by Nicola Marsh
Whoa!
He stopped dead, backing up a moment.
He’d gone from the possibility of dating to kids?
This hunger must be making him more light-headed than he’d first thought and, heading for the fridge, he dug out a casserole dish filled with fish curry, a bowl of steamed white rice and a raita made from yoghurt, cucumber, tomato and onion.
Food of the gods, he thought, smiling to himself as he heated the fish and rice, amazed he’d gone a whole day without thinking of his precious Ambrosia.
He spent all day every day in constant touch with the managers of each restaurant around the world, keeping abreast of the daily running, meeting with accountants, conference calling with staff.
Being in control of Ambrosia, seeing his business grow to international stardom status never failed to give him a kick, a solid reminder of how far he’d come.
From loitering around the back door of Ma Petite, hoping for food scraps, to being taken under the wing of the great Arnaud Fournier and given an apprenticeship in his world-class restaurant, to working eighty-hour weeks and scrounging every cent to invest in his first restaurant, to running one of the most famous restaurant chains in the world was heady stuff for a guy who could still remember the pinch of hunger in his belly and the dirt under his fingernails from scrabbling for the last stale bun out of a dumpster.
From bum to billionaire and he couldn’t be prouder.
Then why hadn’t he told Tam the truth?
They’d discussed her family, her career, but he’d neatly sidestepped any personal questions she’d aimed his way, reluctant to taint her image of him.
Why? Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Afraid she’d see him as less of a man?
Hell, yeah. The less said about his sordid past the better. She was taking a huge step forward, both career-wise and personally, in letting him get close and he’d be a fool to risk it by giving her a glimpse into the real him.
‘Something smells good.’
She stepped into the kitchen, her hair wet and slicked back into a low ponytail, her skin clear and glowing, wearing a simple red sundress with tiny white polka dots, and he slammed the hot rice dish onto the bench top before the whole thing slid onto the floor courtesy of his fumbling fingers.
She had that effect on him, could render him useless and floundering out of his depth with a smile, with a single glance from beneath those long dark lashes that accentuated the unique green of her eyes.
‘Now who’s staring?’
She sashayed across the kitchen, lifted the lid on the fish and waved the fragrant aroma towards her nose. ‘Wait until you try this fish moilee. It’s fabulous.’
Thankful she’d given him a chance to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth where it had stuck the moment he’d caught sight of her, he quickly set the table.
‘How’s moilee different from curry?’
‘Different spices, different method of cooking.’ She gathered a jug of mango lassi, a delicious yoghurt and fruit drink he loved, and glasses and placed them on the table. ‘You add a little salt and lime juice to the fish, set it aside for a while. Then you fry mustard seeds, curry leaves, onion, ginger, garlic, green chillies and turmeric before adding the fish, covering the lot with coconut milk and letting it simmer.’
She inhaled again, closed her eyes, her expression ecstatic and he cleared his throat, imagining what else, apart from a tasty curry, could bring that look to her face.
‘My mouth’s watering. Let’s eat.’
Her eyes snapped open at his abrupt response and he busied himself with transporting the hot dishes to the table under her speculative stare rather than have to explain why he was losing his cool.
For a couple who’d chatted amicably during most meals on their Palace on Wheels journey, they were strangely silent as they devoured the delicious fish and rice, darting occasional glances at each other over the lassi, politely passing the raita, focusing on forking food into their mouths.
Tension stretched between them, taut and fraught, as he wished he could articulate half of what he was feeling. Overwhelmed. Out of control. And more attracted to anyone than he’d been in his entire life.
He’d dated many women, most had left him cold. He told himself he liked it that way; he chose fickle women because he didn’t want to get emotionally involved.
So what was he doing here, now, hoping this incredible woman would let him into her heart when he knew that would be an irrevocable step down a very dangerous road, a road less travelled for him, a road peppered with emotions he’d rather ignore?
Tam had been grieving, had closed down emotionally, hadn’t dated, let alone looked at a guy since Rich’s death.
Yet here she was, opening her heart to him, welcoming him back despite how he’d acted like a jerk, first on the train, then in Udaipur, lastly in Delhi. Which could only mean one thing.
She was already emotionally involved with him, was willing to gamble her heart on him.
He had no idea if he deserved it.
‘That was delish.’ She patted her mouth with a napkin, refolded it, before sitting back and rubbing her tummy. ‘I don’t think I could move for a week after that, which gives you plenty of time to start talking.’
So much for being let off the hook. She’d lulled him into a false sense of security, yet he’d known it would come to this.
He had to tell her the truth—some of it—if they were to have any chance of moving forward from here.
Wishing he hadn’t eaten so much—it now sat like a lump of lead in his gut—he sat back, crossed his ankles, wondering if she’d buy his relaxed posture while inside he churned with trepidation.
Opening up to anyone, let alone the woman he cared about, didn’t sit well with him and he’d be damned if he messed this up after what had happened in Delhi.
Folding his arms, he looked her straight in the eye. ‘You want to know why I backed off at India Gate.’
‘For starters.’
She didn’t look angry—far from it if the gentle upturning of her lips was any indication. Yet she had every right to be, every right to kick his sorry butt out of here after the way he’d treated her.
‘Did you ever want something so badly as a kid, something you wished for, something that consumed you yet, when you got it, you didn’t know what to do with it?’
Understanding turned her eyes verdigris. ‘I was a bit like that with my Baby Born doll. Really wanted one, then when I got it for Christmas, didn’t know whether I should feed it or burp it or change its nappy first.’
‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘I’m not.’
Her twitching mouth made a mockery of her last statement and he chuckled, shook his head.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Tam. I came on this trip because I wanted you. Then I started to get to know you—really know you—and it’s like…’
How could he explain it? Like being hit over the head with a four-by-two? Like being struck by lightning? Like having the blinkers ripped from his eyes only to see the stunning, vibrant woman he desired was so much more than he could’ve possibly imagined?
‘It’s like…?’
Her soft prompt had him saying the first thing that popped into his head.
‘It’s like finding the person you want most in this world is holding the key to your heart as well.’
No way—had he really said that?
Inwardly cringing at his emotional explosion, he met her gaze, the shimmer of tears in her eyes slugging him harder than the realisation that this had already moved beyond caring for him, that he was already half in love with her.
‘Look, that’s too heavy—’
‘Don’t you dare apologise for saying that!’ Her head snapped up, her gaze defiant as the tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. ‘Do you have any idea how I feel, hearing you say that?’
‘Like bolting?’ he ventured, earning another wide-eyed stare.
‘Like this.’
She stood so abruptly her chair slammed onto the floor and she traversed the tiny table in a second, flinging herself onto his lap and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.
‘Well, now, maybe I should blurt my innermost thoughts more often if this is the type of reaction I get.’
Her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘No, this is the type of reaction you get.’
She covered his mouth with hers in a desperate, frantic kiss filled with longing and passion and recklessness.
The type of kiss that filled his heart with hope, the type of kiss with the power to teach him this relinquishing control lark wasn’t half as scary as he’d built it up to be.
She was warm and vibrant and responsive in his arms, her hunger matching his and, as she shifted in his lap, inflaming him further, he knew he had to put a stop to this before they jumped way ahead of themselves.
He wasn’t a Boy Scout and he’d like nothing better than to carry her into the bedroom right this very second and make love to her all night long but he’d botched things with her once; he’d be damned if he made another mistake now.
And that was what sex would be, despite the blood pounding through his body and urging him to follow through—a mistake.
He wanted to take things slow this time. He’d rushed her on the train journey, had almost lost her because of it, and there was no way in Hades he’d make the same mistake twice.
‘Tam?’
‘Hmm?’
She nuzzled his neck, giving his good intentions a thorough hiding as she straddled him, her breasts pushing deliciously against his chest.
‘I can’t stay.’
She stilled, raised her head, her eyes glazed, confused. ‘Why not?’
Cradling her face in his hands, he brushed a soft kiss across her swollen lips.
‘Because I want to do this right.’
He didn’t have to add this time.
He saw the respect in her eyes, the understanding, and knowing this incredible woman was on the same wavelength as him sent another flood of intense longing washing over him.
‘Great, the playboy has morphed into a goody two shoes,’ she said, sliding off his lap in a slow, deliberate movement designed to tease as he clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching out and yanking her back down.
‘Oh, you’ll see how good I really am.’
He stood, pulling her back into his arms, enjoying her squeal of pure delight. ‘Soon—very soon.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘I’m counting on it.’
This time their kiss was slower, exploratory, leisurely, and as he reluctantly slipped out of her arms and raised his hand in goodbye he feared there’d come a time in the not too distant future where he’d find it near on impossible to walk away from her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I THOUGHT Goa was settled by the Portuguese?’
Tamara nodded, browsing the market stall’s brightly coloured powders for the Holi festival tomorrow. ‘It was. That’s why you see so many Portuguese-inspired buildings and a lot of the population are Catholic. Apparently thousands of people make the pilgrimage to see Saint Francis Xavier’s body at the basilica here every five years.’
Ethan trailed his fingers through a mound of sunshine-yellow powder and earned a frown from the vendor for his trouble.
‘If it’s predominantly Catholic, what’s with this Holi festival? Isn’t that Hindu?’
‘Uh-huh. But, like most of India, there are so many different religions and castes living side by side that everyone’s pretty tolerant of the different festivals.’ She pointed to several piles of powder, smiling at the vendor, who began shovelling mini mountains of the stuff into clear plastic bags. ‘I think it’s fabulous everyone gets involved. It’s such a joyous occasion that you can’t help but get swept up in the fun. At least, that’s what Mum told me.’
He nodded, pointing to the bags being thrust into her hands. ‘So tell me about it. All I know is everyone goes berserk and throws colour on everyone else.’
Upon hearing this, the vendor frowned again and shook his head, while she handed him rupees and laughed. ‘Come on, I’ll enlighten you over a cup of masala chai.’
‘Sounds good.’
He held out his hand for her carry-all and she gratefully gave it to him. Choosing every colour of the rainbow for Holi mightn’t be such a great idea if she had to lug all those kilos back to the hut.
‘Do the colours mean anything?’
She nodded, instantly transported back to the first time she’d heard about Holi, sitting on her mum’s knee. She’d just learned to make her first chapatti that same day, and had had so much fun rolling the balls of dough into flat breads, standing on a stool next to the stove as her mum had fried them.
She’d been five at the time and her dad had come home after work, scoffed three with jam and pronounced them better than her mum’s.
It’d been a magical day, one of those days where her mum was reminiscing about India, eager to tell stories, and she’d lapped it up. Yet another thing she missed.
‘Green’s for vitality, red is purity, blue is calmness and yellow is piety.’
He squinted through the bag. ‘So what happens when you mix the lot together?’
‘You’ll find out.’
She could hardly wait. Ever since she’d first learned of the festival of colour, she’d been entranced. The freedom to play and dance and sing like a kid, flinging coloured powders and water balloons over anyone and everyone, visiting friends, exchanging gifts and sweets, all sounded like a good time.
‘Let’s have a cuppa here.’
They stopped at a roadside café, ordered masala chais and relaxed, watching the passing procession of people gearing up for Holi, each weighed down with vibrant magentas, daffodil-yellows, peacock-blues, dazzling emeralds and vivid crimsons.
Ethan gestured towards the passing parade. ‘Looks like everyone gets in on the act.’
She nodded, delighting in the infectious excitement of the kids bouncing down the street, laden down with colour-filled bags.
‘It’s a time where age is irrelevant; everyone joins in. You can get wild and no one will blink.’
It was also a time for lovers, where the application of colour to each other was a sign of their love. Wisely, she kept that gem to herself. It was hard enough handling the swift shift in their relationship, and trying not to dwell on the erotic dreams of the last few nights, without adding to it.
He leaned forward, crooked his finger at her. ‘How wild?’
She laughed. ‘It’s good clean fun. Well, if you discount getting dirty with colours, that is.’
His devilish grin sent heat sizzling through her. ‘I’m all for getting dirty.’
‘I bet.’
Her dry response had him chuckling as the waiter deposited two stainless-steel mugs filled to the brim with steaming chai in front of them.
‘So what does it all mean?’
‘There are loads of different legends surrounding it, centring on the ultimate victory of good over evil. Holi helps people believe in the virtue of being honest and banishing evil. It helps bring the country together and the tradition is that even enemies turn into friends during the festival.’
She sipped at her chai, sighing as the burst of cardamom-flavoured tea hit her taste buds. ‘And there’s no differentiation between rich and poor. Everyone gets in on the fun. It’s about strengthening bonds between friends, revitalising relationships.’
‘Wow, sounds like the world could do with a good Holi festival every now and then.’
She nodded. ‘Wouldn’t it be great? A sea of colour and a giant group hug.’
‘I could do with a hug myself.’ He stared at her over the rim of his mug, his blue eyes mischievous. ‘Similar to that one you gave me at your kitchen table the night I arrived.’
She blushed, tried a frown and failed miserably when her lips curved into a secretive smile at the memory.
‘Drink your chai.
We have about half an hour to get changed before the fun starts.’
‘Make that five minutes if we get back to the hut in time.’
She almost choked on her tea. He hadn’t flirted so blatantly since he’d arrived, hadn’t pushed, despite the increasingly heated kisses they’d shared the last few days.
He wanted to take things slow and while her head and heart were grateful for the fact, her body was way behind in the acceptance stakes.
Something had shifted today. Ever since he’d turned up on her doorstep this morning and all through their stroll around the market he’d been pushing the boundaries, flirting outrageously, hinting at something more than a quick, sizzling kiss at the end of the day.
She’d put it down to infectious Holi madness. Who knew—maybe, just maybe, there would be some revitalising of their relationship happening later tonight?
‘This is insane!’ Ethan shouted at the top of his lungs, dodging another kid pointing a super-sized water soaker at him, bright blue this time, only to be splattered in the middle of the back by a magenta water bomb from Tam.
‘Yeah, isn’t it great?’ She flung her arms overhead, twirled around, did a defiant jig in front of him, taunting him now he’d used up his colour supplies.
He advanced towards her, pointing at the remaining bags in her hand. ‘Give me some of that.’
‘No.’ She stood on tiptoe, jiggled the bags in front of him. ‘Not my fault your aim is lousy.’
‘That does it!’ He grabbed her around the waist and she squealed, her laughter firing his blood as much as having her wriggling and warm and vibrant in his arms. ‘Tam, I’m warning you—’
‘You’re in no position to warn me. I’m the one holding the ammunition.’
To reinforce the point, she swung one of the bags at his back, where it exploded, drenching him further.
‘What colour was that?’
‘Red, to match your face for letting a girl beat you at this.’
