You Can't Fight a Royal Attraction (4 page)

So why not?

His gaze was watchful, as though he didn’t trust her an inch more than he could throw her, but he desisted from rising to her jibe. Again the instinct prodded and she found herself giving in to it.

She took out her travel bag and placed it on the bed, standing leaning against it as she tossed her head, her hair waving in a dark cloud down her back, striking a defiant pose.

What was it about that cool hauteur that made her want to play with fire?

‘Of course, you’re no danger to me in a…’ deliberately, she let her gaze run over him ‘…sexual way, are you?’ He didn’t miss it, nor did he miss the insolence she projected. She could see his mouth tighten in controlled annoyance. For a wild minute she wished he’d let loose and the unreasoning thought made her heartbeat pick up.

‘Are you trying to challenge me?’ Her heart jumped up at the deep voice laced with mockery. Coward, she derided. Surely she wasn’t frightened of him?

‘No challenge for you, surely? You can hardly stand the sight of me,’ she reminded him.

‘Am I supposed to jump on you in fervent denial of
that statement, swearing that I can’t keep my hands off you?’ A dark eyebrow rose. ‘Sorry, but your little game won’t wash, Sehgal.’ Irritatingly he addressed her by her surname again.

‘Oh, how astute you are, Khehra!’ She widened her eyes. ‘You catch on so fast. Guess I’ll have to watch myself more around you.’ She formed a pout, aware of his gaze moving to it, feeling an unreasonable thrill as it did. She must be mad. Or starved of fun. But somehow she couldn’t
not
try to get a reaction out of that stone monument.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Whatever you’re trying, I’m not looking for trouble, and I’d advise you not to go poking for it either.’

‘So disappointing!’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Here I was, getting thrilled to bits we’re going to have this weekend. Just us. Lonesome, twosome.’ She arched her brows, giving him a limpid look. ‘Okay, have your wish. I’ll be a good girl, I promise. I’ll do my best not to go crazy at the accidental sight of you without clothes.’

Lazer-sharp gaze snapped to hers and he quickly assimilated her too innocent expression. His mouth quirked but he straightened it with admirable control. ‘Thanks for the compliment but the house is spacious enough for us not to run into each other… in any inappropriate state,’ he said discouragingly.

But his eyes glinted. Glinted a promise of retribution at her impudence, if she read them right. She felt her breath catch and her heartbeat jumpstart into a gallop.

Playing with fire. Who said it wasn’t fun?

‘I hope it doesn’t take long,’ she remarked, striving to break the silence.

The sleek sedan guzzled the metres. As they had taken the flyover, the traffic had lightened. Bright sunlight hit
the tarmac and reflected back at them. She was glad of the air-conditioning.

She’d changed into a neon pink and black dress before leaving. It was belted at the waist and had crocheted black sleeves falling to below her elbows. Pity about the sleeves, which she wore now always, but she was enjoying the dress. A welcome change after the heavy saris and churidars she had got used to wearing while married.

She hoped the bold, rather clashing design of the dress annoyed him. Her own perverse streak made her wonder.

Wind brushed her loosened hair. He drove comfortably but a little aggressively. It suited her. She didn’t like slackers and the speed made her relax, providing exhilaration. His brown hands were lean, competent at the wheel. Strange to think they had held her last night, the touch tender, magically soft.

Her recollection must be clouded by alcohol, she admonished herself.

She didn’t like him, it was obvious. The million dollar question was, why, instead of putting her off, did that stoic superciliousness jangle her senses every time she stepped near him?

Which led to her being completely honest and finally admitting to herself—she found the man attractive.

Ridiculous. Since her break up and that cataclysmic decision to end her marriage she hadn’t felt remotely interested in anyone. Why now?

Why him?

The subdued sound of Bollywood romantic hits issued from hi-tech speakers. Funny, she’d never have thought he was the type to listen to such soft stuff.

The coconut tree clumps sped past. Her gaze became unfocused. Her thoughts turned inwards. The road led to his home but where exactly was she headed? Not physically but in her life?

Maybe this was a metaphorical knock on the head, Providence shaking her out of her apathy. Shame smote her at how she’d let herself go for such a long time. Depending on Vishakha so much. Clinging to an existence that offered security. But no life.

Oh God. Could she find a hole to creep into? Big enough for her stupidity to squeeze in beside her?

And now, the horror of it. She was going to have to depend on a virtual stranger.
Please, no.

‘No matter how, but when I have the chance I’m going to repay you for your hospitality,’ she said. ‘Anything you spend on me, I’m going to make equal. I may not do it right away but I will.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t take payment from my guests. And you, though unconventionally, are my guest.’

She might be, but unconventional was the operative word. At the moment she couldn’t offer him anything. Having refused to contest the divorce settlement, she had little money, only the jewellery given by her parents, which she didn’t want to part with.

She’d do something. She tried to imagine what she could do. All she knew were the basics of dressmaking, using design software and sewing that she’d learnt working as a designer’s apprentice before her marriage. No degree, no certificate. No desire to go back there.

It had been the last thing she’d learnt before she’d left the apprenticeship at Munish’s request. As in everything else mostly, she had submitted to his wishes, telling herself she should comply for the beginning of a happy marital life.

Why hadn’t she stopped to think? If he’d loved her, he would never have asked her to give up her goals. Or maybe he would, regardless. That was the type of love he had felt for her.

‘Don’t look so upset. It’s only a few days.’ His comment disrupted her chain of thought.

‘And after that?’ She looked down at her hands, regretting the unwary comment. Why was she asking him? When he hated what he knew
—thought
he knew—about her.

Surprisingly, he said, ‘Time enough to worry about that. Look, we can’t spend the whole time fighting.’ He gestured ahead. ‘There’s a nice place here. To declare a truce, can I offer you… ice cream?’

He smiled at her. The brief glimpse of even teeth and a charisma he normally kept under wraps made her pulse leap. Ooh, but the man had sex appeal. Oodles of it. If only he used that charm more frequently…

On second, third and gazillionth thought, heaven forbid.

He slid the car smoothly into the parking space. Her stomach was still knotted with tension as they walked inside the dessert bar. The ‘nice place’ turned out to be a sprawling white hotel.

He ordered vanilla to her almond and chocolate. His choice immediately made her do a double take and sent her errant brain wondering what kind of a man chose vanilla.
I mean, vanilla? Oh, come on.
She wrinkled her nose. That once-over he’d given her last night had been anything but vanilla and boring. But then he’d spoken disapprovingly of ‘excess’ which hinted he was conventional. Still, there had been that glint in his eye that promised retribution… not unexciting at all.

She regarded him as she applied her mental energies to figuring him out. Her ice cream blobbed from the spoon and she licked it off, feeling his gaze. Had he detected her mental regard?

Rihaan tried not to stare at the way she’d caught the dripping ice cream and licked it, easing the magenta-tipped finger out of her mouth in a way which sent a surge of
awareness through him that shocked him, a burst of gut-deep response he didn’t want.
Didn’t want
underlined.

‘I’ll get some sandwiches packed,’ he told her as they finished the scoops.

When he came back, he found Saira in conversation with a tall woman in a striped print dress. Rihaan frowned as he spied a press card looped from her neck.

‘Kamini Saluja.’ She extended a hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Rihaan. Everyone wants a piece of you nowadays. Mind if I get in touch with you some time for an interview?’

‘Your office must have a proper channel for this, rather than waylaying anyone going about their business.’ He ignored the hand. He’d had enough of nosy reporters crawling out of the woodwork.

Unabashed, the woman turned to Saira. ‘So how exciting do you find it being with such a brilliant writer? You must enjoy his sense of humour.’

‘I haven’t had much chance yet to explore all the
layers…
But I’m looking forward to it.’ Rihaan saw a jaggery sweet and absolutely naughty smile curve Saira’s mouth. So she was having fun at his expense? One of these days, he was going to teach her a lesson, he promised himself. He tried to tone down the primeval anticipatory rush the thought of that ‘lesson’ evoked. A response she seemed bent on triggering, going by her needling. He directed his attention to the reporter.

‘I think you’ve got enough for today, Ms Saluja,’ he dismissed.

‘I do apologize for his bad mood,’ Saira put in, irrepressible as ever. Disbelief robbed him temporarily of speech. ‘By the way, I love your inches!’ she told the woman, blithely disregarding Rihaan’s dark glower. ‘Not everyone can carry stripes as broad as those.’

‘Oh, thank you. But nothing to envy, I assure you! My
feet are so large I always have problems finding the right shoe size.’

‘Oh, me too—I can never find the exact size either in the shoes I like. But being tall is way better than always having to jump to look over other people’s shoulders in crowds,’ Saira told her with a rueful smile.

‘I think short is cute. And obviously Mr Khehra does too.’ She smiled at Rihaan, who remained unresponsive. ‘Well, anyway, great to run into you. You’re a love, Saira!’ She blew air kisses, moving away, and Saira waved back.

‘Hu kayra?
What did you just say?’ He corrected rapidly at her blank look as the Mewari words escaped. ‘Who gave you permission to apologise on my behalf, anyway? That was too presumptuous!’ Beyond presumptuous. None would dare it at the palace… He caught himself up and frowned. The palace… he didn’t want to think of it now.

‘You were really rude to her,’ she accused.

‘You think she was making a friend of you? She was after information and, thanks to you, she might have got it too. What else did she pump out of you?’

‘You’re really cynical, you know that? She was a nice lady. And, besides, the media only helps you become popular.’

‘Let me be clear.’ He caught hold of her elbow, leading her pointedly in the direction of the car. ‘I don’t like gossipmongers. So don’t go telling her or anyone else everything that goes on in my life,’ he told her grimly.

‘Are you doing something you shouldn’t?’ she shot back.

He looked at her, charged with an angry retort, then paused. She was suppressing a smile, an impish light in her eyes. A naughty half-grin that set her eyes dancing.

He wished he could see humour in the episode. He didn’t like to have his privacy invaded. While the media snooping was part and parcel of success—an obvious eventuality after penning three consecutive blockbusters, two
of which had featured newcomers as actors—he didn’t like the publicity writers hacking their way into every nook and corner of his life. He didn’t
want
them doing it.

She’d nearly hit on that.

‘I don’t relish being the subject of gossip. Would you like people nosing in your life?’

‘This isn’t about me.’

She was so right. It wasn’t. This was about him and his past—a past he needed to keep sealed away. He didn’t want his family estrangement to be made a national headline… the media slurping over his bad relations with his kin… The illustrious family name that now had a Bollywood connection was exactly the kind of news that would be like dry hay to a spark.

The uproar his rift with his family had caused had died down long ago. No one connected Rihaan Khehra, scriptwriter, with the heir who had been cast off. Now, if the news went live, it would only bring a revival of a painful incident.

Despite the intervening years, it seemed he still had feeling enough for them to want to keep them safe. That was a revelation about himself he didn’t expect.

His sister had used to warn him about coming across too cool and unemotional. She said it was the effect of his British education. But at times that coolness felt as if it was all on the outside. Inside him, emotion ruled, reminding him he was still the man of his land. Sometimes it called to him. Sometimes he had the urge to at least hold the soil, let the grains slide through his fingers…

He tried to shake free of the thoughts which threatened to suck him deeper into their fold if he wasn’t careful. Looking into the reverse guide camera output, he steered the car out of the parking place.

‘You’ve gone so quiet. Are you angry?’ Saira’s voice showed concern.

He glanced at her, touched and amused at the same time. ‘Have I been sending you black looks?’

She held up her hands. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. As you said, we shouldn’t quarrel all the time.’ She offered, ‘We’d better learn to be friends.’

‘Friends?’

‘Of course.’ She slid down the seat in an indolent, relaxed way, her arms loosely folded, resting on her head. ‘You don’t think I mean it? Don’t you think it would help us keep to your plan of action if we got along better?’ she asked, for once a serious look in her eyes.

In that split second he was caught by that serpent-dark gaze, magnetic, obsidian, mesmerizing, her words almost registering but not quite. Friends. The idea was a joke when you considered his reaction to watching her lick the ice cream off her fingers.

‘Well?’ she prodded. Her skin looked soft, supple. Her hair, spread out behind her face, looked like strands of lustrous silk beckoning him to touch and make sure. The wide eyes, so dark as they stared back into his, pools of hypnotism. That petal-soft mouth so full he was tempted to avail himself of the implied invitation.