His Ultimate Prize

His tone was so scathing Sasha was surprised her flesh wasn’t falling from her skin.

‘Rafael told you about our fight?’

‘Yes, he did. I can only conclude that your presence here is another media stunt, not out of concern for my brother?’

‘Of course it isn’t!’

‘Is that why the media presence at the hospital gates has doubled in the last hour?’

Her gaze drifted to the window. The blinds were drawn against the late-afternoon sun, but not closed completely. She’d taken a step to look for herself when steely fingers closed on her wrist. Heat shot up her arm, the reaction so unfamiliar she froze.

‘If you think I’m going to let you use my brother to further your own ends, you’re sorely mistaken.’

Alarmed, she stared up at him. ‘Why would you think I’d do that?’

A mirthless smile bared his teeth, displaying a look so frightening she shivered.

‘That press conference you gave? About how much you cared for him? How your thoughts were with him and his family? About how you’re willing to step into his shoes as soon as possible so you don’t let the team down? What were your exact words? “I’ve earned the chance at a full-time seat. I’ve proven that I have what it takes.”’

Sasha swallowed, unable to look away from the chilling but oddly hypnotic pull of his gaze. ‘I...I shouldn’t have....’ The echo of unease she’d felt before and during the interview returned. ‘I didn’t mean it like that—’

‘How did you mean it, then? How exactly have you, a mere reserve driver, earned your place on the team? Why do you deserve Rafael’s seat and not one of the other dozen top drivers out there?’

‘Because it’s my time! I deserve the chance.’ She wrenched at her captured arm. His hand tightened, sending another bolt of heat through her body.

Straight black brows clamped together. His arresting features were seriously eroding her thought processes. Even livid to the point where she could imagine heat striations coming off his body he oozed enough sex appeal to make her finally understand why his bodyguards were forever turning away paddock groupies from his luxury hospitality suite. Rumour had it that one particularly eager groupie had scaled the mobile suite and slipped into his bedroom via the skylight.

‘Your time? Why?’ he challenged again, stepping closer, invading her body space and her ability to breathe. ‘What’s so special about you, Sasha Fleming?’

‘I didn’t say I was special.’

‘That’s not what I got from the press junket. In fact I deduced something along the lines that the team would be making a huge mistake if you weren’t given Rafael’s seat. Was there even the veiled threat of a lawsuit thrown in there?’

The thought that this might be her only chance to find a decent seat had resonated in the back of her mind even as she’d felt sickened at the thought of how wrong the timing was.

‘Nothing to say?’ came the soft taunt.

She finally managed to wrench her wrist from his grasp and stepped back. ‘Mr de Cervantes, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss this.’

Her glance slid to Rafael, her throat closing in distress at the tubes and the horrid beeping of the machines keeping him alive.

Marco followed her gaze and froze, as if just realising where he was. When his gaze sliced back to hers she glimpsed a well of anguish within the hazel depths and felt something soften inside her. Marco de Cervantes, despite his chilling words and seriously imposing presence, was hurting. The fear of the unknown, of wondering if the precious life of someone you held dear would pull through was one she was agonisingly familiar with.

Any thought of her job flew out of her head as she watched him wrestle with his pain. The urge to comfort, one human being to another, momentarily overcame her instinct for self-preservation.

‘Rafael is strong. He’s a fighter. He’ll pull through,’ she murmured softly.

Slowly he pulled in a breath, and any hint of pain disappeared. His upper lip curled in a mocking sneer. ‘Your concern is touching, Miss Fleming. But cut the crap. There are no cameras here. No microphones to lap up your false platitudes. Unless you’ve got one hidden on your person?’ His eyes slid down her body, narrowing as they searched. ‘Will I go on the internet tomorrow and see footage of my brother in his sick bed all over it?’

‘That’s a tasteless and disgusting thing to say!’ Spinning away, she rushed to the leather sofa in the suite and picked up her satchel. Clearly it was time to make herself scarce.

Careful not to come within touching distance of Marco de Cervantes, she edged towards the door.