by Zee Monodee
Intricate and beautiful stained-glass motifs had appeared, and their excitement had grown proportionately when every inch they’d painstakingly uncovered with a flannel cloth and light, white vinegar solution had revealed the majestic designs. Vines of deep green mingled with pink and red roses, and the light sent delightful streaks of colour on the polished expanse of the teak floor.
Diya paused as the glow of the sun played onto the coloured panels. The west coast of the island, and particularly the area of Tamarin and Flic en Flac, had grown renowned for its spectacular sunsets. La Porte du Paradis had been built in such a way as to make the only windows of the large ballroom catch the light of the setting sun.
As always, the beauty of the place amazed her and clutched at her heart. Someday soon, a woman would be the recipient of this magnificence, and of Trent’s love.
She crushed the feeling in her chest and closed her eyes tight before the tears could flow.
The eerie quiet in the big mansion echoed her inner turmoil even more. The works were nearly over, at least for the interior. The crew had attacked the cosmetic exterior of the house with increased vigour after they’d seen the cold, stately house emerge as a cosy dwelling under her hand.
In the distance, she could hear them holler at each other. The men who worked for her and Ange were simple folk, many of them people from the area and searching for a second chance in life. A few had a police record, but she’d seen first-hand how trust and belief in their capabilities to be good people had them working hard and earning their living honestly.
The voices drifted away, and the sudden quiet gnawed at her insides. She walked over to the portable stereo she and Ange always carried around on their jobs and switched it on. A rhythm of tabla drums, sitar, and the flute greeted her, and she smiled. The classical fusion music playlist she’d put together a few weeks ago, comprising an eclectic mix of Indian classical and European waltzes—what an appropriate choice to play in a ballroom.
The beat of the tabla flowed into her blood. Music and dancing had always soothed her, and the rolling emotions in her head melted into oblivion when the rhythm of the music took over.
Little by little, she found herself drifting to the centre of the room, her feet barely hitting the wooden floor as she moved in a flow directed by the thrumming in her blood.
Somehow, someway, she would lose herself in this moment.
***
The house appeared more and more like a dream come true.
The place resembled those peaceful country retreats in Architectural Digest, the magazine his mother loved to read. Diya had incredible talent, and everything she touched came to life. Including him.
Trent couldn’t quite fathom when and how she had stepped in and brushed the cobwebs off his dreary existence. But, in the end, he was simply glad she’d come into his life.
It was a week since he’d last spoken to her, on the day when he’d told her about Clark. Damn the bastard for making his life Hell once again. For life without Diya’s sunny presence was Hell.
He’d searched for her at her flat today, but hadn’t found her there, or at ALIDA’s office, either. He’d, however, stumbled on Angélique, who’d told him Diya would be at La Porte du Paradis.
He’d driven straight here, hoping to see her.
The front door stood open, and he stepped in. The house appeared empty, the only sound a heavy musical beat reverberating in the planks of the floor. He edged closer to the separation between the hall and the ballroom. One flap of the door stood ajar. As he peeked inside, he lost his breath.
In the middle of the large expanse, a tiny figure moved with graceful elegance in a frenetic rhythm. She twirled and danced, her lithe arms moving with practised ease into a series of gestures, her slender legs and loose trousers blurring into a haze of white.
He’d never suspected Diya would be such a good dancer. He remained mesmerized, never having seen a more beautiful creature in his life.
The music rose in a crescendo, and in the middle of the ballroom, she twirled and twirled in accord with the rhythm. She seemed oblivious to everything, lost in her own world.
The music died down, and she dropped to her knees in a graceful move. She remained there with her hands touching her ankles, her head bent, and her hair shielding the sides of her face.
He couldn’t bring himself to do anything. He yearned to tell her how beautiful she looked. How well she danced. How he’d loved to watch her.
But he only stood there, the sound of his breathing loud to his own ears.
Diya slowly lifted her head, and her eyes locked on him in the doorway. She made no move to address him, instead getting up with her intense gaze still on him.
Some heavy emotion in her eyes seemed to speak to him, and a knife twisted in his gut when she parted her lips and her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing.
Was she flustered to see him, or had the energetic dance taken her breath away?
Either way, it didn’t matter. He’d come to see her.
With that firmly in mind, he walked over and stopped a few inches from her. She made no move to put further distance between them, and from up close, he could see the delicate, rosy flush on her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eyes. He gave her a small smile, but she didn’t return it.
“Diya, I’m here to say sorry. You’re right. I have no business telling you what to do with your life.”
Her eyes grew wide, but she still didn’t say a word.
“Listen, I’ve been an arse. Again. Forgive me.”
She watched him for a long time. Trent couldn’t help but imagine he saw tenderness on her face, along with a certain sadness touching her beautiful eyes.
“Friends again?” he asked in a low voice.
She nodded.
The silence between them rang heavy in his mind, and he wanted nothing but the bubbly Diya back.
“You’re a very good dancer. Was that classical Indian dance?”
“A fusion, actually.”
“Where did you learn to dance so well?”
She chuckled. “Growing up in a foreign country, our mother never wanted us to lose touch with our roots. So we alternated between Indian dance and ballet lessons back in London and then continued when we came back here.”
“You grew up in London?” What a surprise, but it did make sense. He’d often caught hints of a South London accent in her speech, as he had in Lara’s tone, too.
“Spent the first few years of my life there, before we came back to Mauritius.”
He nodded as he pondered her reply. At the same moment, the plaintive string of a violin echoed along the wooden panels, Bach’s Suite No. 3 filling the air with its sweet nostalgia.
Before he knew what he was doing, Trent put out a hand.
“Dance with me, Diya.”
*
Could this be a dream?
The high-strung notes of the violin shrouded Diya’s mind, and she peered at the handsome man before her. Excitement and a strange desperation battled inside.
The music finally lulled her mind into oblivion, and she placed her hand in his palm.
He curled those warm, long fingers around hers and drew closer, the front of their bodies nearly touching. His other hand came to rest on her back when he stepped forward, the heat from his palm flooding into her bloodstream.
She closed her eyes as she settled her right hand on his forearm and then travelled her touch up to his shoulder. She could barely make the position without standing on tiptoe, but she wouldn’t let that get to her.
With a soft impulse from the hand clasping hers, he set the pace for her to follow.
One step back, one step left, one to the right, one in front.
She didn’t give her eyes permission to open, lest this wispy, dream-like sensation should vanish. She allowed only the music and Trent’s touch to surge into her, and after a few steps, they moved effortlessly around the large room. Their step never once faltered, and they flowed, as if they da
nced on a cloud.
In the deepest part of her heart, she stowed this memory, a moment she’d cherish for the rest of her life. Right that instant, she glided up in Heaven, with no desire to come back to Earth, ever again. She should hang on to this blissful feeling for as long as she could.
After what seemed like ages and mere seconds at the same time, the violin string thrummed, and died.
Silence shrouded them like a velvety cloak, and their shallow breathing echoed in the muted calm. She didn’t want to let go, didn’t want Trent’s touch to lift from her body.
“Open your eyes,” he said in a soft, husky whisper.
“No.”
“Diya, open your eyes.”
She slowly did, and found herself staring into dark grey depths. Heat flowed between their two bodies, and she parted her lips when she glanced at his mouth.
He lowered his face to hers, and his warm breath brushed the sensitive corner of her lips.
Her breathing came in short, staccato gasps as her heart pounded upon her chest wall and all but threatened to burst out of her body.
Soft heat touched her lips in a stroke as light as a butterfly’s flutter. The contact receded, before coming back again, this time with more pressure. She returned the kiss as heat and another feeling like warm, smooth honey cascaded into her.
Trent pressed his mouth harder upon hers when she unclasped her hand from his and travelled her fingers up his arm to clutch his sleeve. She clung to his clothes as a dam inside her burst, and she let her lips acquiesce to his every move with a fire and an appetite she’d never experienced before. He touched her tongue with his, and passion flared. Trent closed steel-like arms around her back, to pull her closer to his hard body.
Diya had kissed quite a few guys in her short life, but none of them had ignited her blood like the man who held her captive in his embrace right then.
Lightness and elation engulfed her mind. In fact, so light did she become, she even thought her feet had left the floor.
Goodness gracious, it feels so damn good to kiss him.
When the image of a bed wormed its way into her mind, she shoved it away—she wouldn’t mind dropping onto the hard wood floor with him on top of her. Fire seared her at the thought … to be followed a second later by a big cold splash.
What game was he playing with her? He had another woman in his life.
Diya tore herself from the kiss, and her breath refused to come back when she witnessed the hard edge of desire painted all over his chiselled features. Her face had drawn level to his, and a gasp escaped her when she tried to move, for there lay nothing under her feet.
Peeking down, she found her body pressed close against his, the bands of his powerful arms holding her tightly in place, with her feet dangling a foot from the floor.
Sometime into the kiss, he’d lifted her up. That was why she’d felt like floating.
She glanced back up, to find confusion and a strange, ruffled edge in the dilated pupils of his grey eyes.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly.
Pain clutched her heart at the sincerity and the concern in his tone. How could she tell him he’d hurt her with a wound that would never heal?
“No. It’s just that … I gotta go. Please, put me down.”
He did as she asked, and she sprang back a step or two when her feet touched firm ground again.
She averted her face so she wouldn’t have to look at him, and in doing so, noticed the peculiar dark in the ballroom. The dying orange streaks of sunset etched in fading strokes upon the colours of the stained glass.
Twilight had crept up, and she had to go to dinner with Gareth. She grimaced at the thought of him. How would she be able to put up with another evening in his company, especially when Trent had just kissed the daylights out of her?
“Diya, is something wrong?”
His deep voice flowed to her, and the sound closed around her heart in a vicious grip.
Everything’s wrong, Trent, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t.
“I gotta go,” she replied as she dashed out of the ballroom and fled down the stone steps like Cinderella escaping the twelve tolls of midnight.
***
A little over an hour later, an outwardly calm Diya sat at the glass-topped table of the gourmet Chinese restaurant at the entrance of Flic en Flac, with a gorgeous Gareth Clark in the seat opposite her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She glanced up at the wary glint in his eyes and the guarded smile he gave her.
What a monster she was to treat him this way. Especially since, where Trent was concerned— No!
A massive headache started to throb behind her skull. She brought a hand to her temple and pressed her fingers upon the dull pain point.
“Diya, is everything okay?”
She snapped out of her pain-filled fog. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I guess I’m just worked up. It’s been a long week.”
He clasped her hand on the table top. “At least, you can take a break for the weekend. Since I’ve known you, all you’ve ever done is work.”
She wanted to blurt out how this was because of her complicated love life, this escape into her job. But to do so would mean telling him about Trent, wouldn’t it?
“I just want everything to be done the right way.”
He chuckled. “You’re a perfectionist.”
Too much of one, she wanted to say. “How about we order dinner? Maybe some food would help.”
“Good idea,” he said, and dropped her hand to open the menu.
Relief flooded her when he lifted his touch from her skin. She’d never yearned for Gareth’s touch. In fact, she dreaded it. A part of her remained reluctant to let him get physical with her, but it could be her hopeless, unrealistic love for a taken man speaking.
The headache came back with a vengeance when she imagined how she’d cope with this situation with Gareth.
Three hours later, she still faced the pain and was nowhere near a solution to her dilemma. He held the door of his Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet open for her, and her step faltered a little when she hit the pavement in front of her building.
He reached out and steadied her by clasping her elbow, and she sent him a grateful albeit embarrassed smile. She’d had more than two glasses of wine, and the stuff had gone to her head. She rarely, if ever, drank, but today, she’d hoped alcohol might help numb the dull ache inside her. It hadn’t. Instead, the drinks had made her confused and light-headed.
“I think I’d better accompany you upstairs. To be sure you’re okay.”
Diya groaned. She’d sound rude if she refused, so she merely acquiesced. They settled in the lift, and heat from the closed confines suffused her and made her slightly nauseous. As soon as the door opened, she shot out of the carriage and shuffled to her flat.
She darted a quick glance at the door opposite, and disappointment filled her. No light came from under the threshold.
At her doorstep, she fumbled with her key, in vain. Her vision had blurred, and she couldn’t see the lock properly.
“Allow me,” Gareth said as he reached for the key and opened the door. “I think you need some coffee.”
In her state, she was fit for nothing more than crashing out. Where would she find the energy to make coffee, even from an instant mix?
“Let me take care of everything. You go sit on the sofa.”
His deep voice filtered into her mind, and she wanted to scream “no.” But she couldn’t. Not after he’d been so nice with her. So, she nodded and went to the sofa, where she sat and watched him in her kitchen.
He seemed strangely out of place in the surroundings. But then, she’d never let any other man in, except for her father and Eric. Trent, once. She didn’t have much experience where these things were concerned.
Gareth shed his sable-coloured coat. In his jeans and chocolate-toned polo shirt, he presented an amazing picture, especially with his golden hair brushing the top of the dark garmen
t.
But, however much she ogled him, nothing stirred inside her. No flame, no flicker, no spark. Just a pleasant admiration for a beautiful male specimen.
What was wrong with her? She should’ve been drooling all over him. She knew of women who’d drop husband and family for one night with such a man. And here she was, yearning for another.
Hot tears burnt her eyes, but she didn’t allow them to flow and quashed the lump in her throat in the same go. She had to look forward to her future. One that didn’t have Trent as a part of it.
“There you go.”
Gareth placed a steaming mug in her hands and settled down next to her on the sofa.
She took a sip of the hot brew. Shoot. Even his coffee tasted good.
He took a sip from his own mug and then placed it on the coffee table. Diya took another gulp that burnt her tongue, and she then put her mug beside his.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been great company tonight,” she said.
He snapped his deep blue eyes onto her, his face solemn. “It’s okay. These things happen.”
She lowered her head. “Gareth, I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“For treating you like I have.”
He chuckled and edged closer to her on the sofa. “We all have bad days.”
“True.”
He brought a hand up and started to play with strands of her hair along her temple.
His touch startled her, and she wanted to flinch away. But somehow, she couldn’t. An icy chill had descended in her bones, freezing her to the spot.
He travelled his hand down to her neck and tangled his fingers in the hair on her nape.
“Everything will be fine,” he said in her ear.
His breath sent cold shivers down her body, and her heartbeat hammered when he pressed a light kiss to her cheek.
“I know how to make it better,” he said, before trailing small kisses along her face.
His mouth came closer to hers. Then, he was kissing her and trying to push his tongue into her mouth.
Her mind screamed “stop,” but the sound only came out as a moan. She brought her hands up along his chest to push him away, but he caught them with his own, and the strength in his grip nearly crushed her slender fingers.
