“Did you find the paper?” he asked, his voice low.
“Not yet.” She beat back a flurry of apprehension and began to search the room. She couldn’t worry about Deven now. She had to focus on why they were here.
Moving quickly, she leafed through the jumble of books, hunting through scattered papers for the sketch they’d left—but the drawing was nowhere in sight. Frustrated, she started on another pile of books. A soft thud came from the hall. She froze, shot Deven a glance. He went perfectly still.
She straightened, her eyes still on Deven, her pulse thundering in her ears. The murderer. What if he’d returned?
“Out back,” Deven whispered, motioning toward the rear exit with his head. He turned on his heel, padded across the room toward the hall, but Maya didn’t move. She wasn’t about to flee and leave him to face the danger alone.
But then he sent her another hard look, jabbed his thumb toward the door, and she hesitated, suddenly unsure. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should check the alley behind the shop. What if Singh’s men had surrounded the store and had them trapped?
Her pulse going crazy at that thought, she crept across the room to the door. She hoisted her pack to her shoulder, inched the door open, praying that the hinges wouldn’t squeak. Then she peeked at the space behind the shop.
Empty. But she couldn’t see the entire alley from here.
She glanced at Deven again. He stood dead still, his back flat against the wall, his gun ready to fire. He slashed her a glance, jerked his head for her to leave. She inhaled and stepped outside.
Every sense hyperalert, she inched away from the door. Birds chirped nearby. A clothesline flapped overhead. She scanned the graffiti-stained walls, a stack of empty crates. Farther up the alley, bags of rice were piled by a door.
Feeling vulnerable out in the open, but knowing she had to keep checking, she moved away from the shop. She padded past a large metal trash barrel, crunched over some broken glass. She stopped, swept her gaze up the deserted alley, then down to where it made a sharp bend.
Still nothing. No one was out here. She hitched out a shaky breath.
But then footsteps broke the silence, a steady slap-slap-slap coming her way.
Alarm sizzled through her. She twirled around, glanced at the bookshop door, but she didn’t have time to get back. She frantically searched the alley for cover, then dove behind the trash barrel to hide.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. She curled tighter into a ball, desperate not to be seen. The steps stopped. Her lungs closed up. Her mouth went bone-dry.
Long seconds passed. The silence lengthened, stretched, an elastic band ready to snap. Unable to bear the tension, she tipped her head to the side and peeked out. A man stood by the bookshop door, holding a gun.
She ducked back behind the barrel, her pulse running amok. She had to warn Deven—but the man stood between her and the door.
And she only had seconds to act.
She scanned the area around the trash can, spotted a loose brick—too far away. And she could never throw her backpack that far. But maybe she could startle the man, get him to fire. Surely Deven would hear the shot.
She slid the pack off her shoulder and gripped the strap, waiting until the gunman stepped toward the door. Then she lunged up and hurled it at his back. He spun around and fired.
She dove to the ground behind the barrel, her heart going berserk. He hadn’t hit her—but now she was trapped. He would catch her in a few short strides!
The door to the shop crashed open. A volley of gunfire deafened her ears. She peeked out, saw Deven sprinting toward her.
“Go!” he shouted.
She darted over and snatched up her backpack, ignoring the man stretched out on the stones. Then she bolted down the alley toward the street.
More shots blasted behind her. Desperate to escape the gunfire, she raced down the narrow lane. She neared the corner and Deven finally caught up.
Relief poured through her. He was safe, thank God. They veered down a narrow side street, then ran flat out toward the square, dodging bicycles and pedestrians, sprinting past beggars, scattering pigeons pecking for grain.
When they reached the bazaar they stopped, blocked by the teeming throngs. Maya hauled air to her fiery lungs, wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve. She glanced back, her nerves strung tight, but no one had caught up to them—yet.
“This way.” Deven plunged into the crowd, and she hurried after, merging with the chaotic hordes. She pushed through a group of tourists, ignored a potter trying to sell her a jug. Dogs barked. Housewives haggled with farmers. A man carrying a monkey went past.
Without warning, Deven stopped. “Look by the shrine.”
She craned her neck to see across the square, and her heart lurched. Several policemen stood on the shrine’s brick steps, scanning the crowd. She ducked her head, leaned close to Deven, her stomach a tumult of nerves. “What now?”
“We’ve got to get off the streets.”
But where could they hide? She had friends near here, but didn’t dare involve them in this. The bookseller’s murder proved that.
“Oh, hell. Keep your head down.” Deven snagged her arm, towed her through the crowd.
“What is it?” she asked, smothering the urge to glance back.
“Riot police. They’re heading toward us.”
Riot police? Just to find them? Her lungs seized up at the thought.
They exited the square by a line of rickshaws. “Back here. Hurry,” Deven urged, and she squeezed into the narrow space between the rickshaws and a building’s wall. He slid in beside her, and they both hunched down.
Their shoulders touched. Deven’s muscled arm pressed against hers. She tried to breathe around the tension squeezing her throat, taking comfort in his nearness, his strength.
And suddenly, she realized that even if she didn’t fully trust him, even if she’d vowed never to depend on a man again, she was glad that he was along.
But then a low drumming sound filled the air. The police thundered by, their heavy boots pounding the bricks. She peeked through a gap between the rickshaws, and the sight of riot shields and flak vests caused her to blanch.
She pressed her sweating palms to her thighs and fought down her dizzying fear. Deven was right. Singh had the police swarming the city for them. Every minute they stayed on the streets reduced their chance to survive. They had to find a place to hide, fast.
“A friend of mine lives near here,” she said when the police had passed. “Indira. She’ll help us.”
His eyes snagged hers. “She won’t talk?”
“No, she despises Singh.”
His dark brows gathered. He frowned at the street, his expression reflecting his doubt. But then he nodded. “All right. But wait here while I make sure it’s clear.”
He crawled out from behind the rickshaws, then motioned for her to come out. Praying the police wouldn’t spot them, she led the way up the street. Then she forged an erratic course through the heart of Kintalabad, taking shortcuts and detouring through alleys so no one could stay on their trail. She tried not to think about the police in close pursuit, the bookseller lying dead in his shop, the danger she might bring to her friend. But by the time they reached Indira’s muddy lane, her stomach was pitching with dread.
She stopped near Indira’s building, then carefully scanned the street to make sure they hadn’t been tracked. A moped buzzed past. A stray dog wandered along the gutter, hunting for trash. A woman walked by, carting a basket on her head.
“How do you know this person?” Deven asked.
“She’s one of the women I helped.” She sent another furtive glance behind them, waited until a group of uniformed schoolboys strolled past. Then she crossed the street to her friend’s apartment and rapped on the door.
Seconds later, the door cracked open, and Indira peeked out, the security chain firmly in place. A short, thin woman with cautious eyes, she looked up at Deven and paled.
&nb
sp; Maya couldn’t blame her. Deven loomed over the door like a herald of danger—tall, heavily muscled, his dark eyes grim, his scar an angry slash. A dusting of emerging beard stubble added to his threatening look.
She stepped forward and nudged him aside. “Indira, it’s me, Maya.”
“Maya.” Indira sounded relieved. “Come in.” She unlatched the chain and ushered them inside. But when she closed the door behind them, her gaze stalled on Deven again.
“We need your help,” Maya said. She sketched the situation, stressing the need for stealth, but omitted the bookseller’s death. Indira’s eyes grew troubled, her frown deepening as Maya spoke.
But then she turned all-business. “You must be hungry. There’s food on the stove.” Her gaze went to the bloody bandage on Deven’s arm. “And I’ve got clean bandages in the bathroom.”
“I’m sorry to involve you in this,” Maya said, praying she’d done the right thing. “But we’re desperate. We had nowhere else to go.”
Indira shook her head, making her long braids sway. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is nothing compared to all you’ve done for me.”
“Can you get us different clothes?” Deven asked, holding out a wad of rupees. “Something to help us blend in?”
“Of course.” She shooed the money away.
Maya hesitated, not wanting to put her out. “You’re sure? You won’t be late for work?”
“It will only take me a minute. There’s a laundress down the street. She’ll have extra clothes.” She eyed Deven. “I might not find the right size, though.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just be careful.” Suppressing a shiver, Maya rubbed her arms. “I don’t think we were followed, but the police are everywhere.”
“I’ll hurry.” Indira scurried off, and Maya locked the door behind her. Then she leaned back against it and closed her eyes. Her forehead throbbed. Her eyes felt gritty and dry. After the long night and chase through the streets, she ached to stretch out on a bed and sleep.
No chance of that, though. They had to get out of Kintalabad first. But for the moment they were safe—and alone. Her stomach fluttering at that thought, she opened her eyes and watched Deven prowl the tiny room.
“How did you meet up with her?” he asked, still looking around.
“In India.” Suddenly edgy, she pushed away from the door, dropped her backpack by an ottoman, and headed into the kitchen to get the food. “Her family arranged a marriage for her when she was fourteen. But the groom turned out to be a middleman for Singh. Instead of marrying her, he sold her to a brothel.”
She went to the spigot, began washing her hands. Although tragic, Indira’s story played out often enough in the Himalayas. A lucrative prostitution business and desperately impoverished families contributed to the cause.
“We found her a few years later,” she added as Deven joined her. “We brought her back, taught her to read. She passed her driver’s test, and now she drives a taxi. She’s even engaged to be married—in a love match.” Which was an enormous stride forward. Most women never got past the terrible shame and degradation they’d endured.
She glanced at Deven, then flushed, realizing what she’d said. No way did she want to discuss engagements with him.
Her face still flaming, she pulled out two plates, then busied herself ladling out food. Deven washed his hands and joined her, standing far too close in the narrow space. She tried not to look his way, but from the corner of her eye she could see his hard, jeans-clad thighs, the dark hair marching up his sinewed arms, his big hands braced on his hips.
Exasperated by her obsession with him, she held out the loaded plate. “Is this enough for now?”
“Yeah.” He took the plate, but didn’t move, and she lifted her eyes to his. The intensity of his gaze scrambled her pulse. “So how come you never married?” he asked.
She forced a shrug. “Too busy.” Hoping she sounded nonchalant, she dished out her own plate of rice. Because she wasn’t about to admit how badly she’d suffered back then—the shock and disbelief, the disillusionment and hurt. That the man she’d adored—the man who’d shared her ideals, her dreams, the man who’d planned a life with her, made soul-shattering love to her—had used her, dumped her. Lied to her.
Her chest squeezed tight at the memory of the devastation she’d endured. Deven had done more than simply reject her. He’d forced her to confront the harsh reality that people didn’t stay, at least with her. Not the parents she’d never known, not the workers at the orphanages where she’d stayed, not the man she’d loved and revered. They’d all left.
Deven had taught her to stop hoping, stop yearning, stop depending on anyone except herself. Instead, she’d dedicated herself to helping others less fortunate achieve the lives they deserved.
The love and family she’d never have.
But she didn’t care about that now. She’d learned a cruel lesson, but the pain was gone. She was stronger now, content with her life. And she preferred to go it alone.
Schooling her face to reflect her indifference, she turned toward him again. His eyes were shuttered, his expression as blank as her own. And before she could stop it, her gaze roamed the craggy, male planes of his face, the sexy scruff dusting his jaw, that basely sensual mouth.
And images tore through her with the force of an elephant on a rampage—the deep rumble of his voice in the dark, his hard muscles flexing under her palms, the erotic scrape of his beard on her most intimate skin.
She swayed, plagued by the sensual memories. Her fingers turned white on her plate. So he still appealed to her. No surprises there. He’d always demolished her senses, and he’d grown even sexier with age.
But he was still the man who’d left her.
And she’d stopped dreaming years ago.
Struggling to collect herself, refusing to let him think she’d cared, she angled her chin toward the door. “Shall we eat?”
He opened his mouth, then hesitated, as if there was something more he wanted to say. Instead, he nodded, exited the kitchen, and she sagged in relief.
Determined to rein in her wayward thoughts, she settled on the ottoman across from him and dug into her food. But despite her intentions, her gaze kept gravitating to the strong, thick lines of his neck, the solid width of his shoulders stretching his T-shirt. And more memories flickered through her, unwanted images she’d repressed for years—his dark eyes simmering with hunger, that riveting way he’d watched her, the flash of his sexy grin.
She sighed, disgusted by her inability to keep her mind off him, and bolted down her food in record time. Then, while he returned to the kitchen for seconds, she retrieved her backpack and pulled out the book she’d found.
But it was in shreds. Frowning, she examined her backpack and spotted a ragged tear in the side. She looked up at Deven as he sat back down. “The book got shot.”
He scowled. “You’re lucky it wasn’t you. That was a damned reckless thing you did back there.”
She straightened her spine, annoyed by his angry tone. What right did he have to lecture her? “He was heading inside the shop. You didn’t want me to warn you?”
“I didn’t want you to get killed.”
“Well, too bad. I don’t run off and abandon people—especially when they’re about to get shot.”
His strong jaw worked. A muscle leaped in his cheek. And emotions flashed in his eyes—anger, frustration. Pain?
She blinked, thrown off balance by his wounded look. Why would he feel hurt? He was the one who’d left her. She was the one who’d been wronged.
She dropped her gaze to the tattered book, suddenly besieged by doubts. Why did she keep seeing that pain in his eyes? Why couldn’t she shake the impression that she was missing something, that there was more to the past than she knew?
Because she was deluded, that’s why. She scoffed at her wishful thinking. She knew darned well why he’d left.
And he didn’t deserve her sympathy. She couldn’t make excuses for him, c
ouldn’t let his potent sex appeal tempt her to revise the past.
Vowing to focus on what mattered—her medallion—she flipped through the torn-up book. She studied the shredded pages, looking for diagrams, clues, willing her mind to stay on track.
“Have you found anything?” Deven asked, still sounding annoyed.
“Not much. The pages are too torn up. I’ve found a few names of languages, but there’s no way to know if they’re the one we want.”
“Nothing that matches the sketch you made?”
“No.” She glanced up, jarred by a sudden worry. “You think the murderer took the paper?”
His eyes turned grim. “It’s possible.”
“So Singh could have it.” And if the inscription was important, they’d just handed him a clue.
Shaken by that thought, knowing it was even more important to find something to go on, she paged through the rest of the book. Then she came across a cluster of fragments stuck together with blood.
She swallowed quickly, the meal she’d just eaten threatening to revolt at the sight. She tried not to think about the bookseller’s glassy eyes, his splattered flesh, the stench of blood and death.
“He must have been looking at this when he was shot,” she said, wrestling down another swell of nausea.
She carefully tugged apart the fragments, but halfway through the clump, she paused. “Here’s something. The Abatta language. Spoken in Djanpur Province.” She turned the stained scrap over. “That’s all I can read.”
“How about the illustration he mentioned?”
“No. There’s nothing else left of the page.” She double-checked the remaining pieces, then set them aside. “Judging by the bloodstains, though, this could be the language he meant.”
Deven set down his empty plate and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “You know anything about the province?”
Maya shrugged. “Just that it’s remote, impoverished, rife with smugglers and outlaws. And the Forbidden Valley is there.” A place where people mysteriously disappeared—and few dared go. “Why? You think someone there might know the language?”
The Royal Affair Page 6
