Maharaja's Mistress. Susan Stephens
Читать онлайн книгу.
now. This was the best chance she was ever going to get to prove she wasn’t over-faced by Ram, by life, by anything—and she wasn’t going to waste it. ‘Surely you remember me beating the heck out of you on your best stallion when you were careless enough to choose my parents to stable your horses with?’
‘Mia Spencer-Dayly?’
Result—but could he sound any less enthusiastic?
‘That’s the one,’ Mia confirmed, keeping up the bright act.
In fairness, she had never been the girl to whom boys’ eyes were drawn, so Ram would hardly be eager to see her again. When other girls were trading style tips she’d been happiest mucking out the stables or hot-wiring the tractor. No doubt when other boys had been reading the Beano, Ram had spent his formative years mugging up information in the pages of a heavily illustrated Kama Sutra, but whether this crazy scheme of hers was mad, sad or just plain crazy, she had no intention of putting the phone down now.
According to the article in that day’s newspaper—the one beneath the stunning shot of a tall, dark and unreasonably handsome hunk of a man with thick black hair and sharp black stubble—Ram had no intention of giving up on the last leg of the Switch-Back rally.
‘What do you want, Mia?’
‘What do I want? It’s you that’s in trouble, Ram.’ She wasn’t exactly home free herself, Mia realised as her gazed fixed on the newspaper shot of Ram with his thumb casually hooked through the belt loop on his jeans, long, lean fingers pointing the way to his number one attraction.
‘Roll back the reel, Mia. Who gave you my private number?’
‘I got it from Tom, obviously—’
She held back on the duh. One step at a time. She didn’t want Ram slamming the phone down. On the other hand, she had to initiate the type of abrasive banter that had characterised their earlier relationship if she stood any chance at all of getting the best out of this conversation.
‘What do you want, Mia?’
Her mind blanked.
‘Did Tom ask you to call me?’
‘No…’
‘What, then?’
The five Ps sprang to mind: Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance. But she could never have prepared for this. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she waited for her heart to slow down. Tom and Ram were as close as brothers, but Ram owed her no loyalty—they hadn’t been in touch for years. No wonder he was suspicious. ‘Today’s newspaper?’ she said, regrouping fast. ‘The article on the front page says you need help—’
‘My co-driver’s sick—wait a minute,’ he said suspiciously. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘I could help you—’
‘You?’ Ram exclaimed as if the world and everyone in it had gone mad.
‘Why not me? I’ve got the right background.’ Having won the junior section of several international rallies before the accident put her out of the game should put her in with a chance.
Shouldn’t it?
Ram wasn’t exactly biting her hand off, but if she was serious about this she had to convince him.
‘You can’t be serious, Mia—’
‘I’m perfectly serious—’
‘Forget it, Mia. Is there anything else? I don’t have all day to stand and yap—’
‘And neither do I, Knucklehead—’
‘What did you call me?’
Ice cubes filled the air. And were just as quickly melted by amusement. Ram didn’t have to laugh or say anything for Mia to know that the balance had tipped, and that everything was going to be all right now. They had catapulted back to a different time when squaring up for a good-natured fight came as naturally to them as breathing. ‘Of course, if you don’t want my help—’
‘Your help?’
‘I don’t just meet and greet in a beauty salon, you know—I am a medal-winning rally driver—’
‘Of Dinky cars, perhaps.’
She hid a smile. This was not the moment to turn the air blue. She was almost home and dry—she could feel it. And while she might have reinvented herself as a respectable meet-and-greet girl in Monte Carlo’s most fashionable beauty salon, Ram was an international playboy, so she had to raise her game and play it smart.
Ram, a playboy…
He’d always been heading that way—dark, sexy, dangerous—
‘Are you still there?’ he demanded as heat curled inside her, and far more insistently this time.
‘I’m here…’
How did he live? Who was Ram these days—was he royal or a rogue? Was he a professional rally driver, or a professional bad boy? Ram had dropped off the radar around the same time she had, so she had everything to find out about him.
Secrets. What would life be without them?
‘Just tell me what you want, Mia.’
‘What I want? It’s your co-driver who’s gone down with a stomach bug—or maybe you scared the crap out of him with your appalling driving. Either way, I’m calling to let you know I’m here for you, Ramekin,’ she finished sweetly, using the childhood name that had never failed to infuriate Ram.
‘Like I need you,’ he scoffed.
‘Like, who else is going to volunteer at such short notice?’ Mia countered smartly. ‘Who else would want to spend the day cooped up in the world’s smallest space with the world’s biggest head? Who else won the junior section of the Davington rally that you know? And who’s here now—?’
‘In Monte Carlo?’
‘No, dummy—New Ashford, Massachusetts. Of, course, Monte Carlo. Do you seriously think I’d waste long-distance charges on you?’ She was enjoying herself now. It was a long time since she had crossed swords with the invincible Ram, and that had been back in the day when she had worn pigtails and had wielded a lollipop like a deadly weapon.
‘Okay, let’s meet.’
Ram’s unexpected concession snapped her back to attention. ‘Where?’
‘L’Hirondelle.’
As it didn’t do to appear too keen, she groaned. ‘The stuffiest hotel in the world? I thought you might have changed by now.’
‘Changed how, exactly?’ Irony coloured Ram’s voice.
‘Oh, you know—ditched the pompous balloon in favour of a regular hot-air type favoured by most men—’
‘L’Hirondelle,’ Ram repeated. ‘Six o’clock. Think you can make it?’
So he remembered her time-keeping problems. ‘Can’t we meet at the club?’
‘Which club, Mia?’
She hadn’t missed the weariness in his voice. ‘You don’t know?’ she said, faking incredulous. Not to know the hottest club in town was akin to pariah-dom in Monte Carlo. Not that she would have known which club was hot that season had it not been for the girls she shared an apartment with. They were the type of pretty girls who kept their collective ears to the ground and knew everything worth knowing. Mia was the type of plain girl who had learned to develop acute hearing over the years. Wild? Yes, she’d been wild when Ram had left England, but in a driving too fast, riding too hard kind of way—the clubbing scene had never held any interest for her. Party girl she was not, but hopefully she could wing it. ‘The Columbus?’