JACQUELINE BAIRD - The Price Of Desire - The Price of Success / The Cost of Her Innocence / Not For Sale

His whole body stiffened. ‘Then it stands to reason that there shouldn’t be a problem.’

She hugged her knees tighter. ‘Again I sense a but .’

‘ But … for some reason you’re all I think about.’

The statement was delivered with joyless candour. Yet her heart leapt like a puppet whose string had been jerked. And when his eyes met hers and she saw the heat in them something inside her melted.

He strode back towards the bed, shoving clenched fists into his pockets. She stared up at him, her pulse racing. ‘And you’re annoyed about that?’

His gaze raked her face slowly. Then slid to her neck, her breasts, and back up again. Molten heat burned in his eyes. ‘Livid. Frustrated. Puzzled. Intensely aroused.’

Of their own volition her eyes dropped below his belt-line. Confronted with the evidence, she felt a deep longing melt between her legs. She swallowed as heat poured through her whole being.

Looking away, she muttered, ‘Don’t do that.’

A strained sound escaped his throat. ‘I was just about to demand the same of you.’

‘I’m not doing anything. You, on the other hand—you’re …’ She sucked in a desperate breath.

‘I’m what?’ he demanded, his voice low, ferocious.

‘You’re all brooding and … and fierce … and angry … and … aroused. You’re cursing your desire for me and yet your eyes are promising all sorts of rampant steaminess.’ Her eyes darted back to the bulge in his trousers and a lump clogged her throat.

‘I … I think you should leave.’

‘You don’t sound very sure about that.’

‘ I am . I don’t want you. And even if I did you’re off-limits to me, remember? So you can’t … can’t present me with … this!’

A pulse jerked in his jaw. ‘I never said the situation wasn’t without complications.’

‘Well, the solution is easy. You hired me to do a job so let me get on with it. We don’t have to see each other until the season ends and we win the Constructors’ Championship. We’ll stand on the top podium and douse ourselves in champagne. Then we’ll go our separate ways until next season starts.’

‘And you will have fulfilled this promise you made?’

Surprise zapped through her. He remembered. ‘Partly, yes,’ she replied, before thinking better of it.

His gaze turned speculative. ‘To whom did you make the promise?’

She dragged her eyes from his, the sudden need to spill everything shocking her with its intensity. But she couldn’t. Marco didn’t trust her. And she wasn’t prepared to trust him with the sacred memory of her father.

She shook her head. ‘It’s none of your business. Are you going to leave me alone to get on with it?’

His mouth firmed into a hard line. ‘The team has too much riding on this for me to take my eye off the ball at this juncture. So do our sponsors. Once you have proved yourself—’

‘Yes, I’ve heard it all before.’ She couldn’t stop the bitterness from spilling out. ‘Prove myself. Don’t bewitch anyone on the team. Especially not the boss. Message received and understood. Perhaps you could take your frustrations elsewhere, then, and spare me the thwarted lust backlash?’

He stiffened with anger. ‘Dios . Has no one ever told you that the difference between attractive feistiness and maddening shrew is one bitchy comment too many?’

‘No one has dared,’ she threw back.

‘Well, take it from me. You need to stop throwing blind punches and learn to pick your fights.’ He strode towards the door. ‘Romano will drive you to your appointment and bring you back here.’

‘That’s not necessary. I’ve hired a scooter.’

He whirled to face her. ‘No. Romano will drive you.’ His tone brooked no argument.

‘Seriously, Marco, you need to dial back the caveman stuff—’

‘And you need to take greater responsibility for your welfare. If you come off your scooter and break an arm or a leg the rest of the season is finished. I thought you wanted the drive? Or do you think you’re invincible on those little piles of junk you like to travel on?’

She bit back a heated retort. Marco was right. All her hard work and sacrifice would amount to nothing if she couldn’t ensure she turned up to her races with her bones intact.

‘Fine. I’ll use the car.’

Pushing back the covers, she slid her feet over the edge and stood. The air thickened once more as Marco tensed.

Sasha refused to look into his face. His brooding, tempting heat would weaken her sorely tested resolve.

‘I need to get ready for the shoot.’

He made a sound she couldn’t decipher. She squeezed her thighs together and fingered the hem of her T-shirt.

‘Your breakfast will be delivered in half an hour.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Oh, and Sasha …?’

Unable to stop herself, she looked. Framed in the doorway, his stature was impressively male and utterly arresting. ‘Yes?’ she rasped.

‘Unless you want things to slide out of control, don’t wear that T-shirt in my presence again. You may not be mine, but I’m not a saint. The next time I see you in it I may feel obliged to take advantage of its instruction.’

His words hit her with the force of a tsunami. By the time he shut the door, a hundred different images of Marco using his teeth on her had short-circuited her brain.

The photo shoot was horrendously tedious. Several hours of sitting around getting her hair and make-up done, followed by a frenzied half-hour of striking impossible poses, then back to repeating the whole process again.

Sasha returned to the hotel very near exhaustion, but she had gained a healthy respect for models. She also now understood why men like Marco dated them. The sample pictures the photographer had let her keep showed an end result that surprised her.

After pressing the button for the lift, she fished the pictures out of her satchel, shocked all over again by how different she looked—how a few strokes of a make-up brush could transform plain to almost … sexy. Or was it something else? All day she’d been unable to dismiss last night’s kiss from her mind. Her face burned when she reached the picture of her licking her tingling lips. She’d been recalling Marco’s moan of pleasure as he’d deepened their kiss.

So really it was Marco’s fault …

Opening the door to the suite, she stopped in her tracks as strains of jazz music wafted in from the living room. Following the sound, she entered the large, opulent room to find Marco lounging on the sofa, an electronic tablet in his hand and a glass of red wine on a table beside him.

‘I thought you were going to be late?’ The words rushed out before she could stop them. Her suddenly racing pulse made her dizzy for a few seconds.

His gaze zeroed in on her. ‘I wrapped things up early.’

‘And you couldn’t find anyone in your little black book to spend the evening with?’

The thought that he hadn’t gone out and vented his sexual frustration on some entirely willing female sent a bolt of elation through her, which she tried—unsuccessfully—to smash down.

She couldn’t read the hooded look in his eyes as he set aside the gadget.

‘It’s only seven-thirty. The night is still young,’ he replied.

Something crumpled into a small, tight knot inside her, and the sharp pang she’d felt that morning returned. ‘That’s just typical. You’re going to call some poor woman out of the blue and expect her to be ready to drop everything to go out with you, aren’t you?’ she mocked.

One corner of his mouth quirked. ‘Luckily, the women I know are kind enough to want to drop everything for me.’

She snorted. ‘Come off it. We both know kindness has nothing to do with it.’