Kitabı oxu: «Maharaja's Mistress»
Heat curled where it had no place doing so as she remembered wicked eyes, and a man who had filled her early years with the hottest of fantasies—made all the safer for knowing Ram would never look at her that way. But she had to put all that to one side now.
Raking her dark cropped hair, Mia fixed her gaze on the bold print headline that had fired this crazy idea in the first place. The Maharaja’s Back in Town! screamed the headline. Ram—or the Maharaja, as Ram was more popularly known—thanks to his heritage, his unbelievable good-looks and his money—not to mention his raw and dangerous sex appeal—was still her brother’s closest friend, and he had been Mia’s…
Childhood crush?
Maharaja’s Mistress
Susan Stephens
About the Author
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an afterdinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author’, had been donated by Mills & Boon author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside. Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Recent books by the same author:
Mills & Boon® Modern Heat™
RULING SHEIKH, UNRULY MISTRESS
SHEIKH BOSS, HOT DESERT NIGHTS
Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance
MASTER OF THE DESERT
MILLS & BOON
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Chapter One
SHE had to steel herself to place the call. Hard to believe she had once taken Ram on as easily as any tomboy took on her older brother’s best friend, but a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then and these days Ram was a royal playboy.
While Mia had issues…
Scars and issues, as well as a desire to race cars again that refused to be repressed.
Get real, Mia. At least, don’t lie to yourself. This is a chance in a million to see Ram again.
She hadn’t spoken to Ram for…too long, anyway, Mia reflected as she waited for the call to connect. From what she’d read about him in the press she expected Ram to be as changed as she was. Ram had announced he would shortly be quitting his playboy life to serve his people in the independent state of Ramprakesh, but before that he was to enjoy one last indulgence—a timed rally car race across Europe in his super-car.
As soon as the newsflash came on, saying Ram’s co-driver had been taken ill, Mia knew it was her chance to step in. Ram had to find someone in order to complete the last leg of the rally, which would take place in the winding streets of Monte Carlo—the same glittering locale where Mia had made a new life after an accident in a rally car had nearly blinded her.
She had believed she would never race again, and this was a chance in a million to compete at the highest level, but first there was a little hurdle to overcome: she had to convince Ram to take her on. To do that she would have to be as determined and as pushy as she had been as a child. There could be no allowances made for the years that had passed—when and if he answered the phone she would have to launch straight in as if she were that same tomboy who had never flinched from baiting him…
Heat curled inside her as she remembered wicked eyes, and a man who had filled her early years with the hottest of fantasies—made all the safer for knowing Ram would never look at her that way. But she had to put all that to one side now. Raking her dark, cropped hair, Mia fixed her gaze on the bold print headline that had fired this crazy idea in the first place. The Maharaja’s Back in Town! screamed the headline. Ram, or the Maharaja, as Ram was more popularly known thanks to his heritage, his unbelievable good looks and his money—not to mention his raw and dangerous sex appeal—was still her brother’s closest friend, and had been Mia’s…
Childhood crush?
Trying to force the lid down on that box proved impossible. Ram meant so much more to her than that—and was still as far out of her league as he always had been. The English edition of the Monte Carlo Times pulled no punches where celebrity was concerned and Ram Varindha needed no introduction, either to this playground for the rich and famous, or to the world. When a man was too good-looking or too rich, or he originated from an exotic land with which he shared an equally exotic reputation—and Ram filled all these criteria admirably—the glamorous principality of Monte Carlo was only too eager to welcome him home.
Mia’s heart cannoned into her throat as a familiar black velvet voice growled a suspicious greeting.
‘Ram?’ She played it cool—authoritative and cool. ‘Ram, it’s me…’
Silence.
‘Ram, it’s Mia…’
‘Mia?’
More silence as Ram no doubt trawled the telephone directory in his mind, running down the list of Mias until he came to one who lived in Monte Carlo.
‘Give me a clue.’
So there were a thousand Mias in his life.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know me.’ Her voice might sound confident, but beads of sweat were breaking on her brow—this was so much harder than she had imagined.
But not insurmountable.
Her life consisted of kicking down doors…
And licking wounds…
But she wouldn’t think about those now, Mia determined, unconsciously adjusting the position of her jewelled eyepatch.
As I slipped under the anaesthetic I dreamed I was trying to stick an ice pick into Ram’s cold, unfeeling heart, but his heart was a stone that bounced away from me, and when I woke up I was blind—She’d been having that nightmare a lot since the accident, and this was her chance to break free from it—a chance to put an end to the sense of desolation that had overwhelmed her when Ram had walked out of her life.
That had been years ago and she should be over it now. This was the best chance she was ever going to get to prove she wasn’t over-faced by Ram, by life, by anything—and she wasn’t going to waste it. ‘Surely you remember me beating the heck out of you on your best stallion when you were careless enough to choose my parents to stable your horses with?’
‘Mia Spencer-Dayly?’
Result—but could he sound any less enthusiastic?
‘That’s the one,’ Mia confirmed, keeping up the bright act.
In fairness, she had never been the girl to whom boys’ eyes were drawn, so Ram would hardly be eager to see her again. When other girls were trading style tips she’d been happiest mucking out the stables or hot-wiring the tractor. No doubt when other boys had been reading the Beano, Ram had spent his formative years mugging up information in the pages of a heavily illustrated Kama Sutra, but whether this crazy scheme of hers was mad, sad or just plain crazy, she had no intention of putting the phone down now.
According to the article in that day’s newspaper—the one beneath the stunning shot of a tall, dark and unreasonably handsome hunk of a man with thick black hair and sharp black stubble—Ram had no intention of giving up on the last leg of the Switch-Back rally.
‘What do you want, Mia?’
‘What do I want? It’s you that’s in trouble, Ram.’ She wasn’t exactly home free herself, Mia realised as her gazed fixed on the newspaper shot of Ram with his thumb casually hooked through the belt loop on his jeans, long, lean fingers pointing the way to his number one attraction.
‘Roll back the reel, Mia. Who gave you my private number?’
‘I got it from Tom, obviously—’
She held back on the duh. One step at a time. She didn’t want Ram slamming the phone down. On the other hand, she had to initiate the type of abrasive banter that had characterised their earlier relationship if she stood any chance at all of getting the best out of this conversation.
‘What do you want, Mia?’
Her mind blanked.
‘Did Tom ask you to call me?’
‘No…’
‘What, then?’
The five Ps sprang to mind: Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance. But she could never have prepared for this. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she waited for her heart to slow down. Tom and Ram were as close as brothers, but Ram owed her no loyalty—they hadn’t been in touch for years. No wonder he was suspicious. ‘Today’s newspaper?’ she said, regrouping fast. ‘The article on the front page says you need help—’
‘My co-driver’s sick—wait a minute,’ he said suspiciously. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘I could help you—’
‘You?’ Ram exclaimed as if the world and everyone in it had gone mad.
‘Why not me? I’ve got the right background.’ Having won the junior section of several international rallies before the accident put her out of the game should put her in with a chance.
Shouldn’t it?
Ram wasn’t exactly biting her hand off, but if she was serious about this she had to convince him.
‘You can’t be serious, Mia—’
‘I’m perfectly serious—’
‘Forget it, Mia. Is there anything else? I don’t have all day to stand and yap—’
‘And neither do I, Knucklehead—’
‘What did you call me?’
Ice cubes filled the air. And were just as quickly melted by amusement. Ram didn’t have to laugh or say anything for Mia to know that the balance had tipped, and that everything was going to be all right now. They had catapulted back to a different time when squaring up for a good-natured fight came as naturally to them as breathing. ‘Of course, if you don’t want my help—’
‘Your help?’
‘I don’t just meet and greet in a beauty salon, you know—I am a medal-winning rally driver—’
‘Of Dinky cars, perhaps.’
She hid a smile. This was not the moment to turn the air blue. She was almost home and dry—she could feel it. And while she might have reinvented herself as a respectable meet-and-greet girl in Monte Carlo’s most fashionable beauty salon, Ram was an international playboy, so she had to raise her game and play it smart.
Ram, a playboy…
He’d always been heading that way—dark, sexy, dangerous—
‘Are you still there?’ he demanded as heat curled inside her, and far more insistently this time.
‘I’m here…’
How did he live? Who was Ram these days—was he royal or a rogue? Was he a professional rally driver, or a professional bad boy? Ram had dropped off the radar around the same time she had, so she had everything to find out about him.
Secrets. What would life be without them?
‘Just tell me what you want, Mia.’
‘What I want? It’s your co-driver who’s gone down with a stomach bug—or maybe you scared the crap out of him with your appalling driving. Either way, I’m calling to let you know I’m here for you, Ramekin,’ she finished sweetly, using the childhood name that had never failed to infuriate Ram.
‘Like I need you,’ he scoffed.
‘Like, who else is going to volunteer at such short notice?’ Mia countered smartly. ‘Who else would want to spend the day cooped up in the world’s smallest space with the world’s biggest head? Who else won the junior section of the Davington rally that you know? And who’s here now—?’
‘In Monte Carlo?’
‘No, dummy—New Ashford, Massachusetts. Of, course, Monte Carlo. Do you seriously think I’d waste long-distance charges on you?’ She was enjoying herself now. It was a long time since she had crossed swords with the invincible Ram, and that had been back in the day when she had worn pigtails and had wielded a lollipop like a deadly weapon.
‘Okay, let’s meet.’
Ram’s unexpected concession snapped her back to attention. ‘Where?’
‘L’Hirondelle.’
As it didn’t do to appear too keen, she groaned. ‘The stuffiest hotel in the world? I thought you might have changed by now.’
‘Changed how, exactly?’ Irony coloured Ram’s voice.
‘Oh, you know—ditched the pompous balloon in favour of a regular hot-air type favoured by most men—’
‘L’Hirondelle,’ Ram repeated. ‘Six o’clock. Think you can make it?’
So he remembered her time-keeping problems. ‘Can’t we meet at the club?’
‘Which club, Mia?’
She hadn’t missed the weariness in his voice. ‘You don’t know?’ she said, faking incredulous. Not to know the hottest club in town was akin to pariah-dom in Monte Carlo. Not that she would have known which club was hot that season had it not been for the girls she shared an apartment with. They were the type of pretty girls who kept their collective ears to the ground and knew everything worth knowing. Mia was the type of plain girl who had learned to develop acute hearing over the years. Wild? Yes, she’d been wild when Ram had left England, but in a driving too fast, riding too hard kind of way—the clubbing scene had never held any interest for her. Party girl she was not, but hopefully she could wing it. ‘The Columbus?’ She named the most popular club in the principality with the type of pity in her voice those in the know reserved for those not in the know—people like her.
‘You go there?’
Careless. As if Ram wouldn’t know the hottest place in town. ‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Enough to know it won’t be open at six.’
Second careless mistake. Not even the bar would be open at that time, Mia realised, remembering too late what the girls had told her. Plus she had to face the embarrassing fact that Ram was only arranging to see her early on in the evening so he had the rest of the night left to do his thing. ‘I don’t finish work until six—can’t we make it later?’ Giving her time for a major fashion overhaul courtesy of the girls—plus she’d need a wax, pluck, polish, fake-bake—She’d settle for a miracle. She might not be Ram’s idea of a good-looking woman, but there was such a thing as pride.
‘Come over to the hotel straight from work, Mia,’ Ram said, ignoring her suggestion. ‘I’ll still be working on the car, so I’ll be ready for some fresh air by then.’
Nice to know she would be a welcome substitute for an oily rag.
But she could still rescue something from the situation. The smell of hairspray filled the air here at the salon—and what little air was left to breathe was filled with the overwhelming floral scent-bomb of her employer’s signature perfume. In his own way, like Ram, Monsieur Michel was a stranger to restraint. Parfait. Ram would love it here. Not. Throwing Ram off balance might be the one chance she had to persuade him to take her on as his co-driver. ‘As I’m the one doing you the favour I think you should come here…’
And now she could only wait.
It was such a long wait Mia began to wonder if Ram had gone to sleep. ‘Six o’clock at La Maison Rouge?’ she prompted.
‘La Maison Rouge?’ he drawled as if she’d pulled him from reading a book. ‘Isn’t that the glitzy hairdressing salon on the main drag?’
‘There’s no need to sound quite so surprised.’
‘I’m just surprised you’re working there. What happened to your career in interior design?’
‘Things…’ Mia grimaced as she glanced into the mirror. Who would want to employ an interior designer with cheeks the texture of a rotting beam? Okay, slight exaggeration, but with her scars she wasn’t going to risk it, whereas Monsieur Michel had dragged her in from the street saying she had the most fascinating ‘look’ he had ever seen—and she’d been too stunned by Monsieur’s lilac eyeshadow to argue.
‘Are you any good at what you do?’ Ram demanded, snapping Mia back to full attention.
‘I welcome clients into the salon, Ram. I book appointments. I call the clients by name—and I smile. Not much room for error there.’
‘As long as they don’t let you loose with a pair of hairdressing scissors.’
He was remembering the time she had chopped off the tail of his prize horse when she’d been a twelve-year-old grooming enthusiast. ‘See you here at six?’ She held her breath.
‘Maybe…’
Was that a smile in his voice? The line clicked and died before she could decide.
Well, she’d thrown her eyepatch into the ring, and now she just had to wait and see what fate had in store for her—though there was nothing to stop her helping fate along a little bit, Mia concluded as she placed a second call to girls with more fashion savvy than she would ever have.
Chapter Two
LIFE never failed to surprise Ram. Mia Spencer-Dayly turning up out of the blue took him right back to his days at boarding school in England when he’d been vastly attracted to the chaotic lifestyle of the Spencer-Daylys. As he’d been brought up by servants, a family home, however disorganised, had seemed like heaven to him, and when Tom had invited him back in the holidays Mia had always been the main attraction—constantly playing tricks on him, when everyone back home treated him like a god.
But there was a puzzle here. He and Tom had kept in touch, but Tom never mentioned his sister and he had never asked. He and Tom had always respected each other’s confidences, and though he had often wondered about Mia, he hadn’t wanted to pry into her life. Yet here she was in Monte Carlo, offering to be his co-driver—
Could he accept Mia’s offer?
And open Pandora’s box?
Mia was his best friend’s baby sister and therefore untouchable, but there had always been a spark between them. Back in the day that had manifested itself as constant taunting, teasing, bickering—but now…
Mia was all grown up. And he was experienced enough to know that if that same fire existed between them—and this telephone conversation seemed to suggest that it did—that persistent little spark could flare into an inferno—
Since when did he draw back from playing with fire?
This time he should—
And maybe he didn’t want to.
Sex…Was never far from his mind, and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t imagined taming the wildcat when they’d been younger. Mia’s unaffected charm—her spirit, her quirky, contrary, upbeat nature—had always been enough to goad him to the point of distraction, and when the explosion came he fully expected the result to be everything it promised to be—
Which was why he must never touch her…
But it didn’t hurt to meet for a drink. Plus Mia had always been one of the sharpest tools in the box and he could use a keen pair of eyes reading the route for him tomorrow. He might consider using her. Why not? He didn’t want to pull out of the race at this late stage so he couldn’t afford to be proud. And having won the junior section of several world class rallies certainly put Mia Spencer-Dayly in with a shout.
Monte Carlo equalled more, Mia mused, taking a deep breath as she prepared to start work at the glamorous hairdressing salon—more money, more glamour, more security, more everything. Definitely more intrigue than anywhere else on earth.
Which she would be adding to tonight when she met Ram—
When she met Ram…the Maharaja…
The man everyone was talking about. It hardly seemed possible. And what would her old childhood friend make of her new persona? She’d always been a bit of an oddball when it came to fashion, but her most recent look was what you might call a bit of a change from lollipops and pigtails…
As she examined her reflection in the mirror Mia remembered the day she had breezed into Monsieur Michel’s salon to ask for a job. The canny old survivor had quickly guessed she had no qualifications in the hairdressing industry. She was only lucky that her noble-sounding name had got her foot in the door. It turned out that Monsieur’s troubled early life had left him with a weakness for the sort of eccentric folk who bumbled along the best they could in genteel poverty as Mia’s parents always had. Mia would be his meet-and-greet girl, Monsieur had declared, removing at a stroke any possibility of an amateur snipping dead ends from his duchesses.
Monsieur had seen the lot over the years, and instead of turning his face away from Mia’s injuries, which she dreaded—or gushing over her, which was almost worse—the eccentric proprietor of Monte Carlo’s most glamorous beauty salon had promptly renamed her Arabella, the Terror of the Seas, after the infamous pirate queen, Arabella Drummond, insisting Mia ditch her health scheme patch and adopt the jewelled creation he had specially created for her.
The novelty of wearing a costume, of which the eyepatch was just a small part, had held immediate appeal. The dressing up box had been Mia’s favourite escape at home—but this was fancy dress taken to new and exotic flights of fancy. She hadn’t known such fabulous outfits existed, or could be made—but then she hadn’t had much experience of theatrical costumiers before. Her dark, spiky hair lent itself to dramatic make-up, Monsieur Michel had insisted—sympathetically leaving out the fact that it also helped to cover her scars. So now she wore a big gold hoop in one ear, tiny leather hot pants and thigh-high leather boots, while an important-looking pad and pen hung in a pouch from the studded leather belt she wore slung low on her hips—not that there was anything written on the pad, but Monsieur Michel said she had to be ready for all eventualities—and if she was at a loose end she could always direct her talents towards the skilful use of a brush and pan.
Like all his staff, Mia adored her eccentric employer and knew Monsieur Michel’s only purpose was to make everyone feel welcome under his roof. He gave her the sort of nonjudgemental friendship Mia badly needed. The accident that had left her scarred and blind in one eye had led to six months of hell in rehabilitation, and had rocked her self-belief to the foundations. It had taken time to rebuild her life and she hadn’t done so quietly. She could never do that. She always had to walk on red-hot coals just to know she was alive. A winter working as a ranger in the frozen north out of touch of everything happening in the world had been just the start of her recovery. After that, she had come here, to the most glamorous principality on earth, where the language was French and the currency was good looks or money—and as she had neither, she wasn’t exactly off to a good start—but she had reasoned that if she could make it here she could make it anywhere, and Monsieur Michel had helped her to make that happen.
Mia would be the first to admit that her new look was ‘in your face’. It flaunted the fact that she was injured. There was nothing remotely apologetic about it. So she had a duff eye. So what? This was who she chose to be now. She had never been pretty, but at least now she had something that set her apart. Arabella Drummond? Dead-eyed Tic, more like, Mia concluded wryly as a muscle jumped in her damaged cheek.
Picking up a copy of that day’s newspaper, she glanced one last time at the front-page photograph of Ram. With perfect irony, he was one of the best-looking men in the world. But there was a definite improvement, she decided, studying the picture intently. Perhaps it was the air of danger surrounding him…Ram wasn’t even in his prime yet but he was clearly having fun getting there. Any sensible woman would run a mile…
Which was why she would be meeting with him tonight…
‘No more mirror-time. You look beautiful, chérie, and clients are waiting.’
Monsieur’s arrival meant Ram had to go on the back burner for the time being—not his seat of choice, but she had to concentrate on her duties, which wasn’t going to be easy with the Maharaja in town.
But when Monsieur Michel swung the door wide Mia knew that loyalty to her employer would soon sort that out. In Monsieur Michel’s view of the world lay the root of his success. Monsieur could always see beyond the flawed shell to the person underneath. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, he never tired of telling his staff. And Monsieur Michel saw beauty in everyone—
‘Chop chop!’ he exclaimed, shooing Mia ahead of him.
Neither of them was under any illusion as to why Mia was so valuable to the salon. They both knew there wasn’t a woman in the place who wouldn’t feel more beautiful when they compared themselves to Monsieur Michel’s flawed pirate queen.
The trouble with Ram’s rally car was sorted out sooner than expected. He took a shower and changed, and then his thoughts turned to meeting Mia. Why not bring the appointment forward? There had been far too many simpering, low-fat milksops in his life recently. Wasn’t it time to take a walk on the wild side and eat some clotted cream? Mia had never made life easy for him and he was bored with easy.
Mia and he hadn’t parted on the best of terms. The last time he’d seen Mia had been at Tom’s engagement party when he had already known that his fate was cast in stone. He was to return to Ramprakesh and take part in an arranged marriage. It was how things were done—
How things used to be done.
He’d bought Mia a dress in Paris—a goodbye gift totally over the top, he realised now. In hindsight, that gift seemed little more than a crass attempt to soften the words when he told Mia he was leaving to get married and take up his place in a world she could never be a part of. A crass attempt at telling Mia he loved her and would always love her, but he had to give her up without ever really knowing her.
While they’d packed the dress he’d had a vision of one last dream night together. He’d been young then. He was cynical now and couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered the possibility that their dream night would go wrong from start to finish.
But that was then and this was now. And he was eaten up by curiosity. There were so many blank spaces to fill in between that night and this.
Monte Carlo was so much more than a race track, Ram reflected as he walked the short distance to Mia’s place of work. The principality of Monaco was a tiny pink jewel, rich in culture and tradition set to perfection on an aquamarine sea. It was also a place where Mia was beginning to feel at home, he gathered. Five star plus suited her? It had never used to. Mia had always been dismissive of pomp and ceremony and all in favour of keeping it real. So what was she doing on the French Riviera where dreams were made of money? Or tinsel.
What wasn’t Mia telling him?
He’d soon find out.
Perching on the staffroom window sill eating a doughnut during her break, Mia had almost managed to convince herself that with this type of view she could forget Ram—
Well, that was a laugh. Staring at another flawless blue sky was bliss, but it was overshadowed by a pair of mocking eyes. Was she up to this? She stared unseeing out of the window. Maybe she’d go to the beach later to chill out in readiness for meeting Ram. Ram would never go to a public beach, though the beach was fabulous. You could dream there—you could be anyone you wanted to be. You didn’t have to go onboard one of the zillionaires’ yachts in order to feel special in Monte Carlo. In fact, there were far fewer complications if you decided not to go onboard—
‘You have a visitor, Mia.’
Mia’s heart stopped dead. Monsieur Michel had just entered the staffroom. A visitor? There could only be one visitor. Who else knew she was in Monte Carlo?
‘If you want I can send him away?’ Concern clouded Monsieur Michel’s face as he came close enough to see the shock on Mia’s face.
‘No—No, that’s fine,’ she said, licking the sugar off her fingers and rallying fast. ‘I’ll see him.’ Springing down from her perch, she rinsed her hands in the sink. She wasn’t going to turn this premature visit into a drama. Better to face Ram now and get it over with. She wasn’t a child to be overawed by him.
No, Mia mused, catching sight of herself in a full-length mirror as she left the room. She was hardly Miss Sugar ‘n’ Spice these days.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
