She closed her eyes, her chin dropping as the weight of her need pressed down on her. And the weight of her sadness.
“You should have consulted me,” she said bitterly. “You should have treated me like I was capable of offering an intelligent opinion on the subject. Bringing me here against my will was wrong.”
He sighed. “You left me no choice. You were determined to go to Aliz, no matter what anyone said to you.”
“It was my choice to make, not yours.”
“We will never agree on this subject, Veronica.”
She turned then, taking a step back. He regarded her with golden eyes that made her heart skip. So beautiful. So exotic. He’d always been exotic, and yet this setting made him more so.
“What happens now, Raj? I’m here with you, but I still have a responsibility to the people of Aliz. I can’t simply give up.”
“You aren’t giving up. Your people have issued statements on your behalf. World pressure will be brought to bear on Monsieur Brun.”
She blew out a breath. “I don’t like waiting,” she said. “I’ve never been very good at it.”
He reached out, lifted a tendril of her hair, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “I can wait,” he said, his voice a deep, sensual growl that vibrated into her belly. “I can wait as long as it takes. Sometimes, the reward is much sweeter after the waiting.”
Every cell in her body was attuned to him. Her breath had stilled, her heart, her blood—everything silent, waiting … waiting for a touch that never came.
He dropped her hair, stepped back. “Dinner is at six,” he said. “Wear something simple—but stunning.”
“Why?” she asked, the pulse point between her legs throbbing now. “Will there be guests?”
“Perhaps.” And then he left her alone on the terrace, the breeze gently caressing her, tormenting her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the tendrils of wind were his fingers, skimming oh so lightly along her skin.
At precisely six o’clock, Veronica emerged from her room, dressed in a simple black gown that was strapless and long, skimming her form down to her ankles. One side was slit to her thigh, and she’d chosen to wear tall crimson heels with jeweled straps. For jewelry, she’d kept it simple. A diamond pendant and earrings, a lone diamond bracelet.
She hadn’t heard any cars arrive, but she’d napped until nearly five-thirty before she’d awakened with a start and hurriedly gotten dressed. Now, as she glided through the sprawling house, following her nose toward the delicious scents of curry and spice, she realized there was no sound except the occasional distant voice speaking in Konkani.
The dining room was empty, but a long wall of wooden doors was opened to the terrace. She stepped out, expecting to find a small gathering of people. Perhaps Raj had invited powerful friends who could somehow help her.
But there was no one. Nothing except a long wooden table set for two with hibiscus blossoms and gleaming crystal, china and silverware. Torches flickered around the perimeter and the sound of the sea washing the beach drifted up from below. A lone man stood at one end of the terrace. She knew who it was even before he turned.
Her heart caught at the sight of him in an ornate green silk sherwani coat over traditional trousers. His dark hair had been cut since she’d last seen him this morning, the ends no longer curling over his collar. He looked like a maharaja, so exotic and handsome and regal that he took her breath away.
“Where is everyone?” she asked, because she could think of nothing else to say.
He came forward and poured a glass of wine for her. She accepted it, her body reacting with a shiver as his fingers brushed against hers ever so lightly.
“It’s just us tonight,” he said, his voice wrapping around her senses, caressing them.
“My staff?”
“Dinner in their cottages, I assume.”
She’d met with them earlier when she’d spent part of the afternoon making phone calls about the situation in Aliz. They were all tired, all stressed by what had happened. And perhaps a bit regretful that they’d been with her in London. If they’d been at home in Aliz, they’d be swept into this change from the inside and simply riding the wave until it came to rest onshore. But because they were with her, they were now outsiders, too.
Veronica took a sip of the wine, frustration and guilt hammering through her.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Veronica,” Raj said gently.
“What makes you think I was doing so?”
He shrugged, his golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Call it a hunch.”
“Is anyone else coming?” she asked, and then felt stupid since he’d just informed her it would only be the two of them.
“No,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.
He pulled a chair out for her and then sat in another nearby. At that moment, a waiter came outside with a tray. There were many small silver dishes containing food in red sauces, green sauces and bright amber sauces. There was also creamy raita and naan bread, as well as fragrant basmati rice. Fried fish, fried prawns and salads of purple onion slices with tomatoes and cucumber rounded out the variety. And then there was chutney and thin, crispy yellow papadum.
If she weren’t so hungry, she’d get up and go back to her room. She was supposed to be angry with him, not companionable. But the food smelled too good, and the night air was warm and fresh.
And she just didn’t feel like fighting with him again after the stress of the past twenty-four hours.
“Fish curry is a Goan specialty,” he said after she’d filled her plate with a bit of everything.
She took a bite and the flavors exploded on her tongue—the spice, the fresh fish, the tomatoes and hints of coconut milk. “It’s delicious,” she said.
It was awkward at first, but eventually they started to talk about subjects that weren’t sensitive in the least. They avoided anything personal, avoided Aliz or what had happened between them last night. There was even a discussion of Bollywood movies—Raj hadn’t seen many, and Veronica was surprised.
“I was born in Britain, but raised in America,” he explained. “And then I joined the military. I haven’t spent a lot of time watching any movies, much less Indian ones.”
“How did you like the military?” she asked, dipping a piece of naan into a masala sauce before popping it into her mouth.
He didn’t look at her. “Well enough,” he said. “It got me where I am today.”
She could picture him in military fatigues, silver dog tags hanging from a chain around his neck. He was tall, broad, tough—the kind of man to whom a weapon was an extension of his body and not just a foreign object. It’s what made him so good, she realized. And so lonely.
“So where is home for you? Where is the place you most identify with?”
She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if he stiffened. And then he was looking at her sharply before he smoothed his expression. “I’m a mutt,” he said. “I have no specific home.”
“A mutt?”
“Someone of mixed ancestry, like a dog that you can’t quite tell what the dominant breed is.”
“But you live in London,” she said, trying to approach it from a different angle. “Is that the place you prefer over the rest?”
“I don’t prefer anywhere. I go where I want to go.”
“Like here?”
“Precisely.”