Up Close And Personal. Lynn Raye Harris

tore through her at the silken sound of his voice. She hardened her heart and kept looking straight ahead. “Furious,” she spluttered.

      “But alive,” he added, and she whipped her head sideways to glare at him. The red mark on his face was fading. She hadn’t drawn blood, so it would disappear soon. She wanted to reach out and touch him, soothe him—and she wanted to mark him again. The feelings warring inside her were so tangled that it hurt to try and sort them all out.

      “You say that like you know for certain what would have happened in Aliz. You don’t, so I would appreciate it if you would admit there were other possibilities.”

      He shrugged, further inflaming her. “It’s possible. But what I do is plan for the worst—and then avoid it.”

      “Or perhaps you create the worst,” she said. “Aliz had a chance before you abducted me. Now, no one will come to her rescue.”

      She didn’t truly know that, but she was too angry not to say it.

      His frown turned down the corners of his sensual mouth. “And who is making assumptions now? I hardly think it’s my actions you need worry about. It’s Monsieur Brun’s and the chief of police’s.”

      Her heart skipped a beat at the former president’s name. He had not liked her, that was certain. He’d attacked her in the media for months before the election, and he’d said the most vile things. That, however, was politics.

      “Have you had more news?”

      “None yet. The police have shut down communications for the time being. Nothing is getting out now.”

      She could hope that somehow Signor Zarella remained ignorant of the situation, though she didn’t count on having that kind of good fortune. News of the coup had already made it to CNN, and it was only a matter of time before more news started to trickle out of Aliz again.

      “I should be there,” she said.

      “You should be anywhere but there,” Raj replied.

      They’d reached one of the Land Rovers. He opened the door for her and she climbed in. When he got in beside her, she turned away from him, her pulse kicking up at his nearness. Martine and the others settled into the other cars, and then they were on their way, rolling south through lush country filled with palm trees, tall grasses and jade-green rice paddies. In the distance, gray shadowed hills rose up as a backdrop to the lush landscape.

      It was exotic and beautiful, as were the brightly colored saris of the women they passed on the road. Goa was a mixture of the modern and ancient, and she found herself studying everything with the kind of interest of someone who’d always longed to go places. She’d traveled plenty over the past ten years, but she’d never come to India … an oversight she was sorry for now that she was here.

      They passed the crumbled ruins of something that looked like a medieval fortress, and she craned her head as it faded away behind them again. It had seemed so odd, so strangely European in this setting.

      “The Portuguese settled in Goa in the sixteenth century,” Raj said, correctly guessing at her thoughts. “They only recently left. Much of their architecture is still evident in the villages and towns. Their influence can be found in the food, and there are even a few churches that remain.”

      She didn’t want to look at him, but she did anyway. “You are originally from here?”

      His expression seemed distant, a bit sad perhaps. “My father was Goan, though I did not know him. He and my mother divorced when I was two.”

      “But you have a house here.”

      “Yes. I wanted to see my heritage, or half of it anyway.”

      “Do you have family nearby?”

      “If I do, I don’t know them. My father died in England when I was a child. Any connection to family was lost a long time ago.”

      “Where does your mother live, then?” She didn’t want to talk to him, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She remembered that his mother was American, and she was curious. He seemed so exotic, as if he belonged here, and yet he was actually more American, or European, than he was Indian.

      “She’s in a home,” he said, his eyes so distant and troubled. “Her mind is gone now. She doesn’t know who I am.”

      In spite of her anger, a swell of emotion threatened to clog her throat. “I’m sorry, Raj. That must be terrible for you.”

      “She did it to herself,” he said. “Drug use.”

      He said the words so matter-of-factly, but she knew they hurt him. She could see it in his expression, in the way he stared into the distance, as if he didn’t see her beside him. What must he have suffered, watching his mother go through something like that?

      She didn’t remember her mother. She had impressions sometimes of a soft, laughing woman that were so fleeting she wondered if she’d imagined them. Her father had never talked of her mother once she was gone. He’d simply smothered his daughter in an attempt to keep her from leaving him, too. As if death could be cheated by imprisonment.

      They rode the rest of the way in silence, finally turning and climbing steadily up a hill until they reached a sprawling estate that perched over the Arabian Sea below. The land was dotted with tall swaying palms, green grass that tumbled down to white-sand beaches and bordered by the sparkling sea that went on forever before finally curving into the horizon.

      It was beautiful, far more beautiful than she’d realized it would be. The sea view reminded her of Aliz, and a pang of emotion clawed into her belly as she thought of her nation. What was happening there now? Would she ever see her home again?

      A woman in a bright turquoise sari edged in gold and shot through with green threads emerged from the house, followed by a cadre of servants, who collected luggage and issued instructions. Veronica’s gaze kept straying to the sea, and when she finally looked back again, she realized that she and Raj were alone.

      “The view is even better from the terrace,” he said.

      “Where is my staff?”

      “They’ve been shown to the guest cottages. Don’t worry, they will be quite comfortable there.”

      “I’d like a guest cottage, too,” she said, her heart suddenly picking up speed again at the prospect of being left alone with him.

      “You will stay in the main house,” he said. “With me.”

      “I’d rather not.” She lifted her hand to shade her eyes as he moved, the light off his sunglasses reflecting the sun and sending a bright shaft of light into her vision.

      Then he was before her, so close—too close—and the brightness was gone.

      “You have no choice,” he replied. “It is for your safety.”

      A shiver of dread washed over her. And then there was something else. Something warm and electric. Something he caused by standing so near, by filling her senses with his scent and his presence.

      “And who will keep me safe from you?” she said softly.

      One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. A predatory smile. “That is entirely up to you, Veronica. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

      “I won’t,” she declared. “I’d rather curl up with a cobra.”

      He laughed. “This is India. That can be arranged.”

      Veronica followed him into the house, the brightly clad woman appearing once more as soon as they were inside. She spoke to Raj in a language Veronica didn’t recognize. He said something in return, slowly she thought, as if he were figuring out the words.

      And then the woman was turning and sweeping down the hallway like a dazzling exotic bird flying away.

      “Your room is this way,” he said, leading