The Price Of Desire: The Price of Success / The Cost of Her Innocence / Not For Sale. JACQUELINE BAIRD
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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.
His rugged good looks lit up in sharp relief, courtesy of another photographer’s flash, but he hardly noticed how avidly the media craved his attention. Nor cared.
‘The team has suffered with Rafael’s absence. It’ll be good for the sponsors to see me here.’
The warmth she’d experienced moments ago disappeared. She felt his sharp gaze as she eased her arm from his grasp.
‘How long do we have to stay out here?’ The limelight was definitely a place she wasn’t comfortable in. However irrational, she always feared her deepest secret would be exposed.
‘Until a problem with the seating is sorted out.’
She swivelled towards him. ‘What problem with the seating?’
Relief poured through her as he steered her away from the cameras and down the red carpet into the huge marble-floored foyer of the five-star hotel.
The crowd seemed to pause, both men and women alike staring avidly as they entered.
Oblivious to the reaction, Marco snagged two glasses of champagne and handed one to her. ‘Some wires got crossed along the line.’
Sasha should have been used to it by now, but a hard lump formed in her throat nonetheless. ‘You mean I was downgraded to nobody-class because my surname is Fleming and not de Cervantes?’
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why should your name matter?’
‘Come on. I may have missed school the day rocket science was taught, but I know how this works.’ Even when the words weren’t said, Sasha knew she was being judged by her father’s dishonour.
‘Your surname has nothing to do with it,’ Marco answered, nodding greetings to several people who tried to catch his eye. ‘When the awards committee learned I would be attending, they naturally assumed that I would be bringing a plus one.’
A sensation she intensely disliked wormed its way into her heart. ‘Oh, so I was bumped to make room for your date. Not because …?’
He raised a brow. ‘Because?’
Shaking her head, Sasha took a hasty sip of her bubbly. ‘So why didn’t you? Bring a date, I mean?’ When his brow rose in mocking query, she hurried on. ‘I know it’s certainly not for the lack of willing companions. I mean, a man like you …’ She stumbled to a halt.
‘A man like me? You mean The Ass?’ he asked mockingly.
Heat climbed into her cheeks but she refused to be cowed. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. The other you—the impossibly rich, successful one, who’s a bit decent to look at….’ Cursing her runaway tongue, she clamped her mouth shut.
‘Gracias … I think.’
‘You know what I mean. Women scale skylights, risk life and limb to be with you, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Skylight-scaling is a bit too OTT for me. I prefer my women to use the front door. With my invitation.’ His gaze connected with hers.
Heat blazed through her, lighting fires that had no business being lit. His broad shoulders loomed before her as he bent his head. As if to … As if to … Her gaze dropped to his lips. She swallowed.
Chilled champagne went down the wrong way.
She coughed, cleared her throat and tried desperately to find something to say to dispel the suddenly charged atmosphere. His eyelids descended, but not before she caught a flash of anguish. Stunned, she stared at him, but when he looked back up his expression was clear.
‘To answer your question, this is a special event to honour children. It’s not an event to bring a date who’ll spend all evening checking out other women’s jewellery or celebrity-spotting.’
‘How incredibly shallow! Oh, I don’t mean you date shallow women—I mean … Hell, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’
The smile she’d glimpsed once before threatened to break the surface of his rigid demeanour. ‘Your diplomatic hat is slipping, Sasha. I think we should go in before you insult me some more and completely shatter my ego.’
‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Seriously, though, you should smile more. You look almost human when you do.’
The return of his low, deep laugh sang deliciously along her skin, then wormed its way into her heart. When his hand arrived in the small of her back to steer her into the ballroom a whole heap of pleasure stole through her, almost convincing her the butterflies had been vanquished.
The feeling was pathetically short-lived. The pictures of children hanging from the ceiling of the chandeliered ballroom punched a hole through the euphoric warmth she’d dared to bask in. Her breath caught as pain ripped through her. If her baby had lived she would have been four by now.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Marco demanded in a low undertone.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
Unwilling to risk his incisive gaze, she hurried to their table and greeted an ex-footballer who’d recently been knighted for his work with children.
Breathing through her pain, it took a moment for her to realise she was the subject of daggered looks and whispered sniggers from the other two occupants of the table.
Feeling her insides congeal with familiar anger, she summoned a smile and pasted it on her face as the ex-footballer’s trophy wife leaned forward, exposing enough cleavage to sink a battleship.
‘Hi, I’m Lisa. This is my sister, Sophia,’ she said.
Marco nodded in greeting and introduced Sasha.
Sophia flashed Marco a man-gobbling smile, barely sparing Sasha a glance.
A different form of sickness assailed Sasha as she watched the women