Captive but Forbidden

Heat suffused her from the inside out. Somehow she managed to scoot backward on the bench, to put distance between them. Was she that transparent? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But she did. Because he touched her so lightly, so expertly, that her body was tightening like a bowstring.

There was definitely something there, something between them … something that would combust if she let it. Part of her desperately wanted to let it …

“Yes, you do,” he said softly. His tone was that of a lover.

Did he feel it, too?

“Maybe …” she breathed.

But his next words shattered that illusion.

“Your presidency is too new, Aliz is in turmoil and you aren’t safe.”

Every word was like a blow. Embarrassment flooded her in bright, white-hot waves. She’d been preoccupied with the way he made her feel when he touched her, and he was nothing but business. Damn him for making her forget, even for a moment.

“Those things are none of your concern,” she said evenly, thankful he couldn’t see her flushed face. Thankful there was no light to give her away. “Nothing you can do will fix it overnight.”

“This isn’t a game, Veronica. You can’t quit this party when it no longer amuses you.” Raj heard her draw in a breath. He’d probably insulted her, but he didn’t give a damn.

Because Veronica St. Germaine was precisely the sort of woman he had no sympathy for.

She was a slave to her passions, her wants, her desires. She was the worst kind of person to be entrusted with the welfare of a puppy, let alone a nation—yet here she was.

And here he was, damn Brady to hell. Raj hadn’t wanted to do this job, but Brady had begged him.

For old time’s sake. And since Raj owed at least a measure of his success to Brady’s faith in him when he’d been fresh out of the military and working his first security job so many years ago, he couldn’t say no.

So now he was sitting in the dark with a too-sexy, spoiled society princess and arguing over whether or not she needed his help.

He should just kiss her and put the matter to rest. He wasn’t unaware of her response to him. He also wasn’t unaware of her reputation as a woman who pursued her appetites relentlessly, be they clothes, shoes, fast cars or men.

And at least one part of his anatomy didn’t mind the prospect of being an object of her desire.

Not that he would allow himself to go down that road.

It’d been a long time since he’d personally guarded anyone, but he had never allowed himself to get involved with a client. It angered him immensely that he’d nearly violated that creed with her.

He didn’t know why he’d allowed himself to succumb to the temptation to stroke his fingers along the creamy skin of her exposed back. She was not the kind of woman he would ever get involved with. It wasn’t that she wasn’t desirable—she definitely was—but she was self-centered and destructive. Poisonous.

“I know this isn’t a game!” she barked. “Do you really think I don’t?”

He’d heard those words before. Or ones very like them anyway. He knew all about people who had no control over their impulses. People who claimed to want to conquer their addictions, but inevitably slid back into them when life got too hard or too boring or too hopeless.

He had no sympathy for her. She’d taken on this task, and she deserved no pity if it was turning out to be too difficult. After all, her people would get none if she faltered. “It’s a big responsibility you’ve accepted. Not quite your usual thing, is it?”

He could feel the fury rolling from her in waves.

“You know nothing about me, Mr. Vala. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your pop psychology to yourself.”

She was cool, this woman. And blazing hot on the inside. He was beginning to understand the public fascination with her.

He’d made sure to have his people prepare a dossier on her before he’d ever come to the hotel tonight. He hadn’t read the entire thing during the limo ride over, but he’d skimmed enough to get an idea.

A dilettante in the worlds of fashion, music and television, she’d designed a line of clothing, recorded a hit album and had her own late-night talk show for a brief time in America.

She’d been a darling of the tabloids. Her face and figure were splashed on more magazine covers worldwide than were the royals. It was astounding.

Until about a year ago, she’d regularly appeared. Then she’d dropped out of sight. Working on a new project, her spokesperson had said at the time, though the speculation had been that she was nursing a broken heart after a failed affair.

When she’d emerged from hiding four months later, she’d been relegated to a small blurb on the pages she’d once dominated. It had been shortly afterward that she’d declared her candidacy for president.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out why she’d done so, because suddenly she was back on top, a darling of the media once more.

He understood where that kind of need for attention came from, but he had no patience for it. People like her destroyed those foolish enough to get close to them.

Or those who had no choice—like children.

More than once he’d watched his mother spiral into the depths of her selfish need for attention, unable to stop her. Unable to prevent the crash. He’d survived that life, but he certainly hadn’t come away unscathed.

“A lover could get close to you without suspicion,” he said. “It would be a way to provide extra security without anyone on your staff questioning the addition.”

“You aren’t listening to me, are you? I don’t like you, and I can’t take a lover. Even a false one.”

He didn’t bother to point out that she did like him. That she’d been sending him signals from the moment he’d entered the room. Frustration hammered into him. Why was he arguing with her? He’d done what he’d promised Brady he would do. He’d tried to help. Now he could take her back to her suite and leave her there in good conscience.

Except it wasn’t in his nature to give up so easily, especially when he believed she truly was in danger. Her country was in turmoil, and it was well-known that the previous president hadn’t been too happy with the outcome of the election. Aliz was a democracy, but only just. And Monsieur Brun had been in power for twelve years before he’d lost to this woman who had no political experience whatsoever.

Disgruntled loser was an understatement.

“You need protection, Veronica. That threat should never have gotten through the layers surrounding you. It will escalate, believe me.”

He could feel her stiffen beside him. “There’s been no threat.”

“That’s not what Brady says.”

Her breath hissed out. “I knew it. It was one word, made of newspaper letters and glued to a piece of paper. That’s hardly a threat!”

Every instinct he had told him otherwise. It was an ugly word, the kind of word that was filled with hate and derision. Spoken in anger was one thing. Deliberately pasted together and sent? “Did you keep the letter?”

“I threw it away.”

He’d expected as much, though it would have been better if she had not. “Has it happened before?”

“Before I was president?”

“Precisely.”