Up Close And Personal

No matter what Brady seemed to think she was capable of. No matter what she might have done a little over a year ago when confronted with a man of such beauty and power as this sexy tiger in black.

The old Veronica would have made him blush.

“I’m beginning to understand you,” he said in her ear. “You challenge those around you as a way to deflect attention from yourself. And yet you’ve been elected to a very public position. Odd, is it not?”

A stone dropped inside her stomach. It was too close to the truth. Too close to who she’d been before she’d lost her way. “Save yourself the trouble of trying to analyze me, Mr. Vala.”

“Don’t you think you should call me Raj now?” His hand around her wrists was hot, his skin still burning hers with his touch. Though it was dark, she closed her eyes.

Raj. It was exotic, like him. She wanted to say it aloud, wanted to try it on her tongue.

But she would not.

“I see no need,” she said. “As soon as the lights come back on, I don’t ever intend to see you again.”

“You need me, Veronica. Whether you wish to admit it or not.”

She swallowed. “I don’t need anyone.” She’d made sure of it over the years—and she’d only been wrong once.

His hand dropped from her waist. A moment later, she felt the tips of his fingers sliding along her spine where her dress opened, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Mr. Vala …”

“Raj.”

“Raj,” she said, giving in to his demand because she hoped it would stop the insane stroking of her skin. It did not.

She wanted. And yet she couldn’t allow this side of her nature to surface, not now. Not ever again. The only way to protect herself from harm was to suppress her feelings. Feelings of need, of loneliness, of desire.

Human feelings.

No.

Veronica sucked in a shaky breath, fighting for control. “This isn’t very professional, is it? Do security consultants usually attempt to seduce their charges?”

The torturous track of his fingers ceased. Her heart hammered in the thick darkness. She’d scored a hit, but it didn’t make her feel any better. In some ways she wanted to take the words back, wanted him to continue the light stroking of her skin.

He did not. “Forgive me,” he said, his tone clipped—but whether it was with anger at her or himself, she wasn’t certain.

A moment later she was moving sideways, falling—but just as she was about to grab for him, about to wrap her arms around his neck so she didn’t fall, he eased her down on a bench and let her go. She searched the blackness for him, but could see nothing. Panic filled her until she willed it away.

“Don’t leave me here,” she said, nearly choking on the words as she did so. She hated to admit weakness, hated to admit she did need him, at least for the time being.

“I’m not leaving,” he replied, his voice coming from across the room. But she could hear the door easing open. He was going to leave her alone in this dark, lonely room. She would be lost, as lost as she’d been at sixteen when her father had locked her in a closet to punish her for trying to run away.

Blindly, she shot upright … and fell forward as her foot hit a nearby table.

Somehow, she managed to catch herself, but not without bending her wrist too far. She cried out as needles of pain shot through her arm.

“What are you doing?” Raj demanded.

She groped her way back onto the bench, relief flooding her as she held her wrist, sucking in deep breaths to keep from crying. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I told you I wasn’t.” His voice sounded closer now. A second later, light illuminated the small room.

She blinked up at him. “You have a light.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you use it to begin with?”

“Because I needed to be sure no one was outside first.” He bent in front of her, his dark head close as he took her arm in his hands and probed her wrist. She didn’t bother to ask how he knew she’d hurt herself. Veronica hissed as he found the tender spot. “It’s just a light sprain,” he said.

Then he stood and the light blinked out again.

“Why do we have to sit here?” she asked. “Why can’t we use your light and go to my room?”

“So now you want my help,” he said softly, almost teasingly.

“You have the light,” she replied, as if it were the most logical thing in the world to say.

She felt movement, felt a solid form settle on the bench beside her. He reached for her arm, finding it so surely that she swore he must have a cat’s night vision.

His fingers danced over the skin of her wrist, his thumbs pressing in deeply, making her gasp—and yet it felt good, as if he were easing the sprain out of her by touch alone.

“This is what we are going to do,” he said. “We’re going to spend the next twenty minutes here, while pandemonium reigns in the hotel, and hope the lights come back on. If they don’t, we’re going to your room.”

She hated being told what to do, and yet she’d tacitly agreed to it when she’d panicked over being alone in the dark. “Did Brady hire you?”

His soft snort was confusing. “In a manner of speaking. I’ve done work for him in the past. Protecting his celebrity clients.”

She had to bite back a moan as his fingers worked their magic on her. “I appreciate your diligence, Mr. Vala, but Brady should have known better.”

“He cares about you.”

“I know,” she said softly. Brady was a true friend. She knew he’d always wanted to be more than that, but she’d never felt the same in return. In spite of it, their friendship flourished. Brady was a good man, the kind of man she should have been interested in. Life would have been a whole lot easier if she had been.

The pressure of Raj’s fingers was perfect, rhythmic. Why did she always want the kind of men who were terrible for her? Men like this one, handsome and dangerous and incapable of seeing past the facade of her outward appearance to what lay beneath?

It was her fault they could not. She’d spent so many years building a wall, becoming someone interesting and compelling and, yes, even shocking, that she no longer knew how to be herself with a man. She had no idea if the real Veronica was even worth the trouble.

And she wasn’t planning to try and find out.

Raj’s voice startled her. “After what happened tonight, do you still trust your staff?”

A chill slithered down her spine. That was something she hadn’t wanted to think about. Because how could she admit that she didn’t know? That she was out of her depth and uncertain where to turn?

She thought of the letter she’d gotten that morning, and shivered. It had been so simple, one word in cutout letters: slut. It had been nothing, really. The work of a former rival. Who else would go to the trouble?

But the one question she’d kept asking herself today was how had the letter penetrated her security and found its way onto her breakfast tray?

She’d interrogated her secretary. The guard on duty. The maid. The porter. No one seemed to know.

Then, in a moment of weakness, she’d told Brady about it. She regretted that now, as it was surely the impetus for him to call this man.

“Yes, I trust them,” she said, because she could say nothing else. Was she supposed to run scared over a simple letter? Her bodyguard abandoning his post tonight was an unrelated incident. That didn’t mean the rest of her staff was incompetent.

“Then you are either naive or stupid, Madam President,” Raj Vala said.

“I am neither one,” she replied, bristling not only at the way he’d pronounced her incompetent, but also at the condescending tone he’d used to say the last two words. As if he didn’t think her worthy.

She might not be, but it wasn’t his place to say so. He was not Alizean. “Not everything is as straightforward as you might think. There are many options to be considered.”

His thumbs worked magic. Tingles of sensation streaked up her arm, over her scalp. Down into her core. She couldn’t stop the little moan that escaped her.

Damn him. And damn her reawakened senses.

Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong man.

It was the situation, she told herself, the fact she now found herself alone with a dynamic, sexy stranger who touched her as if he had a right. Because she’d allowed no man to get close to her since the miscarriage, she was now suffering from sensory overload.

“Would you like me to tell you the best option?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?” she snapped.

“You always have a choice,” he replied evenly. “Except in instances where your immediate safety might be at stake.”

She wanted to tell him to go to hell. Who was he to walk in here and try to take over this aspect of her new life as if he had a right?

But he kept rubbing, soothing her sore wrist, and she didn’t say a word because she selfishly didn’t want him to stop.

A minute later, the fingers of one hand slid up her arm, over her jaw, her chin, across her lips. She didn’t know why she allowed it—

No, that wasn’t quite true. She allowed it because it felt shockingly perfect to let him touch her. He made her feel normal, and that was something she hadn’t expected to feel ever again. It felt surprisingly good to be touched after all this time.

She trembled at the featherlight stroking of his finger across her mouth, and she bit down on her lip to keep from nibbling him in return.

Oh, he was good. Good enough that she began to wonder if he hadn’t missed his calling in life. Gigolo seemed a perfectly acceptable occupation for a man with his skill set.

“Then tell me this option,” she stated, hoping she sounded businesslike and cool as she dragged her attention back from the summit. “Let’s see how good you are.”

His fingers slid along her jaw now, so light, so erotic. His soft laugh was a sensual purr in his throat, and she knew she’d made a mistake. A dreadful, heart-pounding mistake.

“It’s quite simple. You need to acquire a lover, Madam President.” His voice was so sexy, so mesmerizing, his slight British accent combined with another she couldn’t quite place.

Everything inside her stilled. Her stomach clenched painfully. Of course.

He might be here to help her, but he wasn’t above helping himself, either. Men like him made her sick. Always wanting something in return. Brady might truly care, but this man did not.

“It’s out of the question,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t want to hear another word of this—”

“Ah, but you will listen. Because you’re smart, Veronica.” His fingers continued their damning track across her skin. She felt his presence in the dark as a solid wall of heat, and she tilted her head back, sensing somehow that he loomed over her, that his mouth was only inches from hers.

She should pull away, and yet she couldn’t seem to do it. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Why deny the truth? You know it as well as I do.”

Heat suffused her from the inside out. Somehow she managed to scoot backward on the bench, to put distance between them. Was she that transparent? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But she did. Because he touched her so lightly, so expertly, that her body was tightening like a bowstring.

There was definitely something there, something between them … something that would combust if she let it. Part of her desperately wanted to let it …

“Yes, you do,” he said softly. His tone was that of a lover.

Did he feel it, too?

“Maybe …” she breathed.

But his next words shattered that illusion.

“Your presidency is too new, Aliz is in turmoil and you aren’t safe.”

Every word was like a blow. Embarrassment flooded her in bright, white-hot waves. She’d been preoccupied with the way he made her feel when he touched her, and he was nothing but business. Damn him for making her forget, even for a moment.

“Those things are none of your concern,” she said evenly, thankful he couldn’t see her flushed face. Thankful there was no light to give her away. “Nothing you can do will fix it overnight.”

“This isn’t a game, Veronica. You can’t quit this party when it no longer amuses you.” Raj heard her draw in a breath. He’d probably insulted her, but he didn’t give a damn.

Because Veronica St. Germaine was precisely the sort of woman he had no sympathy for.

She was a slave to her passions, her wants, her desires. She was the worst kind of person to be entrusted with the welfare of a puppy, let alone a nation—yet here she was.

And here he was, damn Brady to hell. Raj hadn’t wanted to do this job, but Brady had begged him.

For old time’s sake. And since Raj owed at least a measure of his success to Brady’s faith in him when he’d been fresh out of the military and working his first security job so many years ago, he couldn’t say no.

So now he was sitting in the dark with a too-sexy, spoiled society princess and arguing over whether or not she needed his help.

He should just kiss her and put the matter to rest. He wasn’t unaware of her response to him. He also wasn’t unaware of her reputation as a woman who pursued her appetites relentlessly, be they clothes, shoes, fast cars or men.

And at least one part of his anatomy didn’t mind the prospect of being an object of her desire.

Not that he would allow himself to go down that road.

It’d been a long time since he’d personally guarded anyone, but he had never allowed himself to get involved with a client. It angered him immensely that he’d nearly violated that creed with her.

He didn’t know why he’d allowed himself to succumb to the temptation to stroke his fingers along the creamy skin of her exposed back. She was not the kind of woman he would ever get involved with. It wasn’t that she wasn’t desirable—she definitely was—but she was self-centered and destructive. Poisonous.

“I know this isn’t a game!” she barked. “Do you really think I don’t?”

He’d heard those words before. Or ones very like them anyway. He knew all about people who had no control over their impulses. People who claimed to want to conquer their addictions, but inevitably slid back into them when life got too hard or too boring or too hopeless.

He had no sympathy for her. She’d taken on this task, and she deserved no pity if it was turning out to be too difficult. After all, her people would get none if she faltered. “It’s a big responsibility you’ve accepted. Not quite your usual thing, is it?”

He could feel the fury rolling from her in waves.

“You know nothing about me, Mr. Vala. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your pop psychology to yourself.”

She was cool, this woman. And blazing hot on the inside. He was beginning to understand the public fascination with her.

He’d made sure to have his people prepare a dossier on her before he’d ever come to the hotel tonight. He hadn’t read the entire thing during the limo ride over, but he’d skimmed enough to get an idea.

A dilettante in the worlds of fashion, music and television, she’d designed a line of clothing, recorded a hit album and had her own late-night talk show for a brief time in America.

She’d been a darling of the tabloids. Her face and figure were splashed on more magazine covers worldwide than were the royals. It was astounding.

Until about a year ago, she’d regularly appeared. Then she’d dropped out of sight. Working on a new project, her spokesperson had said at the time, though the speculation had been that she was nursing a broken heart after a failed affair.

When she’d emerged from hiding four months later, she’d been relegated to a small blurb on the pages she’d once dominated. It had been shortly afterward that she’d declared her candidacy for president.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out why she’d done so, because suddenly she was back on top, a darling of the media once more.

He understood where that kind of need for attention came from, but he had no patience for it. People like her destroyed those foolish enough to get close to them.

Or those who had no choice—like children.

More than once he’d watched his mother spiral into the depths of her selfish need for attention, unable to stop her. Unable to prevent the crash. He’d survived that life, but he certainly hadn’t come away unscathed.

“A lover could get close to you without suspicion,” he said. “It would be a way to provide extra security without anyone on your staff questioning the addition.”

“You aren’t listening to me, are you? I don’t like you, and I can’t take a lover. Even a false one.”

He didn’t bother to point out that she did like him. That she’d been sending him signals from the moment he’d entered the room. Frustration hammered into him. Why was he arguing with her? He’d done what he’d promised Brady he would do. He’d tried to help. Now he could take her back to her suite and leave her there in good conscience.

Except it wasn’t in his nature to give up so easily, especially when he believed she truly was in danger. Her country was in turmoil, and it was well-known that the previous president hadn’t been too happy with the outcome of the election. Aliz was a democracy, but only just. And Monsieur Brun had been in power for twelve years before he’d lost to this woman who had no political experience whatsoever.

Disgruntled loser was an understatement.

“You need protection, Veronica. That threat should never have gotten through the layers surrounding you. It will escalate, believe me.”

He could feel her stiffen beside him. “There’s been no threat.”

“That’s not what Brady says.”

Her breath hissed out. “I knew it. It was one word, made of newspaper letters and glued to a piece of paper. That’s hardly a threat!”

Every instinct he had told him otherwise. It was an ugly word, the kind of word that was filled with hate and derision. Spoken in anger was one thing. Deliberately pasted together and sent? “Did you keep the letter?”

“I threw it away.”

He’d expected as much, though it would have been better if she had not. “Has it happened before?”

“Before I was president?”

“Precisely.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. Everyone has enemies.”

“But not everyone is the president of a nation. You have to take every anomaly, no matter how small, as a legitimate threat. You have no choice now.”

“I realize that.” Her voice was ice.

“Then you must also realize that we wouldn’t actually be lovers,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “That’s not why I’m here.”

A shame, really. She was an extraordinarily sensual woman. He’d watched her work the room from his position at the bar earlier. She’d slain men with her smile, with the high, firm breasts that jutted into the fabric of the purple dress she wore. With the long, beautiful legs he’d glimpsed through the slit in the fabric when she walked.

Her platinum-blond hair was piled onto her head, and her dress dipped low in the back, revealing smooth, touchable skin. Men had tripped over their tongues as they’d gathered around her. He’d watched it all with disdain.

Until he’d gotten close to her. His visceral reaction had been strong, his body hardening painfully. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. He was accustomed to want, to deprivation and pain. The military had made sure of it. Denying himself pleasure, no matter how much he might want it, was easily done.

“Even the appearance of it would be too much,” she replied, her words crisp and lovely in the French accent of her homeland. “I am the president. I have an image to maintain.”

“You’re a single woman, Veronica. You’re allowed to date. And Aliz’s is not the sort of culture that would take you to task for it.”

“Aliz has had one crisis after another. They need a president who is focused on their welfare, not on her personal life.”

He found the words ironic coming from her, but he allowed it to pass without comment.

“They also elected you because you are glamorous and exotic to them. You’ve achieved fame on the world stage, and they are proud of you. If you become simply another staid politician, you will disappoint them. They want you to fix things, but they also want you to be the Veronica St. Germaine they know and love.”

“You can’t know that,” she said angrily. “You are saying whatever you think will further your personal agenda.”

A current of annoyance rippled through him, only partly because it was true. “My personal agenda? I’m doing you a favor, Madam President, in trying to protect your lovely behind.”

“How dare you suggest I should be grateful when you keep trying to give me something I don’t want?”

What she needed was a hard dose of reality.

He grasped her shoulders, pulled her closer to him. He did it for effect, not because he wanted to kiss her. Not because he’d been dying to kiss her from the moment she’d turned to him when he’d entered this room.

Never because of that.

Her palms came up, pressed against his chest. “What are you doing?” She sounded breathless. Not scared, not angry. Breathless. Anticipating. Wanting.

If he were a weaker man, she would be the ruin of all his fine control.

“We’re alone and you’re at my mercy,” he said, making sure his voice was harsh rather than seductive. “If I’d come to harm you, no one would stop me.”

“I’m not helpless,” she replied. “I took a self-defense course.”

Raj laughed. He couldn’t help it. Self-defense was good. Everyone should take a self-defense class. And yet …

“There are people against whom your average self-defense techniques don’t work. Because those techniques rely on surprise, and some people cannot be surprised. Some people are trained killers, Veronica.”

Like he was, he silently added. Six years in the Special Forces had taught him that much and more.

He felt the shiver go through her body. The idea was reprehensible to her. As well it should be.

“Everything you say is for one purpose,” she said, her breath soft against his face.

It wouldn’t take much to claim her lips. To plunder them with his own and taste their sweetness.

“But you and Brady have got it all wrong. No one is out to harm me.”

His grip on her tightened. “Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

CHAPTER THREE

VERONICA’S pulse skipped and bobbed like a white-water raft sailing toward a massive waterfall. But whether it was his insistence she was in danger or how closely he now held her, she couldn’t be sure.

He gripped her so tightly that she could feel the strength of the leashed power in him. A shiver skimmed over her. He’d scared her with his talk of danger—but she wouldn’t let him know it.

His hands splayed over her back. She could feel his breath on her face. She thought he might kiss her just to prove his mastery—and part of her longed for it.

Another part wanted to run as far and as fast away from this man as she could get. For whatever reason, he affected her. She’d thought herself immune to men after Andre—handsome, flashy, selfish Andre—but Raj was proving her wrong on that count.

She’d made the right decision when she’d told him she didn’t need his help. No way on this earth was she allowing him to pretend to be her lover. One way or another, it would be disastrous.

She strained in the dark to hear him, to feel him, to guess his intent. His breath was on her lips. If she tilted her head, would their mouths touch? She told herself not to do it, and yet her head moved anyway.

Abruptly, he released her.

“Come,” he said. “It’s time to take you back to your room.”

The light flashed on again, and she realized it was coming from his cell phone. His handsome face was in shadow, but she could see the gleam of his eyes as he stood and held out a hand to her.

She took it, let him pull her up, her pulse skittering wildly the instant he touched her.