by Nicola Marsh
‘You’re not boring and you’re certainly not old.’
As for the women he dated, there was a reason he chose the no-commitment, out-for-a-good-time-not-a-long-time type. A damn good one.
The smile hovering about her lips faded as fast as his hopes to keep it there.
‘But I am a widow.’
And, while he’d hated the pain she must’ve gone through after Rich died, the struggle to get her life back on an even keel, he couldn’t help but be glad she was now single.
Did that make him heartless? Maybe, but his past had taught him to be a realist and he never wasted time lying to himself or others. Discounting the way he’d kept his attraction for Tam a secret all these years, of course.
‘Maybe it’s time you came out of mourning?’
He expected her to recoil, to send him the contemptuous stare she’d given him after he’d kissed her. Instead, she cocked her head to one side, studying him.
‘Are you always this blunt?’
‘Always.’
‘So you’ll ignore me if I tell you to butt out, just like you did by gatecrashing my trip?’
He feigned hurt, smothering his grin with difficulty. ‘Gatecrashing’s a bit harsh. I told you, I’m here on business.’
He only just caught her muttered, ‘Monkey business.’
She fidgeted with her handbag, her fingers plucking at the leather strap as she rocked her weight from foot to foot, and he almost took pity on her before banishing that uncharacteristic emotion in a second.
He had to have her, was driven by a primal urge he had no control over and, to do that, he needed to get her to look at him as a man rather than a bug in her soup.
With a bit of luck and loads of charm, he intended to make good on the unspoken promise of their first kiss—a promise of so much more.
‘You’re not still hung up over that kiss, are you? Because, if you are—’
‘I’m not. It’s forgotten.’
Her gorgeous blush belied her quick negation and had him itching to push the boundaries. But he’d gained ground by having her accept his presence so quickly and he’d be a fool to take things too far on the first day.
‘Forgotten, huh? Must be losing my touch.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with—’
He smothered a triumphant grin. He may have lost his mind and kissed her to prove she needed to start living again but her eager response had blown him away. And fuelled his need for her, driving him to crazy things like taking time off work, something he rarely did, to pursue her.
‘Let’s put it down to a distant memory and move on, shall we?’
To his horror, her eyes filled with pain, which hit him hard, like a slug to the guts, and he tugged her close without thinking, enveloping her in his arms.
‘Hell, Tam, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned memories.’
She braced herself against his chest, her palms splayed, and his body reacted in an instant, heat searing his veins as he cradled a soft armful of woman.
She sniffled and he tightened his hold, rather than his first instinct to release her in the hope of putting an instant dampener on his errant libido.
His hand skimmed her hair, thick and dark like molten molasses, soothing strokes designed to comfort. But, hot on the heels of his thoughts of how much he wanted her, his fingers itched to delve into the shiny, dark mass and get caught up in it. He could hold her like this all night long.
‘You okay?’
Ethan pulled away, needing to establish some distance between them, not liking her power over him. He didn’t do comfort. He never had a hankie in his pocket or a host of placating platitudes or a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t do consoling hugs; he did passionate embraces.
So what had happened in the last few minutes? What was it about this woman that undermined him?
‘Uh-huh.’
She managed a watery smile before straightening her shoulders and lifting her head in the classic coping pose he’d seen her exhibit at Rich’s funeral and his admiration shot up another few notches.
How she’d handled her grief after the initial shock of Rich’s heart attack, burying herself in the business side of things, sorting through legalities with him, only to approach him several months later for the use of Ambrosia to get her career back on track, had all served to fuel his respect for this amazing woman.
Quite simply, she was incredible and he wanted her with a staggering fierceness that clawed at him even now, when he was left analysing how he’d let his control slip again in her intoxicating presence.
‘I can see you’re still hurting but if you ever want to talk about Rich, remember the good times, I’m here for you, okay?’
Maybe, if she opened up to him, he could encourage her to get it all out of her system and move on. Highly altruistic but then, when was he anything but?
To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose and he knew it had little to do with the pungent odours of diesel fumes, spices and human sweat swirling around them.
‘Honestly? I don’t want to talk about Richard. I’m done grieving.’
A spark of defiance lit her eyes, turning them from soft moss-green to sizzling emerald in a second. ‘I want to enjoy this trip, then concentrate on my future.’
He’d never seen her like this: resolute, determined, a woman reborn.
He’d seen Tam the society wife, the perfect hostess, the astute businesswoman, the grieving widow, but never like this and a part of him was glad. Releasing the past was cathartic, would help her to move on and he really wanted her to do that on this trip. With him.
‘Sounds like a plan.’
Her answering smile sent another sizzle of heat through him and he clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her close.
Plenty of time for that.
Tamara lay down on the bed, stretched her arms over her head and smiled.
The rocking motion of the train, the clickety-clack as it bounced its way out of Delhi, the aroma of marigolds and masala chai—the delicious tea, fragrant with cardamons—overloaded her senses, lulled her while making her want to jump up and twirl around from the sheer rush of it.
For the first time in years, she felt free. Free to do whatever she wanted, be whoever she chose. And it felt great. In fact, it felt downright fantastic.
While she’d once loved Richard, had desperately craved the type of marriage her folks had had, nothing came close to this exhilarating freedom.
She’d spent months playing the grieving widow after Richard had suffered that fatal heart attack, had submerged her humiliation, her bitterness, her pain.
Yet behind her serene, tear-stained face she’d seethed: at him for making a mockery of their marriage, at herself for being a gullible fool and for caring what people thought even after he was gone.
She hadn’t given two hoots about social propriety until she’d married him, had laughed at his obsession with appearances. But she’d soon learned he was serious and, with his face plastered over every newspaper, magazine and TV channel on a regular basis, she’d slipped into the routine of being the perfect little wife he’d wanted.
While his perfect little mistress had been stashed away in a luxurious beach house at Cape Schanck, just over an hour’s drive from Melbourne’s CBD where they’d lived.
Damn him.
She sat bolt upright, annoyed she’d let bitter memories tarnish the beginning of this incredible journey, her gaze falling on the single bed next to hers. The single bed her mum should’ve been occupying while regaling her with exotic tales of Goa and its beaches, Colva beach where she’d met her dad, her love at first sight for a scruffy Aussie backpacker with a twinkle in his eyes and a ready smile.
Tales of the Taj Mahal, the monument she’d always wanted to see but never had the chance. Tales of an India filled with hospitable people and mouth-watering food, imparting recipes in that lilting sing-song accent that had soothed her as a young girl when the nightmares of losing her dad woul
d wake her screaming and sweat-drenched.
Khushi should’ve been here. This was her trip.
Instead, Tamara swiped an angry hand across her eyes, dashing her tears away.
She wasn’t going to cry any more. She’d made herself that promise back in Melbourne when she’d decided to take this trip.
And while she knew her heart would break at every turn on the track, at every fabulous place she visited, wishing her mum was here to share it with her, she should be thankful she’d taken another positive step in getting her life in order.
She was through cringing with shame and humiliation at what Richard had put her through, done feeling sorry for herself.
This was her time.
Time for a new life, a new beginning.
So what the heck was Ethan Brooks doing here, muscling in on her new start?
Ethan, with his smiling eyes and that deadly smile. Where was the famed hard-ass, hard-nosed businessman? Instead, Ethan the pirate, the player, the playboy, had swaggered along on this trip and while every self-preservation instinct screamed for her to stay away, she couldn’t be that rude.
He’d helped her with the legalities surrounding Ambrosia after Richard’s death, had smoothed the way for her to reenter the workforce by allowing her to use Ambrosia as a base. She owed him.
But he had her rattled.
She preferred him business-oriented, juggling a briefcase, a laptop and barking instructions on a mobile phone at the same time, barely acknowledging her presence with an absentminded nod as he strutted into Ambrosia.
He’d practically ignored her when their paths had crossed while Richard had been around, his head always buried in financial statements and yearly projections, and that had been fine with her.
He made her uncomfortable and it had nothing to do with the fact that they didn’t really know each other. The shift had happened when they’d met to sort out Ambrosia’s ownership, those two times when she’d noticed things: like the way he cracked pistachio nuts way too loudly, flipping them in the air and catching them in his open mouth, how much he loved Shiraz Grenache and sticky date pudding and the North Melbourne Football Club.
Trivial things, inconsequential things that meant little, but the fact that she’d noticed and remembered them annoyed her.
As for that kiss…she picked up a pillow and smothered a groan, hating how it haunted her, hating how she’d dreamed of it, hating how the dream had developed and morphed into so much more than a kiss, leaving her writhing and panting and sweat-drenched on waking.
She didn’t want to remember any of it, didn’t want to remember his expertise, his spontaneity, his ability to dredge a response from her deepest, darkest soul, better left untouched.
But she did remember, every breathtaking moment, and while her head had slammed the door on the memory of her temporary insanity, her body was clamouring for more.
Now this.
Him being here, all suave and charming and too gorgeous for his own good, was making her nervous. Very nervous.
She didn’t need anyone in her new life, least of all a smooth tycoon like Ethan Brooks.
As for her wayward thoughts lately in the wee small hours of the morning when she lay sleepless, staring up at the ceiling and trying to regain focus to her meandering life, she’d banish them along with her anger at Richard.
Wondering what would’ve happened if she’d gone for Ethan rather than Richard that fateful night she’d entered Ambrosia four years earlier was a waste of time.
Now was her chance to put the past to rest and concentrate on her future.
CHAPTER THREE
‘TELL me you’re not working.’
Ethan pointed at the small blue notebook tucked discreetly under her linen serviette—obviously not discreetly enough.
Ignoring him, Tamara sliced a vegetable pakora in two and dipped it in the tamarind sauce, her taste buds hankering for that first delicious taste of crispy vegetables battered in chickpea flour and dunked in the sour, piquant sauce.
‘Fine, I won’t tell you.’
He shook his head, laughed, before helping himself to a meat samosa from the entrée platter between them.
‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’
‘I’m supposed to be getting back to work soon and I need the practice.’
Resting his knife and fork on his plate, he focused his too-blue gaze on her.
‘You’re an expert critic. One of Australia’s best. Skills like that don’t disappear because you’ve had a year or so off.’
‘Two years,’ she said, quelling the surge of resentment at what she’d given up for Richard. ‘Despite the last six months at Ambrosia, I’m still rusty. The sooner I get back into it, the easier it’ll be.’
She bit down on the pakora, chewed thoughtfully, knowing there was another reason she had her trusty notebook within jotting reach.
The minute she’d opened her compartment door to find Ethan on the other side in charcoal casual pants and open-necked white shirt, his gaze appreciative and his smile as piratical as always, she’d had to clamp down on the irrational urge to slam the door in his face and duck for cover.
It had been her stupid thoughts earlier of what if that had done it, that had made her aware of him as a man—a gorgeous, charming man—rather than just her…what was he? A business acquaintance? A travelling companion? A friend?
She didn’t like the last two options: they implied a closeness she didn’t want. But they’d moved past the acquaintance stage the moment he’d kissed her and there was no going back.
She didn’t want to have these thoughts, didn’t want to acknowledge the sexy crease in his left cheek, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that added character to his face, the endearingly ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.
She’d never noticed those things before or, if she had, hadn’t experienced this…this…buzz or whatever the strange feeling coursing through her body was that made her want to bury her nose in her notebook for the duration of dinner and not look up.
That might take care of day one, but what about the rest of the week as the Palace on Wheels took them on an amazing journey through Rajasthan?
Ethan was Richard’s friend, reason enough she couldn’t trust him, no matter how much he poured on the charm.
She’d fallen for Richard because he’d been safe and look at the devastation he’d wreaked. What would letting her guard down around a powerful, compelling guy like Ethan do?
Inwardly shuddering at the thought, she reached for the notebook at the same instant that he stilled her hand. Her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast.
He’d touched her again. First that hug on the station and now this. Though this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes, while fear crept through her.
Fear they’d somehow changed the boundaries of their nebulous relationship without realising, fear they could never go back, fear she could lose focus of what she wanted out of this trip and why if she was crazy enough to acknowledge the shift between them, let alone do anything about it.
‘This is the first holiday you’ve taken in years. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
He squeezed her hand, released it and she exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath.
‘You’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough. Once I coerce the super-talented Indian chef to leave the Lake Palace and work at Ambrosia, critiquing his meals will keep you busy for months.’
‘You’re too kind.’
She meant it. He’d never been anything other than kind to her, helping her with Richard’s business stuff, arranging a special table for her at Ambrosia away from the ravenous crowd so she could sample the food and write her critiques in peace.
But kind didn’t come close to describing the hungry gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous and exciting and terrifying.
He screwed up his nose, stabbing a seekh kebab from the entrée platter and moving it across to his plate. ‘You know, kind ranks right up there with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.’
‘Fine. You’re a cold, heartless businessman who takes no prisoners. Better?’
‘Much.’
His bold smile had her scrambling for her notebook, flipping it open to a crisp new blank page, pen poised. ‘Now, take a bite of that kebab and tell me what you think.’
He cut the kebab—spiced lamb moulded into a sausage shape around a skewer and cooked to perfection in a tandoor oven—and chewed a piece, emitting a satisfied moan that had her focusing on his lips rather than her notebook.
‘Fantastic.’
He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. ‘I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic and cumin.’
He polished off the rest with a satisfied pat of his tummy, a very lean, taut tummy from what she could see of it outlined beneath his shirt.
Great, there she went again, noticing things she never normally would. This wasn’t good—not good at all.
Pressing the pen to the page so hard it tore a hole through to the paper underneath, she focused on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or fabulous tummy.
‘Not bad, but that’s why you’re the guy who owns the restaurants and I’m lucky enough to eat in them and write about the food.’
He smiled, pointed at her notebook. ‘Go ahead, then. Tell me all about the wonders of the seekh kebab.’
She glanced at her notes, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. She loved her job, every amazing moment of it, from sampling food, savouring it, titillating her taste buds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow food addicts.
As for Indian food, she’d been raised on the stuff and there was nothing like it in the world.
‘The keema—’ he raised an eyebrow and she clarified ‘—lamb mince is subtly spiced with an exotic blend of garam masala, dried mango powder, carom seeds, raw papaya paste, with a healthy dose of onion, black pepper, ginger, garlic and a pinch of nutmeg.’
