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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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.

Chapter Three

‘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.’

Chapter Four

THE encounter with Mia had shaken Ram beyond belief. He was outside in the fresh air now, pacing the balcony of his penthouse suite, but he had spent the first hour back at L’Hirondelle with the phone welded to his ear, issuing instructions.

He had never appreciated money and influence more. His yacht was expected in harbour within the hour, and all the other arrangements were underway. He wouldn’t abandon anyone he suspected of needing his help and he wasn’t about to walk out on Mia. The last thing she wanted from him was his pity and he didn’t need complications in his life, but Mia’s injuries had been a massive wake-up call. He’d been easing himself into taking up the reins of a country—the easy way, from a distance. He’d even ordered the building of an eco-palace, which he would pay for with his own money, and where one, as yet unspecified, day he had intended to live…

All that had been brought forward. Seeing Mia again had forced him to confront life’s bigger issues. There was no easy way for her—no long-distance solution. Mia needed close-up warmth and support, just as his people needed him in the country, rather than some distant stranger who issued orders for others to carry out. He would return home and take Mia with him. When he was sure she was healed she could leave and pick up her life—become the old Mia, rather than this theatrical version. It was the only way he could live with the guilt. He should have been there for Mia—for the family—for his best friend, Tom. He’d already been on the phone to Tom, berating him—though that was hardly fair when Mia had sworn Tom to silence. But since when had he been cut out of their lives?

Since he’d cut the ties?

He couldn’t have cared less if Mia had been dressed as a fairy queen, complete with wings and a wand. The salon she worked in was high camp and each member of staff had adopted some gimmick to set them apart. He was only sorry she’d thrown away a promising career in interior design, though he had to admit her new disguise was hot. Mia in Tom’s cast off clothes, climbing trees—Mia in a quaint, old-fashioned ball-gown—these were both images he could live with comfortably, but Mia with the cheeks of her well-formed buttocks just visible beneath a pair of tight black leather shorts—

So much for his good deed for the day! How quickly his thoughts could turn from selflessly helping Mia to selfishly wanting her. He had to turn his mind back determinedly to the accident. She’d handled the fall-out well. He owed her respect. Both of them had always liked to live dangerously and had always played to win. He’d got away with it. Mia hadn’t. He stood by his offer for her to be his co-driver—that was if she turned up for the race tomorrow. And something told him she wouldn’t be able to resist.

He was easing his muscles outside the entrance to the motor racing club when Mia stalked up to him the next day. Wearing banged-up jeans and sneakers accessorised with a shedload of attitude, she was brandishing the fireproof clothes he had arranged for her to wear. He noticed how full her lips were—how kissable—

How firmly pressed together.

He was ready for battle when she stopped in front of him—just as well. ‘You knew what to expect,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re hardly a stranger to the sport.’

‘You should have warned me these came with your logo plastered all over them. I could have hired something plain.’

‘You don’t like naked women?’

She gave him a withering stare. ‘When it’s taken straight from the Kama Sutra, I draw the line.’

‘This used to be a man’s team.’

‘Well, pardon me for having breasts.’

‘Are we done?’

‘You tricked me, Ram.’

‘I tricked you?’ he demanded, dipping his head to stare at Mia intently. ‘It was your idea to help me—and you never asked about the clothes. Just kill the complaints, Mia, and concentrate on doing the best damn map-reading of your life.’

She muttered something unprintable.

‘Just don’t let me down.’

‘Don’t you let me down,’ she retorted. ‘We’re supposed to be a team, remember?’

‘The winning team,’ he called after her as she marched off to get changed.

The helmet she had to wear for the time trial was about as sexy as a bucket with a viewing panel. White with a red stripe and a black visor, it had Ram’s retro logo on the side. Five minutes into his life and she’d have to change that—not that she’d ever get the chance, Mia reflected. The all-in-one suit featured pants with a handy opening panel—

Well, she was used to that from her rallying days. Everything was fireproof, apart from her knickers—the one item of clothing that should have been fire-proofed if she was expected to sit next to Ram for any length of time.

And she had to stop thinking like that. Where had it got her back in the day—other than frustrated? It was time to stop thinking about Ram’s sexual potential and put him in the correct box, which was temporary teammate. He was nothing more to her than that—and she was certainly nothing more to him.

It should get easier, Mia reasoned as she checked everything was zipped up tight. She could feel herself slipping into race mode, and once she was in the zone nothing would distract her from the job in hand. She had been good at rallying and would be again. And the chance to race with Ram, who was a world-class competitor, could only be another building block in her climb-back to confidence.

And those bold resolutions lasted all of five seconds when she emerged from the changing room to find Ram surrounded by adoring women. No surprise there—though he did have the courtesy to tear his attention away long enough to acknowledge her existence. Wearing a black baseball cap pulled low over his thick, wavy black hair and laughing eyes, and kitted out in race gear, he did look amazing, she had to admit—taller, stronger and far sexier than any of the other men in the competition—but it was the knowing curve of his mouth and the wicked glint in his eyes that promised more danger than any decent girl should want to get close to.

Irritated by all the hangers-on, she strode towards him like some warrior queen intent on relieving a siege, but the females currently assaulting Ram’s defences had their radar working too, and perfectly coiffed heads swivelled as she came close—which was where the fantasy scenario faltered. Ram’s glamorous admirers dismissed her with barely a glance—though Ram grinned as she elbowed her way through the scrum.

‘Are you ready, Ram? Or would you like me to leave you here—to sign a few autographs, perhaps?’

His darkly amused gaze held hers for a moment. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he told his adoring fans without once breaking eye contact with Mia. ‘It seems my co-driver needs a little last-minute reassurance.’

‘Ha!’ Mia exclaimed, swinging away.

No wonder Ram had insisted she get a good night’s sleep before the time trials. Pity he hadn’t taken his own advice. She had a good idea of where he’d been last night—clubbing and who knew what else—though, unusually, there had been no mention of him in the newspaper, which had to be a first since Ram had arrived in town. But what did the media know? What did anyone really know about Ram?

What did Mia know?

Nothing.

Except the sight of women slavering round him made her feel sick. Good for him. Lucky for her she wasn’t interested.

She hurried away—not even knowing where she was going—only certain she had to get out of there—

And jumped with shock as Ram grabbed hold of her arm.

‘Time for the technical inspection,’ he said in an altogether far too reasonable voice as he steered her towards the bank of officials.

She shook him off, but went willingly all the same. She was prepared to comply with anything connected to the race, but as soon as the formalities were completed this misguided experiment of hers was over. She needed a boost to her confidence—not someone to sit on it.

The moment she squeezed her rump into the moulded seat formed around Ram’s rangy Danish co-driver’s backside, Mia knew she had made a mistake. Ram in race mode was a powerful, brooding presence. She had not factored into her thinking how it would feel to be confined in such a small space with such a tightly wound mountain of a man. Had she really thought she would be cool with this? She slanted a glance at him—way too hot was closer to the truth.

‘Ready for some real driving?’ Ram demanded, revving the engine until she was sure it would explode.

She glanced at the impossibly complex array of dials and switches on the custom-built super-car and felt instantly at home. The answer to Ram’s question was a positive yes. However she felt about Ram, this was a fabulous opportunity to face her demons by hitching a ride with a true master of the sport.

Dust and exhaust sparks flew as Ram released the brake and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. G-force hit her in the back like a punch. She had always been a speed demon, but Ram liked to break the rules of physics—and for a split second she was in such a state of shock she forgot what she was supposed to do.

‘Instructions,’ Ram barked at her through the intercom, followed swiftly by quite a few words she couldn’t make out. Fortunately for her sensibilities, Mia gathered, judging by the aggressive set of his jaw.

She concentrated fiercely from then on, her gaze flashing between the road and the map as she rapped out directions as buildings flashed by in a silver rush. She couldn’t help remembering her own rallying career when her arms and elbows would have been flying everywhere by now. By contrast Ram sat quite still, calmly driving the car—and not just with his hands, but with his feet too, kicking the brake and hitting the throttle in a fluent rumba of synchronized activity.

At least it seemed she was doing okay now, Mia thought with relief. Ram’s comments were on the brusque side, rather than the rude. He was tough, terse and in control and there was no false veneer of charm. She liked that. She liked him. Far too much…

Ram exuded confidence and his confidence infected Mia until gradually she found herself relaxing into the rhythm of the race. He was totally on top of things and that was cool. He knew exactly what to do under pressure, which was sexy. She watched his hands move this way and that, making all the delicate little movements that made so much difference to their performance. He was the master of the elegant touch, she concluded, wondering how that would translate in the bedroom.

And which of the annoying females had he bedded last night?

Maybe all of them?

She was only too glad to leave these thoughts behind and warn him about a series of hairpin bends, but then she returned to console herself that the other women were too obvious, too compliant, while she, Mia the Magnificent, would be like a lioness taming her mate—should she ever get the chance, that was. ‘One hundred yards ahead—sharp turn to the right,’ she rapped out. She had to forget what was beneath Ram’s fireproof suit and fire off directions well in advance of him needing them. That was not to say a little day-dreaming was forbidden—just so long as she kept her concentration on the race. She was good at this. She hadn’t forgotten what to do—and not even Ram was going to find fault with her technique—

And what about Ram’s technique?

There was race tension—and then there was sexual tension. Her thoughts were operating on two levels, Mia realised. There was the race, and then there was something else sizzling between them. Could Ram feel it too? It was hot and tight—tight enough to unravel in a rush and sweep them both headlong into a situation. It was almost a relief when race excitement took her over when they streaked like a rocket down a rare straight stretch of the track.

Ram’s hands on the wheel, the firm set of his jaw, the steady beam of his eyes—

Race excitement quickly gave way to something else entirely, though she yelped in panic when he took the next hairpin at outrageous speed.

‘All right?’ he rapped, placing his hand on her knee when she gasped.

Ram’s brief touch was far more of a shock to her than his driving. ‘Okay,’ she rapped, not trusting herself to say more.

She pulled herself together as he accelerated out of the turn. Hairpin bends could come and go, but where Ram was concerned arousal was for ever. He was so good at this—the best. He had everything it took to be a top-class driver—power, strength and certainty, and there was no doubt that his timing was flawless. Lucky for her she had every excuse during the race to gasp and moan freely, as she imagined Ram’s technique being transferred to a very different set of skills. With the roar of the highly tuned engine blotting out all extraneous noise she could really let herself go. Ram was everything she had ever looked for in bed—

In a driver, Mia corrected herself as they screeched round the final corner and Ram powered up to the chequered flag.

She exclaimed with relief as they crossed the finish line and Ram brought the monster machine to a screeching halt. Lifting off her helmet, she threw herself back in her seat, laughing with relief and happiness. The whole experience had been incredible—and quite an education. And the race had been good too, Mia conceded dryly as Ram removed his helmet and ruffled his thick black hair.

‘You’re still alive, then?’ he said, turning to look at her.

Alive? She felt properly alive for the first time since…for ever. ‘Did you see our time? According to my calculations we just knocked a good three seconds off last year’s record.’

‘Not bad,’ Ram agreed. ‘And good to see you did your homework,’ he added wryly.

Would he expect anything less of her? Slanting a glance at him, Mia guessed not.

But then he started laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ she demanded.

‘I think you must have forgotten that I can hear every sound you make through the headphones—’

‘Every—’ Mia’s cheeks fired up.

‘Every sigh and gasp—every sexy little groan you make,’ Ram confirmed, staring at her with unbearable male smugness.

‘Well, I can see why that might amuse you,’ Mia agreed. ‘Though…sexy little groan? I don’t recognise that. I can only conclude you’re going deaf and need to turn your microphone up.’

‘And I’m equally sure you need your heat control turned down.’