, the nurse’s frown dissolved as realisation dawned. ‘His team mate …? You’re Sasha Fleming!’
Sasha summoned her practised camera smile—the one that held the right amount of interest without screaming look at me, and lifted the oversized sunglasses. ‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘My nephew loves you!’ The nurse gushed. ‘He pretends not to, but I know he thinks you rock. Every time he sees you during Friday Practice his face lights up. He’ll be thrilled when I tell him I met you.’
The tension clamping Sasha’s nape eased a little. ‘Thanks. So can I see Rafael?’ she asked again. When the frown threatened to make a comeback, Sasha rushed on. ‘I’ll only be a moment, I promise.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Fleming. You’re not on my list of approved visitors.’
Steeling herself against the nerves dragging through her, Sasha cleared her throat. ‘Is Marco de Cervantes here? Maybe I can ask him?’
She pushed the mental picture of Marco’s cold, unforgiving features to the back of her mind. She was here for Rafael. Surely, as his team mate, his brother wouldn’t bar her from seeing him?
‘No, he left half an hour ago.’
Shock slammed into her. ‘He left?’
