His Ultimate Prize. Maya Blake

by the blush that spread over Raven’s face. He leaned in close. ‘Do you think the angels are about to strike me down? Will you save me if they do?’ he asked sotto voce.

      ‘No, Rafael. I think, based on your debauched past and irreverent present, all the saints will agree by now you’re beyond redemption. No one can save you.’

      Despite his bitter self-condemnation moments ago, hearing the words repeated so starkly caused Rafael’s chest to tighten. All traces of mirth were stripped from his soul as he recalled similar words, uttered by the same voice, this same woman eight months ago. And then, as now, he felt the black chasm of despair yawn before him, growing ever-wider, sucking at his empty soul until only darkness remained. Because knowingly or unknowingly, she’d struck a very large, very raw nerve.

      ‘Then tell me, Raven, if I’m beyond redemption, what the hell are you doing here?’

      CHAPTER TWO

      I’M NOT HERE to save you, if that’s what you think.

      The words hovered like heat striations in Raven’s brain an hour later as she stood on the large sun-baked terrace of Marco and Sasha’s home. This time the rich surroundings of the architecturally stunning Casa León failed to awe her as they usually did.

      I’m not here to save you...

      She snorted. What a load of bull. That was exactly why she’d begged Marco to let her visit Rafael in hospital once he’d woken from his coma all those months ago. It was why she’d flown to León from London five weeks ago, after months of trying to contact Rafael and being stonily ignored by him; and why she’d begged him to let her treat him when she found out what an appalling job his carers were doing—not because they were incompetent, but because Rafael didn’t seem inclined in any way to want to get better, and they’d been too intimidated to go against his wishes. It was most definitely why she continued to suffer his inappropriate, irreverent taunts.

      She wanted to make things right...wanted to take back every single word she’d said to him eight months ago, right before he’d climbed into the cockpit of his car and crashed it into a solid concrete wall minutes later.

      Because it wasn’t Rafael’s fault that she hadn’t been able to curb her stupid, crazy delusional feelings until it was almost too late. It wasn’t his fault that, despite all signs that he was nothing but a carbon copy of her heartless playboy father, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from lusting after him—

      No, scratch that. Not a carbon copy. Rafael was no one’s copy. He was a breed in his own right. With a smile that could slice a woman’s heart wide open, make a woman swoon with bliss even as she knew her heart was being slowly crushed. He possessed more charm in his little finger than most wannabe playboys, including her father, held in their entire bodies.

      But she’d seen first-hand the devastation that charm could cause. Swarthy Spanish Lothario or a middle-aged English playboy, she knew the effect would be the same.

      Her mother was broken, continued to suffer because of the very lethal thrall Raven’s father held over her.

      And although she knew after five weeks in his company that Rafael’s attitude would never manifest in sexual malice, he was in no way less dangerous to her peace of mind. Truth be told, the more she suffered his blatant sexual taunts, the more certain she was that she wanted to see beneath his outwardly glossy façade.

      With every atom of her being, Raven wished she’d known this on his unfortunate race day. But, tormented by her mother’s suffering, her control when it came to Rafael had slipped badly. Instead of walking away with dignified indifference, she’d lashed out. Unforgivably—

      ‘So deep in thought. Dare I think those thoughts are about me?’ Warm air from warmer lips washed over her right lobe.

      ‘Why would you think that?’ she asked, sucking in a deep, sustaining breath before she faced the man who seemed to have set up residence in her thoughts.

      ‘Because I’ve studied you enough to recognise your frowns. Two lines mean you’re unhappy because I’m not listening to you drone on about how many squats or abdominal crunches you expect me to perform. Three lines mean your thoughts are of a personal nature, mostly likely you’re in turmoil about our last conversation before my accident.’ He held out a glass of champagne, his blue eyes thankfully no longer charged with the frosty fury they’d held at the chapel. ‘You’re wearing a three-line frown now.’

      She took the proffered drink and glanced away, unable quite to meet his gaze. ‘You think I’m that easy to read?’

      ‘The fact that you’re not denying what I say tells me everything I need to know. Your guilt is eating you alive. Admit it,’ he said conversationally, before taking a sip of his drink. ‘And it kills you even more that I can’t remember the accident itself but can remember every single word you said to me only minutes before it happened, doesn’t it?’

      Her insides twisted with regret. ‘I...Rafael...I’m sorry...’

      ‘As I told you in Barcelona, I’m sorry won’t quite cut it. I need a lot more from you than mere words, mi corazon.’

      Her heart flipped and dived into her stomach. ‘And I told you, I won’t debase myself like a cheap paddock bunny just to prove how sorry I am for what I said.’

      ‘Even though you meant every single word?’

      ‘Look, I know I shouldn’t have—’

      ‘You meant them then, and you still believe them now. So we shall continue as we are. I push, you push back; we both drown in sexual tension. We’ll see who breaks first.’

      Her fingers tightened around the cold glass. ‘Is this all really a game to you?’ The man in turmoil she’d glimpsed at the chapel seemed very distant now. But she’d seen him, knew there was something else going on beneath all the sexual gloss.

      ‘Of course it is. How else do you expect me to pass the time?’

      ‘Your racing career may be stalled for the moment but, for a man of your wealth and power, there are a thousand ways you can find fulfilment.’

      A dull look entered his eyes but disappeared a split second later. ‘Fulfilment...how New Age. Next you’ll be recommending I practise Transcendental Meditation to get in touch with my chakra.’

      ‘Meditation isn’t such a bad thing. I could teach you...’

      His mocking laugh stopped her in her tracks. ‘Will we braid each other’s hair too? Maybe share a joint or two while we’re at it?’

      She tried to hide her irritation and cocked her head. ‘You know something? I have no idea what all those girls see in you. You’re cocky, arrogant and dismissive of things you know nothing about.’

      ‘I don’t waste my time learning things that hold no interest for me. Women hold my interest so I make it a point to study them. And I know plenty about women like you.’

      She stiffened. ‘What do you mean, women like me?’

      ‘You take pleasure in hiding behind affront, you take everything so personally and pretend to get all twisted up by the slightest hint of a challenge. It’s obvious you’ve had a...traumatic experience in the past—’

      ‘That’s like a psychic predicting someone’s been hurt in the past. By virtue of sheer coincidence and indisputable reality, half of relationships end badly, so it stands to reason that most people have had traumatic experiences. If you’re thinking of taking up clairvoyance, you’ll need to do better than that.’

      His bared teeth held the predatory smile of one who knew he had his prey cornered. ‘Claro, let’s do it this way. I’ll make a psychic prediction. If I’m wrong, feel free to throw that glass of vintage champagne in my face.’

      ‘I’d never make a scene like that, especially not at your nephew’s christening.’

      The