That accent! It could derange a girl with functioning ovaries. It had deranged Leesha to the point where she chucked a lifetime’s worth of relationship phobias and staunch opinions out the window and married a man several years her junior.
Leesha’s answer was to angle the tablet in such a way that all three of them could see each other. Evidently, Aryan had just come out of the shower. His hair was wet, and his scrumptiously ripped torso glistened above the towel wrapped about his hips. Now, there was a shiver-worthy man, and yet not a single atom inside Diya’s body shivered in his presence. Such a tragedy.
“Hello, darling!” She blew him a kiss through the screen. “When will you realize you chose the wrong goddess?”
“Well, hello, gorgeous. How are you?” Aryan grinned at her. Then, he mischievously covered Leesha’s ears with his hands and mock-whispered, “The minute this wench turns into a pumpkin, we’ll sail away into the sunset. Keep your bags packed, love.”
“I won’t wait forever, you know,” said Diya, pouting. But, the minute her words left her mouth, she stiffened.
Wasn’t that exactly what she was doing? Waiting for Krish to wake up?
No! It wasn’t. She’d rejected his proposal. She’d moved on. She was holding out for a real prince now. Diya closed her eyes. Then, why on earth had she refused Hasaan Jabbir’s proposal?
Because his proposal had been nothing but a desperate act of a drowning man. It had been no more real than Krish’s martyrdom had been.
“Is something wrong, sweetheart? You have a funny look on your face.”
“I’m just tired. Jet lag.” Diya forced her lips into a smile.
Aryan was a darling, always worrying about her like his wife did. Like her parents and sister and, yes, even Krish did. They all worried for her. She felt blessed to be so loved.
It was a curse to be so loved.
“Has something else happened, Dee?” Leesha turned the screen back to her and frowned at it.
Diya shook her head. What else could she do? She could hardly confess that she’d been fooling everyone for nine years about her true feelings. That her foolish heart hurt today because the Beast had left her all alone on a stormy night in a stranger’s house and gone off on a stupid date. To his credit, he’d asked her to join him. Of course, she’d refused! What sane woman would agree to be a third wheel on a V-Day date with a guy she wanted for herself?
“Did you speak to my parents and Pree? Are they over being mad?” she asked, refusing to feel any sorrier than she already felt.
Such feelings of desolation and desperation were common in any sob story of unrequited love—correction: unrequited romantic love. That Krish loved her was indisputable. But he loved her the way he loved his sister, not the way Diya wanted him to love her.
“Not yet. The well-wishers aren’t helping matters. Dee, you know how brutal and judgmental Indian society can get, and it’s not just your reputation you’re playing with; it’s theirs, too. You realize that, don’t you?” Leesha said softly.
How had it come to this? A good turn was supposed to win her brownie points, not rotten tomatoes.
Diya dug into her soul for some optimism. Hasaan had asked for a week, and she’d give him the week. Her family would have to understand. Burying their heads in the ground like ostriches wouldn’t hurt either. Better yet, her parents should get out of Mumbai for a few days. She’d make sure they did.
“Do you want us to come there?” Aryan offered.
“What? Come where? Are you insane? I can’t fly off to Dallas right now. I have mountains of work—”
Aryan clamped his hand over his wife’s mouth to shut her up. He’d learned amazingly fast that the only way he’d have any say around Leesha was to physically restrain her.
Diya heaved a sigh. “Thanks, you guys. But there’s no need. Krish and I can entertain each other.”
In a way, Krish was easier to deal with than his sister, who wouldn’t be fooled by Diya’s false bravado. Plus, it had been way too long since she tormented the Beast. She enjoyed every little vindictive moment between them in which she exacted penance for sins he had no clue he’d committed.
“Are you sure you don’t want Leesha to come?” Aryan asked again, so utterly sweetly.
“One hundred percent sure. Go back to your porno moves, darlings. I’m going to try to get some sleep.” She burst out laughing when Aryan turned an endearing shade of a ripe tomato and disappeared beyond the screen, calling his wife a braggart as he went.
“You just had to tease him, didn’t you?” Leesha shook a finger at the screen. “Bye. Talk to you soon. And behave. Don’t tease Krish too much. You know his temper,” she warned and clicked off before Diya could protest that she did no such thing.
Her laughter faded as she lay back down on the bed. Oh, she knew the Beast’s temper intimately. More like distemper, it meant pain and death to the animal not vaccinated against it. But she could handle it—handle him for a week or two. No sweat. She was fully inoculated against him, shiver or no shiver. She closed her eyes as the storm raged against the house.
Alone. He’d left her all alone.
An hour later, when Krish peeked into her room, Diya pretended to be asleep, so she wouldn’t have to invite him in. She didn’t want to chat when she felt so vulnerable. She didn’t want to know whether he’d scored or what his current score was, not when she still batted zero because of him.
He came in anyway. She heard him move toward the bed. She felt the comforter being pulled up to her chin and gentle hands tucking her in. She heard him move around the room, checking the locks on the terrace door and the windows.
Tears stung her eyelids at his thoughtfulness, protectiveness, but she didn’t dare open them until he left the room.
He’d do the same for Leesha and Priya and for both our mothers, Diya assured her heart as tears leaked from her eyes and rolled down the sides of her face. He’d do the same for a stray cat. It meant nothing more. It was just who he was.
Tomorrow, when his attraction waned in the light of day and she went back to being a diva, she’d face the Beast again.
Chapter 5
When a person was as beautiful as Diya Mathur, it was only natural she’d attract both admiration and scorn.
In Krish’s opinion, humans were happiest when they smeared shit on a thing of beauty. For that matter, on brilliance, too. No one liked a person who was smarter, better-looking, or just plain luckier than they were, and they derived an ugly pleasure from toppling that individual off his or her pedestal. He’d seen it happen in the world of finance. Men and women sacrificed their friends, their families, their peace of minds, maybe even their souls for a few seconds of fame and a truckload of money.
He’d been fortunate in that regard. He’d never had to make such a decision or choose between right and wrong. He’d never had to take a sorry step to move ahead in life, never had to compromise his principles. It didn’t mean he was gutless. His reputation for giving no quarter wasn’t unjust or an exaggeration. He was a ruthless businessman. He liked to win far too much to be anything else. And success drove him as much as his work ethic.
He’d had a good run so far. He’d moved quickly and steadily up the corporate ladder, driving forward at a punishing tempo, snatching up opportunities as they came his way. If he’d had a thing to prove to himself and the world, he’d proved it in spades. He’d graduated with honors with double degrees in economics and finance from the University of Texas and been recruited right off the bat by the McGraw and Steele group—an independent asset management company with offices in Dallas, New York, London, and Hong Kong—to be part of their New York City team. He hadn’t even gone looking for a job. They’d offered it to him because he’d interned with them through both his junior and senior year summers and he must have made an impression.
It was sobering to think how different his life would’ve been if Kamal Mathur hadn’t pushed him toward a college degree.
“This is not an inve
stment in your education, son. This is my investment in you. I know you will not let me down.” Kamal Uncle’s words and faith had changed Krish’s life.
After a year in New York, Krish had started handling Dillo Jones’s account exclusively. They’d taken to each other like a house on fire from their very first consultation. Their forty-year age difference notwithstanding, under Krish’s guidance, Dillo’s three-farm start-up had grown and expanded, and when the time seemed right, it had branched into a chain of grocery stores and restaurants. When Dillo had offered Krish the position of CFO of Armadillo Farms and Foods, Krish had been ready for a new challenge. So, he’d grabbed the bull by its horns and leaped. He’d grown to like and respect Armadillo’s lazy Texas pace, and while it hadn’t been a smooth glide across calm waters, it hadn’t quite had the pitch and heave of a stormy corporate ocean either.
Smooth or stormy, his career was a far cry from Diya’s. Diya’s career, much like the woman herself, floated jauntily across a sea of endless adventures. The woman didn’t know the meaning of tame, much less how to spell it.
She’d been horrified when he left New York.
“Are you insane? Who in their right mind prefers Dallas to the bright lights of Manhattan?” She’d clucked her tongue at him over the phone. “I forgot who I’m talking to. I don’t know why I thought New York would finally get rid of the fuddy-duddy inside you.”
It was the first time she’d spoken to him since breaking off their brief engagement the year prior. Then, she’d started calling him Bronco Krish for the next year or so. How would she react when he told her about the choices he vacillated between now? Move to Wisconsin and the safety of a job he knew and excelled at or dive into the shifty currents of cyber entrepreneurship?
He’d bet she’d have plenty to say. But he wasn’t going to tell her. Not until he was sure of his move or desperate enough to listen to the Diva brand of unsolicited advice. To tell her would mean his sister and mother would come to know immediately. They wouldn’t be as vocal as her, they wouldn’t ask questions, but they’d worry, silently, on another continent. He didn’t want his family to stress over him. He’d stressed them out enough for a lifetime as a teenager.
Krish took a swig of his coffee, staring at the misty gray prospect outside the great room windows. It had stopped raining, but the canopy of clouds that had taken over the sky declared the rain gods weren’t done yet.
Neither was Diya. He glanced up at the thumping ceiling. She’d been at it for an hour now, the thumps growing louder as time elapsed. She seemed to be marching, running, or jumping about the room in her daily test of stamina. One of the things he most admired about her was her dedication to her body, to her health. Whatever else was going on in Diya’s life, she never slacked off on exercise.
His thoughts circled back to Diya’s latest problems and the miracle Kamal Uncle expected would happen on Sunday.
Feeling the caffeine kicking in, Krish walked across the living room and climbed the two steps to the open kitchen where two coffee machines sat side by side on a black granite countertop—his own simple Keurig coffeemaker and the Peters’ fancy Jura Capresso. A cereal bowl and spoon lay upside down on the drying rack by the sink, suggesting Diya had come down and had breakfast already.
After refilling his mug, Krish made his way to the master suite, gave a perfunctory knock, and twisted the door open. Expecting a garment and accessory war zone, he was pleasantly surprised by neat piles of clothes, shoes, handbags, and girlie stuff stacked on one trunk.
“Divas should not be tidy or so careful with her things. You’re ruining your image,” he drawled in lieu of a good morning. When she didn’t respond to his greeting and continued to face the open terrace, he noticed the pink earbuds plugged into her ears. Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, he allowed himself to stare at all the pink radiance with impunity.
Pink yoga mat. Pink ankle socks lining black sneakers with neon-pink laces. Pink sports top and skimpy gray gym shorts that rode low over her hips. The rest of her was all sweaty pink skin and lean muscle. Her hair was in a braid, and a sturdy pink band soaked the sweat off her forehead. He raked his gaze down her body, lingering over the dip in her lower back and the globes of muscle on her world-renowned butt. They quivered as she sprang up high and then squatted for five counts.
He should look away. He wanted to before she slapped his face, yet he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off of her.
Suddenly, she whirled about and caught him staring. Her face was flushed and scrubbed clean of makeup. He felt his own face heat up when he realized just how much of her midriff was on display—from her pretty navel to her solar plexus. The rosebud tattoo on her hip was cut in half by the band of her shorts. Thoroughly disconcerted by her body, he shot his gaze up to her face and was about to apologize for staring when he noticed her red, desolate eyes.
She’d been crying.
“What’s the matter? Were you googling again?” He pushed off the door and walked into the room.
“What?” She unplugged the pods from her ears.
“You have to stop tracking the gossip and interacting with trolls, Dee. It’ll get you nowhere.”
“It’s not that,” she said, stretching her right leg and quad like a stork. “I can handle bad publicity.” She switched legs. “It’s Daddy. Why is he being so bullheaded about this? Why now? What’s changed?”
Ah, Diya was her daddy’s little girl. She would be upset if her father was upset with her. Heck, even Krish hated disappointing Diya’s father.
Taking pity on her, he offered her his energy drink.
Without even looking into the mug, she started making gagging sounds. “Ugh. I can smell it from here. How can you drink that mud?”
Offended on behalf of the mud, Krish rescinded his offer and took a long sip of the life-giving beverage.
“Tcha, tcha, tcha.” She clucked her tongue just like his old nanny, Vallima, who was against all caffeinated beverages. “You will ruin your complexion by drinking black coffee. Do you want mud for skin, Krishu aann? Wait! I forgot. You already have mud for skin.”
Krish bared his teeth in an evil smile. Had he actually felt sorry for the cheeky chit?
“I remember Vallima saying the same thing to you when you overdosed on masala chai and Coke, Diya penn.”
Penn was girl in Malayalam, his mother tongue, while aann was boy.
“I only drink herbals now. Thus, my fair and lovely complexion is safe, and my blood is free of toxins.” Diya ate healthy, drank healthy, and lived healthy. And it showed.
Krish gulped down his coffee and set the mug on the bedside table. He had a number of bad habits he should break, the least of which was his addiction to caffeine.
“The housekeeper isn’t coming in today due to the weather. I was counting on Maria to help you with your trunks and treasures, but alas.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with his T-shirt.
He’d thought long and hard about a Valentine’s Day gift for Diya. He had to give her one, or for the rest of his life, he’d pay dearly for the baklava. He’d come up with the perfect gift. Better than the chocolate she wouldn’t eat and the flowers that would make her sad when they wilted and died.
He jerked his head at the two still-closed trunks and slid his glasses back on. “If my lady desires to unpack or have any other chores she needs done, I’ll be your knave for the day. My belated Valentine’s gift to you.”
Diya sashayed toward him, and with the back of her hand, she felt his forehead. “Definitely not feverish … and it’s nearly nine o’clock. And yet, the Beast is still in his lair, wearing weird, fuddy-duddy flannel pajamas and spouting the strangest offers.” She placed her hands on her hips and shot him a flinty-eyed glare. “What is going on, Krish? Shouldn’t you be at work? Won’t your company dive into the red if you play hooky two days in a row?”
Without meaning to, he tweaked her nose like his father used to. He couldn’t decide who was more surprised by his action—Diya o
r him.
His father, Chandra Menon, had claimed that pulling on a stubby nose several times a day would somehow balance the scales and improve its size. As a chartered accountant, his father had been all for balancing scales—except in his drinking.
“I’m taking the day off,” Krish said, ignoring the bittersweet ache his father’s memory had brought to his heart.
“But … but … but … why?” Diya asked, blinking comically.
“Why not? I take days off every now and then. Not that you’d know my routine since you haven’t visited me in years because of your work schedule. You’re as big a workaholic as any of us, Diya. You don’t fool anyone.” He curled his hands into fists, so he wouldn’t touch her again.
“Workaholic? Who, me?” She struck a vanity pose. “They don’t call me the Party Princess of India for nothing.”
Party Princess or not, Diya worked as hard as she partied. It spoke volumes about her boundless energy and zest for life. How did she do it? How did she dance all night and then manage to look bright-eyed and beautiful the next morning for a photo shoot? If he spent even half the night up—not dancing, mind you—he’d look haggard and feel even worse the next day.
Ergo, she is the supermodel and you the CFO, you moron!
Ex-CFO?
Damn it! He really needed to sort out his life’s quagmires fast.
“We are not talking about my work ethics here,” she rallied on. “We’re talking about your anal ones.” Her expression turned militant. “Daddy forced you to babysit me, didn’t he? You have to hold my hand or twist it if I don’t agree to his stupid decree, right? Tell me!” She poked a pointy, pink-nailed finger into his gut.
He winced. Jesus! Were they nails or weapons?
“With these cats as my witnesses, Beast, if you are encouraging Daddy in his asinine scheme … which he only thought up because I told him what Hasaan’s family was up to … I swear, I will murder you.”
Krish stepped back before Diya could poke him again. “There’s nothing wrong with meeting the man, testing the potential, is there?”
Bootie and the Beast Page 5