Marco didn’t respond to her toast because part of him regretted the fact that friendship between them would never be possible.
CHAPTER SIX
‘THIS WAY, SASHA!’
‘Over here!’
‘Smile!’
The Children of Bravery awards took place every August at one of the plushest hotels in Mayfair. Last year Sasha had arrived in a cab with Tom, who had then gone on to ignore her for the rest of the night.
Tonight flashbulbs went off in her face the moment Marco helped her out of the back of his stunning silver Rolls-Royce onto the red carpet.
Blinking several times to help her eyes adjust, she found Tom had materialised beside her. Before he could speak, Marco stepped in front of him.
‘Miss Fleming won’t be needing you tonight. Enjoy your evening.’
The dismissal was softly spoken, wrapped in steel. With a hasty nod, a slightly pale Tom dissolved back into the crowd.
‘That wasn’t very nice,’ she murmured, although secretly she was pleased. Her nerves, already wound tight at the thought of the evening ahead, didn’t need further negative stimulus in the form of Tom. ‘But thank you.’
‘De nada,’ he murmured in that smooth deep voice of his, and her nerves stretched a little tighter.
When he took her arm the feeling intensified, then morphed into a different kind of warmth as another sensation altogether enveloped her—one of feeling protected, cherished...
She applied mental brakes as her brain threatened to go into meltdown. Forcing herself away from thoughts she had no business thinking, she drew in a shaky breath and tried to project a calm, poised demeanour.
‘For once I agree with the paparazzi. Smile. Your face looks frozen,’ Marco drawled, completely at ease with being the subject of intense scrutiny.
He seemed perfectly okay with hundreds of adoring female fans screaming his name from behind the barriers, while she could only think about the ceremony ahead and the memories it would resurrect.
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.