His Ultimate Prize

His gaze narrowed on her face, then conducted a lazy sweep over her body. Suddenly the clothes that had served as perfect camouflage against the intrusive press felt inadequate, exposing. Beneath the thin material of her T-shirt her heart hammered, her skin tingling with an alien awareness that made her muscles tense.

As a female driver in a predominantly male sport, she was used to being the cynosure of male eyes. There were those who searched for signs of failure as a driver, ready to use any shortcomings against her. Then there were the predators who searched for weaknesses simply because she was a woman, and therefore deemed incapable. The most vicious lot were those who bided their time, ready to rip her apart because she was Jack Fleming’s daughter. Those were the ones she feared the most. And the ones she’d sworn to prove wrong.

Marco de Cervantes’s gaze held an intensity that combined all of those qualities multiplied by a thousand. And then there was something else.

Something that made her breath grow shallow in her lungs. Made her palms clammy and the hairs bristle on her nape.

Recalling the sheer intensity of the look he’d directed into the camera earlier, she felt her heartbeat accelerate.

‘Get in the car,’ he bit out, his tone bone-chilling.

Sasha glanced into the dark, luxurious interior of the limo and hesitated. The feelings this man engendered in her weren’t those of fear. Rather, she sensed an emotional risk—as if, given half a chance, he would burrow under her skin, discover her worst fears and use them against her. She couldn’t let that happen.

‘If you want me to hear you out you’ll get in the car. Now,’ he said, his tone uncompromising.

She hesitated. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t isn’t a word I enjoy hearing,’ he growled, his patience clearly ebbing fast.

‘My bike.’ He quirked one brow at her. ‘I’d rather not leave it here.’

His glance towards the battered green and white scooter leaning precariously against the car park wall held disbelief. ‘You came here on that?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘You’re wearing the most revolting pair of jeans I’ve ever seen and a scarf that’s seen better days. Add that to the oversized sunglasses and I don’t need to be a genius to guess you were trying some misguided attempt to escape the paparazzi. I am right?’ At her nod, he continued. ‘And yet you travelled on the slowest mode of motorised transport known to man.’

She raised her chin. ‘But there’s the beauty—don’t you see? I managed to ride straight past the paparazzi without one single camera lens focusing on me. You, on the other hand... Tell me—how did they react when you rocked up in your huge, tinted-windowed monstrosity of a car?’

His jaw tightened and he glared at her.

‘Exactly. I’m not leaving my bike.’

‘Security here is—’

‘Inadequate, according to you. After all, I managed to get through, didn’t I?’ She threw his words back at him.

One hand gripped the door of the car. ‘Get in the car or don’t. I refuse to argue with you over a pile of junk.’

‘It’s my junk and I won’t leave it.’

With a stifled curse, Marco held out his hands. ‘Keys?’

‘Why?’

‘Romano will return the scooter to your hotel.’

Sasha’s eyes widened. Romano weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. The thought of what he’d put her poor scooter through made her wince.

‘And before you comment on Romano’s size I’d urge you to stop and think about his feelings,’ Marco added mockingly.

Touché, she conceded silently.

Digging into her satchel, she reluctantly handed over her keys. Marco lobbed them to his bodyguard, then raised an imperious eyebrow at her.

With a resigned sigh, Sasha slid past his imposing body and entered the limo.

The door shut on them, enclosing them in a silent cocoon that threatened to send her already taut nerves into a frenzied tailspin.

As the car glided out of the car park it occurred to her that she had no idea where Marco was taking her. She opened her mouth to ask, then immediately shut it when she saw his gaze fixed on the small box.

Despite his bleak expression, his profile was stunningly arresting. The sculpted contours of his face held enough shadow and intrigue to capture the attention of any red-blooded female with a pulse—a fact attested to by the regular parade of stunning women he was photographed with.

His strong jaw bore the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, and an even stronger, taut neck slanted onto impossibly broad shoulders. Under the discreetly expensive cotton shirt those shoulders moved restlessly. She followed the movement, her gaze sliding down over his chest, past the flat stomach that showed no hint of flab. Her eyes rested in his lap. The bulge beneath his zipper made heat swirl in her belly.