She helped him remove cushions and unfold the bed from the couch. Once that was made, he disappeared into her bedroom and came back with a pile of blankets and pillows that he laid out on the floor nearby.
She felt guilty as she climbed into the cozy bed, and yet she couldn’t bear to sleep in the other room. She’d thought she could, but she couldn’t.
And tomorrow, she was going to play the diva and demand another room. At least her reputation was good for something.
“Raj,” she said once the light was out and everything was quiet again.
“Yes?”
“Where did you sleep that was worse than a floor?”
“You don’t really want to know.”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. Though if you don’t want to say, that’s a different matter.”
She heard him sigh. “I was in the military, Veronica. The Special Forces. I’ve slept in mud, blood, blazing deserts and freezing blizzards. A floor in a posh hotel is heavenly.”
“I still feel badly for taking your bed,” she said.
“Then invite me into it.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “You say that to shut me up. I heard what you said to Brady.”
“Maybe I lied.”
Her heartbeat throbbed in the darkness. “I don’t believe you.”
“Invite me into your bed and find out.”
Flames licked her skin at the thought. “Good night, Raj,” she said, punching her pillow and turning onto her side.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he laughed softly. “Sleep well, Veronica.”
There wasn’t much chance of that now that he’d planted the image in her head of the two of them in this bed together. Skin against skin, heat against heat, soft against hard.
She practically moaned at the thought.
LONDON was beautiful in the snow, especially Hyde Park with all its trees and open expanses. Though it was dark, the snow made everything bright and fresh. Veronica knew that it wouldn’t necessarily look so pristine during the day when all the warts and blemishes of humanity shone through.
But for now, she could enjoy it as her limousine crawled its way toward Mayfair and the exclusive party she’d been invited to there.
Tonight, she hoped to persuade Giancarlo Zarella, the Italian hotel baron, to bring one of his exclusive resorts to Aliz. Where Giancarlo went, others would follow.
But rather than concentrating on the Italian and going over the information about him that she’d been given, she kept thinking of Raj. She had not seen him since this morning.
He’d shaken her awake early, telling her they had to put the bed away before her secretary arrived with the morning dispatches. She’d been bleary-eyed, but she’d obeyed.
Or, rather, she’d mostly watched while Raj fixed everything. Then he led her into the bedroom and told her to climb into the bed. In the gray light of morning, the bed hadn’t looked so frightening. She’d complied, falling asleep immediately.
When she’d awakened a second time—with a hotel maid delivering her breakfast tray and Martine standing stoically near—Raj was gone. Brady arrived a bit later, and once she’d answered her dispatches and sent Martine on an errand, she’d quizzed Brady.
Raj Vala was not simply a bodyguard. He was self-made, the owner of Vala Security International, a very successful firm that provided elite corporate and internet security.
According to Brady, Raj was a loner. And he was every bit as hard and ruthless as she’d thought he would be, with a military Special Forces background and the drive to be the best in everything he did.
Raj, Brady assured her, would make sure she was completely protected from harm.
After last night, she tended to believe it. She took her phone from her purse and checked her text messages. She would not ever be caught without a personal phone again.
The text from Raj was still there, still brief and to the point: he would meet her at the party. She smoothed a hand down the sleek ice-blue Vera Wang dress she wore. It was strapless, slit up one side, and shimmered as if it had been sewn with millions of tiny lights.
She told herself she’d chosen it to appeal to Signor Zarella, but the truth was she’d been thinking of Raj. Her hair was tousled and long, flowing artfully around her face and over her shoulders. She checked her makeup in the small mirror she’d tucked into her purse and breathed deeply to control the racing of her heart.
It wasn’t like her to be nervous. She’d always loved parties, always loved getting dressed up and going out with other people who laughed and talked and helped her feel as if she were catching up on everything she’d missed growing up.
Except that now, part of her wished she could be anywhere but here. The thought of mingling with yet another crowd failed to cheer her the way it once would have.
The limo arrived at the Witherstons’ grand Georgian town house, and Veronica deliberately turned her thoughts to Giancarlo Zarella. She had a duty to perform. Obsessing over her personal issues wouldn’t help her to get it done.
Her bodyguard—a different man from yesterday—preceded her from the car. Three other Alizeans exited a car that had been following and formed a loose band around her. They were all very serious about their jobs today.
After they went inside and Veronica gave her thanks to the host and hostess, her security team peeled away until she was left with one man following at a discreet distance.
Inside the ornate ballroom, she was swept into the whirl and chatter of the crowd. Men and women introduced themselves in dizzying succession, her hostess having appeared from somewhere to guide her through the maze. She was still hoping to talk with Signor Zarella when Mrs. Witherston gave a little gasp.
“Madam President,” she said breathlessly, “allow me to introduce you to Raj Vala.”
Veronica turned sharply, her gaze clashing with Raj’s. He was smiling at her as if he’d never seen her before in his life.
“Pleased to meet you, Madam President,” Raj said.
“Likewise, Mr. Vala,” Veronica replied, following his lead.
But her heart began to beat double time as she took him in. He was far too handsome in his bespoke tuxedo, the white shirt once more setting off the golden color of his skin and eyes.
Truly, it should be against the law for a man to be so striking.
The jazz ensemble struck up a tune and Raj reached for her before she realized what he was about. “Do me the honor, Madam President?” he asked, as Mrs. Witherston tittered like a Regency matron.
“Of course,” she said as she put her hand in his. What else could she say? What else did she want to say?
Raj swept her into the swirling crowd, one hand firmly against her back, the other clasping hers. The pressure of his touch comforted her, made her feel as if she’d come home again after a long time away.
She hated it. Hated how her body reacted, how her mind seemed to want to attach significance to this man. He might be able to keep her physically safe from harm, but he could not keep her safe from himself if she insisted on lying helplessly in the tiger’s claws.
She knew better, and yet she turned into a puddle each time he touched her.
“How