Maharaja's Mistress

‘Your mother was right.’

‘Won’t be a moment,’ she threw over her shoulder as she exited the room.

The truth was, she needed a moment to cool down and collect her thoughts. Leaning back against the door, she drew in a deep, steadying breath. This was madness—

This was inevitable. So why pretend it was anything else?

‘Just coming,’ she called, quelling her excitement at the thought of all that hard-muscled flesh awaiting further investigation. Not that she’d get a chance, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

He stared at Mia when she came back into the room. Even with her hair cut short she looked lovely, and, with her gamine features and piquant style, very French. But where did she get that dress? Initially, he’d been impressed by the trafficstopping outfit and it had pleased him to think Mia had chosen to go to such an effort for their night out. The beautifully cut dress screamed couture, but it was a gown that, however successful a meet-and-greet girl Mia might have become in such an improbably short space of time, she would never be able to afford…

Suspicion coiled deep inside him. Mia might have grown up and she had certainly been bruised by life, but she had always had a wild streak. Had some man bought her favours with pretty clothes? Fury snapped inside him. And joining it was lust.

He put the anger aside, telling himself that who she spent her time with was none of his business. He had no interest in investigating all the ins and outs of Mia’s life—none at all—

And if he believed that, Ram concluded as Mia’s warm, soft body brushed his when they made a theatrical play of linking arms before they left the apartment, then it was time for him to touch base with reality.

The clouds had lifted by the time they stepped outside, and the evening promised to be warm and fine. ‘Where are we going?’ Mia asked Ram as he prompted her to turn down a cobbled alleyway in the direction of the waterfront.

‘To celebrate.’

Vague or what? The girls had told her Ram’s yacht was in the harbour—’Ram’s floating city’ was how they had described it, begging Mia to somehow blag a guided tour. She’d try, she had assured them, assuring herself even she wasn’t that mad; going on board a billionaire’s yacht was something she had promised herself she would never do—especially not Ram’s.

But right now he was guiding her towards one particular and very famous doorway. ‘The best club in town?’ she said nervously.

‘We talked about it.’

‘And you know I hate clubs.’

‘You’ll be fine with me.’

Would she? As soon as she recognised their destination, Mia could think of a thousand reasons why she didn’t want to go there. She wouldn’t be able to relax in case she made a fool of herself. She might be dressed up to the nines thanks to the girls, but she was clumsy and totally lacked sophistication. There would be the usual clutch of royalty and celebrities—and don’t even get her started on her scars, when all the glamorous patrons would be paparazzi-picture-perfect. And she was with Ram, who was hardly inconspicuous…‘What have I done to deserve this?’ she murmured anxiously as the doorman saluted Ram.

‘Beats me,’ Ram replied dryly as he ushered her inside.

The heat of the club rose up to envelop them and it was laced with an exotic mingling of scent. Ram held her arm all the way down the dimly lit steps and she was glad of it as she picked her way in Xheni’s stratospherically high heels. The dark, womblike cave was packed, Mia realised with alarm, but everyone made way for Ram. And now music was throbbing through her—familiar music. ‘Motown?’ she demanded, turning an accusing stare on him. ‘So you didn’t set this up?’

‘Me?’ he said, pressing his hand to his chest as he gave her his best shot at an innocent look. ‘Along with the crowd of extras?’ he suggested as another well-known prince sauntered by.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘That’s up to you.’

She felt a thrill of anticipation as Ram’s hand tightened on her arm. ‘I’m not going to lose you in the crowd,’ he promised, steering her forward.

As if she were going to leave his side, Mia thought, wondering if every tiny hair on the back of her neck was going to remain permanently erect.

‘Motown night is always the most popular,’ Ram explained as the maître d’ came hurrying forward.

‘And you didn’t have a thing to do with it,’ Mia commented dryly. ‘It was by sheer chance that the DJ happened to be playing my favourite music when I walked in.’

‘It’s a good job I’m back in your life,’ Ram observed, shooting Mia a devastatingly stern look. ‘You’ve become far too cynical since I’ve been away.’

‘You mean, I’m not as gullible as I used to be,’ she countered.

Ram was quite an operator—if you liked your men straight up. A non-alcoholic cocktail seemed a safer bet to Mia right now—though, admittedly, not half as interesting.

And guess what? The owner of the club had personally reserved the best table for them—a table that enjoyed an even more advantageous location than the table occupied by the other prince and his party, Mia noticed. ‘So they spoil you here too?’

‘Champagne?’ Ram suggested, curbing a grin.

‘Orange juice for me,’ Mia said primly.

The DJ chose that moment to play a new track. Heatwave? No kidding.

A jug of orange juice later and Mia was finally starting to relax. Ram had been nothing but relaxed, and he was seemingly unaware that he had the undivided attention of every woman in the club—

Did she say relaxed? Ram had just leaned forward to ask her if she loved him! ‘I beg your pardon?’ she exclaimed, leaning back.

‘“Do You Love Me”—great tune.’ Ram’s ridiculously handsome face creased in a grin.

She slid him a disapproving look. ‘Very nice.’

‘Do you wanna dance?’

‘Song title or action?’ she demanded. As Ram cupped his hands around his mouth to yell above the music she was determined not to be caught out a second time.

‘Action,’ he said, standing up.

Dance with Ram? Dance with the most dangerous man on the planet. There were surely more dangerous pursuits she had indulged in—but she couldn’t think of one right now.

‘Unless you’re scared I’ll show you up?’ he suggested.

‘As if.’

Ram was already on his

feet and reaching for her.

So why was she still hanging back?

Maybe because the dance floor was heaving with the type of people who regularly graced the front page of the world’s leading society magazines all currently performing their own heated up version of the twist—

So? She could do no worse than fall flat on her face.

It was only a short step from their table to the dance floor—or it would have been if Ram hadn’t swept her off her feet and deposited her in the middle of the floor. ‘No escaping now,’ he told her with a grin.

In Mia’s opinion, men who could both dance and look sexy could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and yet Ram managed to do both with ease. And, was it her imagination, or had the track segued into a slower number? And how did she come to be in his arms? Was he making signals to the DJ behind her back? She wouldn’t put anything past him.

As the palm of Ram’s hand coasted slowly down her back Mia finally had to admit that she had no defences left. Ram must feel her trembling beneath her fine silk dress. And yes, she wanted him. She ached for him. But she held herself away from his seductive heat—until it struck her that, like all those years ago, this could be a charity turn around the floor. Ram had stepped in once before so she didn’t feel embarrassed. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘What if I want to?’

‘What if I know you don’t?’

Ram’s brow creased attractively. ‘I’d have to say you don’t know what you’re talking about—and I can only assume that all these excuses are to cover for the fact that you’re scared of dancing with me.’

‘Scared of you?’ she huffed.

‘If that’s not the case then you have nothing to worry about, do you?’ he said, dragging her close.

She had plenty to worry about, Mia realised as Ram’s heat invaded her body.

‘You’re doing me a favour, actually,’ he confided.

‘I am?’