Pushing back her pain, she forced her lips apart. ‘That’s probably because it is. Besides, you’re one to talk. I don’t see you smiling.’
One tuxedo-clad shoulder lifted in a shrug. ‘I’m not the star on show.’ He peered closer at her. ‘What’s wrong with you? You didn’t say a word on the way over here and now you look pale.’
‘That’s because I don’t like being on show. I hate dressing up, and make-up makes my face feel weird.’
‘You look fine.’ His gaze swept over her. ‘More than fine. The stylist chose well.’
‘She didn’t choose this dress. I chose it myself. If I’d gone with her choice I’d be half naked with a slit up to my cro—’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why did you send me a stylist anyway?’
When she’d opened the door to Marco’s Kensington penthouse apartment to find a stylist with a rack of designer gear in tow, Sasha had been seriously miffed.
‘I didn’t want to risk you turning up here in baggy jeans and a hippy top.’
‘I’d never have—!’ She caught the gleam of amusement in his eyes and relaxed.
Another photographer screamed her name and she tensed.
‘Relax. You chose well.’ His gaze slid over her once more. ‘You look beautiful.’
Stunned, she mumbled, ‘Thank you.’
She smoothed a nervous hand over her dress, thankful her new contract had come with a lucrative remuneration package that meant she’d been able to afford the black silk and lace floor-length Zang Toi gown she wore.
The silver studs in the off-the-shoulder form-fitting design flashed as the cameras went off. But even the stylish dress, with its reams of material that trailed on the red carpet, couldn’t stem the butterflies ripping her stomach to shreds as the media screamed out for even more poses. Nor could it eliminate the wrenching reason why, on a night like this, she couldn’t summon a smile.
‘Stop fidgeting,’ he commanded.
‘That’s easy for you to say. Anyway, why are you here? I don’t need a keeper.’ Nor did she need the stupid melting sensation in her stomach every time his hand tightened around her arm.
‘I beg to differ. This event is hosting many sport personalities, including other drivers from the circuit. Your track record—pardon the pun—doesn’t stand you in good stead. The one thing you do need is a keeper.’
‘And you’re it? Don’t you have better things to do?’
When he’d pointed out after they’d landed this morning that it was more time-efficient for her to stay with him in London, than to come to the ceremony from her cottage in Kent, she hadn’t bargained on the fact that he’d appoint himself her personal escort for the evening.
His rugged good looks lit up in sharp relief, courtesy of another photographer’s flash, but he hardly noticed how avidly the media craved his attention. Nor cared.
‘The team has suffered with Rafael’s absence. It’ll be good for the sponsors to see me here.’
The warmth she’d experienced moments ago disappeared. She felt his sharp gaze as she eased her arm from his grasp.
‘How long do we have to stay out here?’ The limelight was definitely a place she wasn’t comfortable in. However irrational, she always feared her deepest secret would be exposed.
‘Until a problem with the seating is sorted out.’
She swivelled towards him. ‘What problem with the seating?’
Relief poured through her as he steered her away from the cameras and down the red carpet into the huge marble-floored foyer of the five-star hotel.
The crowd seemed to pause, both men and women alike staring avidly as they entered.
Oblivious to the reaction, Marco snagged two glasses of champagne and
handed one to her. ‘Some wires got crossed along the line.’
Sasha should have been used to it by now, but a hard lump formed in her throat nonetheless. ‘You mean I was downgraded to nobody-class because my surname is Fleming and not de Cervantes?’
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why should your name matter?’