“What have you done with my bodyguard?”
His scorn was not promising. “Your security is sadly lacking, Madam President. The most inept criminal could get to you with little trouble. And that’s a problem.”
“My security is fine—”
He took another step closer, his hands sliding free of his pockets like a tiger unsheathing his claws. He was Bollywood handsome, with his tanned skin and honey-gold eyes, and she found herself thinking again of tigers. Sleek, gorgeous, deadly.
Instinctively, she backed away. “Step aside and let me leave.”
His sensual lips parted in a mocking smile. Her heart stuttered, then tripped forward again. Too handsome and flashy. Too, too dangerous.
She had no use for men like this. No use for any man, she silently corrected. Not for a long time now. Not since she’d realized there were consequences to be paid.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that just yet, Madam President.”
About the Author
LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead, she married a military man and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com
Books by Lynn Raye Harris:
STRANGERS IN THE DESERT
THE DEVIL’S HEART
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Captive but Forbidden
Lynn Raye Harris
CHAPTER ONE
Late November, London
THE President of Aliz was hiding in the ladies’ room.
Veronica St. Germaine lifted her head, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. She really should go back out there, but she was tired of smiling, tired of shaking hands and making small talk, tired of feeling desperate and overwhelmed and so very out of her element.
Yet she knew she had a job to do.
For Aliz. Her people needed her, and she would not fail them. They’d entrusted her with their welfare and she would not return empty-handed.
She couldn’t.
Momentarily, she would go back to the hotel ballroom and paste on a smile. Just as soon as she regained her center of calm.
She couldn’t quite say what had triggered her need to escape. Perhaps it was the huge crush of curious faces, the suggestive looks from some of the men, or even the knowledge that she was surrounded by men in black suits who would dog her every step for the next two years of her life.
That was what she hated most of all—the loss of her autonomy. In truth, it sparked unpleasant associations she would rather forget. Until the age of eighteen, her life had been so tightly regimented that she’d not had even a single friend.
Veronica took a deep breath and pulled a lipstick tube from her purse. Another moment, and then she had to return to the elegant party.
She’d been traveling for the past two weeks, trying to drum up investment in her country. It wasn’t an easy prospect. Aliz was beautiful, with beaches and coastline and balmy breezes, but it was also poor after so many years of mismanagement. Investors wanted to know that if they poured money into the country, it wouldn’t be in vain.
She was here to convince them Aliz was a good bet.
And it was much more difficult than she’d anticipated. In so many ways, she wasn’t prepared for this job. She’d said no to running for office, but Paul Durand—an old friend of her father’s—had convinced her she was the person who could make everything right again.
She’d laughed at the idea—who was she to be president of a nation? She was famous in Aliz, but she was infamous the world over. There was a difference between the two, but Paul hadn’t listened.
He’d spoken with such passion, such conviction. And he’d convinced her she was the one person who could do the most good for Aliz. Her notoriety, far from being undesirable, was an asset in the public arena.
She reminded herself of that now. She’d done many things wrong in her life, but she would do this right. Aliz needed her. And she was not the same person she’d been when she’d fled her father’s house ten years ago.
Then, she’d been headstrong, selfish and a touch naive.
She’d been looking for adventure, and she’d done everything to excess once she’d escaped her father’s control. It had been inevitable that she would become a bad girl, a diva, a spoiled debutante. Some would even include wanton seductress on that list, but all she would say was that she’d allowed herself the freedom to take lovers when it had suited her.
A dart of pain lodged beneath her breastbone. Her last relationship had not ended so well—though it wasn’t the man who’d caused the pain that even now threatened to consume her.
If she stopped fighting for even a moment, the pain would win. Because it was her fault it had happened. Her fault the tiny life growing inside her had never had a chance.
She’d always felt impervious, as if no one could hurt her because she refused to let them, but she’d learned there were many kinds of hurt. Some hurts snuck up on you like a scorpion in the night and left you gasping and aching and wondering how you’d never known it could happen to you.
Veronica swiped a hand beneath her eyes.
Not now. She would not dwell on it now.
The lights flickered overhead. It had been snowing heavily for hours. Perhaps the power would go out after all. She resolutely sucked in a breath and bent toward the mirror to remove all traces of tears from the corners of her eyes. Then she stood and smoothed a hand down her gown.
Her pity party was finished; it was time to return to the ballroom before the power went out and she was left in the dark alone.
Veronica bit back a cry as the door to the ladies’ room suddenly swung inward. No one should have gotten past the bodyguard stationed outside.
But the intruder was a man, dressed in an all-too-familiar black suit.
She pivoted angrily. This was too much. She would not have her private moments intruded on by her security staff.
Except this man was not her guard, nor was he wearing the typical black suit of one of her people.
“Who are you?” she blurted, her heart beginning to hammer in her throat as she faced him.
The man was tall and clad in a tuxedo that appeared to be custom-fitted. The fabric looked expensive, with a hint of shine that came from how tightly the cloth was woven. His dark hair curled over his collar, his golden skin so exotic and beautiful.
She’d seen this man by the bar, talking to her old friend Brady Thompson. She relaxed infinitesimally. If he knew Brady …
“I am Rajesh Vala.”
The name meant nothing to her.
His