“Glad you could make it,” he said, striding toward her, stifling the impulse to greet her with a kiss and feeling gauche for offering his hand to shake.
“It made sense, getting our stories straight before this week commences,” she said, releasing his hand quickly. “Shall we get started?”
“Seeing as we dispensed with the pleasantries so fast, why not?”
The corners of her plum-glossed mouth quirked at his sarcasm as he gestured at the table. “Shall we eat first and plot strategy later?”
Her gaze darted to the silver domes and fixed on the champagne, her eyes widening slightly.
“Sure,” she said, sounding anything but as she crossed the room with alarming swiftness, like she couldn’t wait to devour the food then make a break for it.
“Drink?” He picked up the champagne bottle and held it aloft. “Might help us to loosen up a bit?”
“I don’t need loosening up,” she said, her tone frosty, making a mockery of her response. “But that’s a good vintage so maybe just one?”
“As you wish, madam.” His exaggerated bow as he poured had the corners of her mouth upturning again and he wondered what it would take to make her laugh.
An awkward silence stretched between them as he filled the flutes with five-hundred-dollars-a-bottle champagne and handed her one.
“I’d make a toast but you look like you’d rather fling that champagne in my face than drink it, so how about you do the honors?” He sat opposite and raised his glass, unable to resist baiting her in the hope she’d relax.
It would be a long, uneasy week if the palpable tension between them didn’t diffuse.
“A toast, huh?” She screwed up her eyes, pretending to think, before fixing him with a stare that alerted him to an incoming zinger. “Here’s to men who have too much money and think they can buy anything with it.”
“Ouch,” he said, tapping his glass against hers when she offered it. “You think I’m buying you?”
“Aren’t you?” Her brow arched as she flashed a sickly sweet smile.
“Blackmailing and buying are too entirely different things and I’m incredibly wounded you’d suggest otherwise,” he said, with faux outrage and at last, she laughed.
A genuine, belly laugh that catapulted him back in time, reminding him of how he’d liked making her laugh then too.
“You should do that more often,” he said, reaching out to touch her mouth before realizing what he was doing and letting his arm fall.
“Not much to laugh about lately,” she said, her amusement fading as she swirled the champagne and stared into its depths. “But having the opportunity to redesign your hotel’s old wing is important to me, so how about we get started with this briefing on how I’m supposed to act as your model girlfriend?”
Annoyed that she’d clammed up again so quickly after giving him a beguiling glimpse into the real her, he placed his glass on the table and lifted the silver domes.
“We can talk and eat at the same time.” He pointed at the four platters between them. “Goan fish curry. Mutton saag. Punjabi bhindi. Matar mushrooms.” He nudged a small bowl toward her. “And baingan chutney. Plus, the requisite parathas and rice to eat with all the spicy goodness.”
Her eyes bulged as she stared at the food, before slowly raising an appreciative gaze to his. “You remembered my favorites?”
“Are they?” He feigned confusion. “What a coincidence.”
Her lips curved into a smile that made him want to thump his chest to dislodge a sudden pang, like he’d already eaten too fast and had a bad case of indigestion.
“Thanks,” she said, before piling her plate with enough food to feed a village.
“Hungry?” He’d meant it as a teasing remark but she merely nodded, as she proceeded to demolish the aubergine chutney, peas and mushrooms, spicy okra, spinach and mutton, and fish curry with a staggering speed.
He’d barely eaten one paratha and she’d consumed three of the wholemeal flatbreads. He’d had one scoop of rice, she’d had four.
Seeing a woman with a healthy appetite was endearing but the manic way Desiree ate suggested she hadn’t eaten a good meal in way too long.
“You okay?” he asked when she’d spooned the last of the rice and curry into her mouth.
“Never better,” she said, with a contented sigh. “I can’t strategize on an empty stomach.”
Ah, so that’s what the gobbling had been about. She figured if she ate fast, they’d talk faster and she could escape. It should’ve made him feel relieved, but the way she kept eyeing the food, like she wished she could take home a doggy bag, worried him.
“That was the best meal I’ve had in ages,” she said, staring at him over the rim of her water glass. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, nudging his own plate away and leaning back to study her. “At the risk of having you revert to hating me again, when was the last time you ate?”
Her nose crinkled adorably. “Sorry, but things have been a bit tight lately and I exist on dahl and rice most days. So this?” She gestured at the half-empty platters. “I can’t resist a feast.”
Her honesty floored him and he resisted the urge to pick up the phone and order one of the hotel’s chefs to cook her a week’s worth of curries.
He also didn’t point out that she could eat like a queen for the next seven days while she posed as his girlfriend. He’d make sure of it.
It saddened him, to think she didn’t have enough money to eat better. How bad had things been for her since he’d last seen her six years ago?
It also made him wonder how she afforded to live in an upscale part of Mumbai. So he feigned ignorance and asked, “Where are you living these days?”
“A small apartment in Andheri.” She grimaced. “About the only good thing Mom ever did for me, giving me that apartment.”
Housing in Andheri, a trendy suburb of Mumbai, wasn’t cheap. Which probably meant the apartment had been gifted to Sushma by one of her former suitors, before she’d latched onto his dad.
“Once I finished my interior design course, I worked as a PA for Drew Lansford at Eye-on-I for a few years.”
“They’re huge,” he said, having met the CEO of India’s biggest internet provider at social occasions over the years. “He’s a nice guy. Him and his partner Rakesh Rama.”
“Yeah, Drew’s great.” Her expression softened, sending a jab of jealousy through him. “His fiancée and I have become good friends over the last six months.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Shari’s half Indian, half American, and they met when she came over here posing as her best friend to break up her BFF’s arranged marriage. And Rakesh was the guy her BFF was engaged to, but him and Drew figured out her identity from the start, so it was all a bit mad.”
Jarryd abhorred schemes. Or schemers. Like Sushma. “She sounds crazy.”
Desiree laughed. “She is. That’s why we get on so well.”
“Why? Are you crazy too?”
Desiree batted her eyelashes. “I’d have to be, to be your girlfriend for a week.”
“Touché,” he said, enjoying their banter.
They’d had this kind of connection when they’d met six years ago, when he’d been rather smitten with her. Not that he’d let her know. He’d played it cool because of who her mother was and later, following the fallout from Sushma bolting, had thought he’d had a lucky escape. Like mother, like daughter. According to his dad, how wrong he’d been.
“You’re frowning.” She pointed at his brow. “That can’t be good.”
“Do you speak to your mom often?”
Jarryd inwardly cursed his blurted out question when Desiree’s expression blanked, as if a curtain had been drawn.
“We’re not close,” she said, her tone as devoid of emotion as her face. “For what it’s worth, I hated what she did to your dad.”
She shook her head, disgust twisting her mouth. “I tried to warn him, you know.”
“I know,” he said, and her startled gaze flew to his. “He told me yesterday.”
“Ah, so that’s what all this is about.” She gestured at the food, the champagne. “An apology of sorts.”
“For what?”
“For believing all that crap that was printed about me at the time Mom ditched Voigt and hating me as much as you probably hate her.”
Jarryd held up his hand. “Guilty as charged. Though this dinner isn’t an apology, it’s a business meeting between two people needing to get their facts straight.”
Damn, he sounded like a pompous prick and she reacted accordingly, by squaring her shoulders and clasping her hands together.
“Got it. Business meeting.” Her lips compressed into a thin line. “So what’s first on the agenda, boss?”
He grimaced. “Guess I deserved that.”
“Yeah, you did.” Her mouth softened into a semi-smile. “You’re right, though. We should get started on formulating our dating story.”
He agreed, because the faster they got this done, the faster she could leave. For the longer they sat at this table together, trading banter, the harder it was for Jarryd to remember they’d be dating in name only.
Desiree had a way about her that put him at ease, something he rarely experienced in the company of women. He’d dated some of the most beautiful women in the world: actresses, models, flight attendants. Women confident in their skin, women who pandered to a man with limited demands. Shallow, narcissistic women the complete antithesis of Desiree.
The realization shamed him.
He preferred to keep his liaisons entanglement-free. To ensure the women had no expectations.
But as Desiree stared at him with a beguiling mix of intrigue and mischief, he wondered what it would be like to forget all his reservations regarding this woman and date her for real.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She pulled a face.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t know whether to kiss me or berate me.”
“I’d prefer the kissing,” he said, his gaze focusing on her lips. Lush. Full. Tempting.
He heard her sharp intake of breath, before she said, “I’m your girlfriend in name only, so there’ll be none of that.”
“You sure?” He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “It could be fun.”
“Or not.” She snorted, as a faint blush stained her cheeks. “So, boyfriend, what’s our story? Because you know the press are going to have a field day with this.”
She held up her hands, as if outlining a newspaper. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Voigt Baron’s playboy son falls for conniving daughter of the fickle bimbo who ditched his dad at the altar.’”
He clutched his chest. “You think I’m a playboy?”
She chuckled. “That’s all you took out of that?” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “I’m serious. Are you sure you want this kind of publicity for the hotel?”
“I’m counting on it,” he said. “Haven’t you heard, there’s no such thing as bad publicity?”
She nodded, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Maybe for you, but I’m trying to get my business off the ground.” She glared at him. “Heck, I’m even fake dating you to do it, so what if the publicity is negative and focuses on me trying to use you like Mom used Voigt?”
A flicker of worry darkened his eyes. “Honestly? I’d wondered the same thing. But you know how the paparazzi work in this city. They’ll dredge up the past for all of two seconds before switching to the fairytale aspect of our romance.”
He made quotation marks with his fingers. “Secret pasts. Drama. Reunion. Romance.” He shrugged. “It’s a classic Bollywood script. They’ll lap it up and focus on the present.”
“Hope you’re right.” She studied him with renewed interest. “So we stick with the truth mostly? That we met six years ago through our parents. Haven’t kept in touch after what happened. Then…?”
“Then you came into the hotel one day for a business meeting, I took one look at you and was smitten. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. Couldn’t keep my hands off you.”
She rolled her eyes at his wolfish grin. “And the fact I’m working for you?”
He snapped his fingers. “Proof that I’m so smitten that I want to keep you close, day and night.”
She snorted. “That makes you sound like an obsessive stalker.”
“Or a man head over heels.”
“With your track record?” Her eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t kidding about that playboy jibe before.”
Enjoying himself more by the minute, his hand snaked across the table to capture hers. “You’ve kept tabs on me?”
Caught out, she tilted her nose in the air, her haughtiness endearing. “Despite the fact you haven’t been in Mumbai for years and choose to traipse across Asia, your name is regularly plastered across the tabloids in the social columns, with some vacuous bimbo on your arm. Can I help it if I read newspapers and magazines and you’re right there, front and center?”
She snatched her hand out from under his and sat back in a huff.
“You’ve certainly got the jealous girlfriend act down pat.” He laughed. “Look, it’ll be pretty low key. We’ll be mainly dating in name only. Might get snapped by the paparazzi at the dating convention. Pose for photos with the convention’s organizers. That sort of thing. We won’t have to do public appearances or actually go on dates.”
Her eyes clouded with an emotion he couldn’t read. “Are we done?”
Surprised by her quick turn from playful to pouty, he shook his head. “You don’t want dessert? I’ve got kulfi.”
He watched Desiree’s sweet tooth for pistachio and rosewater infused ice-cream war with her desire to leave. Unfortunately, the latter won, as she stood.
“Thanks, but tomorrow’s my first day at a new job and I’ve heard the boss can be a real jerk.”
He knew she’d meant it as a joke but he couldn’t help but feel a tad wounded. Then again, considering how he’d treated her when she’d arrived at the hotel for her interview, he probably deserved everything she dished out and more.
“I’ll come down with you,” he said, instinctively placing his hand in the small of her back then wishing he hadn’t when he felt the heat of her skin radiating through the cotton of her jacket.
She stiffened. “Why?”
Annoyed by her reaction to his touch, he wanted to rattle her. “Because maybe I want to ravish you in the elevator, get in a little practice for when we kiss in public.”
She spun around to face him, indignation flushing her cheeks. “I said there’ll be no kissing—”
He crushed his mouth to hers, giving in to impulse, giving in to madness.
But the moment her lips softened beneath his, he knew he’d made a mistake.
Because in trying to prove a point, he’d only succeeded in proving just how badly he still craved her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Desiree spent the first four hours of her new job photographing the Baron’s old wing, poring over digital imaging on her computer, color coordinating samples and phoning suppliers. She maintained a manic pace, ensuring she didn’t have a spare second to waste mulling over that kiss last night.
Damn Jarryd Baron. Damn him to hell and back.
She’d been doing so well, having a very civilized dinner with the man who had the power to rock her world. She’d been the epitome of cool and polite. Conversing with ease. Trading banter. Setting ground rules for their idiotic dating charade.
Then he’d had to go and kiss her, turning all her well-honed defenses to mush. Because that’s exactly what she’d been in his arms beneath the onslaught of his masterful kiss: a melted mess of yearning.
Sheesh, the man could kiss. Even now, the memory of it made her body flush and her skin tingle in a way it never had.
Which is exactly why she had to forget it and focus on work.
She couldn’t afford the distraction, couldn’t afford to sc
rew up this massive opportunity.
Jarryd had been toying with her. It’s what guys like him did. Assert their power. Ensure they had the upper hand in any situation. It had meant nothing to him. Proved by how he’d acted when they eventually came up for air—too soon, not soon enough—like nothing had happened.
He’d guided her into the elevator, maintained silence the short ride down to the ground floor and bid her a polite, civilized farewell, at complete odds with the raw, raging kiss that ravaged her mouth and seared her soul.
Hot damn.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks, doing little to cool them. Nothing short of complete submersion in an ice bath would do that.
Thankfully, he’d kept his distance this morning. She’d half expected him to drop by the small office she’d been assigned on the second floor of the old wing just to taunt her, but he hadn’t, and she didn’t know what annoyed her more: the fact he’d effectively dismissed her last night or the disappointment tingeing her relief.
Needing a break and food, she headed for the ornate staircase, sweeping from the second floor to first. The modern mall a block from the hotel would have a food court where she could grab a quick, cheap meal. But she’d barely set foot in the foyer when she heard her name called.
Turning, she saw an elegant woman in a cerise sari bearing down on her, waving a handful of pamphlets.
“Desiree D’Souza? I’m Anya Singh, CEO of Date Me.” The woman beamed, like she’d been appointed prime minister. “I’m coordinating the convention being held here all week and Mr. Baron mentioned you’re his date?”
Oh boy. So much for flying under the radar for this week.
Desiree forced a smile and nodded. “That’s right. What can I do for you?”
“Well, we’d love to have a shot of you and Mr. Baron launching the convention together. He’s a very handsome man and you’re just stunning.” She clasped the pamphlets to her ample chest. “A true love story. Two people being reunited after six years apart…” The woman’s gaze turned sly. “Especially considering the way your mother treated his father—”
Breathless in Bollywood Page 4
