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Authors: Maya Blake
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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
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
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