Rising Stars & It Started With… Collections. Кейт Хьюит
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though he had no right to be. She wasn’t his.
She stepped up to the microphone then and delivered a stirring speech about freedom and democracy and the rule of law. Monsieur Brun had wisely stayed away in order to prove that he really did want the torch to pass to his successor. The media pelted her with questions, all of which she answered expertly. She took a last question, and then thanked them all before turning away.
“Is it true that you and the CEO of Vala Security International are dating, Madam President?” a tabloid reporter shouted.
He watched Veronica’s shoulders stiffen, watched her turn back to the microphone. Her cheeks were full of color, but she looked so lovely that no one would think it was anything other than her natural beauty shining through.
“That was a cover,” she said. “So Mr. Vala and his team could get close to me without alerting those who might wish me harm.”
“But you’ve just spent three days in Goa, at his home. Why there?”
Veronica’s smile didn’t waver. “Because we believed I might be in danger. It was prudent not to broadcast my whereabouts to the world at large.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
A collective gasp went up from the crowd, and then a buzz of anger began in the ranks of the loyal people who’d come out to welcome home their president.
Veronica laughed that bright, tinkling laugh of hers. For some reason, it pierced him to the bone.
And then she turned and pointed at him. “Look at that man,” she said. “Is he not gorgeous? Tall and exotic, beautiful like a tiger.” She paused for a long moment, her eyes locked on him—angry, accusatory, hurt—before she turned back to the microphone. “But I assure you, there is nothing between us. Mr. Vala is all business. He does not know the meaning of fun.”
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd as she waved and turned away. He had to give it to her—she knew how to work the media. He had no doubt that everything she’d ever done had been carefully orchestrated for the fullest effect. Veronica was no idiot. She’d effectively marginalized him with that brief show.
It had been a brilliant maneuver.
They made their way to the waiting limos and on to the presidential palace—which was actually quite small by palatial standards, though definitely ornate.
Raj spent the morning with his team and Veronica’s security staff, going over plans and procedures for her safety during appearances and travel.
Afterward, he found her at an antique French desk in a spacious and bright office. Beyond the windows, the Mediterranean sparkled in the sunshine. Not as wild and untamable as Goa, but pretty nevertheless.
She looked up, her pen poised over a document, Georges hovering with his hand on the paper, ready to take it away as soon as she finished. She scrawled her signature and smiled at the man. He took the paper, glancing up at Raj with a disapproving look as he passed.
Veronica sat back and folded her arms over her chest. He tried not to think of her breasts, of how perfect they were. How her dusky nipples had grown so tight and sensitive when he’d gazed on her naked body.
How they tasted in his mouth, how every glorious inch of her felt beneath his hands.
Goddamn it.
“I’m leaving,” he said tightly. “My people will stay as long as you need them, and I’ll only be a phone call away if necessary.”
“Thank you for …” She cleared her throat and looked away. The sunlight was behind her, limning her pale golden hair like a halo. He’d never felt so rotten in his life. “Thank you for making sure I was safe.”
“My 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