Up Close And Personal. Lynn Raye Harris

to believe he could be so duplicitous. It was a mistake, that’s all. She’d simply miscalculated, or they’d had to go a different route for some reason.

      There was no way he was forcing his wishes upon her. No way he was taking her somewhere against her will. He wouldn’t do that.

      “We’re going to my home in Goa,” he said, and her stomach went into a free fall.

      She was stunned, as if she’d been running fast and suddenly smacked up against a brick wall.

      “Goa? Isn’t that a bit far from Aliz?” She sounded so bitter, so terribly bitter. Fury was bubbling in her veins like a volcano preparing to erupt—she felt as if she would burst apart at the seams if she had to stay on this plane a moment longer.

      But what choice did she have? What goddamn choice?

      He had her right where he wanted her—and he was controlling her, taking away her autonomy, locking her up. Revulsion mixed into the vile stew inside her, rose into her throat so that she wanted to retch with the bitterness of it.

      She would not do so. She would not crumble, not now.

      “I’m sorry, Veronica,” he said, though he didn’t look sorry at all. “But it’s necessary. You can’t go back to Aliz just yet because it’s not safe for you there. The chief of police controls the government—and all the weapons, I might add. If we landed, he could execute you—all of us—before the next sunrise.”

      She was a block of ice. Her teeth began to chatter, though she tried very hard not to let them. It was no use. Raj swore, sinking down into the seat beside her and gathering her into his arms before she could stop him.

      He was so warm, so solid. And she wanted to melt against him, wanted him to hold her while she thawed, while she drew his heat into her body.

      But she couldn’t. She couldn’t accept comfort from him when he’d betrayed her. She’d trusted him, given him something of herself that she’d been unable to give in a very long time, and it meant nothing to him. He’d betrayed her so easily.

      Veronica shoved him as hard as she could. “No,” she said between clenched teeth. “Let me go. I hate you.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said again, his grip not loosening. “I had to do it. I won’t let them harm you.”

      An angry sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. And then she was fighting like a madwoman, shoving hard, screaming her fury. He let her go and she scrambled back, away from him, pressing herself against the wall, her knees drawing up to fend him off if he tried to touch her again.

      He did not do so.

      His gaze was troubled, but unrepentant. There was a long red scratch down his cheek, but she refused to care. If it hurt, so much the better. He deserved it.

      “How dare you?” she snapped. “How dare you think you have the right to decide for me?”

      His eyes flashed, and then his expression hardened. “Go ahead and have your tantrum, Veronica, but would you put them in danger, too?” he asked coldly, jerking his head toward the rear of the cabin and the men and women who sat there, pretending not to stare at them. “You have no idea what that man is willing to do, no idea what awaits you—or them—and yet you would have me take you there? You might risk it on your behalf, but can you risk it on theirs?”

      She hated that he made her feel guilty, hated that he sounded sensible. Hated that he turned this against her when he was the one who’d betrayed her. She drew in a shaky breath, trying so damn hard not to cry—because she was furious, damn it, not because she was weak—and glared at him.

      “No one would hurt them,” she said. “They’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the only one who need fear reprisal.”

      “You don’t know that,” he said, his words measured. “You only think you do.”

      Then he stood and looked down at her, his presence so big and imposing and infuriating. She wanted to tear his eyes out.

      And she wanted to kiss him. The force of the longing took her breath away.

      Veronica closed her eyes and turned her head, her cheek pressing against the cold, vibrating wall of the airplane cabin. No, never again. Her body might not realize that everything had changed, but she did. She could never, ever trust him again.

      “Go away,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

      She didn’t think he would go, but when she cracked open an eye after a long silence, he was gone.

      And she felt emptier than ever.

       CHAPTER NINE

      IT WAS early morning when they landed at Dabolim Airport on the Bay of Dona Paula. The aquamarine water sparkled like fire-tipped diamonds in the morning sunlight as the plane came in for a landing. After the snow in the U.K., the blinding blue sky was insufferably cheerful.

      Veronica didn’t feel in the least bit happy, however, though the sky was clear and the landscape looked impossibly green and verdant and warm.

      She had changed into something a bit more suited to the weather in Goa—a tangerine silk sheath and a pair of nude peep-toe pumps, since she’d not packed sandals for her official trip across the mostly chilly United States and Europe.

      When the cabin door opened and she stepped out onto the stairs, the heat and humidity wrapped around her senses and eased the chill in her bones. It was certainly welcome after wintry London, but Aliz would have been warm as well—not quite this warm, but not as frigid as northern Europe, either.

      There was no press awaiting them, which was both a surprise and a relief. She felt far too off balance just now to deal with the media hounding her. Somehow, Raj must have managed to keep their destination a secret. How long he could do so was another matter altogether.

      Martine was beside her as they descended the stairs. Georges was behind them, and the rest of the staff followed. In spite of the situation, she held her head high, determined to maintain the dignity of her office. For their sakes as well as her own.

      She’d spoken with them last night, after she’d managed to regain some of her balance, and been surprised that no one seemed to disagree with Raj’s plan. The security staff had understandably been dismayed at the turn of events both in Aliz and in London—when they’d climbed aboard Raj’s plane and put themselves at his mercy—but somehow he’d won them over in spite of it. Now they were content to let him run the show.

      She was not. She was furiously, murderously angry.

      Ahead of them, Raj stood near a fleet of Land Rovers, talking with one of the drivers. He’d changed into a pair of khaki pants, sandals and a dark T-shirt that stretched over the hard muscles of his biceps and chest, delineating every line and bulge. Her heart throbbed painfully, her body tightening in response.

      She hated that she couldn’t stop her reaction to him. She wanted to smother it, and bury it down deep. Instead, the slight soreness between her legs reminded her of all they’d done together, of the silken slide of his body within hers. The driving pleasure. The bliss of orgasm.

       Stop.

      His betrayal, coming so hard on the heels of their intimacy, stung all the more. She’d trusted him—and he’d shattered that trust into a million shards.

      He looked up then, his eyes shaded behind mirrored sunglasses. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew he was looking directly at her. Her body sizzled under his regard, her nipples tingling, her core flooding with heat.

       Damn him!

      He separated himself from the driver and came to her side. Martine fell back, out of earshot. Veronica wanted to turn and tell her secretary