Free The Tiger's Lady by Christina Skye Page A

the Englishman stiffened. He bent to whisper another comment to his voluptuous partner, who immediately broke into uproarious laughter. A woman seated nearby leaned closer, then conveyed Humphrey’s witticism to the man beside her, who snickered loudly.
    Until he stared into the rajah’s face, that is. When he did that, all trace of humor fled.
    Idly the Indian considered taking out his razor-edged khanjar and teaching these dung-eating English barbarians the importance of keeping a civil tongue between their teeth.
    Yes, it might prove vastly amusing…
    Sir Humphrey’s friend began to sweat.
    The rajah smiled. The sight pleased him. He was just trying to decide what would add still more to his pleasure when he heard the soft tread of his bodyguard close behind him.
    The Sikh spoke, fast and urgent, and the rajah felt his humor fade. He’d lost the woman, just as he had feared. Worse than lost her, if what Singh said were true…
    But he refused to think about it. Now was for pleasure—or for a healthy dose of anger that might double for pleasure.
    His fingers inched into fists as he contemplated shoving a potted palm down Sir Humphrey’s throat.
    And then a new voice drifted down the spiral staircase. Elegant as ever, with her russet curls glistening in the gaslight, Helene swept into the salon. “How gracious of you to honor us with your presence, Your Excellency.”
    The establishment’s elegant owner’s eyes registered the tension in the room and the stiffened posture of the rajah and the Englishmen standing opposite. “Had I been notified of your intention to visit, I would have arranged a warmer greeting…” She let her words trail away, softly chiding.
    Inwardly, Helene cursed furiously. Damn, she had nearly come too late. Couldn’t her wretched staff do anything right? Must she see to every detail herself?
    But the statuesque redhead was careful to conceal her irritation. Her clients were wealthy and powerful men who paid well to be soothed, flattered, and admired by docile females. So instead of scowling as she would have liked, she forced her lips into a smile, glided to the bottom of the stairs, and settled a jeweled hand on the rajah’s arm.
    Her smile wavered as she felt those granite muscles flex and bunch beneath her fingers. He was furious. Then she noticed that his other hand was inching into his tunic pocket.
    The room fell silent, fairly crackling with tension.
    The rajah’s eyes burned into Sir Humphrey’s face.
    He wasn’t going to make this easy, Helene saw. Abruptly, she swept her turbaned guest a deep curtsy. “I beg you will forgive my rudeness in not being present to receive you, Your Excellency. It was quite unpardonable.”
    Without rising she waited, her head averted, her fingers clenched on that tautly muscled forearm.
    Helene prayed her visitor would release his grip on the deadly khanjar he always carried in his pocket. If not, in the next few moments she would lose everything she had worked so many years to achieve.
    The rajah remained immobile, his eyes locked upon Sir Humphrey’s sneering face.
    “Must I beg then?” Helene breathed, so quietly that none but the two of them could hear. “If you wish it, I shall, of course. You know that.”
    The rajah frowned, appearing to recollect his surroundings. Slowly his face regained its usual impassivity. Helene let out a slow sigh as she felt the taut muscles relax beneath her hand.
    “You are too gracious,” her visitor said at last, his deep, potent voice rolling to the farthest corner of the room. “The discourtesy was all mine, I fear.” His eyes slanted down as he raised Helene to her feet, noting the high color in her cheeks.
    So she had seen the danger, had she? He supposed he ought to be glad for it. If she hadn’t stepped in, that damned civil servant would almost certainly be dead right now.
    But he was not ready to quit the field yet, the rajah decided.
    His jet eyes flickered, seeking Sir Humphrey’s face.