The Price Of Desire. Sandra Marton
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of anger rose inside her. ‘I don’t need to be heartless to prove myself, Tom.’
‘Oh, but you do. Do you think any of the other drivers would hesitate at the chance that’s been presented?’
‘What chance? We don’t even know how Rafael is doing yet!’
‘Well, you can sit on your hands until the moment’s snatched from you. The handful of female X1 Premier Racing drivers who’ve gone before you barely made an impact. You can choose to become a meaningless statistic, or you can put yourself in the driver’s seat—literally—and lay the paddock rumours to rest.’
She didn’t need to ask what he meant. A wave of pain rolled through her. Pushing it back, she straightened her shoulders. ‘I don’t care about rumours. I’m a good driver—’
‘You’re also Jack Fleming’s daughter and Derek Mahoney’s ex. If you want to be taken seriously you need to step out of their shadows. Do the interview. Stake your claim.’
As his fingers resumed their busy course over his iPad, unease rose inside Sasha. As much as she disliked Tom’s acerbic attitude, a part of her knew he was right. The move from reserve to full-time driver for Team Espiritu was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity she couldn’t afford to squander—not if she wanted to achieve her goals.
‘I have a reporter ready to meet—’
‘No.’ Her gaze flicked to the screen and her resolve strengthened. ‘I won’t give an interview until I hear how Rafael is.’
Two ambulances and three fire engines now surrounded the mangled car. Sparks flew as the fire crew cut away the chassis.
Marco de Cervantes stood scant feet away, ignoring everyone, his impressive physique firmly planted, hands balled into fists, his unwavering gaze fixed on his brother’s still form. Sasha’s heart squeezed tighter.
Please be alive, Rafael. Don’t you dare die on me …
Tom’s stern look mellowed slightly as he followed her gaze. ‘I’ll prepare something while we wait. Find a quiet place. Get yourself together.’ He glanced around, made sure he wasn’t overheard and leaned in closer. ‘This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, Sasha. Don’t blow it.’
Marco de Cervantes stepped into the private hospital room in Budapest, sick dread churning through his stomach. He clenched his fists to stop the shaking in his hands and forced himself to walk to his brother’s bedside. With each step the accident replayed in his mind’s eye, a vivid, gruesome nightmare that wouldn’t stop. There’d been so much blood at the crash site … so much blood …
His chest tightened as he saw the white sheet pulled over his brother’s chest.
Absently, he made a note to have the staff replace the sheets with another colour—green, perhaps, Rafael’s favourite colour. White hospital sheets looked … smelled … too much like death.
Rafael wasn’t dead. And if Marco had anything to do with it this would be his last senseless brush with death. Enough was enough.
He drew level with the bed and stared down into his brother’s pale, still face. At the tube inserted into his mouth to help him breathe.
Enough was enough.
Marco’s throat closed up. He’d chosen to give Rafael time to come to his senses instead of forcing him to listen to reason. And by doing so he’d allowed his brother to take the wheel behind the world’s most powerful car while still reeling from emotional rejection.
Unlike him, his brother had never been able to compartmentalise his life, to suppress superfluous emotions that led to unnecessarily clouded judgement. Rafael coalesced happiness, sadness, triumph and loss into one hot, sticky mess. Add the lethal mix of a seven hundred and fifty horsepower racing car, and once again he was left picking up the pieces.
His breath shuddered. Reaching out, he took Rafael’s unmoving hand, leaned down until his lips hovered an inch from his brother’s ear.
‘You live—you hear me? I swear on all things holy, if you die on me I’ll track you to hell and kick your ass,’ he grated out, then swallowed the thickness in his throat. ‘And I know you’ll be in hell, because you sure as heck won’t get into heaven with those looks.’
His voice caught and he forced back his tears.
Rafael’s hand remained immobile, barely warm. Marco held on tighter, desperately infusing his brother with his own life force, desperately trying to block out the doctor’s words … his brain is swelling … there’s internal bleeding … nothing to do but wait …
With a stifled curse, he whirled away from the bed. The window of the ultra-private, ultra-exclusive, state-of-the-art hospital looked out onto a serene courtyard, with discreet fountains and carefully clipped flowers meant to soothe the troubled patient. Beyond the grounds, forests stretched as far as the eye could see.
Marco found no solace in the picturesque view. He found even less to smile about when his eyes lit on the paparazzi waiting beyond the hospital’s boundaries, powerful lenses trained, ready to pounce.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he turned back to the bed.
A flash of green caught the corner of his eye. He focused on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall and watched Rafael’s accident replayed again in slow motion.
Bile rose to his throat. Reaching blindly for the remote, he aimed it at the screen—only to stop when another picture shifted into focus.
Anger escalated through him. Five minutes later he stabbed the ‘off’ button and calmly replaced the control.
Returning to Rafael’s bedside, his sank onto the side of the bed. ‘I know you’d probably argue with me, mi hermano, but you’ve had a lucky escape. In more ways than one.’
Jaw clenching, he thanked heaven his brother hadn’t heard the interview just played on TV. Marco had first-hand knowledge of what people would sacrifice in their quest for fame and power, and the look of naked ambition in Sasha Fleming’s eyes made his chest burn with fury and his skin crawl.
His fist tightened on the bed next to his brother’s unmoving body.
If she wanted a taste of power he would give it to her. Let her acquire a taste for it the way she’d given Rafael a taste of herself.
Then, just as she’d callously shoved Rafael aside, Marco would take utter satisfaction in wrenching away everything she’d ever dreamed of.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me which room Rafael de Cervantes is in?’ Sasha infused her voice with as much authority as possible, despite the glaring knowledge that she wasn’t supposed to be here.
The nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform looked up. The crease already forming on her brow caused Sasha’s heart to sink.
‘Are you a member of the family?’
‘No, but I wanted to see how he was. He was … is my team mate.’ The moment the words left her lips she winced. Way to go, Sasha.
True to form, the nurse’s frown dissolved as realisation dawned. ‘His team mate …? You’re Sasha Fleming!’
Sasha summoned her practised camera smile—the one that held the right amount of interest without screaming look at me, and lifted the oversized sunglasses. ‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘My nephew loves you!’ The nurse gushed. ‘He pretends not to, but I know he thinks you rock. Every time he sees you during Friday Practice his face lights up. He’ll be thrilled when I tell him I met you.’
The tension clamping Sasha’s nape eased a little. ‘Thanks. So can I see Rafael?’ she asked again. When the frown threatened to make a comeback, Sasha rushed on. ‘I’ll only be a moment, I promise.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Fleming. You’re