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

‘First an admission of a flaw. Now an apology. Wow—must be my lucky night. Are you feeling okay? Maybe it would help to talk about whatever it is that spooked you?’

Perhaps it was the mellowing effect of the wine. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t had an engaging conversation like this in a while. Marco was surprised when he found himself laughing.

‘I have no memory of ever being spooked. But, just for curiosity’s sake, which hat will you be wearing for this little heart-to-heart? Diplomat or psychologist?’

Her gaze met his squarely. ‘How about friend?’ she asked.

His laughter dried up.

She wanted to be his friend.

Marco couldn’t remember the last time anyone had offered to be his friend. Betrayal had a habit of stripping the scales from one’s eyes. He’d learnt that lesson well and thoroughly.

He swallowed another gulp of wine. ‘I respectfully decline. Thanks all the same.’

A small smile curved her lip. ‘Ouch. At least you didn’t laugh in my face.’

‘That would have been cruel.’

One smooth brow rose. ‘And you don’t do cruel? You’ve come very close in the past.’

‘You were a threat to my brother.’

‘Were? You mean you’re not under that impression any more?’

Realising the slip, he started to set her straight, then paused. You can’t control what happens in life … Rafael will resent you for controlling his life … ‘I’m willing to suspend my judgement until Rafael is able to set the picture straight himself.’

Her smile faded. ‘You don’t trust me at all, do you?’

He steeled himself against his fleeting tinge of regret at the hurt in her voice.

‘Trust is earned. It comes with time. Or so I’m told.’

So far no one had withstood the test long enough for Marco to verify that belief. Sasha Fleming had already failed that test. She was only sitting across from him because of what he could give her.

She hid her calculating nature well, but he knew it was there, hiding beneath the fiercely determined light in her eyes.

‘Well, then, here’s to earning trust. And becoming friends.’

Marco didn’t respond to her toast because part of him regretted the fact that friendship between them would never be possible.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_9b56ce0c-696b-5beb-b86f-24421a2748e0)

‘THIS way, Sasha!’

‘Over here!’

‘Smile!’

The Children of Bravery awards took place every August at one of the plushest hotels in Mayfair. Last year Sasha had arrived in a cab with Tom, who had then gone on to ignore her for the rest of the night.

Tonight flashbulbs went off in her face the moment Marco helped her out of the back of his stunning silver Rolls-Royce onto the red carpet.

Blinking several times to help her eyes adjust, she found Tom had materialised beside her. Before he could speak, Marco stepped in front of him.

‘Miss Fleming won’t be needing you tonight. Enjoy your evening.’

The dismissal was softly spoken, wrapped in steel. With a hasty nod, a slightly pale Tom dissolved back into the crowd.

‘That wasn’t very nice,’ she murmured, although secretly she was pleased. Her nerves, already wound tight at the thought of the evening ahead, didn’t need further negative stimulus in the form of Tom. ‘But thank you.’

‘De nada,’ he murmured in that smooth deep voice of his, and her nerves stretched a little tighter.

When he took her arm the feeling intensified, then morphed into a different kind of warmth as another sensation altogether enveloped her—one of feeling protected, cherished …

She applied mental brakes as her brain threatened to go into meltdown. Forcing herself away from thoughts she had no business thinking, she drew in a shaky breath and tried to project a calm, poised demeanour.

‘For once I agree with the paparazzi. Smile. Your face looks frozen,’ Marco drawled, completely at ease with being the subject of intense scrutiny.

He seemed perfectly okay with hundreds of adoring female fans screaming his name from behind the barriers, while she could only think about the ceremony ahead and the memories it would resurrect.

Pushing back her pain, she forced her lips apart. ‘That’s probably because it is. Besides, you’re one to talk. I don’t see you smiling.’

One tuxedo-clad shoulder lifted in a shrug. ‘I’m not the star on show.’ He peered closer at her. ‘What’s wrong with you? You didn’t say a word on the way over here and now you look pale.’

‘That’s because I don’t like being on show. I hate dressing up, and make-up makes my face feel weird.’

‘You look fine.’ His gaze swept over her. ‘More than fine. The stylist chose well.’

‘She didn’t choose this dress. I chose it myself. If I’d gone with her choice I’d be half naked with a slit up to my cro—’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why did you send me a stylist anyway?’

When she’d opened the door to Marco’s Kensington penthouse apartment to find a stylist with a rack of designer gear in tow, Sasha had been seriously miffed.

‘I didn’t want to risk you turning up here in baggy jeans and a hippy top.’

‘I’d never have—!’ She caught the gleam of amusement in his eyes and relaxed.

Another photographer screamed her name and she tensed.

‘Relax. You chose well.’ His gaze slid over her once more. ‘You look beautiful.’

Stunned, she mumbled, ‘Thank you.’

She smoothed a nervous hand over her dress, thankful her new contract had come with a lucrative remuneration package that meant she’d been able to afford the black silk and lace floor-length Zang Toi gown she wore.

The silver studs in the off-the-shoulder form-fitting design flashed as the cameras went off. But even the stylish dress, with its reams of material that trailed on the red carpet, couldn’t stem the butterflies ripping her stomach to shreds as the media screamed out for even more poses. Nor could it eliminate the wrenching reason why, on a night like this, she couldn’t summon a smile.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ he commanded.