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Her eyes found his. ‘Marco...’
Again it was a husky entreaty.
His fingers brushed her cheek. ‘Why can’t I get you out of my head? I took a beautiful woman to dinner but I can barely remember what she looked like now. I ate but hardly tasted the food. All I could think about was you.’
‘Do you want me to apologise?’
‘Would you mean it?’
Her pink tongue darted out, licked, darted back in. He groaned in pain.
‘Probably not. But I may have an explanation for you.’
A few feet away the TV belted out the closing sequence of the show. Neither of them paid any attention. His forefinger traced her soft skin to the corner of her mouth, the need to taste her again a raging fever flaming through his veins. ‘I’m listening.’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe you share a trait with your brother after all. Deny you something and you want it more?’
Marco didn’t need to think about it to answer. ‘No. The difference between Rafael and me is that he wouldn’t have hesitated to take—consequences be damned. He sees something he wants and he takes it.’
‘Whereas you agonise about it endlessly, then deny yourself anyway? It’s almost as if you’re testing yourself—putting yourself through some sort of punishment.’
Her eyes darkened when he froze. She moved her head and her lips came closer to his finger. Marco couldn’t speak, needing every single ounce of self-control to keep his shock from showing. He deserved to put himself through punishment for what he’d done. He’d lost the most precious thing in life—a child—because he’d taken his eye off the ball.
‘Maybe you should learn to bend a little...take what is being offered? What is being offered freely.’
An arrow of pain shot through the haze of desire engulfing him. He gave a single shake of his head and inhaled. ‘I stopped believing in free a long time ago, Sasha. There are always consequences. The piper always expects payment.’
‘I don’t believe that. Laughter is free. Love is free. It’s hate that eats you up inside. Bitterness that twists feelings if you let them. And, no, I’m not waxing philosophical. I’ve experienced it.’
‘Really?’ he mocked, dropping his hand. When his senses screeched in protest he merely willed the feeling away. ‘To whom did you make your promise?’ he asked, the need to know as forceful as the need raging through his veins.
Wariness darkened her eyes. Then her shoulders rolled. ‘My father.’
‘What did you promise him?’
‘That I’d win the Drivers’ Championship for him.’
‘Out of some misguided sense of duty, no doubt?’ he derided.
Anger blazed through her eyes. ‘Not duty. Love. And it’s about as misguided as your bullheaded need to coddle Rafael.’
‘There’s a difference between responsibility and your illusionary love,’ he rebutted, irate at this turn of the conversation.
‘I suffer no illusions. My father loved me as unconditionally as I loved him.’
Tensing, he sat back in the seat. ‘Then you were lucky. Not everyone is imbued with unconditional love for his or her child. Some even use their unborn children as bartering tools.’
Her breath caught. ‘Did you...? Are you saying that from experience?’
A cold drench of reality washed over him at how close he’d come to revealing everything.
Surging to his feet, he stared into her face. ‘I was merely making a point. As much as I want you, Sasha, I’ll never take you. The consequences would be too great.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CONSEQUENCES WOULD be too great.
Sasha tried to block out the words as she adjusted the traction control on her steering wheel. The tremor in her fingers increased and she clenched her fists tighter around the wheel.
Shears, Marina Bay, Raffles Boulevard. Watch out for Turn Ten speed bump—Padang, pit lane exit, look after the tyres...
Her heart hammered, excitement and adrenaline shooting through her as she went through the rigorous ritual of visualising every corner of the race. At her third attempt, fear rose to mingle with her emotions.
She’d secured pole position for the first time in her racing career, but despite the team’s euphoria afterwards she’d sensed a subtle waning of their excitement as speculation as to whether she could do the job trickled in. Sasha had seen it in their faces, heard it in Luke’s voice this morning when he’d grilled her over race strategy for the millionth time. Even Tom had weighed in.
Consequences...responsibility...last chance...
Sweat trickled down her neck and she hastily sipped at her water tube. She couldn’t afford dehydration. Couldn’t afford to lose focus. In fact she couldn’t afford to do anything less than win.
