by Nicola Marsh
‘You got all that from one bite?’
She bit her lip as she pushed the notebook away, unable to contain her laughter as he took another bite, trying to figure out how she did it.
‘My mum used to make them. I memorised the ingredients when I was ten years old.’
Her laughter petered out as she remembered what else had happened when she was ten—her dad had dropped dead at work, a cerebral aneurysm, and the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist.
She’d loved listening to her parents chat over dinner, their tales of adventure, the story of how they’d met. She’d always craved a once-in-a-lifetime romance like theirs. Richard hadn’t been it. Now she’d never find it.
‘Hey, you okay?’
She nodded, bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. ‘I still miss my mum.’
He hesitated before covering her hand with his. ‘Tell me about her.’
Tell him what?
How her mum used to braid her waist-length hair into plaits every day for school, never once snagging the brush or rushing her?
How she’d concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices and little else?
How she’d loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad had died?
She couldn’t put half of what she was feeling into words let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her barren soul that she was here on this train and Khushi wasn’t.
Besides, did she really want to discuss her private memories with him? Revealing her innermost thoughts implied trust and that was one thing she had in short supply, especially with a guy hell-bent on charming her.
‘Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.’
‘Watch Bollywood films,’ she said on a sigh, reluctant to talk but surprised by his deeper, caring side, a side too tempting to ignore.
The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many a Sunday afternoon curled up on the worn suede couch in the family room, a plate of jalebis, milk burfi and Mysore pak—delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Hollywood’s top A-list celebrity.
They’d laugh at the over-the-top theatrics, sigh at the vivid romance and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.
Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, she’d never felt a huge connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons she’d been transported to another world—a world filled with people and colour and magic.
‘What else?’
‘We loved going to the beach.’
His encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.
Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.
That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage had continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband had slowly revealed a cruel side that, to this day, left her questioning her own judgement in marrying someone like that in the first place.
He’d never actually hit her but the verbal and psychological abuse had been as bruising, as painful, as devastating as if he had.
Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, for he continued prodding. ‘Any particular beach?’
She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum.
‘It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.’
They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach had reminded Khushi of meeting her dad for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.
Her mum had been trying to hold on to precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason she’d been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a plain bun on top of her head.
‘Sounds great.’
‘It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.’
She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. ‘My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a year off after med school. Mum was working for one of the hotels there.’
She sighed, swirled the water in her glass. ‘Love at first sight, apparently. My dad used to call Mum his exotic princess from the Far East, Mum used to say Dad was full of it.’
‘Why didn’t she ever go back? After he passed away?’
Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. ‘Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian, as my dad would’ve wanted.’
‘But you’re half Indian too. This country is a part of who you are.’
‘Honestly? I don’t know who I am any more.’
The admission sounded as lost, as forlorn, as she felt almost every minute of every day.
She’d vocalised her greatest fear.
She didn’t know who she was, had lost her identity when she’d married Richard. She’d been playing a role for ever: first the dutiful wife, then the grieving widow. But it was all an act. All of it.
She’d become like him, had cared about appearances even at the end when she’d been screaming inside at the injustice of being abused and lied to and cheated on for so long while shedding the appropriate tears at his funeral.
Ethan stood, came around to her side of the table and crouched down, sliding his arm around her waist while tilting her chin to make her look him in the eye with his other hand.
‘I know who you are. You’re an incredible woman with the world at her feet.’ He brushed her cheek in a gentle caress that had tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. ‘Don’t you ever, ever forget how truly amazing you are.’
With emotion clogging her throat and tears blinding her, she couldn’t speak let alone see what was coming next so when his lips brushed hers in a soft, tender kiss she didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to react.
Instead, her eyelids fluttered shut, her aching heart healed just a little as her soul blossomed with wonder at having a man like Ethan Brooks on her side.
His kiss lingered long after he pulled away, long after he stared at her for an interminable moment with shock in the indigo depths of his eyes, long after he murmured the words, ‘You’re special, that’s who you are.’
A small part of her wanted to believe him.
A larger part wanted to recreate the magic of that all-too-brief kiss, as for the second time in a week she felt like a woman.
The largest part of her recoiled in horror as she realised she’d just been kissed—again—by the last man she could get close to, ever.
Ethan sprang to his feet and catapulted back to his chair on the opposite side of the table, desperate for space.
She’d done it again.
Left him reeling with her power to undermine his control.
Those damn tears had done it, tugging at nonexistent heartstrings, urging him to kiss her, to comfort her, making him feel, damn it.
He’d been a fool, urging her to talk about her mum. He should’ve known she’d get emotional, should’ve figured he’d want to play the hero and help slay her demons.
‘You’re good at that.’
His gaze snapped to hers, expecting wariness, thrown by her curiosity, as if she couldn’t quite figure him out.
‘At what?’
‘Knowing when to say the
right thing, knowing how to make a girl feel good about herself.’
‘Practice, I guess.’
If his offhand shrug hadn’t made her recoil, his callous comment did the trick.
He’d just lumped her in with the rest of his conquests—something she’d hate, something he hated.
But it had to be done.
He needed distance right now, needed to slam his emotional barriers back in place and muster the control troops to the battlefront.
‘Lucky me.’
Her sarcasm didn’t sock him half as much as her expression, a potent mix of disappointment and derision.
He had to take control of this situation before it got out of hand and he ended up alienating her completely, and all because he was furious at himself for getting too close.
‘Before I put you off your food with any more of my renowned comforting techniques, why don’t we finish off this entrée? I’ve heard the lentil curry to come is something special.’
She nodded, her disappointment slugging him anew as she toyed with the food on her plate.
Establishing emotional distance was paramount. He’d come close to losing sight of his seduction goal moments before but steeling his heart was one thing, carrying it through with a disillusioned Tam sitting opposite another.
‘What do you think of the potato bondas?’
An innocuous question, a question designed to distract her from his abrupt turnaround and get them back on the road of comfortable small talk.
However, as she raised her gaze from her plate and met his, the accusatory hurt reached down to his soul, as if he were the worst kind of louse.
For a moment he thought she’d call him on his brusque switch from comforting to cool. Instead, she searched his face, her mouth tightening as if what she saw confirmed her worst opinion of him.
‘They’re good.’
Hating feeling out of his depth, he pushed the platter towards her. ‘Another?’
‘No, thanks.’
They lapsed into silence, an awkward silence fraught with unspoken words—words he couldn’t bring himself to say for fear of the growing intimacy between them.
Being here with her wasn’t about establishing an emotional connection, it was about seducing the one woman he’d wanted for years and couldn’t have.
He needed to keep it that way, for the other option scared the life out of him.
CHAPTER FOUR
ETHAN focused on the tour guide as he droned on about Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds.
Structurally, the place was amazing, like a giant candy-floss beehive with its tiers of windows staggered in red and pink sandstone.
Architecture usually fascinated him—every restaurant he purchased around the world was chosen for position as well as aesthetics—but, while the guide pointed out the white borders and motifs of Jaipur’s multi-layered palace, he sneaked glances at the woman standing next to him, apparently engrossed in what the guy had to say. While he, Ethan, was engrossed in her.
As the train had wound its way from New Delhi to the ‘Pink City’ of Jaipur overnight, he’d lain awake, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
For hours. Long, endless hours, replaying that comfy scene over dinner and cursing himself for being a fool.
He’d overstepped with the cosy chat about her mum, had panicked and back-pedalled as a result.
The upshot? Tam’s barriers had slammed down, shutting him out, obliterating what little ground he’d made since she’d forgiven him for crashing her trip.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Ever since he’d boarded the train he’d been edgy, unfocused, displaced. And he hated feeling like that, as if he had no control.
Everyone said he was a control freak and, to some degree, he was. Control gave him power and impenetrability and confidence that things would work out exactly as he planned them, at total odds with his childhood, where no amount of forethought could give him the stability he’d so desperately craved.
When he’d first landed in this cosmopolitan, jam-packed country, he’d had a clear goal: to seduce Tam.
He wanted her—had always wanted her—but had stayed away for business reasons. Richard had been the best chef in the country and he’d needed him to cement Ambrosia’s reputation.
Nothing got in his way when his most prized possession was at stake, not even a beautiful, intelligent woman. He hadn’t needed the distraction at the time, had been hell-bent on making Ambrosia Melbourne’s premier dining experience.
He’d succeeded, thanks to Richard’s flamboyance in the kitchen and a healthy dose of business acumen on his part. Now, nothing stood in his way. Discounting his stupid over-eagerness, that was.
He sneaked another sideways glance at Tam, wondering if her intent focus was genuine or another way to give him the cold shoulder.
She wasn’t like the other women he’d dated: everything, from her reluctance to respond to his flirting to the lingering sadness in her eyes, told him she wouldn’t take kindly to being wooed.
He hoped to change all that.
‘Some structure, huh?’
She finally turned towards him, her expression cool, her eyes wary.
‘Yeah, it’s impressive.’ She pointed at one of the windows. ‘Don’t you think it’s amazing all those royal women of the palace used to sit behind those windows and watch the ceremonial processions without being seen?’
He squinted, saw a pink window like a hundred others and shook his head.
‘Sad, more like it. Having to stay behind closed doors while the kings got to strut their stuff. Don’t think many women would put up with that these days.’
She stiffened, hurt flickering in the rich green depths of her eyes.
‘Maybe some women find it’s easier to give in to the whims of their husbands than live with callous coldness every day.’
Realisation dawned and he thrust his hands in his pockets to stop from slapping himself in the head. Had she just inadvertently given him a glimpse into her marriage to Richard?
He’d seen Rich like that at work. All smiles and jovial conviviality but if things didn’t go his way or someone dared to have a different opinion to King Dick, he’d freeze them out better than his Bombe Alaska.
Would he have ever treated his wife the same way?
He hated thinking that this warm, vibrant woman had been subjected to that, had possibly tiptoed around in order to stay on his good side, had put a happy face on a marriage that would’ve been trying at best.
She didn’t deserve that, no woman did, and the least he could do now was distract her long enough so she forgot his unintentional faux pas and enjoyed the rest of their day in Jaipur.
‘I’ve seen enough palaces for one day. How about you and I hit some of those handicraft shops the guide mentioned earlier?’ He bent towards her ear, spoke in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. ‘By your different footwear for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I’d say you collect shoes on a weekly basis so I’m sure the odd bargain or two wouldn’t go astray.’
She straightened her shoulders, flashed him a superior smirk while her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll have you know I only buy a few pairs of shoes a year, mainly boots. Melbourne’s winters can be a killer on a girl’s feet.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
He smiled, thrilled that his distraction technique had worked when she returned it. ‘So, you up for some shopping?’
‘I’m up for anything.’
Their gazes locked and for a long, loaded moment he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of something other than her usual reticence.
‘Come on then, let’s go.’
As she fell in step beside him, his mind mulled over her revelation. He had no idea what sort of a marriage Rich and Tam had shared; he’d barely seen them together, preferring to make himself scarce whenever she’d appeared.
He’d cited interstate or overseas business whenever she’d hosted a party and had avoided all contact if she drop
ped into Ambrosia to see Rich on the odd occasion.
In fact, he’d rarely seen the two interact, such had been his blinding need to avoid her at all costs.
Maybe he was reading too much into her comment about tolerant wives and their private battle to keep the peace? Probably a passing comment, nothing more.
Then why the persistent nagging that maybe there was more behind her fragility than ongoing grief for a dead husband?
Jamming his hands into his pockets, he picked up the pace. The sooner they hit the shops, the sooner she’d be distracted and the sooner he’d lose the urge to bundle her in his arms, cradle her close and murmur soothing words again. Last night had been bad enough and he had no intention of treading down that road again.
He shouldn’t get involved.
Her marriage was her business and the less he thought about it the better. Remembering she had once loved another man enough to marry him didn’t sit real well considering how much he wanted her.
Besides, it would be dangerous—very dangerous—for Tam to become emotionally attached to him and that was exactly what would happen if he started delving into issues that didn’t concern him and offering comfort.
He didn’t do emotions, hated the wild, careening, out-of-control feelings they produced, which was why he dated widely and frequently and never got involved.
Never.
Better off sticking to what he knew best: work. He understood work. He could control work. He could become the man he’d always wanted to be through work. That suited him just fine.
As for Tam, he’d concentrate on keeping things light and sticking to his original plan.
These days, what he wanted he got and he had his sights firmly fixed on her.
She was no good at this.
Her plan to freeze Ethan out had hit a snag. A big one, in the shape of one super-smooth, super-charming, super-likeable pain in the butt.
She wanted to maintain a polite distance between them to ensure he didn’t get the wrong idea—that she was actually starting to enjoy his flirting.
