Captive but Forbidden. Lynn Harris Raye
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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.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. Everyone has enemies.”
“But not everyone is the president of a nation. You have to take every anomaly, no matter how small, as a legitimate threat. You have no choice now.”
“I realize that.” Her voice was ice.
“Then you must also realize that we wouldn’t actually be lovers,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “That’s not why I’m here.”
A shame, really. She was an extraordinarily sensual woman. He’d watched her work the room from his position at the bar earlier. She’d slain men with her smile, with the high, firm breasts that jutted into the fabric of the purple dress she wore. With the long, beautiful legs he’d glimpsed through the slit in the fabric when she walked.
Her platinum-blond hair was piled onto her head, and her dress dipped low in the back, revealing smooth, touchable skin. Men had tripped over their tongues as they’d gathered around her. He’d watched it all with disdain.
Until he’d gotten close to her. His visceral reaction had been strong, his body hardening painfully. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. He was accustomed to want, to deprivation and pain. The military had made sure of it. Denying himself pleasure, no matter how much he might want it, was easily done.
“Even the appearance of it would be too much,” she replied, her words crisp and lovely in the French accent of her homeland. “I am the president. I have an image to maintain.”
“You’re a single woman, Veronica. You’re allowed to date. And Aliz’s is not the sort of culture that would take you to task for it.”
“Aliz has had one crisis after another. They need a president who is focused on their welfare, not on her personal life.”
He found the words ironic coming from her, but he allowed it to pass without comment.
“They also elected you because you are glamorous and exotic to them. You’ve achieved fame on the world stage, and they are proud of you. If you become simply another staid politician, you will disappoint them. They want you to fix things, but they also want you to be the Veronica St. Germaine they know and love.”
“You can’t know that,” she said angrily. “You are saying whatever you think will further your personal agenda.”
A current of annoyance rippled through him, only partly because it was true. “My personal agenda? I’m doing you a favor, Madam President, in trying to protect your lovely behind.”
“How dare you suggest I should be grateful when you keep trying to give me something I don’t want?”
What she needed was a hard dose of reality.
He grasped her shoulders, pulled her closer to him. He did it for effect, not because he wanted to kiss her. Not because he’d been dying to kiss her from the moment she’d turned to him when he’d entered this room.
Never because of that.
Her palms came up, pressed against his chest. “What are you doing?” She sounded breathless. Not scared, not angry. Breathless. Anticipating. Wanting.
If he were a weaker man, she would be the ruin of all his fine control.
“We’re alone and you’re at my mercy,” he said, making sure his voice was harsh rather than seductive. “If I’d come to harm you, no one would stop me.”
“I’m not helpless,” she replied. “I took a self-defense course.”
Raj laughed. He couldn’t help it. Self-defense was good. Everyone should take a self-defense class. And yet …
“There are people against whom your average self-defense techniques don’t work. Because those techniques rely on surprise, and some people cannot be surprised. Some people are trained killers, Veronica.”
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