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‘Trust me, I’m not complaining. It’s a great idea. I’m just surprised other teams haven’t copied the idea. Or sold their firstborn sons to use your track.’
‘Offers have been made in the past.’
‘And?’
He shrugged. ‘I occasionally allow them to use the track I designed. But for the whole package to come together they also need the car I designed.’
A small laugh burst from her lips. The sound was so unexpectedly pleasing he momentarily lost his train of thought, and missed her reply.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that’s a clever strategy—considering you own the team you design for, and the only other way anyone can get their hands on a Marco de Cervantes design is by shelling out...how much does the Cervantes Conquistador cost? Two million?’
‘Three.’
She whistled—another unexpected sound that charged through his bloodstream, making him even more on edge than he’d been a handful of seconds ago.
She leaned forward into his eyeline. He’d been wrong about the shirt being functional. Her pert breasts pressed against the cotton material, her hands on her thighs as she peered down.
Marco swallowed, the hot stirrings in his abdomen increasing to uncomfortable proportions. Ruthlessly he pushed them away.
Sasha Fleming was bad news, he reminded himself.
Rafael had got involved with her to his severe detriment. Marco had no intention of following down the same road. His only interest in her was to make sure she delivered the Constructors’ Championship. Now he knew what she really wanted—the Drivers’ Championship—he had her completely at his mercy.
Control re-established, he brought the helicopter in to land, and yanked off his headphones. Sasha jumped down without his help and Marco caught the puzzled look she flashed him. Ignoring it, he strode towards Luke Green. His chief engineer had travelled ahead to supervise the initial training arrangements.
Sasha drew closer and her scent reached his nostrils. Marco’s insides clenched in rejection even as he breathed her in. His awareness of her was becoming intolerable. Even her voice as she greeted Luke bit into his psyche.
‘Is everything in order?’ he asked.
Luke nodded. ‘We’re just about to offload the engine. The mechanics will check it over and make sure it hasn’t been damaged during the flight.’
‘It takes three hours max to assemble the car, so it should be ready for me to test this afternoon, shouldn’t it?’ Sasha asked, her attention so intent on the tarpaulin-covered engine Marco almost enquired if she yearned to caress it.
‘No. You’ll begin training tomorrow morning,’ he all but growled.
Her head snapped towards him, her expression crestfallen. ‘Oh, but if the car’s here...’
‘The mechanics have been working on getting things ready since dawn. This engine hasn’t been used since last December. It’ll have to go through rigorous testing before it’s race-ready. That’ll take most of the day—at least until sundown.’
He turned back to Luke. ‘I want to see hourly engine read-outs and a final telemetry report when you’re done testing.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’
Grabbing Sasha’s arm, he steered her away from the garage. Several eyes followed them, but he didn’t care. He was nothing like his brother. He had no intention of ever making a fool of himself over a woman again.
Opening the passenger door to his Conquistador, he thrust her into the bucket seat. Rounding the hood, he slid behind the wheel.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re angry with me?’ she directed at him.
Marco slammed his door. ‘It’s not a feeling.’
The breath she blew up disturbed the thick swathe of hair slanting over her forehead. ‘What did I do?’ she demanded.
He faced her and found her stunning eyes snapping fire at him. The blue of her gaze was so intense, so vivid, he wanted to keep staring at her for ever. The uncomfortable erotic heat he’d felt in her Budapest hotel room, when she’d strutted into view wearing that damned T-shirt that boldly announced ‘Bite Me’, rose again.
For days he’d been fighting that stupid recurring memory that strayed into his thoughts at the most inconvenient times.
Even here in León, where much more disturbing memories impinged everywhere he looked, he couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of those long, coltish legs and the thought of how they would feel around his waist.
Nor could he ignore the evidence of Sasha’s hard work and dedication to her career. Every night since her arrival in Spain he’d found her poring over telemetry reports or watching footage of past races, fully immersed in pursuing the only thing she cared about.
