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She could argue, defend her personal reputation against the label Marco had decided to pin on her, but Sasha doubted it would make a difference. He, like the rest of the world, believed she was soiled goods because of her past and because she was a Fleming.
What good would protesting do?
The only weapon she had to fight with was her talent behind the steering wheel.
Her father’s time had been cruelly cut short, stamped out by vicious lies that had destroyed him and robbed her of the one person who had truly loved and believed in her.
Sasha was damned if she would let history repeat itself. Damned if she would give up her only chance to prove everyone wrong.
Gritting her teeth, she ignored his hand and stepped out of the car.
* * *
Marco strode across the marble foyer, the box clutched firmly in his grip. Its contents were a vivid reminder, stamped onto his brain.
Behind him he heard the hurried click of booted heels as Sasha Fleming struggled to keep up with him.
He didn’t slow down. In fact he sped up. He wanted this meeting over with so he could return to the hospital.
For a single moment Marco thanked God his mother wasn’t alive. She couldn’t have borne to see her darling son, the miracle child she’d thought she’d never have, lying battered and bruised in a coma.
It was bad enough that she’d had to live through the pain and suffering Marco had brought her ten years ago. Bad enough that those horrendous three weeks before and after his own crash had caused a rift he’d never quite managed to heal, despite his mother’s reassurances that all was well.
Marco knew all hadn’t been well because he had never been the same since that time.
Deep shame and regret raked through him at how utterly he’d let his mother down. At how utterly he’d lost his grip on reality back then. Foolishly and selfishly he’d thought himself in love. The practised smile of a skilful manipulator had blinded him into throwing all caution to the wind and he’d damaged his family in the process.
His mother was gone, her death yet another heavy weight on his conscience, but Rafael was alive—and Marco intended to make sure lightning didn’t strike twice. For that to happen he had to keep it together. He would keep it together.
‘Um, the sign for the bar points the other way.’
Sasha Fleming’s husky voice broke into his unwelcome thoughts.
He stopped so suddenly she bumped into him. Marco frowned at the momentary sensation of her breasts against his back and the unsuspecting heat that surged into his groin. His whole body tightened in furious rejection and he rounded on her.
‘I don’t conduct my business in bars. And I seriously doubt you want our conversation to be overheard by anyone else.’
Turning on his heel, he stalked to the lift. His personal porter pushed the button and waited for Marco to enter the express lift that serviced the presidential suite.
Sasha shot him a wary look and he bit back the urge to let a feral smile loose. Ever since Rafael’s crash he’d been pushing back the blackness, fighting memories that had no place here within this chaos.
Really, Sasha Fleming had chosen the worst possible time to make herself his enemy. His hands tightened around the box and his gaze rested on her.
Run, he silently warned her. While you have the chance.
Her eyes searched every corner of the mirrored lift as if danger lurked within the gold-filigree-trimmed interior. Finally she rolled her shoulders. The subtle movement was almost the equivalent of cracking one’s knuckles before a fight, and it intrigued him far more than he wanted to admit.
‘We’re going to your suite? Okay...’
She stepped into the lift. Behind her, Marco saw the porter’s gaze drop to linger on her backside. Irritation rose to mingle with the already toxic cauldron of emotions swirling through him. With an impatient finger he stabbed at the button.
‘I see the thought of it doesn’t disturb you too much.’ He didn’t bother to conceal the slur in his comment. The urge to attack, to wound, ran rampage within him.
Silently he conceded she was right. As long as Rafael was fighting for his life he couldn’t think straight. The impulse to make someone pay seethed just beneath the surface of his calm.
And Sasha Fleming had placed herself front and centre in his sights.
He expected her to flinch. To show that his words had hit a mark.
He wasn’t prepared for her careless shrug. ‘You’re right. I don’t really want our conversation to feed tomorrow’s headlines. I’m pretty sure by now most of the media know you’re staying here.’
‘So you’re not afraid to enter a strange man’s suite?’
‘Are you strange? I thought you were merely the engineering genius who designed the Espíritu DSII and the Cervantes Conquistador.’
