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She’d woken the morning after and known what she had to do—the only way forward to salvage some pride and dignity. End it on her terms, before he did. It had been the only option, but even as she had done it there had been a tiny part of her that had hoped he’d stop her, ask her to stay. But of course he hadn’t. The Playboy Prince wouldn’t change. People didn’t change—Sunita knew that.
Anyway this was history. Over and done with.
‘I am offering condolences now.’
‘Thank you. But, as I said, that’s not why I am here.’
‘The article?’
‘Yes. I’d like to talk—perhaps we could go inside.’
‘No!’ Tone it down, Sunita. ‘This is my home, Frederick, my private sanctuary. I want to keep it that way.’
He eyed her for a moment and she forced herself to hold his gaze.
‘Then where would you suggest? Preferably somewhere discreet.’
‘In case the press spot us and tips me as the next candidate for Lycander Bride?’
The words were out before she could stop them; obscure hurt touched her with the knowledge he didn’t want to be seen with her.
‘Something like that. You’re my unofficial business.’
For a moment there was a hint of the Frederick she’d known in the warmth of his voice, and more memories threatened to surface. Of warmth and laughter, touch and taste.
‘My official reason for this trip is charity business—I’m patron of an educational charity that is rolling out some new schools.’
The tang of warmth had disappeared; instead impatience vibrated from him as he shifted from foot to foot.
‘Are you sure we can’t talk inside? It shouldn’t take long. All I want is the solution to April’s mystery.’
Sunita checked the hollow laughter before it could fall from her lips. Was that all he wanted? Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.
‘I’m sure we can’t talk here.’
Think. But coherent thought was nigh on impossible. Raw panic combined with her body’s reaction to his proximity had unsettled her, sheer awareness wrong-footed her. Think. Yet her mind drew a blank as to any possible location, any café where she and Amil weren’t regulars.
Fear displaced all other emotion—Frederick must not find out about Amil. Not now, not like this. One day, yes, but at a time of her choice—when it was right and safe for Amil.
‘I’ll just grab a coat and we can go.’
‘A coat?’
‘It’s monsoon season.’
Sunita turned, opened the door, and slipped inside, her mind racing to formulate a plan. She’d always been able to think on her feet, after all. If Frederick wanted a solution to the mystery of her disappearance from the modelling scene, then that was what she would provide.
Grabbing her phone, she pressed speed dial and waited.
‘Sunita?’
‘Hey, Sam. I need a favour. A big favour.’
FREDERICK WATCHED AS she opened the door and sidled out. Coatless, he couldn’t help but notice. What was going on? Anyone would think she had the Lycander Crown Jewels tucked away in there. Hell, maybe she did. Or maybe something was wrong.
Disquiet flickered and he closed it down. He’d vowed emotion would not come into play here. He and Sunita were history—the sole reason for his presence was to ensure no scandal would touch Lycander and topple him, Humpty Dumpty-style.
They exited the building and emerged onto the heat-soaked pavement, thronged with an almost impossible mass of people, alive with the shouts of the hawkers who peddled their wares and the thrum of the seemingly endless cars that streamed along the road. Horns blared, and the smell of cumin, coriander and myriad spices mingled with the delicate scents of the garlands of flowers on offer and the harsher fumes of pollution.
Sunita walked slightly ahead, and he took the opportunity to study her. The past two years had done nothing to detract from her beauty—her hair shone with a lustre that should have the manufacturer of whatever brand of shampoo she used banging at her door, and her impossibly long legs and slender waist were unchanged.
Yet there was a difference. The Sunita he’d known had dressed to be noticed, but today her outfit was simple and anonymous—cut-off jeans, a loose dark blue T-shirt and blue sandals. It was an ensemble that made her blend in with the crowd. Even the way she walked seemed altered—somehow different from the way she had once sashayed down the catwalk.
Once.
And therein lay the crux of the matter. The more he thought about it, the more he recalled the vibrant, publicity-loving, career-orientated Sunita he’d known, the less possible it seemed that she had traded the life path she’d planned for an anonymous existence. His research of the past two days had confirmed that mere weeks after Sunita had ended their association she’d thrown it all away and melted into obscurity.
‘How did you find me?’
‘It wasn’t easy.’
Or so Marcus had informed him. Sunita’s agent had refused point-blank to respond to his discreet enquiries, but Marcus had ways and means, and had eventually procured the address through ‘contacts’—whatever that meant.
‘Was it my agent? Was it Harvey?’
‘No. But whoever it was I promise you they did you a favour.’
‘Some favour.’
‘You mean you aren’t happy to see me?’ he deadpanned.
A shadow of a smile threatened to touch her lips and he fought the urge to focus on those lips in more detail.
‘Pass.’
Raising an arm, she hailed a taxi and they waited until the yellow and black vehicle had screeched through the traffic to stop by the kerb.
Once inside she leant forward to speak to the driver. ‘Sunshine Café, please,’ she said, and then sat back. ‘I’m taking you to meet the solution to your mystery. The reason I stayed in India.’
Her eyes slid away from him for a fraction of a second and then back again as she inhaled an audible breath.
‘His name is Sam Matthews. He used to be a photographer, but he’s moved here and set up a beach café.’
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