pleasure.” As soon as he said it, he knew they were the wrong words.
Her eyes narrowed. “And thank you for the sex,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d have survived without you to scratch my itch.”
“Veronica, you don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” she asked. “Make you feel like a bastard? I really think I do. It makes me feel better, for a short time anyway. If it’s any comfort, I’ll feel like hell ten minutes after you’ve walked out the door.”
“It isn’t a comfort,” he said. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’m not hurt. Maybe I’m just a bit angry that I’m not the one calling it off.”
“You’ll thank me later,” he said.
“I seem to remember you said that to me once before. And I told you then that I would decide what was best for me. That hasn’t changed.”
“You’re truly an amazing woman, Veronica.”
“Not amazing enough.”
“Don’t play the wounded martyr,” he snapped.
Her eyes flashed. “Look who’s talking about being a martyr. The man who would sacrifice even the prospect of happiness for a stale idea about himself that he refuses to let go.”
Her words had the power to slice deep.
But she was a hypocrite, and he wouldn’t let her get away with it. Not because he was angry, but because he wanted her to finally allow herself to heal.
“Have you decided to stop blaming yourself for your miscarriage?”
Her head dropped, her throat sliding as she swallowed heavily. “You’re right about that,” she said softly. “And unless I’m willing to let go of my guilt, I can hardly ask you to do the same, can I?”
She looked up again, speared him with that determined look he’d grown to love.
“I’ve been thinking hard since yesterday, Raj. And I’m done with guilt. As much as I can be. I don’t think I’ll ever completely forgive myself, but I’m going to learn to accept that things happen for a reason.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Her phone buzzed. They looked at each other over the blinking light for several moments. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
“Goodbye, Veronica.”
Veronica finished the call with the Moroccan ambassador and hung up the phone. Raj was gone, no doubt on his way back to the airport and then on to wherever he had decided to call home for the moment. She wanted to scream. He’d left her, and she felt so bare and raw inside.
The room was quiet. Empty. She could hear the noise outside the window, of gulls and boats, of tradesmen yelling to each other across the way, of cars and horns and everyday noise.
But she was still empty. Desolate.
He’d gone away. The man she loved had been unable to love her back. It hurt so much she thought she might die of it.
She wouldn’t, of course.
She thought of the lonely man who’d told her about living in a car, about being afraid to unpack a suitcase, about buying his first home, and her heart ached for everything that he’d suffered. They were a damaged pair, the two of them.
Veronica shoved back from her desk and strode through the office. Martine slapped the phone down, as if she felt guilty being caught talking, but Veronica could care less. In fact, she was getting tired of Martine’s hangdog looks. The last thing she needed was someone who made her feel even worse.
“I’m going to my apartment,” she said. “I need to change.”
Martine nodded and Veronica swept out of the office and down the hallway toward the private wing that held the president’s apartment. Madame Brun had decorated the private rooms of the old French Baroque palace in her own taste, and Veronica hated it. It was Marie Antoinette all the way, with fluffy ruffled things, mirrors and delicate furniture upon which one was afraid to sit for fear of collapsing the spindly legs.
One of these days, she would redecorate. But right now, it was hardly important compared to everything else that was required of her.
Damn it, she would do a good job. For Aliz, for everyone who’d believed in her. Just as soon as she had some time alone, as soon as she collected herself and felt more normal, she was calling Signor Zarella. It was time to press him for a commitment, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She had to accomplish something positive or she would go mad.
She went into her bedroom and stripped out of her clothes. A shower and a fresh outfit would do her good. When she finished, she stepped from the shower and dried herself vigorously. Then she wrapped the towel around her body and went back into her bedroom to find a different outfit.
She came up short, her heart rocketing as she realized she wasn’t alone. But then she saw who it was. She put a hand over her chest, felt the pounding of her heart. “Martine. You scared me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss St. Germaine.” Tears flowed down Martine’s cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Martine?” Veronica said, taking a step toward her secretary.
Veronica stopped when Martine shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her hand lifting, her arm stiff and straight.
It took Veronica only a split second to realize what was wrong.
Martine had a gun.
RAJ had just climbed into the car that would take him back to the airport when his phone buzzed. Dread settled in his stomach like a lead ball as he listened to the man on the other end.
Then he was yelling at the driver to stop and shoving open the car door at the same time.
If something happened to Veronica, he would never forgive himself.
His staff was already making their way to her office, he knew, but he broke into a run anyway. When he reached the ornate office, it was empty. Worse, the outer office where her secretary sat was also empty.
He made a hard dash to her private residence. Two of his men were already there, knocking on the door.
Raj pushed past them and into the interior of Veronica’s apartment. The gaudy living area was quiet. Just then, a muffled thump and a cry came from the direction of the bedroom. Raj sprinted, drawing the concealed weapon he carried, and kicked open the double doors.
Veronica was naked in the center of the room, a gun hanging limply from her hand. She swayed on her feet, her eyes wide. Another woman lay on the floor, curled in a ball, sobbing. Veronica looked up at him with glassy eyes.
