You Can't Fight a Royal Attraction (6 page)

It was only when he reached his room that Rihaan remembered the vacuum cleaner placed near her. About to go back and tackle her about it, he made himself wait. First he had to wash off the soap sticking to his backside.

But, even with the water pumping furiously over him, could he wash away the pull she had exerted on his senses?

Self-directed anger made him rub down his body vigorously. Leaving aside all women, he had to react like that to
her
? Even now his breath locked in his throat thinking of that hypnotic gaze.

A purely physical deviation, he assured himself. Something controllable. He only had to keep that in mind and he would be able to resist her.

Saira threw herself into vacuuming, all the time trying to put the way she had given herself away out of her mind.

Oh God! She had been so coolly sure she could handle it. She had been light-hearted and funny. She’d made him laugh. So surely there shouldn’t be this tension?

Yet the irresistible urge to trace that tattoo and the indentation of the spine below arose inexorably.

Work, that was what she needed.

She didn’t need a man’s attraction. Nor, for that matter, did she need his attention. It was treacherous. Who knew better than her? She’d lost more than her heart. Her pride. Her good sense. Her friends and nearly her sister.

Even her parents wouldn’t be so sore with her if she hadn’t committed the sin of falling in love and following her heart.

She couldn’t go down that road again.

Work was a remedy, she discovered. Only, at the speed she was going, she finished the rooms—leaving alone the den—far too quickly. At least it was satisfying to see the gleaming surfaces and spotless wood finish. Amazing how satisfying working with your hands could be.

Coffee, she decided.

His kitchen was a joy to step into. Equipped in every way to make life convenient. She couldn’t resist exploring his rations. A surprising number of packs of nachos crisps, corn twists, salsa and tortilla dips. Obviously, he had a fixation for Mexican food.

As he did for his writing.

And she wasn’t going to wonder what else he might have a fixation for.
He prefers vanilla, remember?

The itch to use her long rested culinary skills made her ransack his fridge. It was surprisingly well-stocked. She decided to make
biryani, raita
and a salad.

She set about putting the rice to boil for the
biryani
and started cutting the chicken into one inch pieces, feeling a ridiculous surge of exhilaration. So long since she had felt pleasure at small tasks. So long since she’d wanted to do something for herself. The sense of failure was still there, a bash in her heart that her marriage was a goner, but the fact she could find satisfaction in the mundane things planted a
seed of hope. She could do it. She could get over her past, get over the damage Munish and his mom had done. Making her feel she was in the wrong at every turn till she had lost her sense of identity bit by bit, trying to please them.

‘So what’s with the vacuum cleaner and the domesticated bit?’

Startled, she dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. For a second she stared at him, unable to digest his appearance when she had been so lost in the past. Then he began to register. Bathed and fresh. Filling the kitchen—and her senses—with citrus and musk.

She went to pick up the knife but he already had and she found him too close as he straightened.

He placed it on the counter. ‘Speak up.’

‘You’d better get this straight first—I don’t respond to that tone of voice,’ she snapped, trying to cover up the sudden confusion assailing her.

‘Oh right, Princess Saira, may I know what your Royal Highness is condescending to do?’

‘It should be obvious. Your house was dusty so I cleaned it. At least most of it. And this—’ she indicated the spread of ingredients ‘—last time I heard, it was called cooking.’ She felt overly defensive and vulnerable, taking the support of sarcasm to counter his aggression.

‘You are cooking? Is it a joke?’ A sardonic eyebrow went up.

‘Actually, no. Don’t worry. I promise I won’t poison you.’

‘You cook?’

He sounded so disbelieving. She had her arms akimbo as she faced him.

‘I’m blacker than soot in your book, aren’t I? Do I really look so useless that you can’t accept it?’

‘Simmer down. I only said it because it was my impression that you were married in a pretty wealthy family.
Zaheer mentioned they have a flourishing business in Lucknow.’

Saira shrugged. ‘I was. But they are a very traditional family. Their daughters-in-law cook and entertain. They’re kept inside the house. Not allowed to move about alone.’ She started peeling the carrots to distract herself as the memories rose up once again.

‘Hard to believe such things can happen in a city,’ he commented.

‘Well, they do,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘I can’t believe I stuck it for so many years.’

‘You sound very bitter.’ He had caught her words.

‘No, why should I be bitter?’ She put down the knife with a clatter as her restraint broke. ‘My day started with mom-in-law’s bickering about my culinary inefficiency. There were taboos on visiting my friends. I was told not to let “lesser people” in the house. Because they were my friends, they were considered lower than dirt. Stupidly, I tried to please them. I tried to fit into the mould that was made for me. An unrewarding effort and a deadly mistake!’ She took a deep breath, wishing she would stop, but the words escaped. ‘I tried to be flexible but I was taken to be weak. I was expected to be as malleable as putty and to stay in a cage.’

She sighed, the heavy weight of failure weighing like lead in her stomach. Even knowing she shouldn’t feel it, it still weighed her down. That was what she had been made to feel, that the death of her marriage was to be laid at her door. That her inability to please her in-laws lay at the root of it. ‘When I resisted, I was clubbed by comments like, “These modern girls have no respect for their elders”. Then they would blame my parents saying, “They taught you nothing about obedience!”‘

That had been one of the last straws. There had been so many last straws. Already testy at being forced to wear
the heavy embroidered ensembles for a wedding party, she had rebelled at being asked to model them as well. ‘I was labelled “the bad one”. My dress was always approved by my mother-in-law before I could step out and I was forced to change outfits multiple times till she did.’

‘Didn’t your ex-husband object to the way she treated you?’

‘Munish didn’t seem to be able to comprehend what I found wrong with it. The worst of it was that he was happy to go the same route of asking
Mummyji
like a brainwashed zombie.’

Rihaan was staring at her incredulously as though he thought he needed specs.

She laughed self-consciously, realising she had allowed herself to get carried away. Talk of being emotionally vulnerable…

‘It’s probably my fault. I couldn’t handle them properly. I’m very short-tempered—’

‘No,’ he said bluntly.

When she looked up in surprise, he said with even more emphasis, ‘Don’t blame yourself for the lack of fair behaviour in other people! If they have been deficient in their part, it doesn’t mean you should put yourself down.’

‘Sorry for boring you.’ It seemed like a puny apology for heaping her messy marriage history on his ears. What could she say? Had she been out of the social circle so long she’d forgotten to keep her miseries to herself?

‘You didn’t.’

The reassurance must be politeness. Not that he was the type to bend to be courteous but that indefinable air of breeding hung about him. So that must be it. No cause for it to warm her heart like it was…

‘I’ve done nothing but housework for the length of time I was under that roof,’ she told him, coming back to the earlier subject of their discussion. ‘I learnt some things
during my marriage. I’m not useless. Though you didn’t think twice about it when you hinted that I was, while asking if I could make my own bed.’

‘My mistake,’ he admitted, surprising her. She would never have thought with that supercilious air he would stoop to own a fault. ‘You do a good lazy cat impression so I assumed you also came from a pampered rich background.’

‘I did have a very comfortable childhood.’ She caught onto the ‘also’. Curiosity reared its head. ‘You mean yourself too, right? So you’re from a filthily wealthy background? Used to being waited on hand and foot, that sort of thing?’

‘Something like that.’ Was he being deliberately vague? Evasive even?

‘How fabulous! Are you from a celebrity family?’ she prodded but he failed to answer. ‘I’d like to hear how being spoilt and rich feels like,’ she invited.

He frowned and shook his head. ‘Comforts never come without costs.’ His voice was clipped. He changed the topic. ‘You really shouldn’t have done all this. I was going to order takeout from the town.’

‘It’s no problem at all. I had time on my hands which seemed to fly while I worked. It actually is making me feel good about myself,’ she acknowledged.

She’d forgotten herself enough to share it with him. Or maybe because of him she felt compelled to share it. For a second it looked as though he wanted to say more. Ask. Want to know. She saw interest lurk in his gaze. But he didn’t put it into words.

Because he didn’t want to share his own side of things?

A short silence fell as she felt his reticence and fought against the urge to try and get more out of him.

She had been distracted by him. Now she began to
give attention to cooking and preparing the spices for the
biryani.
Cumin—she needed cumin. And cloves.

Remembering that she had seen the dry spices in the cupboard, she went to get them. The shelf was too high for her. She stretched to get them. Jumped. ‘Obviously, your cabinets were designed for
Hidamba
or a giant at least,’ she said caustically, making a last try.

‘Let me.’

She expected him to get them. Instead, two arms came around her waist and she was hoisted up. Her feet left the ground and she gasped as she came into contact with a hard body, saving herself from losing her balance by catching onto his shoulders. She found herself looking down into not glinting but sparkling sherry eyes, the broad smile he wore so different from what she was used to that she was again off balance—mentally this time.

‘The jars,’ he reminded her and she hurriedly reached out for them. He slid her down, her body brushing against his in close contact.

‘Thanks.’
I think!

Her pulse was pounding, heat radiating from her pores. She turned away, not willing to let him see her consternation. Oh God, she didn’t get nervous around men. Not even gorgeous men. Hell, her brother-in-law was a superstar and she’d never been tongue-tied near him. Yet this grumpy, overbearing, smart-alecky babe magnet had her at a distinct disadvantage. What could it mean?

She put in the spices and added the chopped onions.

‘So how’s your story going?’ She found enough breath to act nonchalant, forcing herself to meet his gaze. If the Groucho Marx expression of last night had been fetching, this lighter, lazy, smiling look was completely undoing her.

‘I had a breakthrough. A “moment”. It doesn’t change the story as I thought earlier but it definitely puts a different slant on it. The end will be spectacular.’ He socked a
fist into his palm. ‘It’s gonna rock. With proper direction, it will have the audience at the edge of their seats! Probably out of their seats.’

On anyone else it would sound overhyped. But the earnest look, the intense expression in his eyes, the absolute conviction of his voice had her believing. Anyway, he had done it before. The thriller mystery he had written last had got rave reviews, both at home and abroad.

‘Wow! This calls for a celebration. Let’s see, I saw something appropriate… a bottle of Sula rosé somewhere.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Not a bad pat on the back.’ She attended to the dish while he uncorked the bottle.

‘You certainly do things in style,’ he remarked as she got out crystal glasses. ‘I’d forgotten I had these.’ She poured the wine and he clinked glasses with her and took a swallow. ‘Not to mention it smells good, whatever you have there.’ He pointed towards the pan.

‘Well, I’m good at these things.’ She relished the bubbly drink. ‘You know, side advantages of managing a household.’

‘Hmm… looks like a model but inside is a domestic goddess…!’ He raised his drink in a salutation.

‘Ta-da!’ She did a comical rotation and a half courtesy, holding her wine glass aloft. ‘Surprised you, didn’t I?’

‘You look inordinately pleased,’ he murmured, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Oh yes, can’t be shy about it. You act so haughty and snooty, somehow I get a kick to have you at a disadvantage.’

She peeked at him, wondering if he would go snarky, but he had on a strange expression, half whimsical, half regretful. ‘My sister used to say that too… me appearing snooty.’

‘You have a sister?’ Her question invited information.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’ She said, ‘I won’t ask about her.’

‘What?’ He glanced at her.

‘You looked down into your drink. Great ploy for discouraging conversation. Means you don’t want me to nose into your affairs. Though I have to say she sounds nice.’

You’d like her.
The words came to his lips and were held back. Why? What the hell! He didn’t want Saira to even meet his sister. His past was private, separate from his present life. Totally demarcated.

His thoughts had him off balance.
She
had him off balance.

He’d given in to the impulse, hoisting her up, but the feel of soft curves as she slid down had the caution return in full force. She felt better than good, smelling of exotic flowers and the flavouring spices. She’d changed into a short top and jeans and he could still feel the touch of silky skin where the top only just met the jean belt.

She extended her hand for his empty glass. He avoided it but she reached again, their fingers touching as he let her have it.