Bollywood Fiancé for a Day (21 page)

He swallowed the words back and fought down the urge, reminding himself of the consequences. She didn't deserve what had happened, it was true. But what could happen she deserved even less. He couldn't offer her more than an affair or less than heartbreak.

He had got what he wanted. He'd wanted her to walk away. And she had.

Hurt by him, cut by his refusal to keep his word. The memory of her tears ripped through him, as though he'd felt their scalding touch.

The realization of all he'd lost rose like a sheet of tidal water, whipping him with its pain. His fist formed, lifted and crashed on the table as a harsh curse left him. A crack formed under his hand and spread in jagged branches across the circular top. But he was too tormented to feel the pain of cutting glass or hear the harsh tearing sound as it shattered.

* * *

‘Armaan Khan and his wife are getting divorced.' Neeta gave Vishakha an apologetic look. ‘I know you said not to talk about Zaheer Saxena, but it says here—' she held up her cell ‘—Mia is going to live in the States. Surely that proves there's nothing between him and Mia.'

‘I don't want to hear it.'

The beast!
She'd nicknamed him that. ‘I don't care what he does.'

But something twisted her heart. What was this strange pain it seemed to have picked up since that day? A week had passed and it showed no sign of relenting. But maybe it was early days yet. Though she was a bit old to get it. Maybe she was a late developer where romance was concerned.

Who was she kidding? This was no star-induced crush or dark idolatry. It wouldn't hurt like this if it wasn't love. She'd never felt it before. But she was sure of that. What made no sense was how you could hate someone yet feel this intense love for them at the same time…

Stupid. That was what she was—the biggest fool who ever walked the surface of the earth.

Why bother about a man who hadn't even spared her pride? And he knew it. She could still see the malachite glitter of his eyes. Even thinking about it sent a shiver down her spine. It hadn't been natural. Some intense emotion had been riding him like a demon…

When would she be done thinking about him? At odd moments, remembering the lazy tone, that arrogant angle of his head, the sensuous curve of his lower lip. She closed her eyes as the way he'd nearly kissed her on the yacht waved over her senses, the tension she'd felt in him, leaving her aching, yet excited. She thought about him far too often, no matter how many times she told herself he didn't give a hoot for her, was probably dancing the nights away, flirting, chasing girls. He wasn't the lone worshipper at the temple of love but an experienced huntsman. The stabs piled up and throbbed in her chest all day. Flowing in her tears at night. She was supposed to be an intelligent, level-headed female. Not this moping idiot.

This was her standard routine now. After she was done cussing him, she started on herself.

Had he talked to his parents, explained what she had been to him? What exactly
had
she been to him? She tried to put into words what he would say. A timely support? A convenient excuse? An amusing dalliance he'd had enough decency not to take advantage of? Was he even now laughing at the way she'd thrown herself at him?

Why was she torturing herself like this, she wondered as she drove home. Once there, she went to her room, hanging up her coat and stethoscope that she'd carried in.

She shouldn't even be thinking about the bastard. The way he'd made her face total humiliation at the Mumbai party. Publicly. The gossip pages had been full of speculation about their argument. So much so that the news had become active in Lucknow. In her own home. She would hate him with every breath she ever took just for that. He'd broken not just her heart—which, to be honest, he didn't know he had—but his promise. Which was far, far worse. He'd signed on to hold her pride up and instead had trampled it into the dust. Her worst nightmare had come true. She was in a state ten times worse than before. Two broken engagements made a field day for her aunts, who'd burst into tears the moment they heard it. It was awful. Vishakha had locked herself in her room and told her mom not to call her until they left. Her father was angry as hell he'd been made a fool of. He glared if anyone so much as spoke of watching a film, even if it wasn't one of Zaheer's.

She had had an unexpected visit from Saira. At first they had exchanged awkward hellos but soon her younger sister hugged her, admitting Mom had told her about Vishakha's broken engagement. Eventually talk veered to Munish and Saira went far enough to admit she shouldn't have kept Vishakha in the dark about their growing love for one another. In any case, at least they were talking now. As they said, Rome wasn't built in a day. Putting aside the hurt and loss of confidence she had suffered wasn't easy, but Vishakha knew she had to move on and going shopping with Saira had been a tentative step forward. The hug Saira gave her at leaving was tight. She was misty-eyed like the fool she was when she pulled away. Still, she did feel better.

The greatest support had been her mom and her friends. Though she had the sneaking suspicion her mother still harboured hopes of seeing Zaheer stride back into her life. She had been a little in love herself with her famous prospective son-in-law but, like a staunch mother hen, she'd told her sisters-in-law to save the hullabaloo because it was obvious Vishakha was destined for a better match than a Bollywood actor and, in any case, she wasn't in a hurry to part with her daughter.

At least everyone stuck to the promise of not mentioning his name. Till today when Neeta had broken it.

How could she keep her heart intact for so many years and then fall in love so totally inappropriately? No matter how many ways she put the question to herself, there was no answer.

Serve her right for sticking always to the shore. The moment she'd tried sailing in the wind the storm had overtaken her. She sighed.

At least her alternating loss of appetite interspersed with obsessive bingeing kept her weight constant. She didn't want anyone making clucking sounds over her bloated or emaciated figure.

* * *

Zaheer sat in his lounge, his brows drawn together in the frown that seemed to have become embedded in his forehead. He became aware that he'd been sitting here watching the curtains billowing in for about the last twenty minutes.

The realization caused him to sock his fist in his palm, wincing as the bandaged part hit. Heat crept up his neck as he remembered how he'd got the cuts.

His own inaction bit him. What the hell was this? He'd lost his appetite. He'd postponed two meetings because
he didn't feel like it
, which he'd never ever done, not even if he was scratched and bleeding from his stunts.

Must be his conscience bothering him. Feeling guilty about Vishakha.

Damn it, who was he kidding? He missed her. It was impossible to close his mind to all the different pictures of her that it conjured up.

His phone rang. He glanced at the number and put it down without answering. It was from his record-busting team. He'd call back later to explain he wasn't interested in the proposal of the longest ever attempted car jump. Any other time he would be up and agog to try it. Now…

Something wasn't working and he had no idea what. Getting up, he climbed the stairs to his room, laced up his joggers and ran down to the beach.

It was evening. Just like when he'd brought Vishakha here…

The thought sliced him like a knife and he shot off like a jet.

What are you running from?
The thought seemed to tap into his mind with the rhythm of his feet levering off the sand.

Minutes later, he stopped, hands on knees, getting his breath back. As blood pounded to his head, images began to move inside his mind.

Vishakha, proud and angry when he'd thrown that jibe at her the evening of their ring ceremony. Later, listening to him, silently supporting him as he talked of his father. He'd never told anyone about Dad. Been too ashamed to admit it because of the rejection he faced. As a child, whenever his dad was around, he had played rougher and ran faster than everyone else. He'd wanted his father's admiration and doting regard. Never succeeding in getting it, he'd turned the blame inwards. The only way to keep that blame from getting deeper meant he must prove himself again and again. Test his limits. He'd become addicted to the adrenaline hikes. The dirt bikes. The risky sports. Then the stunts in the movies. The thrill of success. When had he begun to chase it so single-mindedly, bent on establishing himself? He'd wanted to dominate every genre in the films. The romantic flick had been another risk. It had paid off and his hunger for acclaim had increased. He had changed direction and gone for a thriller next.

This historical saga project had come along and he'd been hooked on it. Just like he'd been hung up on playing rough and running fast for the father who never watched him.

Being kicked off the film was like being hit where it hurt most. Like a proclamation being made that he wasn't good enough.

The movie was over for the time being. In the grip of its loss, coping with it, he'd come to learn quite a lot of things about himself.

There was the way Vishakha had instinctively reached out to him that last night. Offering, of all things, to leave her job for him. That had finally made him realize she was in over her head. It had spurred him into making her leave him in a way she'd never look back.

He'd succeeded, but even going away she'd given him something. God, how cheesy he was beginning to be, but he couldn't deny it. He did need some sense knocked into his head. For a long time he'd been seeking ways to affirm himself, driving himself hard, but the truth was it had to come from within himself.

Somewhere, the acceptance had begun to build that he wasn't at fault for not being what his father wanted. It was his father who wasn't what
he
wanted—what every father should be. With the acceptance came the calm that Vishakha had first made him feel when she'd held his hand silently. For the first time he'd put rough, vague feelings into words. And that had been the beginning of his healing.

He didn't need to run and show off for his father any more. He didn't need to be driven by the demon of proving himself. A weight dropped off him. It made his insides shake a little. Damn.

Why now? All the soul-searching he should have done years ago had happened now. Was it something to do with her? Or
everything
to do with her?

No.
Restlessness gripped him. He found himself running. Again. As though he was running from the true answer.

Only as he spotted the car moving up his driveway did he pause and breathe in and jog back, the sweat from his exertions trickling down his spine.

* * *

‘How was the drive, Mum?' he asked as he drew level with the diminutive woman walking towards the house, who paused to allow him to touch her feet, her hand sinking on his hair in automatic blessing.

‘You were right,
beta.
I can't learn to drive in such a big car. It has as many controls as an aeroplane. Can't make any sense of it at all…'

His mum had argued with his father, but as a fallout from that she had taken her first rebellious act in years and decided she wanted to learn how to drive.

‘Get me a smaller car,' she sighed, raising her clutch purse to shade her eyes from the slanting sunlight.

He had to say even his mum in post-father-fallout depression looked better than he did. Hair coiffed. Pearls around her neck. She seemed to be thinking in the same vein as she considered him. ‘Is a beard the latest fad now? Your stylist must have his head examined. You look awful.'

‘You didn't used to be so honest.'

‘You look leaner too. Don't you eat these days?'

‘Of course I do,' he muttered, irritated. It was a sore point. Last night it had been lunch leftovers he was left with because he hadn't been hungry and, to avoid speculation, he'd told his cook he would be going out. After his run, though, the breeze from the beach had made him work up some hunger pangs. He was no chef, so he had to make do with what he'd found, old veggies and cold rice. What had he come to?

He led his mother inside as she talked more of her driving lesson and why she needed it. His father had forbidden her to ride in any of the cars after he had to walk back in the rain. Because the chauffeur had been late in picking him up. Because she had been shopping in his favourite car.

Abruptly he asked, ‘Don't you get tired of him, Mum? Haven't you ever thought of telling him to go to hell?'

She was silent. Pride, he supposed because it was an unwritten rule between them.
We don't discuss Father.

‘He's not that bad, you know. He's even started playing electronic checkers with me these days.'

‘Surprise!' He couldn't prevent the sarcasm. ‘Great to hear he can step down from the high seat occasionally.' What was the use? His mum would always defend him. He changed the subject. ‘How did he take my engagement?' The way the tabloids had been full of it, you'd think it was a national issue.

‘The breaking of it, you mean. He refuses to discuss it. But you could at least have told us you were engaged, Zaheer.'

Just as someone else had advised him. Like surf, he'd been restless and pounding. But he had finally found a place where he had a semblance of peace. She had given him that.

And what had he done? Destroyed her publicly. Some things were beyond forgiveness. In his hurry to get rid of her, he hadn't paused. He hadn't hesitated in making his crime complete, so there wasn't much use expecting it to be all right now. It was over.

He couldn't say sorry. There was little point. She'd never forgive him and rightly so.

‘Nice
kurta.
I didn't know you wore embroidery,' his mum said, fingering the
chikankari
threads embellishing his sleeve. ‘Are you playing a demented artist or something in your next film?'