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
