Excitement tinged her voice and Marco couldn’t help glancing over at her. Her eyes were alight with a smile that seemed to glow from within. His hands tightened around the controls.
‘The track was built before simulators became truly effective. One concrete track would’ve served only to make a driver expert at a particular track, so I designed an interchangeable track. The other advantage is experience gained in driving on tarmac, or as close to tarmac—as you can get. Wet or dry conditions can make or break a race. This way the driver gets to practise on both with the right tyres. Electronic simulators and wind tunnels have their places, but so does this track.’
The helicopter crested another small hill and cold sweat broke out over his skin. Several feet to the side of the track a mound of whitewashed stones had been piled high in a makeshift monument. Marco’s hand tightened on the lever and deftly swerved the aircraft away from the landmark he had no wish to see up close.
‘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 readouts 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.’