Double eek! Her heartbeat tried to break all speed limits then. O-M-jeez! It was true. It was truly true. He was really going to propose. He hadn’t gotten her an engagement ring the last time.
She stared at the box, her mind going blank with terror.
Terror? Yes, yes, abject terror.
The bathroom door opened and shut, and soft footfalls came closer and closer until Krish appeared in the doorway, a towel tucked around his hips. His aftershave smelled divine. She wanted to lap him up like ice cream.
A slow, rakish grin kicked up one side of his face as he simply stood by the door and looked at her from her head to her feet and back up. “Hey,” he said when at long last their eyes met. Locked.
She seemed to have frozen into a statue. She could not move. She was a hot, clammy statue.
One thick eyebrow quirked up as he took in her terror-struck expression. He noticed what she was trying not to stare at but still what her eyes kept bouncing back to.
“That’s yours, by the way. Go ahead. Open it.” He walked to the dresser, and with a flick of his finger, he set the box of temptation spinning like a top.
That unfroze her right quickly. She lifted her chin. “No way, hombre. Not without you on bended knee, a red rose clamped between your teeth, and a lot of begging.”
Their eyes clashed in the cherry-wood dresser’s mirror. His wet hair had been combed off his face, and his glasses were a bit foggy from the shower. Like his mother and sister, Krish was lean all over. He was a shade darker than them, his skin water-chestnut brown. He had a small patch of hair in the center of his chest and a thin line of hair that ran from his navel downward and disappeared into his towel. His shoulders and arms were lightly muscled, his back straight and smooth, and his legs long and supple, like someone who walked daily or was semi-athletic. Really, except for the slight jut of his beer belly, he was in good shape.
“Babe?” His beastly smirk drew her attention to his mouth and the fleshy lower lip. “With your system currently down for monthly maintenance, guess who’ll be on her knees tonight? Roses and begging optional.”
Diya’s jaw dropped open. She was so shocked—and impressed—by his perfectly pitched double entendre that she couldn’t come up with a single witty comeback.
Then, another one of her lifelong dreams was fulfilled. Krish whipped off the towel and pulled on his boxers, giving her a brief flash of him—all of him.
Diya collapsed on the bed, blushing and giggling like a twit. “O-M-jeez, Krish. Who’s the puppy shame now?”
* * *
La Rouge was French dining at its finest.
Krish had chosen the restaurant for its seen-and-be-seen status—a fact Diya had more than appreciated and preened over when they arrived. He’d managed to reserve one of the private dining rooms. Rather, his assistant had managed it—one of the last duties Charlie had performed for him. Krish was going to miss the enterprising young man, who’d been an asset beyond compare through Krish’s tenure at Armadillo. With his persuasive tongue, Ivy League connections, and boundless energy, Charlie was an asset to Wisco, and Krish had made sure the senior management knew it.
The private dining room was an homage to Renaissance France with its mahogany furniture, padded cream-colored walls, long mirrors, sconces with silk shades, and fussy drapes. Strains of classical music drifted out through discreetly fitted speakers within the decorative ceiling. They looked misplaced in the elegant room.
A burst of laughter had Krish turning his attention back to Diya. She was currently entertaining the head chef with her animated banter and endless tales.
Tales bordering on the ridiculous, he thought with a shake of his head. It figured she’d be the centerpiece of all things wacky.
The chef drawled out Diya’s name into Dee-yeah and not Dee-yah, as it was meant to be pronounced. Just like he was Chris and not Krish in this country. I say tomato, you say to-mah-to, and never the twain shall mix. Not that accents or cultures or countries needed to mix or blend. To each his own, was Krish’s philosophy.
“It wasn’t that funny,” Krish said as soon as the chef trotted away to prepare the next course in their nine-course feast. It was irritating, the way the man had hovered and fawned over Dee-yeah.
“Don’t be such a sourpuss. The incident at the temple was legend. Can you imagine a woman like Dadima—salt-and-pepper hair, bad knees, sweater over the sari? But that’s where the similarities ended. Sharda Patel was unreal, Krish. We discussed whether the hero jerking out in front of the heroine was appropriate or not.”
Krish blinked. “Sorry, don’t you mean, jerking off?”
“Uh-huh.” Diya took a long sip of her pink champagne. “And, no, we did not mix up any idioms or metaphors. We had a very nice discussion about why masturbation is called jerking off and not jerking out when clearly out is the pertinent action and not off.”
“And you had this bizarre conversation right outside the Hindu temple?” Krish could only shake his head.
“And we weren’t struck down by lightning either. Amazing, isn’t it?” Diya beamed at him before she remembered that she was pissed at him.
She looked gorgeous in fuchsia, even scowling. He’d made the mistake of calling her dress pink and been reprimanded for his ignorance. The body-hugging outfit was layered in pink and gold tassels all over and had no back to speak of. He’d had no brain to speak of when she pirouetted to show it off.
“Why are the most expensive clothes made from the least amount of material?” he’d asked and gotten a withering stare as an answer. By then, he’d already fumbled the proposal.
In his defense, he’d been excited and eager to show her the ring, and she’d been staring at the box, so he’d just reacted. For God’s sake, they were buddies—well, lovers now, but they were familiar.
“We don’t need to stand on ceremony. We had a traditional Indian engagement before, and I see no reason to make a movie production of it this time when I already know your answer.” His second mistake—saying that out loud.
“Do you know me at all?” she’d asked with large, wounded eyes that had made him feel lower than the lowest cad. “I make a movie production out of everything. And a HELL NO to your crappy proposal.”
The doors opened, and with all the pomp his proposal had lacked, La Rouge’s head chef marched into the dining room, followed by two smartly dressed servers carrying white plates covered with silver domes. The production put a momentary pause in Krish’s mental self-flagellation. As one, the servers took off the domes and placed course number four in front of them.
“Spicy sea urchin sushi in lettuce cups,” the chef announced and apprised Diya of the nutritional value and calorie count of the dish, as she’d requested.
Then, the trio trotted out, leaving them to enjoy the meal.
They ate in silence that was bursting with flavors. While Krish enjoyed peace and quiet in all its essence, this wasn’t how he’d envisioned their re-engagement would unfold. He nudged Diya’s foot under the table in silent apology. She moved her leg away.
“What do you want, Dee?” he asked, exasperated now. “You want me to go down on my knee? You want me to grovel? Fine. I’ll grovel once we’re home.”
“That’s what you think going down on one knee is? Groveling?” she asked hotly. “I don’t want you to grovel. I want you to mean it.” She flapped a hand in the air. “Just forget it. Forget the whole thing. I won’t marry a man who keeps secrets from me and who lies to my face.”
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Krish dropped his fork and knife on the plate, completely baffled.
“Do you deny that you pretended to go to work today? Your girlfriend—ex-GF told me everything. I know about Wisconsin and Wisco. I know you’re negotiating with Wisco about something.” Diya’s eyes shot daggers at him.
Now, he got it. Krish leaned back in his chair in relief. The elephant in the room hadn’t been his lack of romance at all.
* * *
“I can’t believe you ke
pt all that from me,” Diya said on the drive home.
She’d held her tongue all through the exquisite dinner, all through his statement about his resignation and the cyber-school investment. But, she didn’t want to play nice anymore.
Why had she built her hopes up? A leopard never changed his spots.
“What else are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “Why do you keep things from me?”
The Beast was unperturbed by her anger, hiding his thoughts behind his fancy, rimless, non-reflective-glass spectacles. “Calm down. It wasn’t personal.”
She took a deep breath, counted to twenty, and exhaled. “Shall I personally corkscrew the heel of my shoe into your brain?”
He flicked her a glance. “Amma and Alisha don’t know about it, either.”
She didn’t care that he hadn’t told his family. She was here in Dallas, not them. He should’ve told her. If they were to marry, she wanted them to share their lives, not compartmentalize parts of it.
“I always work it out in my mind before I tell anyone; you know that,” he said.
“So, you’ve worked it all out? You’ve decided you’re going to run a school?” She tried not to sound incredulous. This decision from a man who’d blamed his mother’s teaching job for ruining his life.
“Yes.” He gave her a longer glance. The shiny surface of his face was again hiding something deeper. He wasn’t sure of his decision, was he?
Just then, he reminded her of a brash fifteen-year-old Krish, trying to appear angsty to compensate for the lost, hurt, bewildered boy he actually was.
Her anger depleted instantly. Gah! What was she going to do with this man? He made her blood boil one minute, and the next, all she wanted to do was pet him.
“Tell me the rest, Krish. And please, don’t leave anything out.”
He did better than tell her. He showed her. He’d already given her a brief outline of what Darren Peters and he expected to gain from their investment. When they reached home, Krish grabbed her hand and dragged her straight into the office.
It was a spacious, hexagonal room tucked away in the back of the house, between the living room and the bedroom floors. Built-in shelves lined three of the walls, bursting with books. A fourth wall was a large picture window, showcasing the woodland, and had a long, padded bench underscoring it. A cozy place where one could stretch out with a book and a mug of tea. Two cats crawled out from under the bench to stare at Diya in unblinking curiosity. She bent down to say a quick hello and then took a slow turn about the room to resume her inspection.
A tall grandfather clock stood in a corner by the door, and the entire floor was covered in gray industrial carpet. A large birdcage stood in one of the nooks, nesting four colorful parakeets around a fake tree. They’d started twittering as soon as Krish switched on the lights.
Two desks faced each other in the middle of the room with enough space between for four people to form an arm-length circle. Both workspaces were junkyards of paper and work paraphernalia. Krish handed her a thick file with a transparent plastic cover. There were two more of the same on one desk.
“Outreach School Project,” she read off the front of it. Then, hefting the file between her hands like a weight brick, she raised her eyebrows at Krish. “You don’t expect me to read this, do you?”
“I’m not delusional. You wouldn’t understand the technical jargon anyway, as it’s mostly analytical mathematics.” He kissed her nose, even as he grinned pompously.
She stuck her tongue out at him. His focus shifted to her tongue, her mouth. The tingling started up again, raising the fine hairs all over her body. He leaned in to give her a hot, openmouthed kiss. She couldn’t help herself either. She touched her tongue to his and shivered. He stripped off his coat and draped it over her shoulders without breaking their lip-lock.
“So, about OSP,” he murmured against her cheek when they finally came up for air.
“Huh?” She blinked at him. What were they talking about? Oh, right. Full disclosure that she’d insisted on. “Tell me,” she said, sliding her arms through the sleeves of his jacket and wrapping herself in his scent, his warmth.
“It’s a start-up. A privately funded cyber school offering comprehensive subject classes to grades one through twelve. It’s already affiliated to a number of public schools in the US, and students have the option to sit in for physical examinations at those schools. Eventually, we want tie-ups with schools all around the world. Cyber schools are the future. Their potential is limitless. They can reach millions of students at once, in any corner of the world. Anyone with access to a computer and the internet will be able to get a certified education. Children, or even adults, who can’t go to school because of geography, money, a disability will be able to get home-schooled at their own pace, in their own environment, for their own interest and development. Eventually, we hope to have physical classrooms in places where affiliate schools are scarce and the internet is still something out of science fiction. Education is key; it’s sacred, Dee. Humanity cannot evolve without knowledge, learning, progress, growth.”
He took her hand—the one his ring would be winking on had he proposed to her correctly instead of bowling the box at her like a cricket ball.
O-M-jeez! She couldn’t believe he’d just thrown the ring at her, yelled, “Catch!” and expected her to gleefully put it on. She’d been so stunned that she didn’t even lift her hands to catch the damn box, and it had bounced off her chest to the floor.
Anyway, letting bygones go, Diya tangled her fingers with Krish’s and pulled him down to sit on the padded bench by the window. A gray-black cat wove from windowsill to windowsill and jumped onto his lap as if his sitting down had been an invitation. Krish stroked the cat, making it purr and Diya shiver in envy, as he talked about his new enterprise.
His words were full of technical jargon about how OSP worked and where he expected it to go and what role he wanted to play. He didn’t only want to be an investor and business advisor; he also wanted to teach. He gained steam as he gave her numbers and statistics—his forte after all. He asked her to open the file and showed her pie charts and graph lines that looked like her father’s EKG report. He told her everything, except the most important thing.
“Why, Krish?” she asked finally.
This job was the complete opposite of what he’d been doing for the past fifteen years.
“What do you mean?” He stood up, freeing his hands of fur and her.
The kitty cat did not like it one bit. Neither did she.
“Why this? Why now? Why not Wisco?”
His eyes slashed to hers, cutting sharp like diamonds. He didn’t want to answer the questions. But they were the only answers she was interested in.
Also, “Why me? Why us? Why now, Krish?”
What had changed? Why had he changed?
Had he changed?
They stared at each other, their breaths rising and falling in opposite beats.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You don’t trust me. You think I’ve jumped off a cliff without a safety net to catch me. You think I’m acting out of character because I’m … what? Bored? Having a midlife crisis? Going senile?” He’d read her mind, as usual.
He cupped her cheek. Then, he slid his hand around to the nape of her neck and applied a light pressure. “Don’t worry, Diya Mathur. I know what I’m doing with this project … and with you. I’m committed to both.”
Not exactly the declaration of all-consuming love she wanted. But it was a start.
Chapter 15
That night, they slept together again without actually sleeping together.
Like the previous night, they wound up in the master bedroom. It had the bigger bed, hence more room for monkey business. And, goodness, Krish was an absolute monkey about bedroom business.
He was innovative; he had to be, considering she was partly off-limits due
to the “monthly oil change.” He was funny and uninhibited and completely thorough. His thoroughness was no surprise. Krish was a meticulous man and more than invested in proving his Homo erectus status.
They minutely studied each other’s bodies and learned how best to pleasure each other despite limitations. In one way, Diya was glad she had her period. She wasn’t quite ready to go all the way. She wasn’t quite ready to give Krish that final bit of control over her. It was too important a step to be taken lightly, and she didn’t want to jump off the cliff until she had a few safety nets of her own spread below her.
Near dawn, after a third round of mattress mayhem, she lay on her stomach, gasping for breath, when she felt Krish grope for her hand. She tried to tug it back but only succeeded in flapping it about on the mattress.
“Stop. No more lovin’ feelin’. Please, let me live,” she groaned. Her insides were mush.
Romance novels had it right. It was possible to die from pleasure. A less conditioned heart would have given up pumping by now.
“I need your hand for a second, babe.” He tugged insistently on her left ring finger.
Diya’s eyes flew open. Rather, her left popped open, and her right eye remained pressed against the mattress. She rolled her eyeball toward Krish through the wreckage of her hair. He was stretched out on his side next to her, the race-car-red velvet box in his hand.
“No,” she shot out succinctly. Oh no. No way! She tightly fisted her hand.
“In some countries, the custom is to wear the engagement ring on the right hand. It’s left mainly for the US and UK.” He tried to pry her right hand open.
She gathered her strength and rolled over, scooting back until her butt hit the headboard, and crossed her arms, burying both her hands into her armpits. There. Now, none of them were accessible.
The Beast was not at all discouraged. He sat up and pushed his glasses up on his nose, fire and determination sparking his dark brown eyes. “Don’t be childish, Diya. Give. Me. Your. Hand.”
Bootie and the Beast Page 17
