by Nicola Marsh
While she might not be ready to admit it to Ethan yet, the knowledge that she’d come so far—opening her heart again, learning to trust, taking a chance—was beyond empowering.
As the sitar faded, Ethan pulled away and she looked up, wondering if he could read the exultation in her eyes.
Cupping her cheek, he said, ‘You’re glowing.’
Smiling, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘So I’m forgiven for muscling in on your holiday? And for deliberately making us miss the train in Udaipur?’
‘Why, you—’
She whacked him on the chest and he laughed, swooping in for a quick kiss. ‘I had this stupid notion you’d fall for me surrounded by all that romance.’
‘I don’t need all those trappings.’
Sliding her arms around his waist, she snuggled into him again. ‘You’ve kind of grown on me.’
‘Good. You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because we only have a few days left and I intend to spend every second by your side. Think you can handle that?’
Ignoring the flutter of panic at the thought of what they had ending in a few days, she nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Then what are we waiting for? Let’s head back and start making the most of our time together.’
His mouth captured hers again, his kiss searing as she melted against him, powerless to do anything other than want him, no matter how much her inner voice warned her their time together would soon be coming to an end.
‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you? I can always postpone this meeting.’
Tamara waved Ethan away. ‘Go take care of your business. I’ll meet you back at the hut later.’
‘Not too much later.’
He pulled her in for a swift scorching kiss that sizzled all the way to her toes, leaving her breathless as he winked and waved, heading for the nearest five star hotel.
She watched him until he was a tiny speck in the distance, a tall figure striding down the dusty road with the long, determined steps of a man with things to do, places to be.
But he wasn’t running from her and that was a bonus—a big one.
Since they’d made love two nights ago, they’d spent every waking moment together. All the things she’d planned on doing, like eating at Souza Lobo’s and attending a full moon party, had been much more special with Ethan by her side, sharing the experience.
As for the nights…exploring each other’s bodies, pleasuring each other…had surpassed any expectations she’d ever had.
Richard had been selfish so it figured he’d been a selfish lover too. But Ethan…Just thinking about the ways he gave her joy brought a blush to her cheeks.
Their time together had been beyond special. They were good together—really good. You couldn’t fake what they had.
An unexpected chill ran down her spine as she remembered how she’d faked a lot during her marriage, how easy it was to act one way while feeling another.
Ethan may be a player but surely he didn’t treat all his women this way? Surely his actions spoke louder than words in the way he’d cherished her in Goa?
While she hadn’t gone into this expecting him to love her, now she’d fallen for him she couldn’t help but wish they could explore this further.
He’d barrelled into her life when she’d least expected or wanted it but, now he was here, she hoped he’d stay.
She stopped in front of a sari shop, pressed her hands to the dusty glass and peered inside. Her mum had always wanted her to wear a sari, just once, but she’d never had the occasion or the inclination. Besides, Richard would’ve had a fit if she’d paraded her ethnicity around in front of his posh friends.
She’d overheard him once, boasting about her royal heritage or some such guff, implying she descended from a line of exotic East Indian princesses. She’d confronted him later and in typical fashion he’d laughed off her concerns, saying he had standards to live up to in the public eye and people liked that sort of thing.
She hadn’t, though. She’d hated it and, while she’d toed the line in the vain hope of making her marriage work, the lies he’d told had never sat well with her.
Lies far more poisonous and extending further than she’d ever thought possible, considering what had come to light after his death.
Making an impulsive decision to buy one more souvenir of her memorable time here, she pushed open the door and stepped into the welcome coolness of the shop.
‘Namaste. Can I help you, madam?’
The older woman placed her palms together and gave a little bow, her sightless eyes honing in on Tamara with unerring accuracy as she wondered how a blind woman could assist customers in a shop filled with so much vibrant colour.
‘Yes, thanks, I’m looking for a sari.’
Duh! Not unlikely, considering she’d entered a sari shop.
‘Anything in particular?’
She shook her head, belatedly realising the woman couldn’t see her. ‘I’ve never worn a sari before.’
‘But it is in your blood.’
Her eyebrows rose at that. How could the woman know her background? Even if she could see, her light olive skin, green eyes and black hair could be any nationality.
‘You are after something like this.’
It was a statement rather than a question as the woman ran her hands along countless silk, chiffon saris until she hovered over one, in the palest of mint-greens.
Her breath caught as the woman held it up, the exquisite length of material catching the sunlight filtering through the front window, the sari shimmering like the iced peppermint milkshakes she’d loved as a kid.
It was perfect, something she’d never imagine wearing; yet, with the shop filled with so many dazzling combinations, she should have a look around rather than grab the first thing on offer. Probably the most expensive sari in the shop and the woman thought she’d be foolish enough to pounce on it.
‘Actually, I’m not sure what I want.’
The sari slid through the woman’s fingers like quicksilver as she turned her head towards her.
‘I think you do.’
A ripple of unease puckered her skin as she registered the woman wasn’t talking about the sari.
She knew India was a country big on legends and myths and superstitions. Her mum had told her many stories of ghosts and ghoulies and mysterious happenings but, as far as she was concerned, her superstitious nature extended to a quick glance at the daily horoscope in the morning newspaper, and only then for a laugh.
But here, now, standing in this ancient shop, the heady fragrance of neroli and saffron in the air, surrounded by the soft swish of silk as the woman continued to run her hands over the saris, she could almost believe there was something ‘otherworldly’ at play.
‘The sari is beautiful but—’
‘You are searching. For many things. For love. For a home. For yourself.’
Another shiver ran through her. Okay, this was getting too spooky.
The woman was scarily accurate, though her predictions had been pretty generic. What tourist wouldn’t be on a quest, searching for something, if only a good time?
‘You have love. But all is not as it seems.’
She’d got that right. Since when was anything in her life simple?
‘You will face many obstacles on your path to true happiness.’
More generic stuff and she’d had enough.
‘Actually, that sari’s perfect.’ Checking out the price tag, she sagged with relief. ‘I’ll take it.’
She thrust money towards the woman, somewhat chastened when she shook her head, sadness creasing her face.
Great, she’d offended the soothsayer. Who knew what fortune she’d get now?
‘You will face trials, recross oceans, to find true happiness.’
Giving the woman money and all but yanking her purchase out of her hands hadn’t stopped the predications so she’d better make a run for it
.
‘Thank you.’
She had her hand on the door handle, eager to leave, when the woman stopped her with a low groan that raised the hackles on her neck.
‘Take care, my dear. You will need to be on the lookout for false happiness.’
Okay, enough was enough.
She bolted from the shop, wishing she could outrun her doubts as fast as the blind woman. As if she wasn’t filled with qualms already, she had some crazy fortune-teller fuelling her insecurities.
This was why she didn’t pay attention to superstitious nonsense. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to forget the woman’s predictions on the walk back to the hut, she couldn’t help but feel she’d voiced some of her own concerns.
Was her relationship with Ethan too good to be true?
Was it all just a mirage, a false happiness that would fall down around her ears once they returned to Melbourne?
She’d talked herself into believing what they had was real. She was good at that. Convincing herself to see things in a positive light, no matter how dire they were. She was an expert considering she’d done it for most of her marriage.
There was a huge difference between faking happiness and experiencing the real thing and, while this last week with Ethan had shown her the difference, she still couldn’t banish her doubts.
She’d come so far. Over the past year she would’ve wallowed in them, let them drag her down. Not now. Taking this trip had not only boosted her esteem, fuelled her confidence and encouraged her to take risks she’d never thought possible, she’d also become an optimist. Looking on the bright side was much more liberating than brooding and, for now, she’d take each day as it came with Ethan.
As for what happened in Melbourne, she’d find out soon enough. They were due to fly back tomorrow.
Back to the real world. Back to a new life for her. She had a new job to find, apartment-hunting and a new beginning with Ethan.
Ethan, the man she’d fallen in love with against her will. Her friend, her lover, her soulmate.
Her mum had been right. Every person had a soulmate and she’d just taken a detour on the way to finding hers.
They could have a future together—a good one.
This time, she wouldn’t settle for anything less.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘LET me guess. You have business to take care of.’
Ethan leaned over, brushed a kiss across her lips. ‘You know me too well.’
‘I do now.’
Tamara placed a possessive hand on his arm, scraped her fingernails lightly across the skin, enjoying his slight shudder before he clamped his hand over hers, blatant hunger in his eyes.
‘I promise I’ll make it the fastest investors meeting on record.’ He glanced at his watch, grimaced. ‘I have to run. How about I meet you at Ambrosia afterwards?’
‘Only if you make me a hot chocolate.’
‘Over your chai addiction already?’
‘No, but I remember that fabulous hot chocolate you made the day you came back and have a real hankering for it.’
He paused, his expression inscrutable and for a split second a finger of unease strummed her spine. ‘So much has changed since that day.’
‘For the better.’
He nodded, his tight-lipped expression not inspiring her with confidence. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking.’
The shiver increased. ‘About?’
‘About making up for lost time. About how much time I wasted not being around this last year, not seducing you earlier.’
That surprised her. She’d been anticipating many responses but not that one.
‘Maybe I wasn’t ready to be seduced?’
He smiled at her hand-on-out-thrust-hip defiance. ‘Lucky for me you are now.’
‘You think you’ve got me wrapped around your perfect little finger, huh?’
‘Hey, I’m not perfect. Pretty tarnished, in fact.’
‘Not to me.’
She wound her arms around his neck, snuggled close, breathing in his fresh, just-showered scent, wishing he didn’t have to dash off.
They’d barely been back in the country six hours and it was business as usual for him. Not that it surprised her. His dynamic go-get-’em attitude was one of the things she loved about him.
While Richard had been good at his job—the best according to the experts—Ethan had a quiet confidence underlined by success.
She’d once been good at her job too, before she’d given it all up for Richard, and she couldn’t wait to get back to it.
The restaurateur and the food critic.
People would talk, would say she’d moved on from the chef to the owner, but let them. She’d faced the media barrage after Richard died and, while she’d hated every minute at the time, she’d weathered the storm.
She’d never want to do it again, couldn’t face it, but knew the man holding her close would protect her; she’d learned to trust him that much.
Pushing him away, she patted down his collar and smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket.
‘Okay, off you go. Go do what you tycoons do.’
He smiled, ran a fingertip down her cheek before tapping her lightly on the nose. ‘See you in two hours.’
‘If you talk real fast, maybe one?’
‘I’ll try.’
As she watched him walk out of the door, utterly gorgeous in a charcoal pinstripe suit, she had to pinch herself to make sure this wasn’t all a dream.
They’d landed back in Melbourne and the dream hadn’t evaporated. Instead, he’d dropped her at the hotel suite she was staying in until she found a suitable apartment to buy, had raced home to get ready for his meeting and had paid a surprise visit back here on the way.
He must’ve thought she was a grub because he’d found her the way he’d left her—dishevelled and tired and still wearing the clothes she’d worn on the flight home. All his fault; after he’d dropped her off, she’d mooned about, flicking through travel brochures on India, lolling on the couch, lost in memories, remembering every magical moment of their journey.
The trip had exceeded all her expectations.
She’d discovered a part of her heritage that enthralled her, had finally released the last of her residual anger and had put the past—and Richard—behind her.
And she’d discovered a guy who had been on her periphery until now was in fact the love of her life.
Exceeded? Heck, her expectations had been blasted clean into orbit.
But, for now, she had a date with a shower. She wanted to get cleaned up before heading over to her favourite place in the world: Ambrosia, and right by Ethan’s side.
Tamara pocketed her keys, grabbed her bag and was halfway out the door when the phone rang.
She paused, glanced at her watch and decided to let the answering machine pick up in case Ethan had finished early and was waiting for her.
With one ear on the garbled voice coming through the machine, she tapped the side of her head, wondering if water from the shower had clogged her ears. She could’ve sworn the guy was a reporter from a prominent Melbourne newspaper, the same guy who had hounded her relentlessly after Richard’s death. What could he want with her now?
Not interested in anything he had to say, especially on the day she’d landed back in the country, she slammed the door, took the lift to the ground floor, strode through the swank foyer and out into a perfect autumn day.
There was nothing like Melbourne in autumn: the frosty weather, the crisp brown leaves contrasting with the beautiful green in the city parks, the fashionable women striding down Collins Street in high boots and long coats.
She loved it all and as she took a left and headed for Ambrosia, she’d never felt so alive. With a spring in her step, she picked up the pace, eager for her hot chocolate fix—her Ethan fix, more precisely.
Smiling to herself, she passed the newsstand she occasionally bought the odd glossy food magazine from. She may not have worked for a while but she�
��d kept up with the trends, critically analysing her competitors’ work, knowing she could do better if she ever got back to it. That time had come and she couldn’t be happier.
However, as she slowed to scan the latest cover of her favourite magazine, her blood froze as her gaze fixed on the headlines advertising today’s newspapers.
CELEBRITY CHEF’S MISTRESS HAS LOVE CHILD.
She inhaled a sharp breath, let it out, closed her eyes and opened them.
This was silly. That headline could be referring to any number of celebrity chefs around the world.
With legs suddenly jelly-like, she forced her feet to walk forward, past the newsstand. She’d almost made it when the truth hit her.
The reporter’s phone call.
The headline.
No, it couldn’t be…
With her lungs screaming for oxygen, she turned back and snatched the nearest newspaper with trembling hands.
‘Haven’t seen you around here for a while, love?’
She arranged her mouth into a smile for the old guy who’d been working here for ever, when all she wanted to do was flap open the paper and see if the horrible sense of impending doom hanging over her was true.
‘Been away.’
She thrust a ten dollar bill at him. ‘Here, keep the change.’
‘But that’s way too much—’
She waved over her shoulder and half ran, half wobbled to the nearest wrought-iron bench, where she collapsed, the newspaper rolled tight in her fist.
It’s not about him…it’s not about him…
However, no matter how many times she repeated the words, the second she opened the paper and saw Richard’s face smiling at her, right next to Sonja’s, adjacent to that of an adorable chubby baby with her husband’s dimples, the life she’d worked so hard to reassemble crumbled before her very eyes.
She had no idea how she made it to Ambrosia, no recollection of the walk as she unlocked the restaurant and relocked the door before falling onto the nearest chair.
She stared blindly around the room, the place that had become a safe haven for her. The pale lemon walls, the honey oak floorboards, the open fireplace along one wall, the glittering bar along the other—she’d spent every Monday here for the last six months, drinking hot chocolate, honing her work skills, putting her life back together.
