Ben Hope. Scott Mariani

more attractive than Ben had ever seen her, despite the washed-out pallor of her fatigue and the dark shadows under her eyes. She was wearing a loose, sleeveless silk blouse and green satin trousers that matched her irises. She’d been crying.

      Ben had known this would be an uncomfortable meeting. It couldn’t have been any other way. The atmosphere was heavy with tension. There was a long, awkward silence. Brooke was the one to break it, by saying politely, ‘Prem, our visitor might like some refreshments.’

      Ben was so focused on Brooke that he’d forgotten Prem was still hovering at his shoulder. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

      ‘Then you can leave us now, Prem, thank you.’

      ‘I’ll take the bag,’ Ben said, taking it from Prem’s hand. Prem seemed reluctant to go. Ben supposed that he must know, or had guessed, a certain amount about the backstory between them. He might be hoping to see some fireworks if he hung around.

      Prem gave a courteous nod, muttered ‘If you’re sure there is nothing I can do for you,’ and took his leave.

      They waited until he was gone before they spoke another word. Then waited longer, neither one knowing quite what to say now they were alone together. Ben gazed at her face, so familiar, still sometimes in his dreams. He gazed at the light from the window shining in her hair and the way it silhouetted the curve of her shoulders, and he drank in the well of sadness he could see in her beautiful, tired eyes. They stood just two steps apart, but they might as well have been separated by oceans.

      Ben knew the correct and proper thing would be to congratulate her on her marriage. Somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to come out with it. Now that their past history had been sealed shut, formally and officially ended, the rekindled memories of their time together came flooding back more wistfully than ever. He could tell she was thinking the same.

      Now it was Ben’s turn to break the long silence.

      ‘Why?’ he said.

      She shook her head, not understanding, those two little vertical frown lines appearing above the bridge of her nose the way they did when she was irritated. ‘Why?’

      ‘Why?’ he repeated.

      The frown deepened. ‘You mean, why did I marry Amal?’ Her tone was defensive. She didn’t wait for Ben to answer. ‘I married Amal because he’s a good and kind man and he loves me, and because he was there for me.’

      And he didn’t walk out on me literally on the eve of our wedding, to go off on some crazy mission that could have got him killed. The subtext didn’t need to be spelled out. It was there in her eyes. ‘And in case you think I married him for his bloody money,’ she added, ‘I didn’t even know about the family wealth until afterwards, the first time we came to India together.’

      ‘It’s none of my business why you married Amal. I wasn’t asking that.’

      She shook her head again. Confused. ‘Then why what?’

      ‘Why didn’t you call me when this happened? Don’t you know I’d have been here in a shot? That I’d throw everything down to help you in whatever way I could?’

      Brooke’s frown melted. A tear rolled from one eye. She wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand.

      ‘You know why,’ she said. ‘Phoebe must have told you.’

      ‘I want to hear it from you. Why didn’t you come to me?’

      ‘Because it’s you, Ben,’ she said softly. The sadness in her eyes was making something hot and moist and salty rise up inside him. She added, ‘I couldn’t, after all the things between us.’

      ‘But you’re asking for my help now.’

      She nodded and wiped another tear.

      ‘Yes, Ben. Because it’s you. You’re the only one. I need you to do what you do best. Better than anyone. Find my husband and punish these pieces of shit who’ve taken him. Do whatever it takes.’

      He let out a long breath through his nose, looking at her and thinking of all he’d lost that day he’d walked out on her like that. ‘Well, I’m here,’ he said. ‘And I’m not leaving until we fix this. One way or another. Do you understand? I will do everything I can to make this all right.’

      She stepped forward. The ocean between them was suddenly gone. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and he could feel the wetness of her tears through his shirt. He tenderly stroked her back. Her hair smelled sweet and fragrant, the same scent that brought back a thousand more memories. He wanted to kiss the top of her head, but stopped himself. He moved his hands to her shoulders and very gently pushed her away from him, breaking the embrace.

      ‘I’m so sorry for what happened,’ he said. He could just as easily have been referring to their breakup as to Amal’s kidnapping. If Brooke picked up on the ambiguity in his words, she didn’t show it.

      ‘It’s such a relief to have you here. I’ve been at my wits’ end. I’m going crazy in this place. You’ve no idea what it’s been like.’

      Ben said, ‘Tell me everything.’

       Chapter 9

      Brooke invited him inside the room, which was a large living room with various others radiating off it. Amal’s personal quarters within the family residence were at least twice the size of her old flat in Richmond, as Ben remembered it. The décor was more classical and old-fashioned than the parts of the house Prem had led him through. Amal had always had good taste in things, Ben had to give him that.

      ‘Come, sit,’ she said, motioning to a chaise longue upholstered in satin fleur de lys. ‘You want something to drink?’

      ‘I thought it was Prem’s job to provide refreshments,’ Ben said.

      ‘I only said that to get rid of him. He’s a little too nosy for his own good, that one. Cup of tea?’

      Ben pulled a face.

      ‘Of course. I forgot, you hate tea.’

      ‘How about coffee?’

      ‘We only have decaf. Amal gets palpitations if he drinks the real stuff.’

      ‘In that case, no thanks.’

      ‘You’re right. Tastes like boiled mouse crap, and it’s full of dichloromethane. How about a real drink? God knows I need one.’ She went over to a decorative cabinet and opened it to reveal the bottles and glasses inside. She slid out a bottle and held it up. ‘Laphroaig. Ten years old. Your favourite single malt.’

      ‘You remembered.’

      She gave him a sad, tender smile. The little crow’s feet that appeared at the corners of her eyes were new, at least to him. Worry lines. ‘Ben, there isn’t a single detail about our time together that I would ever forget until my dying day.’

      He had no idea what to say to that.

      He watched as she set a pair of cut crystal tumblers side by side on the pretty cabinet, uncapped the bottle and poured a generous three fingers of scotch into each. When she’d said she needed a drink, she hadn’t been joking. She handed him his glass, fell into a soft armchair opposite him and took a long, deep gulp of her drink. It wasn’t lunchtime yet and she was attacking the whisky like a trooper. Ben cradled his in his lap, untouched so far. He’d eaten no breakfast on the plane and wanted to keep his head clear.

      She studied him for a moment as she savoured her drink. ‘You look good, Ben. I hope life is treating you well.’

      ‘Things are fine with me,’ he lied. ‘You look good too.’ Another lie. ‘But you need to go easy with the hard stuff.’

      ‘Whatever,’