Captive but Forbidden Read online

  “It’s so lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more relaxed.” She turned and winked up at him. “But I don’t think the relaxed part has anything to do with the view.”

  “It’s a very nice view,” he said—though he didn’t mean the scenery.

  She laughed and pulled the V of his shirt closed where it had gaped over her breasts. “Such a man.”

  “Definitely.”

  She took a sip of the chai and sighed. “It’s odd to think it’s nearly Christmas, isn’t it, when it’s so warm?”

  “I like it warm.”

  She turned to him. “You don’t like a traditional Christmas, with snow and hot chocolate and a big evergreen tree?”

  He shrugged. “Actually, I don’t care for Christmas much. It’s too commercial.”

  She blinked. “But what about presents? Surely you like presents.”

  “It doesn’t have to be Christmas for presents.”

  “No, that’s true. I just remember such fabulous Christmases when I was a little girl. When my mother was still alive, my father would take us to Switzerland or Bavaria. He’d rent a chalet, and we’d ski and do all the traditional things. It was wonderful. I never feel like it’s Christmas unless I’m cold.” She grabbed a slice of mango from the table. “What’s your favorite Christmas memory?”

  A dart of pain pierced him. He started to make something up, to give an answer that would satisfy her and let her keep chattering happily away.

  But he couldn’t seem to do it. The urge to speak the truth built in his gut until he was nearly bursting with it.

  “I don’t have any. My mother couldn’t afford Christmas.”

  She’d done her best when he was small, finding some cast-off toy at the thrift shop or signing him up for whatever local program gave to needy children. But the older he’d gotten—the further she’d sunk into her addiction and depression—she’d given up even trying.

  Veronica’s sky-blue eyes grew cloudy. She reached out, squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I’m not a kid anymore. It doesn’t matter.”

  “But you must have been sad when you were little. I’m sorry for that.”

  He slipped a hand into the small of her back, pulled her in tight. His body wasted little time in reacting to the soft, warm feel of her pressed against him.

  She tilted her head back to look up at him. He traced a finger along the beautiful line of her mouth. “It was a long time ago. And I can think of a few things you can give me if you really want to give me presents.”

  She ran her free hand up his arm, threaded her fingers into the hair at his nape. She looked troubled still—but then she smiled a wicked smile and he forgot everything but her.

  “Oh, I imagine I could think of a few of my own.”

  Veronica couldn’t remember ever being as happy as she was with Raj. It was her second day in Goa, and he’d taken her into one of the small villages along the coast. They were currently strolling through a market, hand in hand. She knew they had security.

  Except the men Raj employed weren’t dressed in suits and sporting headsets. They blended in, unlike her own staff had done in London.

  She enjoyed it because it made her feel carefree. It was an illusion, but she was determined to take pleasure in it anyway.

  “We can’t stay long,” Raj said as they meandered between stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables—tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, squashes, coconut, mangoes, nubby jackfruit—and dried spices and chilies that were so colorful she wanted to stop and stare at them so she could remember just how vibrant colors like orange and red and brown could truly be.

  The women wore colorful saris, the men kurtas and sandals. There were goats, cows, the occasional painted elephant and a few Western tourists in their T-shirts and backpacks. The market was jammed with sound and movement, and she loved it.

  “Thank you for bringing me,” she said. “It’s marvelous.”

  He smiled down at her, tweaked the sunglasses on her nose. “It’s a risk, but I think no one will recognize you. You look very mysterious.”

  “And you stand out like a peacock,” she grumbled as a woman turned her head to look back at Raj as she walked past them. The woman smiled. Veronica felt a stab of jealousy when Raj smiled back.

  “The better to draw attention away from you,” he said, leading her down another alleyway in the market.

  Eventually, he stopped in a shadowed alcove and pulled her into his arms. She’d chosen to wear linen trousers and a big cotton shirt today. She’d belted the white shirt at her waist with a broad belt, and put on a straw hat that she’d found on a shelf in her bedroom. She’d been wearing ballet flats, but Raj had bought her a pair of beaded sandals as soon as they’d arrived in town.

  Now, she braced her hands on his chest and gazed up at him through dark sunglasses. He was looking at her like as if was his favorite snack.

  The thought made her shiver.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself today,” he said. And then he bent and kissed her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. She felt the same, her arms going around his neck, her body arching into his. The alcove he’d pulled her into was private, but not that private.

  He broke the kiss, though not before she felt the effect of it on his body.

  “I can think of something else I’d enjoy even more,” she purred.

  “Me, too,” he said. “But man cannot live on sex alone. We have to eat.”

  Veronica smiled. “I love to eat.”

  “Good, because I’m taking you somewhere special.”

  He led her from the market and down a wide street lined with wooden buildings painted in bright colors. People turned their heads as Raj and Veronica walked past, though she knew it was because they were looking at him and not her. Then Raj led her into a nondescript red building whose wooden facade had seen better days.

  It was sun-bleached and dusty, with palms overhanging the entry. Inside, the building was clean, but Raj led her through the room and out the back to a plank deck overlooking the bright blue sea. Several tables were scattered on the deck, topped with grass umbrellas, and Raj took her to the farthest one and pulled out a rickety wooden chair for her.

  The proprietor came bustling over, his chatter a mixture of English and Konkani. He seemed to know Raj, and they spent a few minutes conversing in both languages before the man clapped Raj on the shoulder and said the food would be out soon. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and started shouting orders.

  “You’re wondering why this place is special,” Raj said.

  Veronica shrugged a shoulder. The clank of metal and cacophony of voices in the kitchen had somehow blended together until it became white noise. “It seems like the kind of place that wouldn’t get a second look from most tourists,” she admitted.

  “Exactly. That’s part of it, since it’s not overrun by tourists. The other part is that I was eating at this very table one afternoon when I decided to buy a house here.”

  She reached for his hand, knowing that he was sharing something important with her. Raj, who wasn’t vulnerable or weak in the least, had experienced something profound and been moved into action by it. Her heart throbbed with love for him.

  He squeezed her fingers. “It may not seem like a momentous step, but it was for me. This house here was the first I ever bought for myself. Until then, I’d lived in rented condos or hotel rooms.” He turned to gaze out at the turquoise water. “Actually, it was the first real home I ever had.”

  Something in his voice carved out a hollow space inside her that ached for him. He was a little boy who’d never had Christmas, a man who’d waited—though he’d had money—to buy a home for himself.

  “You never lived very long in one place, did you?” When he’d told her they’d moved a lot, she’d assumed he meant every few months or so. When you were a kid, any upheaval was traumatic. Now, she was beginning to think it had been something more.

  He turned back to her,
his golden gaze both hard and sad at once. “The one thing I wanted more than anything as a child was to be able to have a room of my own. My own bed, my own walls, my own toys. If I unpacked my suitcase—when I still had a suitcase—we moved again. So I stopped unpacking. Then one day it was gone and everything we owned could fill the backseat of the rusty car my mom somehow managed to keep.”

  “Raj,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. She wanted to hold him, wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to take his pain away.

  He leaned forward and kissed her, swiftly and surely. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Veronica. I didn’t tell you so you would feel sorry for me.”

  She spread her palm over his jaw, caressed him. “I don’t. I’m just grateful you felt you could tell me.”

  He turned and kissed her palm. “There’s no one else I’d rather share it with.”

  The words were simple, but they choked her up. She dropped her gaze, stared at the bright tablecloth. If he knew the truth about her, he wouldn’t think so highly of her, would he?

  She had to tell him. “Raj …”

  “Yes?”

  But a waiter walked out with fresh papadum and sauces and she lost her nerve.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  The rest of the meal came soon after. They talked and ate and enjoyed the view before Raj paid the bill and they walked back out to the street.

  Soon, they were on their way to his house, the cars rolling through a beautiful tropical landscape. Goa was such a land of contrasts, she realized, as they passed a temple with a tall, conical bell tower, it’s layers crowned with carvings and dotted with arched windows. A short distance away they passed a distinctly Portuguese church, its grounds scattered with tourists wielding cameras.

  It was a beautiful place, and she could see why Raj loved it so much.

  Though she’d intended to meet with her staff again this afternoon, all it took was one hot look from the man she loved to make her amend her plans. They spent the next couple of hours in bed, wrapped in each other, living off of kisses, whispered words and slow, deep thrusts that took them to heaven and back. It would be so easy to forget the world when nothing seemed more important than what took place when they were alone together.

  But later, when the sun was sinking into the sea and they were dozing in each other’s arms, there was a knock on the door.

  “Yes,” Raj managed to say, his voice husky with sleep.

  “There is a call for the president,” someone said.

  Veronica looked up, met his gaze. She didn’t want the outside world intruding, not yet. But she had no choice. They both knew it.

  “Who is it?” Raj asked.

  “Someone named Monsieur Brun.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  VERONICA took the call on the terrace after hurriedly dragging on her clothes and wrapping an elastic band around her tangle of hair. Her chief of staff was in attendance, as well as her secretary.

  Raj watched them all as Veronica sat like a queen—a rumpled queen, he thought with a surge of possessiveness—and spoke to the former president in French. Raj didn’t understand French, but he could tell that Veronica was cool and professional.

  The sun was a bright orange ball now, the sea beneath it purple and black. High above the setting sun, bright stars were winking into existence like sequins against the midnight-blue background of the night sky.

  But Raj was focused on Veronica, and on the two people watching her so intently.

  Martine glanced up at him, then quickly looked away. Her fingers hooked together in front of her body, her knuckles whitening. She was afraid.

  But Veronica’s eyes widened and Raj’s attention snapped to her. Her chief of staff thrust a fist into the air in triumph as Veronica said something to the man on the phone, her voice laced with shock.

  Martine seemed pale, her big brown eyes blinking in surprise. And then Veronica was speaking rapidly, smiling openly and nodding. Another few moments and she put the phone down again. Then she jumped up and hugged Georges and Martine before throwing herself into his arms.

  “Brun has denounced the police chief,” she said. “He is about to hold a press conference and publicly come out in support of me.” Her eyes were shiny with tears. “He loves Aliz and wants the best for her, just like I do. Oh, Raj, this means I can continue working for my people. This is truly the best day ever.”

  He should be happy, and yet he felt as if she’d thrust a hot knife into his chest and twisted it. He’d begun to enjoy having her here, having her to himself. But when she returned to her life as president, he would return to his life, as well.

  And it wasn’t a life that included her.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said, because he had to say something.

  She squeezed him, pressing her cheek to his chest. “We can go to Aliz now,” she told him. “It’s not quite like here, but I think you’ll like it. I want to show you everything, and I want you to have Christmas with me. It’ll be wonderful.”

  He was numb. Absolutely numb. “Of course,” he replied. Because now was not the time to say anything different. Now was not the time to hang a dark cloud over her happiness. There would be time later to talk, time to explain. Time to return to reality.

  She hugged him again, then turned and started talking with her people. He watched her, watched the gestures of her long, slim fingers, the slide of her throat as she spoke, the way she talked so fast and excitedly that Martine could barely take the dictation.

  For her sake, he tried to imagine it. Tried to imagine himself in Aliz, with her. She would live in the presidential palace, of course. He would visit her there whenever he had the time. It could work.

  But it couldn’t work. She deserved better. She deserved a man who could love her and give her the family she wanted. Without hesitation or reservation. He loved being with her, and he could happily spend the next several months—years, maybe—in her bed without ever wanting to leave.

  But it wasn’t fair to her. He knew what she wanted out of life because she’d told him.

  He did not want the same thing, and it wasn’t fair to let her believe he did. He’d known it wasn’t going to last. He just hadn’t thought it was going to end so soon.

  It was late when Veronica wrapped up her meetings with her staff. There were more phone calls to be made, plans to discuss and Monsieur Brun’s speech on CNN to watch. The chief of police hadn’t surrendered yet, but he would soon. He had no support, and his last lifeline—the hope that Brun would be reinstated—was gone.

  Veronica had done a set of interviews by phone, speaking with several news reporters live on various television and radio programs, and now she was exhausted. The situation in Aliz had exploded onto the international scene in greater force with Brun’s speech.

  Everyone wanted to know where she was, but she’d kept that information private. She just couldn’t bear to have the press show up at Raj’s door after everything they’d shared here together.

  She found Raj on the terrace, a laptop computer open and glowing as he studied the information there. He looked up when she arrived, his eyes flickering over her before settling on her face again.

  The hunger she usually saw in his gaze was missing. Her stomach did a somersault. Resolutely, she walked over to his side and touched him, stroked her fingers along his jaw. He caught her hand in his, then removed it from his skin with a quick kiss to her palm. He stood and moved away before she could reach for him again.

  She stood there, stinging with the ache of rejection, hoping she was reading the situation wrong.

  Knowing she was not.

  “So this is how it ends,” she said, her throat aching.

  He looked up, as if he was surprised she’d said it instead of pretending. And then he pushed his fingers through his hair. “I think it’s best, don’t you?”

  “Why is it best? What rulebook says there is a specific way we have to do this? We—” she swallowed, knowing she couldn’t say the word she r
eally wanted to say, especially since she only knew it was true on her part”—enjoy each other.”

  “We hardly know each other, Veronica.” He looked away, his jaw firming. “We’ve had sex, nothing more.”

  Sex, nothing more.

  Oh, God.

  “I thought there was more.”

  He swore. “This is why I tried not to be so weak, why I tried to deny myself when I wanted you. Because it won’t work, Veronica. We both know it.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides, her eyes blurring. Angrily, she dashed the tears away. She was not about to cry. Not now, not when she’d just gotten a second chance in Aliz. She should feel happy, triumphant—instead, she felt desolate, ruined, as if nothing mattered.

  It was too similar to the way she’d felt a few months ago. And that angered her far more than anything else ever could.

  “I didn’t realize you were a coward, Raj.”

  His eyes flashed as he glared at her. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.” He closed the distance between them, gripped her shoulders in his strong hands. “Didn’t you listen to a damn thing I told you earlier? I don’t know how to have a home, a family. I don’t want those things. You do, and I won’t give you false hope just because I’m addicted to you.”

  A part of her—a tiny part—soared when he said he was addicted to her. But it wasn’t enough, she knew that. Wasn’t enough for him or for her. It hurt to think that it was only sex between them. But for him, it was.

  “You won’t even try,” she said.

  “No,” he replied, letting her go again. “I won’t. Because I know who I am, Veronica. I’ve had a lot of years to learn. And I won’t hurt you by trying to be something I’m not.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to stave off the sudden chill that threatened to make her teeth chatter. It wasn’t cold in the least, but she felt as if he’d turned into a block of ice—and she was freezing simply from being too close. “God forbid you challenge your own assumptions.”

  “Veronica—”