Her publicity photos had always been doctored within an inch of their lives but every agent she’d hired had controlled her diet more closely than their own children’s anyway. She sucked in her gut. Now that her singing career was over she was free from the need to recede, which was great. Not so great was the fact that her hourglass figure was slowly spreading into Nutella jar proportions.
At least her lips were okay. A Japanese fan had once written a poem about them, praising their fullness in two stanzas. Well, he’d said they were puffy, but that was good, wasn’t it? Lots of women got collagen injections so their lips could look like hers.
Anjuli caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the bar. She looked like an overripe tomato, ready to burst through its skin. Maybe she should talk to Rob over the phone, or better yet, she could apologise via email and talk to his secretary about the restoration.
“Stop it,” she muttered, jutting her chin at her reflection. Rob deserved a face-to-face apology. There would be no more procrastinating. “Damn right there won’t be.”
From the other end of the bar, Viking gave her a look she recognised as the one barmen saved for patrons who’d had one too many. Great, eight years cultivating an indifferent mask and one encounter with Rob was all it took to peel it off. She was already talking to herself in public. What next, baring her soul to a bartender who didn’t speak English?
The rum went down her throat like nectar; sweet, warm liquid she hoped would loosen her tension. Ash gave her another and pointed at the crowd. Hell, what she really needed was something stronger than Caribbean courage, something that would focus her on the target with kamikaze determination.
Slowly, Anjuli weaved her way through the tightly packed bodies, scanning for tall, dark and lethal. A few people stared at her, their eyes widening in recognition. Don’t see me, don’t stop for twenty thousand questions, thanks. A man behind her shouted out and a portly woman turned to give him an irate look.
“Settle down and listen for a change, Bruce. We’ll get the right of it now that he’s going up there.”
The crowd parted and—oh God, it was Rob. Anjuli’s stomach lurched as he approached the platform. An athletic vault and he was up, then bending down to accept a glass of amber liquid from someone in the crowd. Her throat went dry as she absorbed the casual, button-down shirt showing off broad, straight shoulders, the dark trousers moulding to long, muscular thighs.
One blink and Rob was his famous ancestor, the laird of Heaverlock, rallying the village to defend its borders against reivers and soldiers alike. Another, and he was Rob again, asking for cool heads and patience while he gave his point of view. Pausing, he lifted the whisky to his mouth.
Anjuli stared at his hands. Those slender fingers had scorched a path she could still trace on her skin. They had entered her body, explored her every contour and stroked her to ecstasy. Her sweaty palm trembled and the empty glass slipped from her grasp, hitting the flagstone floor and shattering at her feet. Shit.
A space opened up around her as people searched for the source of the interruption. One or two gasps, a murmur, and then Rob saw her. Their eyes met, and in his bottomless grey gaze she read every second, every mortifying, gut-clenching moment of their last meeting.
Chapter Two
London, 3 months earlier
Ella Fitzgerald could croon all she wanted about madness and boys, but Anjuli was barely listening, her attention caught by the man who’d walked into her favourite Notting Hill piano bar. Tall and black-haired, he wore a tuxedo that emphasised his tanned skin and accentuated the sensual grace of his gait. It was dark and her view obscured by the couple he’d walked in with, but she could track his progress to the bar through the gaps in the crowd.
Anjuli sucked in her stomach, smoothed back her hair and sat up straight. She couldn’t see his face, but what she could—broad shoulders and a sculpted backside that filled his tux trousers—Oh God, she must be drunk if she was regressing into a hormonal teenager, slobbering over a total stranger as if he were a Hotel Chocolat bon bon. Although, this man’s packaging was just as enticing as her favourite treat. The bow tie had come off and his shirt was opened rakishly at the neck. He seemed tense. Watchful. Mmm...He would be succulent, melt-in-the-mouth creamy with a dangerous zing.
A glimpse of his profile made her choke. She shook her head fiercely—a bad move after consuming four whisky sours—and it took a few seconds for the colourful spots to clear. Maybe Ella was right after all; she really was mad because Mr. Tuxedo Truffle looked exactly like someone she’d known in another life, someone who belonged in the past. But no, it couldn’t be him. Not here, of all places.