Kitabı oku: «The Price Of Desire», sayfa 8

‘Marco …’

She stretched out her hand to retrieve the pictures. He ignored her, his attention fixed on the picture, his skin drawn tight over the chiselled bones of his face.

‘Marco, I don’t want to keep you. I have plans of my own.’

His head snapped up. ‘What plans?’ he demanded, his tone rough and tight.

Sasha couldn’t think how to answer. Her whole mind was paralysed by the way his eyes blazed. Shaking her head, she tried to turn away. He grabbed her arm in a firm hold.

No! Too hot. Too irresistible. Too much.

‘Let me go,’ she murmured, her voice scraped raw with desire.

‘What plans?’ he gritted out.

‘Are you sure you want to know? You may not approve.’

His hand tightened on her arm, his eyes darkening into storm clouds that threatened thunder and lightning. ‘Then think carefully before you speak.’

She sighed. ‘Fine. You’ve busted me. I was going to beg your chef to make me that T-bone steak and salad he made for us yesterday, followed by chocolate caramel delight for dessert—I’ll think about the calories later. Afterwards I intend to have a sweltering foursome with Joel, LuAnn and Logan.’

The hand that had started to relax suddenly tightened, harder than before.

‘Excuse me?’ Marco bit out, his voice a thin blade of ice slicing across her skin.

Reaching into the handbag slung over her shoulder, she pulled out the boxed set of her favourite TV vampire show.

He released her and reached for it. After scrutinising it, he threw it down onto the sofa along with the pictures.

‘Take a piece of advice for free, pequeña. It’s a mistake to keep goading me. The consequences will be greater than you ever bargained for.’ His voice was soft. Deadly soft.

Sasha felt a shiver go through her. Most people mistakenly assumed partaking in one of the most dangerous sports in the world meant X1 Premier Racing drivers were fearless. Sasha wasn’t fearless. She had a healthy amount of fear and respect for her profession. She knew when to accelerate, when to pull back the throttle, when to pull over and abandon her car.

Right now the look on Marco’s face warned her she was skidding close to danger. She heeded the warning. Lashing out because of the maelstrom of emotions roiling inside her would most likely result in far worse consequences than she’d endured with Derek.

‘Understood. Let me go.’

Surprise at her easy capitulation lit his eyes. Abruptly he released her.

‘I need a shower. I guess you’ll be gone when I come out. Enjoy your evening.’

Shamelessly, she fled.

Marco watched her go, frustration and bewilderment fighting a messy battle inside him.

He prided himself on knowing and understanding women. After Angelique, his determination never to be caught out again had decreed it. Women liked to think they were complicated creatures, but when it came down to it their needs were basic, no matter how much they tried to hide it. Hell, some—like Angelique—even spelled it out.

‘I want fame, Marco. I want excitement! I can’t be with a man who’s a has-been.’

The memory slid in, reminding him why he now ensured the women he associated with knew there was no rosy future in store for them and had no surprises waiting to trap him.

A reality devoid of surprises suited him just fine.

His eyes followed Sasha’s tall, slim figure down the hallway.

She surprised him, he admitted reluctantly. She also infuriated him. She made his blood boil in a way that was so basic, so … sexual—even without the benefit of those pictures …

Dios! With a growl, he whirled towards the window. When he’d gone to her room to set things straight this morning the last thing he’d expected was for her to reassure him that it had been no big deal.

Despite being totally into the kiss—as much as he’d been—she’d walked away from him last night. A situation he’d never encountered before.

Was it because she didn’t really want him? Or was she merely waiting for his brother to wake up so she could resume where they’d left off?

Acid burned through his stomach at the thought. But even the corrosive effect couldn’t wash away the underlying sexual need that seared him.

He’d rushed through his meeting with every intention of calling one of the many willing female acquaintances on his BlackBerry. But once he’d returned, his need to go out again had waned. He withdrew from examining why too closely.

He turned back from the window and his eyes fell on the pictures on the sofa. To the one of her draped all over his car …

Blindly he stumbled towards his jacket and dug around for his phone. Two minutes later reservations were made. By the time his Rolls collected him from the foyer, Sasha Fleming had been consigned to the furthest corner of his mind.

Marco stood outside the door ninety minutes later, caught himself listening for sounds from inside, and grimaced in disbelief. He’d spent the last hour or so wining and dining a woman whose name he couldn’t now remember.

He’d stared at his date’s in-your-face scarlet lips and thought of another set of lips. Plump, freshly licked lips, captured in perfect celluloid. Lips that had responded to his kiss in a way that had sent the most potent pulse of excitement through him.

Forbidden lips.

In the end he’d thrown down his napkin and extracted several large notes. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’m terrible company tonight. I shouldn’t have disturbed your evening.’

The practised pout had reappeared. ‘You know I’ll forgive you anything, Marco.’

Candy? Candice? had leaned forward in another carefully calculated pose, designed to showcase her body to its best advantage.

‘Listen, I have an idea. I know how much you like your coffee. When I was filming in Brazil last month I absolutely fell in love with the coffee and brought some back with me. Why don’t we skip dessert and go back to my place and I’ll give you a taste?’

Barely containing rising distaste, he’d shaken his head. ‘Sorry, I’ll take a rain check.’

He’d led her out amid soft protests and further throaty promises of the delights of her cafetière. But coffee, or sex with Candy/Candice had been the last thing on his mind.

His sudden hunger for chocolate caramel had become overpowering.

‘Take my car. I’ll walk,’ he’d said.

And now here he stood, skulking outside his own apartment like a hormonal teenager on his first date.

He entered and approached the living room.

She was curled up on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Her head snapped towards him. As if she’d been listening out for him too. The thought pleased him more than it should have.

The striking blue of her eyes paralysed him.

‘You’re still awake.’ Excelente, Marco. First prize for stating the obvious.

She blinked. ‘It’s only nine-fifteen.’ Her eyes followed him as he shrugged off his jacket and dropped it on the sofa. When her gaze lingered on his chest he felt the blood surge stronger than before.

He watched her fingers dance through the bowl of popcorn, the movement curiously erotic. His heart hammered harder. ‘You didn’t have the chocolate caramel after all?’

‘Charlie’s disapproving face haunted me. Popcorn is healthier.’ She looked away. ‘So, how was your date?’ she asked, her voice husky.

He wrenched his gaze from her fingers. ‘You really want to know?’

Her sensual lips firmed and she shook her head.

The need to gauge her true feelings drew him closer. ‘Jealous?’

She inhaled sharply. ‘I thought we weren’t doing this?’

His eyes fell to her lips. ‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Well, change it back. Nothing has changed since this morning. I can’t handle your … baggage. And I don’t want a relationship. Of any sort.’

Marco opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t want anything from her either. But he knew he was lying. His very presence in this room belied that.

Forbidden or not, he wanted her with a compulsive need that unnerved and baffled him. But the fact that he wanted her didn’t mean he would have her. He was known for his legendary control. He sat down next to her, caught her scent, and simply willed himself not to react.

Forcing his body to relax, he nodded towards the television. ‘You have a thing for vampires?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ she replied breathlessly.

He wanted to look at her. But he denied himself the urge and kept his gaze fixed ahead. ‘What’s the story about?’

She hesitated, fidgeted and sat forward. From the corner of his eye he saw her lick her lips. Fiery heat sang through his veins.

‘Oh, you know—it’s the usual run-of-the-mill storyline. Two brothers in love with the same girl.’

Something tightened in his chest and his stomach muscles clenched. ‘I see.’

‘You don’t have to watch it.’ She shifted backwards, out of his periphery.

‘Why not? I’m intrigued.’ The two male protagonists faced off on the screen, fangs bared. ‘What are they doing now?’

Again she hesitated. ‘They’re about to fight to the death for her.’

His muscles pulled tighter. Blood surged through his veins and he forcibly relaxed the clenched fist on his thigh.

‘Which one are you rooting for?’ he asked, the skin on his nape curiously tight as he waited for her answer.

It occurred to him how absurd the conversation was. How absurd it was to be so wound up by a TV show. But every second he waited for her answer felt like an eternity.

‘Neither.’

Illogically, his insides hollowed. ‘You don’t care if either one of them dies?’ The words grated his throat.

‘That’s not what I said. I said neither because I know they won’t kill each other. They might tear chunks out of each other, but ultimately they love each other too much to let a woman come between them. No matter how difficult, or how heart-wrenching it is to watch, I know they’ll work it out. That’s why I love the show. Popcorn?’

The bowl appeared in front of him.

He declined and nodded at the screen as a female character walked on. ‘Is she the one?’

Sasha laughed. ‘Yep. LuAnn—femme fatale extraordinaire. With those huge brown eyes and that body she can have any man she wants. On and off the screen.’

‘She may look innocent onscreen but off-screen is another matter.’

It was her gasp that did it. That and her scent, mingled with the strangely enticing aroma of popcorn.

Control failed and his eyes met Sasha’s stunning blue. Marco wondered if she knew how enthralling they were. How captivating. How very easily she could give LuAnn a run for her money.

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Briefly. At one of Rafael’s parties.’

Her eyes returned to the screen. ‘As much as I’m dying to know the details of your no-doubt salacious meeting, I don’t really want the illusion spoiled. Do you mind?’

Again Marco was struck by Sasha’s contrast to the other women he’d dated. They would have been bowled over by his mention of a celebrity, dying to know every single detail. Her refreshingly indifferent attitude made him relax a little more.

When he found himself munching on popcorn another bolt of surprise shot through him.

When was the last time he’d relaxed completely like this? Shared an enjoyable evening with a woman that hadn’t ended in sex if he’d wanted it to?

He glanced at Sasha. Her eyes were glued to the screen, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Heat ratcheted through him. Correction—an evening that wasn’t going to end in sex because sex was forbidden?

He reached for another mouthful of popcorn and his hand brushed hers. Her breath caught but she didn’t look away from the screen. When he reluctantly forced his gaze away from her, he saw LuAnn caught in a heated clinch with Joel.

As a thirty-five-year-old man, who knew that sex onscreen was simulated, he shouldn’t have found the scene erotic. Especially not with those damned fangs thrown in.

Nevertheless, when Sasha’s breath caught for a second time he turned to her, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he couldn’t hear anything else.

‘You should be watching the screen, not me.’

Her husky murmur thrummed along his nerve-endings and made a beeline for his groin.

‘I was never much of a spectator. I prefer to be a participant.’

Dios! He was hard—so hard it was a toss-up as to whether the feeling was pain or pleasure. The logical thing to do was to get up, walk away.

Yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from this woman his body ached for but his mind knew he couldn’t have.

Her eyes found his. ‘Marco …’

Again it was a husky entreaty.

His fingers brushed her cheek. ‘Why can’t I get you out of my head? I took a beautiful woman to dinner but I can barely remember what she looked like now. I ate but hardly tasted the food. All I could think about was you.’

‘Do you want me to apologise?’

‘Would you mean it?’

Her pink tongue darted out, licked, darted back in. He groaned in pain.

‘Probably not. But I may have an explanation for you.’

A few feet away the TV belted out the closing sequence of the show. Neither of them paid any attention. His forefinger traced her soft skin to the corner of her mouth, the need to taste her again a raging fever flaming through his veins. ‘I’m listening.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe you share a trait with your brother after all. Deny you something and you want it more?’

Marco didn’t need to think about it to answer. ‘No. The difference between Rafael and me is that he wouldn’t have hesitated to take—consequences be damned. He sees something he wants and he takes it.’

‘Whereas you agonise about it endlessly, then deny yourself anyway? It’s almost as if you’re testing yourself—putting yourself through some sort of punishment.’

Her eyes darkened when he froze. She moved her head and her lips came closer to his finger. Marco couldn’t speak, needing every single ounce of self-control to keep his shock from showing. He deserved to put himself through punishment for what he’d done. He’d lost the most precious thing in life—a child—because he’d taken his eye off the ball.

‘Maybe you should learn to bend a little … take what is being offered? What is being offered freely.’

An arrow of pain shot through the haze of desire engulfing him. He gave a single shake of his head and inhaled. ‘I stopped believing in free a long time ago, Sasha. There are always consequences. The piper always expects payment.’

‘I don’t believe that. Laughter is free. Love is free. It’s hate that eats you up inside. Bitterness that twists feelings if you let them. And, no, I’m not waxing philosophical. I’ve experienced it.’

‘Really?’ he mocked, dropping his hand. When his senses screeched in protest he merely willed the feeling away. ‘To whom did you make your promise?’ he asked, the need to know as forceful as the need raging through his veins.

Wariness darkened her eyes. Then her shoulders rolled. ‘My father.’

‘What did you promise him?’

‘That I’d win the Drivers’ Championship for him.’

‘Out of some misguided sense of duty, no doubt?’ he derided.

Anger blazed through her eyes. ‘Not duty. Love. And it’s about as misguided as your bullheaded need to coddle Rafael.’

‘There’s a difference between responsibility and your illusionary love,’ he rebutted, irate at this turn of the conversation.

‘I suffer no illusions. My father loved me as unconditionally as I loved him.’

Tensing, he sat back in the seat. ‘Then you were lucky. Not everyone is imbued with unconditional love for his or her child. Some even use their unborn children as bartering tools.’

Her breath caught. ‘Did you …? Are you saying that from experience?’

A cold drench of reality washed over him at how close he’d come to revealing everything.

Surging to his feet, he stared into her face. ‘I was merely making a point. As much as I want you, Sasha, I’ll never take you. The consequences would be too great.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE consequences would be too great.

Sasha tried to block out the words as she adjusted the traction control on her steering wheel. The tremor in her fingers increased and she clenched her fists tighter around the wheel.

Shears, Marina Bay, Raffles Boulevard. Watch out for Turn Ten speed bump—Padang, pit lane exit, look after the tyres …

Her heart hammered, excitement and adrenaline shooting through her as she went through the rigorous ritual of visualising every corner of the race. At her third attempt, fear rose to mingle with her emotions.

She’d secured pole position for the first time in her racing career, but despite the team’s euphoria afterwards she’d sensed a subtle waning of their excitement as speculation as to whether she could do the job trickled in. Sasha had seen it in their faces, heard it in Luke’s voice this morning when he’d grilled her over race strategy for the millionth time. Even Tom had weighed in.

Consequences … responsibility … last chance …

Sweat trickled down her neck and she hastily sipped at her water tube. She couldn’t afford dehydration. Couldn’t afford to lose focus. In fact she couldn’t afford to do anything less than win.

Beyond the bright lights of the circuit that turned night into day at the Singapore Grand Prix thousands of fans would be watching.

As would Marco.

He hadn’t spoken to her since that night on his sofa in London, but he’d attended every race since the season had resumed and Sasha knew he was somewhere above her, in the exclusive VIP suite of the team’s motor home, hosting the Prime Minister, royalty and a never-ending stream of celebrities.

Some time during the sleepless night, when she’d been looking down at the race track from her hotel room, she’d wondered whether he’d even bother to grace the pit with his presence if she made it onto that final elusive step on the podium. Or whether he would be too preoccupied with entertaining his latest flame—the blonde daughter of an Italian textile magnate who never seemed far from his side nowadays.

She tried desperately to block him from her mind. Taking pole position today—a dream she’d held for longer than she could remember—should be making her ecstatic. She was one step further towards removing the dark stain of her father’s shame from people’s minds. To finally removing herself from Derek’s malingering shadow.

Yet all she could think about was Marco and their conversation in London.

She clenched her teeth in frustration and breathed in deeply.

Luke’s voice piped through her helmet, disrupting her thoughts.

‘Adjust your clutch—’

She flicked the switch before he’d finished speaking. The sheer force of her will to win was a force field around her. Finally she found the zen she desperately craved.

Focusing, she followed the red lights as they lit up one by one. Adrenaline rushed faster, followed a second later by the drag of the powerful car as she pointed it towards the first corner.

She made it by the skin of her teeth, narrowly missing the front wing of the number two driver. Her stomach churned through lap after gruelling lap, even after she’d established a healthy distance between her and the car behind.

What seemed like an eternity later, after a frenzied race, including an unscheduled pitstop that had raised the hairs on her arms, she heard the frenzied shouts of her race engineer in her ear.

‘You won! Sasha, you won the Singapore Grand Prix!’

Tears prickled her eyes even as her fist pumped through the air. Her father’s face floated through her mind and a sense of peace settled momentarily over her. It was broken a second later by the sound of the crowd’s deafening roar.

Exiting the car, Sasha squinted through the bright flashes of the paparazzi, desperate to see familiar hazel eyes through the sea of faces screaming her name.

No Marco.

A stab of disappointment hollowed out her stomach. With a sense of detachment, she accepted the congratulations of her fellow drivers and blinked back tears through the British national anthem.

Dad would be proud, she reminded herself fiercely. He was all that mattered. Plastering a smile on her face, she accepted her trophy from the Prime Minister.

This was what she wanted. What she’d fought for. The team—her team—were cheering wildly. Yet Sasha felt numb inside.

Fighting the alarming emptiness, she picked up the obligatory champagne magnum, letting the spray loose over her fellow podium winners. Brusquely she told herself to live in the moment, to enjoy the dream-come-true experience of winning her first race.

Camera flashes blinded her as she stepped off the podium. When it cleared Tom stood in front of her, a huge grin on his face.

‘I knew you could do it! Prepare yourself, Sasha. Your world’s about to rock!’

The obligatory press conference for the top three winning drivers took half an hour. When she emerged, Tom grabbed her arm and steered her towards the bank of reporters waiting behind the barriers.

‘Tom, I don’t really want—’

‘You’ve just won your first race. “I don’t really want” shouldn’t feature in your vocabulary. The world’s your oyster.’

But I don’t want the world, she screamed silently. I want Marco. I want not to feel alone on a night like this.

Feeling the stupid tears build again, Sasha rapidly blinked them back as a microphone was thrust in her face.

‘How does it feel to be the first woman to win the Singapore Grand Prix?’

From deep inside she summoned a smile. ‘Just as brilliant as the first man felt when he won, I expect.’

Beside her she heard Tom’s sharp intake of breath.

Behave, Sasha.

‘Are you still involved with Rafael de Cervantes?’ asked an odious reporter she recognised from a Brazilian sports channel.

‘Rafael and I were never involved. We’re just friends.’

‘So now he’s in a coma there’s nothing to stop you from switching friendships to his brother, no?’

Tom stepped forward. ‘Listen, mate—’

Sasha stopped him. ‘No. It’s fine.’ She faced the reporter. ‘Marco de Cervantes is a world-class engineer and a visionary in his field. His incredible race car design is the reason we won the race today. It would be an honour for me to call him my friend.’ She tagged on another smile and watched the reporter’s face droop with disappointment.

Tom nodded at a British female reporter. ‘Next question.’

‘As the winner of the race, you’ll be the guest of honour at the rock concert. What will you be wearing?’

Mild shock went through her at the question, followed swiftly by a deepening sense of hollowness. The X1 Premier Rock Concert had become a fixture on every A-List celebrity’s calendar. No doubt Marco would be there with his latest girlfriend.

‘It doesn’t matter what I’ll be wearing because I’m not going to the concert.’

Sasha dashed into the foyer of her six-star hotel, grateful when the two burly doormen blocked the chasing paparazzi. She heaved in a sigh of relief when she shut her suite door behind her.

The ever-widening chasm of emptiness she couldn’t shake threatened to overwhelm her. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and showered.

The knock came as she was towelling herself dry. For a second she considered not answering it.

A sense of déjà vu hit her as she opened the door to another perfectly coiffed stylist, carting another rack of clothes.

‘I think you’ve got the wrong suite.’

The diminutive Asian woman in a pink suit simply bowed, smiled and let herself in. Her assistant sailed in behind her, clutching a large and stunningly beautiful bouquet of purple lilies and cream roses.

‘For you.’ She thrust the flowers and a long oblong box into Sasha’s hand.

Stifling a need to scream, Sasha calmly shut the door and opened the box. On a red velvet cushion lay the most exquisite diamond necklace she’d ever seen. With shaking fingers, she plucked the card from the tiny peg.

Pick a dress, then they’ll leave. Romano is waiting downstairs.

Sasha stared at Marco’s bold scrawl in disbelief. When she looked up, the women smiled and started pulling clothes off the hangers.

‘No—wait!’

‘No wait. Twenty minutes.’

‘But … where am I going?’ she asked.

The stylist shrugged, picked up a green-sequinned dress barely larger than a handkerchief, and advanced towards her. Sasha stepped back as the tiny woman waved her hand in front of her.

‘Off.’

With a sense of damning inevitability … and more than a little thrill of excitement … she let herself be pulled forward. ‘Okay, but definitely not the green.’

The stylist nodded, trilled out an order in Mandarin, and advanced again with another dress.

Twenty minutes later Sasha stepped from the cool, air-conditioned car onto another red carpet. This time, without Marco, she was even more self-conscious than before. On a warm, sultry Singapore night, the cream silk dress she’d chosen felt more exposing than it had in the safety of her hotel room. At first glance she’d refused to wear the bohemian mini-dress because … well, because it had no back. But then the stylist had fastened the draping material across her lower back and Sasha had felt … sexy—like a woman for the first time in her life.

Her hair was fastened with gold lamé rope, her nails polished and glittering. The look was completed with four-inch gold stilettos she’d never dreamt she’d be able to walk in, but she found it surprisingly easy.

Romano appeared at her side, his presence a reminder that somewhere beyond the wild flashes of the paparazzi’s cameras Marco was waiting for her.

All the way from her hotel she’d felt the emptiness receding, but had been too scared to acknowledge that Marco had anything to do with it. Now she couldn’t stop a smile from forming on her face as the loud boom of fireworks signalled the start of the rock concert.

The VIP lounge teemed with rock stars and pop princesses. She tried to make small talk as she surreptitiously searched the crowd for Marco. Someone thrust a glass of champagne in her hand.

Half an hour later, when a Columbian platinum-selling songstress with snake hips asked who her designer was, Sasha started to answer, then stopped as an ice-cold thought struck her. Was Marco even here? Had she foolishly misinterpreted his note and dressed up only to be stood up?

The depths of her hurt stunned her into silence.

She barely felt any remorse as the pop star flounced off in a huff. Blindly she turned for the exit, humiliation scouring through her.

‘Sasha? You’re heading for the stage, right?’ Tom grabbed her arm and stopped her.

‘The … the stage?’

‘Your favourite band is about to perform. Marco had me fly them out here just for you.’

‘He what?’ A different kind of stun stopped her heart.

‘Come on—you don’t want them to start without you.’

A thousand questions raced through her brain, but she didn’t have time to voice a single one before she was propelled onto the stage and into the arms of the band’s lead singer.

Torn between awe at sharing the stage with her favourite band, and happiness that she hadn’t misinterpreted Marco’s note after all, Sasha knew the next ten minutes were the most surreal of her life. Even seeing herself super-sized on half a dozen giant screens didn’t freak her out as much as she’d imagined.

She exited the stage to the crowd’s deafening roar. Tom beamed as he helped her down the stairs.

‘Have you seen Marco?’ Sasha attributed her breathlessness to her onstage excitement—not her yearning to see Marco de Cervantes.

Tom’s smile slipped and his gaze dropped. ‘Um, he was around a moment ago …’

She told herself not to read anything into Tom’s answer. ‘Where is he?’

‘Sasha …’ He sighed and pointed towards the roped-off area manned by three burly bodyguards.

At first she didn’t see him, her sight still fuzzy from the bright stage lights.

When she finally focused, when she finally saw what her mind refused to compute, Sasha was convinced her heart had been ripped from her chest.

Each step she took out of the concert grounds felt like a walk towards the opening mouth of a yawning chasm. But Sasha forced herself to keep going, to smile, to acknowledge the accolades and respect she finally had from her team.

Even though inside she was numb and frozen.

The knock came less than ten minutes later.

Marco leaned against the lintel. The buttons of his shirt were still undone; his hair was unkempt. As if hands—female hands—had run through it several times. He stood there, arrogantly imposing, larger than life.

She hated him more than she could coherently express. And yet the sight of him kicked her heart into her throat.

‘What do you want?’ she blurted past the pain in her throat.

His gaze, intense and unnerving, left her face to take in the bikini she’d changed into. ‘Why did you leave the concert?’

‘Why aren’t you back there, being pawed by your Italian sexpot?’

‘You left because you saw me with Flavia?’

‘You know what they say—two’s company, three’s a flash mob. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ She grabbed her kaftan from the bed and the box containing the diamond necklace.

‘Here—take this back. I don’t want it.’

‘It’s yours. Every member of the team receives a gift for the team’s win. This is yours.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You’re kidding me?’

‘I’m not. Where are you going?’

She stared at the box, not sure how to refuse the gift now. ‘For a swim—not that it’s any of your business.’

‘A swim? At this hour?’

‘Singapore is the longest race on the calendar. It’s even longer when you’re leading and trying to defend your position. If I don’t warm up and do my stretching exercises my muscles will seize up. That’s what I’d planned to do before … Whatever—will you please get out of my way?’

His gaze dropped to her legs. A hoarse sound rumbled from his throat. A look entered his eyes—one that made her excited and afraid at the same time.