“No,” she snapped, taking a step closer to him again, jabbing her finger into his chest. “If you’re so damn smart, and know so much, then why didn’t you just tell me no in the first place? No matter how much I wanted you, you could have said no. You could have spared us both.”
He raised his hands as if to surrender. “You’re right. I could have. I didn’t because I’m human. Because I can be a selfish bastard. Because I still want the things I know I can’t have.”
“After everything I told you,” she said, sucking in a harsh breath. She couldn’t complete the sentence without screaming.
“Yes, after everything. Because I’m a man, and you’re a damn sexy woman who was hot for me. It’d take a saint to say no to you.”
Fury swelled inside her until she thought she would burst if she didn’t act. She wanted to slap him, wanted to smack the arrogance right off his face. But she couldn’t hit him, couldn’t hit anyone.
It was so, so wrong.
And it was her fault, too. She wasn’t blameless in this. It was her fault that she’d told herself whatever he could give her was enough.
It wasn’t.
“I trusted you, Raj. Losing my baby was the most devastating thing that ever happened to me. I didn’t think I could feel again, didn’t think I—”
She pressed a fist to her chest, throat aching. She couldn’t say another word. If she did, she would scream. He was looking at her, his expression stark.
Well, that’s how she felt, too. Stark. Empty.
“You don’t need me, Veronica,” he said. “You’re strong enough and brave enough on your own. And you’ll find what you’re looking for. Someday.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said, half to herself. “I knew this was inevitable.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “Hell, maybe you are right. Maybe it’s better this way. Because you wouldn’t have wanted me once you knew the truth.”
His gaze sharpened, his body stilling. As if he were a hunter scenting prey.
“The truth?” He sounded so dangerous.
She didn’t care. What did it matter? She looked him in the eye. “It’s my fault my baby died. So you see, even if you wanted a family, I’m not the sort of woman you’d want to take that chance with.”
He swore, a rude word she’d never heard him use before. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know that’s not true. You aren’t responsible for your miscarriage, no matter what kind of crazy idea you’ve got into your head about it.”
Anguish ate her from the inside out. “Don’t tell me I’m not responsible! You weren’t there. I didn’t know I was pregnant, Raj. I kept drinking, kept staying out late and having a good time—by the time I knew I was pregnant, the damage had been done.”
He put his hands on her shoulders—firmly—and forced her to look at him. “Women don’t lose babies because they drink alcohol, Veronica. Haven’t you ever seen a drug addict have a child? The baby is usually born with devastating health problems, but the baby is born. A few drinks didn’t kill your child.”
Her stomach was a solid ball of pain. “You don’t know that.”
His jaw clenched, his eyes glittering with some emotion she couldn’t identify. “I do know. I’ve seen it. My mother was a drug addict. Not when I was young, but as I grew older. And I saw the kind of people she did drugs with. Believe me, if they didn’t lose the children they were carrying because of what they did, you definitely didn’t.”
She sucked in a breath, refused to let it become a sob. She wanted to believe him. She’d always wanted to believe, but she’d never been able to. The doctors had told her it wasn’t her fault, that the miscarriage would have happened regardless. She’d just never believed them.
Raj pulled her into his embrace, held her tight for a long time. She closed her eyes, breathed in his scent, her heart hurting so much she wanted to fall asleep and not wake up for a hundred years.
Because she knew, before he said it, that he was still saying goodbye.
“You deserve happiness, Veronica. That’s why I’m letting you go.”
Early the next morning, they left for the ten-hour flight to Aliz. Raj purposely kept himself away from Veronica for the duration. She never once looked at him, so he had plenty of opportunity to watch her. She was pale. Her hair was pulled back into a loose knot on her head, and she wore a black dress with a jacket and heels. There were circles under her eyes, and the tip of her nose was red, as if she’d been crying recently.
It gutted him to think she had.
Still, she was beautiful. Remote and regal, more like the Veronica he’d met the first night in London. The one who would never deign to lower herself to sleep with a bastard like him. Better for them both if she hadn’t.
He’d lain awake last night, his body aching for her. His heart aching for her. That was a new sensation, but he’d shoved it down deep and slapped a lid on it. He had no room for sentimentality, not with her, not with anyone. If he let himself care, even the tiniest bit, tomorrow something would happen and it’d be time to move on again. He couldn’t unpack the suitcase, no matter how much he wanted to do so.
Except that he did care, damn it. When she’d stood there, her eyes shining with pain, and told him she was to blame for what had happened to her, he’d thought he would have to punch something. Preferably Andre Girard.
She’d been living with so much pain and guilt. She’d needed someone to stand beside her during that time, and there’d been no one.
A little voice told him he could stand with her now, but he shoved it away. He’d made the decision that was best for them both, and he couldn’t go back on it simply because his heart felt as if it were being ground to powder.
Now, he was taking her back to Aliz and leaving one of his best teams there to protect her. They would also train the presidential guard on proper procedures before they left Aliz permanently.
He never wanted to worry about her safety again. He’d gotten the reports on the people she’d had with her in London; nothing stood out. No one had any reason to want to harm her, which brought him back to square one. The security guard who’d been dismissed had to have been in the employ of someone in Aliz.
It wasn’t the former president, but it could have certainly been the police chief. He could have found out about the baby and decided to use that to frighten her. Perhaps he’d reasoned that if Veronica didn’t want to return to Aliz, his power grab stood a better chance of being successful.
When they landed in Aliz, the television cameras were waiting. The tarmac was packed with supporters bearing signs with Veronica’s name, with slogans, with the name of her hit song. They chanted and laughed and sang as she exited the plane and descended the stairs like a queen.
Veronica was so poised as she waved and smiled. His heart flipped. He was so proud of her, 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 c
ollective 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 upon which one was afraid to sit for fear of collapsing the spindly legs.
One of these days, she would redecorate. But right now, it was hardly important compared to everything else that was required of her.
Damn it, she would do a good job. For Aliz, for everyone who’d believed in her. Just as soon as she had some time alone, as soon as she collected herself and felt more normal, she was calling Signor Zarella. It was time to press him for a commitment, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. She had to accomplish something positive or she would go mad.
She went into her bedroom and stripped out of her clothes. A shower and a fresh outfit would do her good. When she finished, she stepped from the shower and dried herself vigorously. Then she wrapped the towel around her body and went back into her bedroom to find a different outfit.
She came up short, her heart rocketing as she realized she wasn’t alone. But then she saw who it was. She put a hand over her chest, felt the pounding of her heart. “Martine. You scared me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss St. Germaine.” Tears flowed down Martine’s cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Martine?” Veronica said, taking a step toward her secretary.
Veronica stopped when Martine shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her hand lifting, her arm stiff and straight.
It took Veronica only a split second to realize what was wrong.
Martine had a gun.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RAJ had just climbed into the car that would take him back to the airport when his phone buzzed. Dread settled in his stomach like a lead ball as he listened to the man on the other end.
Then he was yelling at the driver to stop and shoving open the car door at the same time.
If something happened to Veronica, he would never forgiv
e himself.
His staff was already making their way to her office, he knew, but he broke into a run anyway. When he reached the ornate office, it was empty. Worse, the outer office where her secretary sat was also empty.
He made a hard dash to her private residence. Two of his men were already there, knocking on the door.
Raj pushed past them and into the interior of Veronica’s apartment. The gaudy living area was quiet. Just then, a muffled thump and a cry came from the direction of the bedroom. Raj sprinted, drawing the concealed weapon he carried, and kicked open the double doors.
Veronica was naked in the center of the room, a gun hanging limply from her hand. She swayed on her feet, her eyes wide. Another woman lay on the floor, curled in a ball, sobbing. Veronica looked up at him with glassy eyes.
He went and wrapped his arms tightly around her. She was trembling. He took the gun from her fingers and unloaded it with one hand before tossing it onto the bed. Belatedly, he remembered her state of undress. He retrieved the towel lying on the floor, draped it around her. It was damp and cool, but it was all he had.
His men came to lift up Martine and take her away.
“Don’t hurt her,” Veronica said as Martine screamed.
“They won’t, I promise you.”
The room was quiet once Martine and the bodyguards were gone. Veronica lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed. It tore him apart. She reached out as if to touch his face, let her hand drop when she thought better of it.
Despair tore into his gut. He’d done that to her. He’d made her wary of him, and he hated it.
“I’m sorry, Veronica,” he said.
She sucked in a shaky breath. Clung to him.
As much as he knew he should set her away, should put distance between them, he couldn’t do it. He loved the feel of her in his arms. He wanted to hold her for as long as he could.
His arms tightened around her. He’d almost lost her.
“Martine’s mother …” she said.
“I know. I just found out.”
“Madame Brun was behind it all,” she said. “She probably talked the police chief into doing what he did.”
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