Captive but Forbidden Page 10

  And she felt emptier than ever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT WAS early morning when they landed at Dabolim Airport on the Bay of Dona Paula. The aquamarine water sparkled like fire-tipped diamonds in the morning sunlight as the plane came in for a landing. After the snow in the U.K., the blinding blue sky was insufferably cheerful.

  Veronica didn’t feel in the least bit happy, however, though the sky was clear and the landscape looked impossibly green and verdant and warm.

  She had changed into something a bit more suited to the weather in Goa—a tangerine silk sheath and a pair of nude peep-toe pumps, since she’d not packed sandals for her official trip across the mostly chilly United States and Europe.

  When the cabin door opened and she stepped out onto the stairs, the heat and humidity wrapped around her senses and eased the chill in her bones. It was certainly welcome after wintry London, but Aliz would have been warm as well—not quite this warm, but not as frigid as northern Europe, either.

  There was no press awaiting them, which was both a surprise and a relief. She felt far too off balance just now to deal with the media hounding her. Somehow, Raj must have managed to keep their destination a secret. How long he could do so was another matter altogether.

  Martine was beside her as they descended the stairs. Georges was behind them, and the rest of the staff followed. In spite of the situation, she held her head high, determined to maintain the dignity of her office. For their sakes as well as her own.

  She’d spoken with them last night, after she’d managed to regain some of her balance, and been surprised that no one seemed to disagree with Raj’s plan. The security staff had understandably been dismayed at the turn of events both in Aliz and in London—when they’d climbed aboard Raj’s plane and put themselves at his mercy—but somehow he’d won them over in spite of it. Now they were content to let him run the show.

  She was not. She was furiously, murderously angry.

  Ahead of them, Raj stood near a fleet of Land Rovers, talking with one of the drivers. He’d changed into a pair of khaki pants, sandals and a dark T-shirt that stretched over the hard muscles of his biceps and chest, delineating every line and bulge. Her heart throbbed painfully, her body tightening in response.

  She hated that she couldn’t stop her reaction to him. She wanted to smother it, and bury it down deep. Instead, the slight soreness between her legs reminded her of all they’d done together, of the silken slide of his body within hers. The driving pleasure. The bliss of orgasm.

  Stop.

  His betrayal, coming so hard on the heels of their intimacy, stung all the more. She’d trusted him—and he’d shattered that trust into a million shards.

  He looked up then, his eyes shaded behind mirrored sunglasses. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew he was looking directly at her. Her body sizzled under his regard, her nipples tingling, her core flooding with heat.

  Damn him!

  He separated himself from the driver and came to her side. Martine fell back, out of earshot. Veronica wanted to turn and tell her secretary there was no need, but she refused to do so lest Raj think she couldn’t handle him on her own.

  “How are you this morning?” he asked.

  A riot of emotions tore through her at the silken sound of his voice. She hardened her heart and kept looking straight ahead. “Furious,” she spluttered.

  “But alive,” he added, and she whipped her head sideways to glare at him. The red mark on his face was fading. She hadn’t drawn blood, so it would disappear soon. She wanted to reach out and touch him, soothe him—and she wanted to mark him again. The feelings warring inside her were so tangled that it hurt to try and sort them all out.

  “You say that like you know for certain what would have happened in Aliz. You don’t, so I would appreciate it if you would admit there were other possibilities.”

  He shrugged, further inflaming her. “It’s possible. But what I do is plan for the worst—and then avoid it.”

  “Or perhaps you create the worst,” she said. “Aliz had a chance before you abducted me. Now, no one will come to her rescue.”

  She didn’t truly know that, but she was too angry not to say it.

  His frown turned down the corners of his sensual mouth. “And who is making assumptions now? I hardly think it’s my actions you need worry about. It’s Monsieur Brun’s and the chief of police’s.”

  Her heart skipped a beat at the former president’s name. He had not liked her, that was certain. He’d attacked her in the media for months before the election, and he’d said the most vile things. That, however, was politics.

  “Have you had more news?”

  “None yet. The police have shut down communications for the time being. Nothing is getting out now.”

  She could hope that somehow Signor Zarella remained ignorant of the situation, though she didn’t count on having that kind of good fortune. News of the coup had already made it to CNN, and it was only a matter of time before more news started to trickle out of Aliz again.

  “I should be there,” she said.

  “You should be anywhere but there,” Raj replied.

  They’d reached one of the Land Rovers. He opened the door for her and she climbed in. When he got in beside her, she turned away from him, her pulse kicking up at his nearness. Martine and the others settled into the other cars, and then they were on their way, rolling south through lush country filled with palm trees, tall grasses and jade-green rice paddies. In the distance, gray shadowed hills rose up as a backdrop to the lush landscape.

  It was exotic and beautiful, as were the brightly colored saris of the women they passed on the road. Goa was a mixture of the modern and ancient, and she found herself studying everything with the kind of interest of someone who’d always longed to go places. She’d traveled plenty over the past ten years, but she’d never come to India … an oversight she was sorry for now that she was here.

  They passed the crumbled ruins of something that looked like a medieval fortress, and she craned her head as it faded away behind them again. It had seemed so odd, so strangely European in this setting.

  “The Portuguese settled in Goa in the sixteenth century,” Raj said, correctly guessing at her thoughts. “They only recently left. Much of their architecture is still evident in the villages and towns. Their influence can be found in the food, and there are even a few churches that remain.”

  She didn’t want to look at him, but she did anyway. “You are originally from here?”

  His expression seemed distant, a bit sad perhaps. “My father was Goan, though I did not know him. He and my mother divorced when I was two.”

  “But you have a house here.”

  “Yes. I wanted to see my heritage, or half of it anyway.”

  “Do you have family nearby?”

  “If I do, I don’t know them. My father died in England when I was a child. Any connection to family was lost a long time ago.”

  “Where does your mother live, then?” She didn’t want to talk to him, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She remembered that his mother was American, and she was curious. He seemed so exotic, as if he belonged here, and yet he was actually more American, or European, than he was Indian.

  “She’s in a home,” he said, his eyes so distant and troubled. “Her mind is gone now. She doesn’t know who I am.”

  In spite of her anger, a swell of emotion threatened to clog her throat. “I’m sorry, Raj. That must be terrible for you.”

  “She did it to herself,” he said. “Drug use.”

  He said the words so matter-of-factly, but she knew they hurt him. She could see it in his expression, in the way he stared into the distance, as if he didn’t see her beside him. What must he have suffered, watching his mother go through something like that?

  She didn’t remember her mother. She had impressions sometimes of a soft, laughing woman that were so fleeting she wondered if she’d imagined them. Her father had never talked o
f her mother once she was gone. He’d simply smothered his daughter in an attempt to keep her from leaving him, too. As if death could be cheated by imprisonment.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, finally turning and climbing steadily up a hill until they reached a sprawling estate that perched over the Arabian Sea below. The land was dotted with tall swaying palms, green grass that tumbled down to white-sand beaches and bordered by the sparkling sea that went on forever before finally curving into the horizon.

  It was beautiful, far more beautiful than she’d realized it would be. The sea view reminded her of Aliz, and a pang of emotion clawed into her belly as she thought of her nation. What was happening there now? Would she ever see her home again?

  A woman in a bright turquoise sari edged in gold and shot through with green threads emerged from the house, followed by a cadre of servants, who collected luggage and issued instructions. Veronica’s gaze kept straying to the sea, and when she finally looked back again, she realized that she and Raj were alone.

  “The view is even better from the terrace,” he said.

  “Where is my staff?”

  “They’ve been shown to the guest cottages. Don’t worry, they will be quite comfortable there.”

  “I’d like a guest cottage, too,” she said, her heart suddenly picking up speed again at the prospect of being left alone with him.

  “You will stay in the main house,” he said. “With me.”

  “I’d rather not.” She lifted her hand to shade her eyes as he moved, the light off his sunglasses reflecting the sun and sending a bright shaft of light into her vision.

  Then he was before her, so close—too close—and the brightness was gone.

  “You have no choice,” he replied. “It is for your safety.”

  A shiver of dread washed over her. And then there was something else. Something warm and electric. Something he caused by standing so near, by filling her senses with his scent and his presence.

  “And who will keep me safe from you?” she said softly.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. A predatory smile. “That is entirely up to you, Veronica. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

  “I won’t,” she declared. “I’d rather curl up with a cobra.”

  He laughed. “This is India. That can be arranged.”

  Veronica followed him into the house, the brightly clad woman appearing once more as soon as they were inside. She spoke to Raj in a language Veronica didn’t recognize. He said something in return, slowly she thought, as if he were figuring out the words.

  And then the woman was turning and sweeping down the hallway like a dazzling exotic bird flying away.

  “Your room is this way,” he said, leading her down a hall to a polished wooden door. Iron hinges and studs decorated the edges, and carvings of elephants, tigers and flowers marched in profusion across the surface.

  Raj opened the door without seeming to notice its beauty and held it for her. She preceded him inside, and found her luggage already waiting at the end of the bed. Double doors were open to the outside, leading onto a terrace. She went out, drawn once more by the sea view. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been over the past few weeks, but something about this place calmed her. In spite of her fear and anger, she felt strangely calm beneath all the emotion.

  A breeze lifted her hair, blew it across her face. She pushed the strands down again and breathed deeply. She wasn’t precisely free here, but at least he hadn’t shut her into a room with four walls, tiny windows and one door. She could come and go as she pleased, though she didn’t fool herself that she wouldn’t be watched or that she could leave this estate and keep on going right back to the airport and thence to Aliz.

  She wasn’t that free.

  She didn’t have to turn to know he was standing behind her. The hair on her arms had prickled as he drew near. Even now, her body was zinging with electric sparks. Longing was a palpable force within her.

  If only she were here under different circumstances. If only. The story of her life, really.

  She had merely to lean back, and she would connect with his solid form. He would put his arms around her as she tilted her head to the side, gave him access to her neck. His mouth would skim along her throat, her shoulder, and then he would turn her in his arms and kiss her.

  She closed her eyes, her chin dropping as the weight of her need pressed down on her. And the weight of her sadness.

  “You should have consulted me,” she said bitterly. “You should have treated me like I was capable of offering an intelligent opinion on the subject. Bringing me here against my will was wrong.”

  He sighed. “You left me no choice. You were determined to go to Aliz, no matter what anyone said to you.”

  “It was my choice to make, not yours.”

  “We will never agree on this subject, Veronica.”

  She turned then, taking a step back. He regarded her with golden eyes that made her heart skip. So beautiful. So exotic. He’d always been exotic, and yet this setting made him more so.

  “What happens now, Raj? I’m here with you, but I still have a responsibility to the people of Aliz. I can’t simply give up.”

  “You aren’t giving up. Your people have issued statements on your behalf. World pressure will be brought to bear on Monsieur Brun.”

  She blew out a breath. “I don’t like waiting,” she said. “I’ve never been very good at it.”

  He reached out, lifted a tendril of her hair, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “I can wait,” he said, his voice a deep, sensual growl that vibrated into her belly. “I can wait as long as it takes. Sometimes, the reward is much sweeter after the waiting.”

  Every cell in her body was attuned to him. Her breath had stilled, her heart, her blood—everything silent, waiting … waiting for a touch that never came.

  He dropped her hair, stepped back. “Dinner is at six,” he said. “Wear something simple—but stunning.”

  “Why?” she asked, the pulse point between her legs throbbing now. “Will there be guests?”

  “Perhaps.” And then he left her alone on the terrace, the breeze gently caressing her, tormenting her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the tendrils of wind were his fingers, skimming oh so lightly along her skin.

  At precisely six o’clock, Veronica emerged from her room, dressed in a simple black gown that was strapless and long, skimming her form down to her ankles. One side was slit to her thigh, and she’d chosen to wear tall crimson heels with jeweled straps. For jewelry, she’d kept it simple. A diamond pendant and earrings, a lone diamond bracelet.

  She hadn’t heard any cars arrive, but she’d napped until nearly five-thirty before she’d awakened with a start and hurriedly gotten dressed. Now, as she glided through the sprawling house, following her nose toward the delicious scents of curry and spice, she realized there was no sound except the occasional distant voice speaking in Konkani.

  The dining room was empty, but a long wall of wooden doors was opened to the terrace. She stepped out, expecting to find a small gathering of people. Perhaps Raj had invited powerful friends who could somehow help her.

  But there was no one. Nothing except a long wooden table set for two with hibiscus blossoms and gleaming crystal, china and silverware. Torches flickered around the perimeter and the sound of the sea washing the beach drifted up from below. A lone man stood at one end of the terrace. She knew who it was even before he turned.

  Her heart caught at the sight of him in an ornate green silk sherwani coat over traditional trousers. His dark hair had been cut since she’d last seen him this morning, the ends no longer curling over his collar. He looked like a maharaja, so exotic and handsome and regal that he took her breath away.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked, because she could think of nothing else to say.

  He came forward and poured a glass of wine for her. She accepted it, her body reacting with a shiver as his fingers brus
hed against hers ever so lightly.

  “It’s just us tonight,” he said, his voice wrapping around her senses, caressing them.

  “My staff?”

  “Dinner in their cottages, I assume.”

  She’d met with them earlier when she’d spent part of the afternoon making phone calls about the situation in Aliz. They were all tired, all stressed by what had happened. And perhaps a bit regretful that they’d been with her in London. If they’d been at home in Aliz, they’d be swept into this change from the inside and simply riding the wave until it came to rest onshore. But because they were with her, they were now outsiders, too.

  Veronica took a sip of the wine, frustration and guilt hammering through her.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Veronica,” Raj said gently.

  “What makes you think I was doing so?”

  He shrugged, his golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Is anyone else coming?” she asked, and then felt stupid since he’d just informed her it would only be the two of them.

  “No,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

  He pulled a chair out for her and then sat in another nearby. At that moment, a waiter came outside with a tray. There were many small silver dishes containing food in red sauces, green sauces and bright amber sauces. There was also creamy raita and naan bread, as well as fragrant basmati rice. Fried fish, fried prawns and salads of purple onion slices with tomatoes and cucumber rounded out the variety. And then there was chutney and thin, crispy yellow papadum.

  If she weren’t so hungry, she’d get up and go back to her room. She was supposed to be angry with him, not companionable. But the food smelled too good, and the night air was warm and fresh.

  And she just didn’t feel like fighting with him again after the stress of the past twenty-four hours.

  “Fish curry is a Goan specialty,” he said after she’d filled her plate with a bit of everything.

  She took a bite and the flavors exploded on her tongue—the spice, the fresh fish, the tomatoes and hints of coconut milk. “It’s delicious,” she said.