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

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘IF YOU’VE finished your breakfast, I’ll take you on the tour of the race track.’

      Sasha looked up from her almost empty plate of scrambled eggs and ham to find Marco lounging in the doorway that connected the vast living room to the sun-drenched terrace of Casa de Leon.

      She’d been here three days, and she still couldn’t get her head round the sheer vastness of the de Cervantes estate. Navigating her way around the huge, rambling two-storey villa without getting lost had taken two full days.

      With its white stucco walls, dark red slate roofs and large cathedral-like windows, Casa de Leon was an architect’s dream. The high exposed beams, sweeping staircases and intricately designed marble floors wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace. Every piece of furniture, painting and drape looked as if it cost a fortune. Even the air inside the villa smelled different, tinged with a special rarefied, luxurious quality that made her breath catch.

      Outside, an endless green vista, broken only by perfectly manicured gardens, stretched as far as the eye could see … It was no wonder the countless villa staff travelled around in golf buggies.

      Realising Marco was waiting for an answer, she nodded, drawing her gaze from the long, muscular legs encased in dark grey trousers. ‘Sure. I’ll just finish my coffee. Aren’t you having anything?’ She indicated the mouth-watering spread of seasonal fruit, pastries and ham slices on the table.

      Disengaging himself from the doorway, he came towards her, powerfully sleek and oozing arrogant masculinity. ‘I’ll have a coffee, too.’

      When he sat and made no move to pour it himself, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, boss. Three bags full, boss?’

      His hazel eyes gleamed and Sasha had the distinct feeling he was amused, although not a smile cracked his lips. In fact he looked decidedly strained. Which wasn’t surprising under the circumstances, she reminded herself.

      Feeling the mutiny give way, she poured him a cup. ‘Black?’

      ‘Sí. Two sugars.’

      She looked up, surprised. ‘Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the two-sugars type.’

      ‘And how would you have pegged me?’

      ‘Black, straight up, drunk boiling hot without a wince.’

      ‘Because my insides are made of tar and my soul is black as night?’ he mocked.

      She shrugged. ‘Hey, you said it.’ She added sugar and passed it over.

      ‘Gracias.’ He picked up a silver spoon and stirred his drink, the tiny utensil looking very delicate in his hand.

      Sasha found herself following the movement, her gaze tracing the short dark hairs on the back of his hand. Suddenly her mouth dried, and her stomach performed that stupid flip again. Wrenching her gaze from the hypnotic motion, she picked up her cup with a decidedly unsteady hand.

      ‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

      ‘Do you really want to know?’

      The speed with which Marco had whisked her from Budapest to Spain after she’d signed the contract had made her head spin. Of course his luxury private jet—which he’d piloted himself—had negated the tedium of long airport waits and might have had something to do with it. They’d flown to Barcelona, then transferred by helicopter to his estate in Leon.

      He took another sip. ‘I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You should know by now that I never say anything I don’t mean.’

      Now 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 СКАЧАТЬ