The Price Of Desire. Sandra Marton

she felt surly. Her suite was the last word in luxury, complete with four-poster bed, half a dozen fluffy pillows and a deep-sunken marble bath to die for. Just across from where she sat, past the giant-sized terracotta potted plants and a barbecue area, an Olympic-sized swimming pool sparkled azure in the dappling morning light. She’d already sampled its soothing comfort, along with the sports gym equipped with everything she needed to keep her exercise regime on track. In reality, she wanted for nothing.

      And yet …

      ‘It’s fine. I have everything I need. Thank you,’ she tagged on waspishly. Then, wisely moving on before she ventured into full-blown snark, she asked, ‘How is Rafael?’

      Marco’s gaze cooled.

      Sasha sighed. ‘I agreed to stay away from him. I didn’t agree to stop caring about him.’

      ‘The move from Budapest went fine. He’s now in the care of the best Spanish doctors in Barcelona.’

      ‘Since you’ll probably bite my head off if I ask you to send him my best, I’ll move on. How far away is the race track?’

      ‘Three miles south.’ Lifting his cup, he drained it.

      ‘Exactly how big is this place?’

      When Marco had announced he was bringing a skeleton team to Spain to help her train for her debut at the end of August, she’d mistakenly thought she would be spending most of her time in a race simulator. The half an hour it’d taken to travel from Marco’s landing strip to his villa had given her an inkling of how immense his estate was.

      His gaze pinned on her, he picked up an orange and skilfully peeled it. ‘All around? About twenty-five square miles.’

      ‘And you and Rafael own all of it?’

      ‘Sí.’ He popped a segment into his mouth.

      Sasha carefully set her cup down, her senses tingling with warning. That soft sí had held a slight edge to it that made her wary. His next words confirmed her wariness.

      ‘Just think, if only you’d said yes all this would’ve been yours.’

      She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Affecting a light tone, she toyed with the delicate handle of her expensive bone china cup. ‘Gee, I don’t know. The race track would’ve been handy, but what the hell would I do with the rest of the … What else is there, anyway?’

      His gaze was deceptively lazy—deceptive because she could feel the charged animosity rising from him.

      ‘There’s a fully functioning vineyard and winery. And the stables house some of the best Andalucian thoroughbreds in Spain. There’s also an exclusive by-invitation-only resort and spa on the other side of the estate.’

      ‘Well, there you have it, then. My palate is atrociously common—not to mention that if I drink more than one glass of wine I get a raging headache. As for thoroughbreds—I couldn’t tell you which end of the horse to climb if you put me next to one. So, really, you’re way better off without me in your family. The spa sounds nice, though. A girl could always do with a foot rub after a hard day’s work—although I have a feeling the amount of grease I tend to get under my nails would frighten your resort staff.’

      A tiny tic appeared at his temple. ‘Are you always this facetious, or do you practice?’

      ‘Normally I keep it well hidden. I only show off when asked really, really nicely,’ she flung back. Then she stood. ‘From the unfortunate downturn of this conversation, I take it the offer of a tour is now off the table?’ She tilted her chin, determined not to reveal how deep his barbs had stung.

      ‘As much as I’m tempted to reward your petulance with time on the naughty step, that will only prove counterproductive.’ Wiping his hands on a napkin, he rose to tower over her. ‘You’re here to train. Familiarising yourself with the race track is part of that training. I’ll leave the naughty step for another time.’

      Wisely deciding to leave the mention of the naughty step alone, Sasha relaxed her grip on the back of the chair. ‘Thank you.’

      Sasha followed him into the villa, staunchly maintaining her silence. But not talking didn’t equate to not looking, and, damn it, she couldn’t help but be intensely aware of the man beside her. His smell assailed her nostrils—that sharp tang of citrus coupled with the subtle undertones of musk that shifted as it flowed over his warmth.

      Against the strong musculature of his torso his white polo shirt lovingly followed the superb lines of a deep chest and powerful shoulders. All that magnificence tapered down to a trim waist that knew not an ounce of fat.

      Judging by his top-notch physicality, she wasn’t surprised Marco had been the perfect championship-winning driver ten years ago.

      ‘Why did you give up racing? You resigned so abruptly, and yet it’s obvious you recovered fully after your crash.’

      She saw his shoulders tense before he rounded on her. The icy, forbidding look in his eyes made her bite her lip.

      Nice one, Sasha.

      ‘That is not a subject up for discussion, Miss Fleming. And before you take it into your head to go prying I caution you against it. Understood?’

      He barely waited for her nod before he wrenched open the front door.

      Outside, two golf buggies sat side by side at the bottom of the steps. She headed towards the nearest one.

      ‘Where are you going?’ he bit out.

      She stopped. ‘Oh, I thought we were going by road.’

      He nodded to the helipad, where a black and red chopper sat gleaming in the morning sun. ‘We’re touring by helicopter.’

      It was a spectacularly beautiful machine—the latest in a long line of beautiful aircraft.

      ‘Any chance you’ll let me fly it?’

      He flashed a mirthless grin at her. ‘I don’t see any pigs flying, do you?’

      ‘Wow, this is incredible! How long have you had this race track?’ Marco glanced up from the helicopter controls, then immediately wished he hadn’t. It was bad enough hearing her excitement piped directly into his headphones. The visual effects were even more disturbing.

      When he’d offered her an aerial tour of the race track he hadn’t taken into account how she was dressed. In most respects, her white shorts could be described as sensible—almost boyish. He’d been out with women who wore far less on a regular basis. Her light green shirt was also plain to the point of being utilitarian.

      All the same, Marco found the combination of her excitement and her proximity … aggravating. Even more aggravating were the flashbacks he kept having of her leaning back on the bed in her hotel room, her T-shirt riding up to reveal skin so tempting it had knocked his breath clean out of his lungs …

      Her naked ambition and her sheer drive to succeed were living things that charged the air around her. Marco knew only too well the high cost of blind ambition, and yet knowing the depths of Sasha Fleming’s ambition and what she would do to achieve her goals didn’t stop him from imagining how it would have felt to lift her T-shirt higher … just a fraction …

      He was also more than a little puzzled that she’d made no attempt to gain his attention since that episode in her room. Women flaunted themselves at him at every opportunity—used every excuse in the book to garner his interest. Some even resorted to … unconventional means. Most of the time he was happy to direct them Rafael’s way. He’d long outgrown the paddock bunny phase; had outgrown it even before Angelique, the most calculating of them all, had stepped into his orbit and turned his world upside down.

      Marco sobered, seething at himself for the memories he suddenly couldn’t seem to dispel so easily. Focusing on the controls, he banked the chopper and followed the straights and curves of the race track hundreds of metres below.

      ‘I