Читать книгу Maharaja's Mistress - Susan Stephens, Susan Stephens - Страница 7

‘I HAVE made my private sitting room available to you,’ Mia’s kindly old employer told her with obvious concern.

‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

‘And you only have to tug on the bell-pull if you need me.’

Monsieur’s concern was genuine and it touched her. ‘Thank you, Monsieur, but I’m happy to see him.’ On this occasion, a small white lie surely wouldn’t hurt.

Bold resolutions were one thing; acting them out was something else, Mia realised, glancing anxiously around as she crossed the salon full of mirrors. Everyone else was carrying on as normal, which seemed odd until she remembered that their world was still turning at the prescribed speed. But why should she worry about how she looked or what Ram thought of her? This was her life and Ram could accept it or not. But he was in for a shock—and not just because of the unconventional outfit. She’d always been alternative where fashion was concerned, but she hadn’t always been scarred. But she had wanted this. No one had forced her to make contact with Ram. She had wanted the challenge and the chance to prove herself on her own terms.

And it couldn’t be worse than Tom and Ram’s Leavers’ Ball. The event had been held in aid of charity and was the hottest ticket of the year. She’d been sixteen, so of course she didn’t have a date—she never had a date. She usually managed to frighten boys away with whatever outlandish new look she happened to be sporting.

On this occasion Ram had teased her into making up a foursome with her brother Tom and his girlfriend, when Ram’s date had gone down last minute with flu. He’d even told her she looked lovely when they both knew that was a lie—she had cut her black hair aggressively short that year and had dyed some of the spikes pillar-box red—but the chance for the ugly duckling to turn up with a hot, eighteen-year-old prince and shock all those pretty girls had proved irresistible. Not that she had improved any on the fashion stakes. She could never compete with the pretty girls and so she didn’t try. Her dress was a hand-me-down some well-meaning aunt had passed on to her mother. ‘It’s vintage,’ she remembered telling Ram defiantly, pretending the ankle-length, sludge-green chiffon with its smattering of sequins was what she wanted to wear. Tall, hard-muscled Ram, acting like the prince he was, had shrugged and offered her his arm. Looking back, Mia guessed it must have been a charity event for him in all senses of the word.

But she was a very different person now—she could cope with anything Ram threw at her.

Which was why her heart was going crazy?

Opening the door onto Monsieur Michel’s private quarters, Mia shut the bustle of the salon out. She needed a moment to clear her head and leaned back on the door. She and Ram hadn’t parted on the best of terms. The last time they met had been at Tom’s engagement party when Ram’s behaviour had confused her. She had been so desperate for him to see her as a woman and had really taken trouble to look nice for once. They were both adults, Ram had told her when she had tried to engage him in conversation, and his life was moving in a different direction. He might have acted coolly, but he’d bought her a goodbye present—and there was even a moment when she’d thought he was going to kiss her, but nothing came of it. Why did he have to humiliate her like that? The dress was a parting gift, she’d realised later—a rich boy’s pay-off for a childhood friend he would no longer have any time for.

She wasn’t pretty enough or interesting enough to hold Ram’s attention—she could see that now, but back then she’d been young and so very vulnerable. Ram leaving had been like a licence to run wild. The endless and ultimately unsuccessful search to put something in his place transformed her from daring tomboy to adrenaline junkie—treading the thin line between thrill and disaster became her only purpose, until the accident and an enforced stay in a burns unit brought her into contact with people far worse off than she was, by which time she was sick of her empty life and Ram was long gone.

And now he was back.

Courage. That was what the doctors had told her she would need after the accident when she had to face the possibility of losing her sight.

Courage. Did she have it? Did she have enough?

With Ram Varindha just a few feet away, it was time to find out.

And still she hesitated outside the panelled door. She had only visited Monsieur Michel’s private sanctum on one previous occasion and that was for her interview. She remembered the room beyond the door being cool and pleasantly shaded. It overlooked a pretty courtyard that had walls coated in lush green vines and vivid purple bougainvillea. The décor inside the room could best be described as shabby chic, but its overriding theme was cosy. A couple of sofas faced each other across a well-worn rug, while gilt-framed mirrors dulled by time hung on expensively papered walls and an ancient grand piano rested silent in the shade.

Well, she couldn’t stand here all day. Tilting her chin at a defiant angle, she seized the handle and entered the room only to discover that with Ram in the room Monsieur’s cosy sitting room was anything but cosy.

Closing the door behind her, she remained in the shadows with her back pressed against the wall. How she wished she could turn the clock back—wished she could be someone else altogether—someone perfect and appealing.

Ram had no such inhibitions and had taken up the position of power in the centre of the room. Her spirit soared and rushed to greet him, and immediately drew back, sensing his aloofness.

‘Mia?’

There was shock in his voice.

‘You approve of my outfit?’ She knew it wasn’t about that. She knew the question in Ram’s voice related to her eyepatch. And the rest. She lifted her chin, dying a little inside when she saw the expression in his eyes.

Quicksilver fast, Ram switched to his customary urbane manner. ‘You never fail to surprise me, Mia. How long have you been hoisting the Jolly Roger?’

As they locked gazes, she realised that with perfect irony Ram’s eyes were obscenely beautiful. Even more beautiful than she remembered, just as he was infinitely more compelling. How could she have forgotten how attractive he was—how brazenly masculine?

‘I’m surprised to find you working here, Mia.’

‘Oh?’ She planted a hand on one hip. She refused to apologise or explain to this stranger, with his beautiful, mocking, all-seeing eyes, why she had chosen Monsieur Michel’s salon as her sanctuary.

‘I thought you hated all things flash?’

‘Flash? I prefer to think of this as theatre.’ She raised a brow as her old adversary’s gaze swept slowly over her and did some assessing of her own. In jeans and a form-fitting top, with his bronzed feet naked in simple sandals, the aura of erotic possibility Ram threw off was alarming. He was every bit as tall and powerful as she remembered, and every part of him was lithe, toned and ultra-fit, but there was something cold in his eyes, and that was new. It was as if Ram had left the fun years behind—much as she had herself. She felt instinctively that this was not the hard-living playboy the gossip-mongers thought they knew so well, but a man who had experienced most things. It seemed the fantasy sweetheart of her childhood had turned into a tough, uncompromising man—and one who didn’t even pretend not to stare at her injuries.

‘I had no idea, Mia—’

‘How could you?’ She braced herself to walk deeper into the room…closer to Ram. Let him stare. ‘I asked my family not to broadcast the news. And before you ask, I can do anything anyone else can do and probably twice as fast—providing I don’t blink at the wrong time.’

She would wait a long time for any sign of the old humour, Mia realised. Ram just continued to stare at her, his brow furrowed as if he were reading everything she didn’t want him to know.

Seconds ticked by. Her breathing sounded loud in the silence. Suddenly she was eight years old again and mesmerised by Ram. Or, maybe thirteen and feeling gawky with braces on her teeth. Or worse—sixteen, when she had wanted nothing more than the touch of his hands—

Apart from the braces, she was all of those things, Mia concluded as Ram eased onto one hip. ‘I like the outfit,’ he said. And finally his lips tugged in a grin.

‘Your approval means everything to me,’ she countered dryly.

She had laughed with relief when Monsieur Michel had personally orchestrated her costume at one of the more outlandish costumiers in the principality, but now she felt awkward and exposed, exactly as she had at Tom’s engagement party. Why did Ram have to make those remarks—look at her that way—when he clearly wasn’t interested? Who was he to come here to her place of work and judge her? So her outfit was brazen. What was that to him?

‘Whatever happened to my girl, Mia?’

‘She grew up.’

He had expected to feel many things when he saw Mia again, but he had not expected this—or the fierce desire to protect her that came with the discovery that his perfect imp had been so cruelly injured. Mia had always been defiant—always vulnerable—but her fighting spirit had always carried her through. Not this time, he suspected. She didn’t fool him—she never had been able to do that. She had come to Monte Carlo like a beaten dog to defiantly lick her wounds—choosing the most glamorous place on earth to punish herself and ride the guilt. He had lived wildly too, but he had got away with it.

Why hadn’t Tom told him? Why hadn’t he picked up on this?

There was only one possible explanation. Mia’s injuries must have occurred around the time he had been absorbed in his own private tragedy. There was only one certainty here—he couldn’t leave her. He would have to make plans. All this he decided in a heartbeat as he stared into Mia’s ravaged face.

‘So,’ he prompted dryly, as if none of these thoughts had occurred to him. ‘We’d better talk about the rally. Are you sure you’re up for it?’

‘I have a problem with one eye, Ram. I’m not blind.’

He wanted to cheer at this proof that the old Mia was still in there, but instead he stared at her steadily as he explained, ‘The last leg of the race is to be a time trial around the winding streets of the principality—’

‘Which is why I’m perfect for it,’ she cut in. ‘I’ve only cycled the route, but I’ve lived here for some time and I know every curve and bump like the back of my hand.’

‘So you could do it blindfold?’

She was shocked for a moment, but then she realised they were back where they used to be in the old sparring corral. ‘If you’re prepared to risk it, I am…’

‘Then we have a deal.’ He turned to go.

‘Are you offering me the job?’

The uncertainty—the hope—in Mia’s voice stabbed him to the heart. ‘You’d better come through,’ he warned.

‘I will.’ She held his stare.

What had happened to them both? Mia’s injuries were obvious, but they were both profoundly changed.

‘Just one thing, Ram…’

‘Yes.’ He held her gaze, enjoying the connection between them.

‘Why are you racing cars when you should be running a country?’

He might have expected a counter-attack. ‘Ah…’ He shifted position.

‘I know, it’s none of my business—’

‘Damn right it’s not. I’ve had my finger on the pulse. I just needed one last—’

‘If you say hurrah, I’ll slap you,’ she warned him.

This time he couldn’t stop his lips pressing down with amusement. ‘Still the old Mia.’

‘Still up for a fight?’ she demanded. ‘You got that right.’ And then her cheeks blushed red as if she could read his mind. The type of fight he had in mind right now was very different from those they had indulged in when Mia was younger.

‘We should make time for you to take a proper look at the route map before you commit yourself.’

‘Not that I need to.’

But he wanted her to—and not just to ensure she knew the road.

‘Where do you suggest we do that?’ she said.

‘I’ll send for you—’

‘You’ll send for me?’

‘My driver will come and pick you up.’

‘Forget it, Ram.’

‘Do you want the job or not?’

‘I want to work alongside you as your co-driver—I have no interest in becoming part of your entourage.’

‘Make up your mind, Mia.’

Did she want the job? Would her heart slow down long enough for her to answer? Did she want a chance to return to the old days—the old ways—the fun, the heat and stress, the pace, the danger? And that was just the rallying. Did she want to spend time with Ram? ‘If you’re prepared to take your chances with a one-eyed co-driver…?’

Ram shrugged, but his gaze remained steady on her face. ‘At this short notice I’ll take whatever I can get.’