His Ultimate Prize

The only thing she cared about...

Grabbing the steering wheel, he forced himself to calm down.

‘Marco?’

When had he given her permission to use his first name? Come to think of it, when had he started thinking of her as Sasha instead of Miss Fleming?

Dios, he was losing it.

With a wrench of his wrist the engine sprang to life, its throaty roar surprisingly soothing. Designing the Espíritu race cars had been an engineering challenge he’d relished. The Cervantes Conquistador had been a pure labour of love.

Momentarily he lost himself in the sounds of the engine, his mind picking up minute clicks and torsion controls. If he closed his eyes he would be able to imagine the aerodynamic flow of air over the chassis, visualise where each spark plug, each piston, nut and bolt was located.

But he didn’t close his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. His grip tightened around the wheel.

Her gaze stayed on him as he accelerated the green and black sports car out of the parking lot. The screech of tyres drew startled glances from the mechanics heading for the hangar. Marco didn’t give a damn.

After a few minutes, when he felt sufficiently calm, he slowed down. ‘It’s not you.’

She didn’t answer.

Shrugging, he indicated the rich forest surrounding them. ‘It’s this place.’

‘This place? The race track or Casa de León?’

His jaw clenched as he tried in vain to stem the memories flooding him. ‘This is where my mother died eight years ago.’

Her gasp echoed in the car. ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should’ve said something.’

He slowed down long enough to give her a hard look. ‘It isn’t common knowledge outside my family. I’d prefer it to remain that way.’ He wasn’t even sure why he’d told her. Whatever was causing him to act so out of character he needed to cauterise it.

She gave a swift nod. ‘Of course. You can trust me.’ Her colour rose slightly at her last words.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He only had himself to blame if she decided to spill her guts at the first opportunity. Flooring the accelerator, he sent the car surging forward as his other reason for wanting to escape the memories of this place rose.

Sasha remained silent until he pulled up in front of the villa. Then, lifting a hand, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked softly.

Releasing his clammy grip on the steering wheel, Marco flicked a glance at the villa door. He knew he’d find no respite within. If anything, the memories were more vivid inside. He didn’t need to close his eyes to see his mother laughing at Rafael’s shameless cajoling, her soft hazel eyes sparkling as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel moments before rushing out of the villa.

‘For his twenty-first birthday my father bought Rafael a Lamborghini. We celebrated at a nightclub in Barcelona. Afterwards I flew down here in the helicopter with my parents. Rafael chose to drive from Barcelona—five hours straight. He arrived just after breakfast, completely wired from partying. I tried to convince him to get some sleep, but he wanted to take my parents for a spin in the car.’

The familiar icy grip of pain tightened around his chest.

‘Rafael was my mother’s golden boy. He could do no wrong. So of course she agreed.’ Marco felt some of the pain seep out and tried to contain it. ‘My father insisted later it was the sun that got in Rafael’s eyes as he turned the curve, but one eyewitness confirmed he took the corner too fast. I heard the crash from the garage.’ Every excruciating second had felt like a lifetime as he sped towards the scene. ‘By the time the air ambulance came my mother was gone.’

‘Oh, Marco, no!’

Sasha’s voice was a soft, soothing sound. The ache inside abated, but it didn’t disappear. It never would. He’d lost his mother before he’d ever had the chance to make up for what he’d put her through.

‘I should’ve stopped him—should’ve insisted he get some sleep before taking the car out again.’

‘You couldn’t have known.’

He shook his head. ‘But I should have. Except when it comes to Rafael everyone seems to develop a blind spot. Including me.’

Vaguely, Marco wondered why he was spilling his guts. To Sasha Fleming, of all people. With a forceful wrench on the door, he stepped out of the car.

She scrambled out too. ‘And your father? What happened to him?’

His fist tightened around the computerised car key. ‘The accident severed his spine. He lost the use of his body from the neck down. He’s confined to a wheelchair and will remain like that for the rest of his life.’