Bollywood Fiancé for a Day (19 page)

It was a double-edged sword, he thought again.

A distant booming sounded and the eye contact was broken. Not a second too soon, he thought with relief. He must stay on track, keep to the plan. For both their sakes. ‘The show is on. Take a look.' He gestured to the window.

* * *

‘Don't you love fireworks?' she said, nose almost pressed against the glass. Another sound exploded far away on the shore. The anniversary celebrations had just turned even more glitzy. ‘They are so reminiscent of Diwali.'

He shrugged. ‘Never understood the hype about Diwali anyway. Get together, have drinks. Go for all-traditional wear. Why can't anyone do that any damn day?'

She was silent. ‘You have never experienced a nice time of it.' It was a statement.

‘I haven't.' He had already admitted as much to her, yet it felt like peeling off sticky Band-Aids as he forced himself to go on. He had asked her for honesty. If she asked, he couldn't give less. Not that it felt easy. ‘My father usually picked a row with Mum every Diwali. At one time, I remember, she broke down and cried and I brought her a glass of water but she wouldn't take it. She kept crying quietly and I kept standing there. God knows how long I stood and then I just couldn't bear it any more so I went away. I heard the cracks and fizzes and booms of crackers all round.' He could still feel the burning at the back of his eyes, kept open in the darkness that night. ‘I had this red night light in my room. Every year the colour of the light changed—blue, green—but the whole fiasco was the same. Later I found my father used to gamble every Diwali, then, win or lose, he would get drunk and row with Mum. He was worse if he lost. That was why Mum and he had those fights.' But knowing that didn't change things. It didn't change having to listen to other kids' stories without having your own to share. Or, rather, having a gruesome one of your own that you had to keep secret. ‘Once I got up in the morning and she had a bruise on her forehead but she insisted she'd walked into a door.'

‘O ma!'
Vishakha gasped softly. They stood in silence, letting the words die away. ‘Is that why you're alone here now? Because you can't bear the sound of crackers?' Her voice was tight, full of feeling for him.

‘Analyzing me, sweetheart? A lost case, am I not?' The light fell on her, on her delicate profile, the gleaming skin under the flimsy netted shoulders of her dress. He had the sudden urge to go to her and kiss her. Make her forget about these confidences that made him feel a python was wound over his ribs, crushing him ever tighter. He was trying to make the unease disappear and this woman, with her soft inquisitiveness, obviously wasn't going to let it.

He said, more evenly, ‘Forget that. Tell me what you do on Diwali.'

‘The usual stuff,
pooja
, lighting
diyas
and candles and sparklers. Mom always makes chocolate cake. Not so traditional, but we get tired of eating the ghee sweets.' She shrugged. ‘In the evening we give away a meal before taking dinner. Saira usually gets some burn stings from her pranks, trying to be daring with the explosive crackers.'

‘Not you? You prefer to be safe.' That was so like her. He could imagine it.

‘Yes.'

She fell silent. Sounds and cheers came from outside. Distant. As though they were the only two people there. Just the rocking of the boat—and them.

‘Come, watch,' she invited, gesturing from the window. ‘It's really beautiful.'

He took a deep breath. Every Diwali he shut off the sights and blocked out the sounds with stereo music. This wasn't it, he reminded himself. Besides, it was difficult to ignore that small stretched hand.

The Gateway of India stood imposing against the darkness. The sky blazed with trails of light. A boom at the shore sent up a streak and it zoomed up, stilled and, with multiple sizzles, flowered into a chrysanthemum of spark showers. Another came in red. Then green, lilac and orange showers splattered the sky.

‘Wow!' she breathed. ‘Spectacular.'

‘I didn't know they made them like that now.'

He looked down at her rapt face, upturned to the view, inhaled the scent of her skin. ‘You smell like exotic flowers.'

‘That's my new body wash,' she explained. ‘It's black orchid and something.'

‘It's delicious…seductive.' He leaned in irresistibly and inhaled deeply as a thousand warning bells rang in his mind.

He hadn't meant to…he didn't know what he'd quite meant to do…but with his hands placed on the paneled sides of the window either side of her he found himself fighting the urge to hold her.

She turned within the circle and he tensed. This was madness. Her hands wandered up his chest, pushing the lapels of his jacket aside. Zaheer tried to find the strength to move away but found himself as motionless as a rock, wanting more, yet denying himself the freedom to go for it. But unable to step out of the range of temptation.

She touched his collar and slipped the top button out, then the next. And the next. Splaying her hand inside against his skin. The touch was soft. Warm. More than warm. Arms tense, muscles corded, he just stood there. Maybe she could feel his tension. Control hung by a tenuous thread as a storm pulsed inside him. He was fighting his own desire—and now hers too.

‘Zaheer…' Her voice was soft, husky, the hidden promise in it nearly making him mindless. ‘Chest hair?' she teased breathlessly, fingers tangling there. ‘Hmm, I thought you waxed? For the action hero look.'

‘Not for this film. Period drama, remember?' he muttered, then warned, ‘Vishakha!' Abruptly, he caught her hands as they wandered. Though looking away from the glimmer in her eyes was the hardest thing to do.

‘You want to be safe,' he reminded her.

‘I preferred to be safe,' she corrected, ‘but that's not applicable now.'

‘I didn't say it to taunt you.'

‘I know you didn't. It's me. I want to be more daring.'

Zaheer inhaled, her words sending a rush of adrenaline through his blood.

‘I've been trying to keep it all locked up, afraid to admit how I felt about you. I was running away from my own feelings.' She took a breath. ‘But not any more. I want to tell you how much I've been attracted to you. I haven't…' her voice went soft and husky with feeling ‘…I've never felt this way before.'

The words seeped inside him like rain on parched summer soil. Any more of this and he would be disconnecting with reason entirely.

‘It could never work between us. We are poles apart.'

‘I'm not asking you for a commitment, Zaheer. I know you aren't capable of it. I'm not even asking for a relationship…'

This was the same woman who'd always said she wouldn't give it away without a title. He shook his head, reiterating, ‘It won't work. You're made for birthdays, anniversaries. Family traditions. All the things that show how a person is cherished. I don't have any idea how to do that, much less care about all that stuff.' He took her hands down and stepped away. ‘I can't give you anything like that. And finally you'll hate me for it.' He turned from her. He needed to get away. While he still could.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

J
UST THIS EVENING
, he told himself as the limo drew up outside Vishakha's hotel. Mia and Armaan's dinner and dance party would be ample opportunity to see how Mia had taken the news of his engagement. Not that he had any doubt. No woman with the arrogance Mia had would ever pursue a man who'd publicly made his preference for another woman obvious to the whole world. Tonight was just the cherry on top to finalize things.

And then what? Vishakha would go and he would be back to his normal life. Partying, seeking thrills, trying to find something newer, ever more daring to challenge himself with? The thought produced an uncharacteristic hollow feeling. Had all that stuff been just to fill his life with something? And why didn't it matter so much to him now?

What he thought of right this moment was walking barefoot in the sand with Vishakha. Shading her from the sun as she squinted up. Her delight as she looked around what was proclaimed to be the largest mall in Asia. His enjoyment in the wonder apparent in her expression at Tiger Point in Lonawala. His crazy impulse to delight her even more…right to the zenith of physical pleasure.

He inhaled.
You've no business thinking that, guru.

She was nothing but someone with whom he'd made a deal. And after rejecting her the last time they'd met he had no right to expect even her friendship.

A worthy thought but one that became difficult to hold on to as his gaze alighted on her in a diamond-sprinkled aqua and blue sari, the filmy cloth artfully draped to mould her form. How could a garment so long cover so little? He could only marvel at the ingenuity of whoever had fashioned the garment, not that he felt charitable towards the unknown person at that moment. Light glanced off the white gold
choli
perfectly encasing her breasts, leaving her waist long and tantalizingly bare, indented just where his hand should rest…

Resisting the temptation, he touched her back as they left the hotel. Soft, lustrous hair fell down her back and made the oval cut-out back of her
choli
respectable. Barely.

She looked beautiful. Alluring. Sexy.

She also looked aloof, remote, cool.

He knew why. Rejection in any form must be hurtful to her and he hadn't helped matters by dismissing the passion between them so peremptorily.

Ironically, it had been her feelings he was concerned about. He could've told her about the frustration clawing his gut every night and making sleep impossible…

Just this one night to get through before they could part ways, he reminded himself again. The more unemotional they could be, the better.

Unemotional.
The word ricocheted in his mind like an echo bouncing off the walls of an empty room. He knew how much it had taken for her to admit her desire for him. He could tell how badly his refusal had hurt her. But he knew too if she had admitted to feeling attracted to him, there might be deeper feelings for him underneath. He couldn't take the weight of those. He needed her to be away from him in case something more dangerous grew between them. Deeper emotion that couldn't be reined in as easily as desire.

Not that there was anything easy about containing desire. The night he'd spent a quarter of in swimming away his restlessness, was proof of that.

Vishakha was new to this, liable to get caught in the riptide. He needed her to forget him, put him out of her life before she was hurt too badly.

What about him? Would he be able to do that?

The scent of orchids mingled with the car perfume and his hands clenched. A crazy question, if ever there was one. Frustration was really having a field day with him.

He wished he had chosen to drive; it would have kept him busy. He should have known that he would pay too much attention to Vishakha if he was free.

The venue was Armaan Khan's new thirty thousand square feet property. Word had gone around that it had been designed by one of the top architecture firms. The pink cassia and foxtail palms that ringed the house were rumoured to have been transplanted fully grown.

Mia stood just inside the entrance, greeting the guests. Yesterday, at the yacht, she'd looked slightly stunned at actually seeing Vishakha with him. She ought to get it firmly fixed in her head today that he was unavailable to her. And then, Zaheer decided grimly, he could breathe easy.

* * *

Vishakha took in the frothing flower vases set in all corners of the banquet hall, the brilliance of the giant central chandelier, the sparkling, scintillating guests, the hostess in backless silver grey lamé.

Zaheer looked his usual suave self, but she could see the edge in his smile. Had she put it there? Was he angry with her about yesterday? But she'd needed to say it, let him know how she felt. With just a day before she left, she had wanted to take a chance on having what she could with him and damn caution.

He looked good enough to be plated. In a glossy black suit with satiny teal-blue waistcoat and the deadly fit of the one button jacket over it, the stubble on his jaw just added to his broody dark aura today. The saber sharp narrowed hazel gaze gave him a rakish pirate air.

Everyone faded away and she could see only him. Tomorrow she was going back home. And then…Then what? She wasn't going to hold her breath till she saw him again. It'd be a damn foolish thing to do anyway. As soon as she was out of the picture he would be hooked up with someone else. Not Mia. From the enthusiasm she'd seen in him when talking of his film, she knew he'd told her the truth. His only concern was getting the diva off his back and finishing the film. Even if Mia was excluded, the queue of available, willing women didn't end there. Of course he'd have to find someone discreet, as he was still supposed to be engaged to her. But who wouldn't trade a zipped mouth for being with Zaheer Saxena?

The thought formed a hollow cave inside her, settling down uncomfortably in there like an unwanted guest. Why did it hurt to think that? She'd always known it. Theirs was a temporary arrangement in name only. What else would he do?

It had begun to feel like more. She had begun to see someone else in there, someone who wasn't an arrogant, shallow playboy. Someone who was kind, generous, sexy, charming…She wanted to have him tell her more about himself, wanted to wipe away each of those bitter childhood memories enunciated by his mouth and replace them with her kisses…

Was she mad? Zaheer didn't exactly lack for sympathizers—women who could offer him so much more than she could.

She was the outsider. Only dressed to match these people. But, as she'd been once, a small child walking home from school and watching parents buying their kids ice cream, she was again on the outside looking in. The glittering women, overloud laughter, the repetitive clink of glasses began to thrum inside her head, forming a pulsating ache. She couldn't wait for this party to be over…