Oh, that hurt worse than a shoe bite. Worse than how the soles of her feet felt after walking in Jimmy Choo stilettos for twelve straight hours.
Diya clamped her mouth shut and stared at the road. He didn’t want to talk? Fine. So be it.
“It’s just business, Dee. Can’t we talk about something else?” he asked after driving in utter silence for five minutes. Talk about something frivolous, he meant.
Now, she was good and angry. More hurt than angry, but why quibble over semantics?
She remained silent. She couldn’t think of a single frivolous thing to say to him.
“Have you decided which movie we’re watching?”
She shrugged.
“Something’s out of joint.” He reached out a hand toward her nose, but she took it out of tweaking range. He grinned. “Come on. You don’t want to miss the chance to gush over my uniform.”
Diya peeked sideways. The uniform was ghastly—baggy white pants and a jaundice-yellow T-shirt with DFW Cowboys scrawled over the left breast in blue. She rolled her tongue back to refrain from commenting. Silence spoke volumes sometimes.
Then, the world turned topsy-turvy. Usually, it was Diya who jabbered through the lags in conversations, but today, Krish took over the task. He talked and talked about everything under the sun, except Wisco. She listened in rapt silence right until he made a very rude observation. One she was sure was meant to poke fun at her.
“Massages creep me out. How can you stand having a pair of strange hands on your body?”
The comment itself wasn’t insulting. Lots of people disliked getting a massage. But the way he said it and what he was insinuating were. It was a doubly unfair comment because hadn’t he just basked in the pleasure of having her hands on his scalp for an hour?
“Models learn to ditch all inhibitions fast. They are expected to strip at the drop of a hat, and being poked and prodded in any and all places for a photo shoot or tailoring measurements is a given. Strange hands have touched my butt, my shoulders, my breasts, my crotch—just about anywhere reachable. And I’ve had my hands on other models, too. Not only hands, but also a variety of my body parts have come into intimate contact with a variety of theirs and in various stages of dress and undress. The fashion world is not an easy place, Beast. Only the tough survive there.”
Add to that, a celebrity—who she was fast becoming because of Scheherazade—had to get used to their personal space being invaded. Actually, a celeb had no personal space to speak of at all. In fact, no person in the world had any personal space left anymore. Not in this tech-savvy, social-media-crazy world. Diya truly didn’t mind the invasion of her privacy so much. Because of the way she looked, people had always watched her in one way or another, and she’d learned to ignore those vibes—both good and bad ones—a long time ago.
“I never said your job was easy, Diya,” Krish said quietly.
She flapped her hand. “Just forget it.”
She’d proved nothing by her explanation, except that she liked locking antlers with the Beast and that she couldn’t keep her mouth shut for more than ten minutes at a stretch. Thankfully, the Porsche pulled up in front of the Spa of Harmony just then, and Diya beat a hasty exit.
* * *
Krish was no longer the chief financial officer of Armadillo Farms and Foods. Soon, there wouldn’t even be an Armadillo Farms and Foods.
Diya spent her three hours at the spa, searching the internet. It was useless to think that Krish would allow her to grill him about Wisco like a filleted tilapia or that he’d volunteer any information. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in talking about it to her. Not even with his family, Diya surmised. If Leesha or Savitri Aunty knew, they’d have told her.
Daddy probably had an inkling about it because Krish discussed most things with her father—his guru—and vice versa. And, of course, Aya knew—but Diya refused to think about that while trying to relax and detox.
The gauntlet had been thrown, so she raised her smartphone and wielded it. She Google-searched both Armadillo Farms and Foods and Wisco Organic Foods, confirming news of the buyout. It seemed the deal had been going on for six months and was in the last stages of completion.
“Diya, you really must put the phone away. It defeats the purpose of a deep-tissue massage,” Lovey implored as they began the first of her body treatments.
“I have to, Lovey. I just have to.” She would burst if she didn’t dig up everything.
She used to shamelessly cyberstalk CFO Krish Chandra Menon, but she hadn’t done it since London and their … weird fight. His name immediately popped up on the smartphone screen. No earth-shattering articles anywhere, just a profile and some sporadic mentions tracking his stellar career over the years. Instances where he’d triumphed beyond market expectation, likening him to an investment genie, or where he’d exercised unnecessary restraint when he should’ve gone with his gut. All blah two-liners on blah business web pages. Blah for her, but they were big moustache-twirling moments for the corporate gunfighter types.
Outside the sauna room, Lovey snatched the phone from her hand. “That’s enough. You can go without drooling over him for ten minutes. Sheesh!”
So, Diya sat on the heated bamboo bench inside an infrared sauna, wrapped in a white terry-cloth towel until her pores opened up and wept. Being blissfully alone was contrary to her nature, but saunas were a great place to meditate. They were also a great place to indulge her Nancy Drew instincts and ponder over the mystery of Krish’s business secrets.
Armadillo had sold for a massive profit. Cool. She’d expected no less, considering its CFO. Presumably, Wisco wanted Krish to work his magic for them, too. Also cool. Did it mean he’d be moving to Wisconsin and keep cows in his backyard? Was that where he was house-hunting? But what had Aya’s message meant?
Wisco won’t negotiate.
What did Krish want to negotiate with Wisco, and why wouldn’t they do it?
Diya frowned at the dew-wet wooden paneling of the sauna, wondering if Krish would talk to her if she brought it up. She made a face. He wouldn’t. He was the Beast. He brooded and snorted, and he kept his cards close to his chest. He mulled over his problems and his ideas in secret until they became viable seeds that he could sow. Next, he’d fertilize the soil and water it. Only then, he would stand back and watch everything grow.
Perhaps she could ask Hasaan to check on the trustworthiness of Wisco. Or have him unearth some inside information that might give Krish an upper hand in the negotiation. Hasaan knew people—important people all across the globe. His family could move and shake the world with the snap of a finger. Hasaan would even offer Krish a position in one of his companies—not only because she asked, but also because Krish’s credentials spoke for themselves.
Diya buried her face in her hot, sweaty hands. She was worrying needlessly. There was no way super-duper organized Krish Menon didn’t have another—several other prospects or offers lined up in addition to Wisco. He probably had his own death slotted down on his calendar. This date is more convenient than this one, Lord Death.
She didn’t like that he didn’t trust her with his secrets.
Diya stood up and faced a hard truth. She didn’t have to like it or dislike it. She only had to accept that his business affairs were not her business. Just like his personal life.
Still, as she exited the sauna to shower and dress for a night out with the Beast—IT WAS NOT A DATE—her mind conjured up images of cows and pastures and compost.
Krish was possibly moving to Wisconsin. Good God!
* * *
Bar-9 rocked that night. The three-floor club was packed with wriggling bodies on all three levels with a different DJ on each floor, pounding out sheer energy through their music, smearing it across the dance floors in thick waves. There wasn’t anything remotely Texan or cowboy-like in the club—it could’ve been a bar scene in New York or Mumbai in fact—and yet Krish knew deep in his gut that he was in a Texas standoff with the Diva.
&nb
sp; Latin music throbbed on their floor. All around them, couples were swaying in a slow, sexy rumba, holding each other, the men spinning and dipping their partners, but Diya wasn’t pestering him to do any of that. Every time he tried to take her in his arms, she’d dance away from him; they were together yet separate. She wasn’t looking at him or talking to him either—not much—and responded to his attempts at dialogue with short, sharp words or shrugs.
He reached for her again, but she danced away, shimmering in her one-shoulder top and dark skinny jeans.
“What’s with the mood?” He sounded like a broken record. “Aren’t spas meant to loosen you up?”
“Switch!” she shouted in lieu of an answer and twirled away, nudging Lovey at him.
And, before he knew it, Krish was dancing with Lovey instead, who looked equally startled at the abrupt shift. She swiveled her head from him to Diya and back to him. Then, she shrugged, whooped, and continued to bounce to the music.
Krish wanted to bounce his head against something hard. His headache had returned with a vengeance.
There was no reason for Diya to be pissed off. He’d been on his best behavior all day. No sarcasm, no bullying, no pithy comments. What the hell had he done wrong now? He’d quietly sat through—fine, snoozed through the chick flick she’d picked. Was that it? She’d expected him to stay awake while a bunch of women oohed and aahed at Idris Elba? Not happening. Not even to keep the peace.
She’d picked the restaurant and a cuisine he didn’t care for. But he hadn’t complained. She’d suggested they go clubbing after dinner, and he’d agreed without a squeak. The whole evening had unfolded as she wanted it. And yet, she was pissed? Un-freaking-believable. He couldn’t understand what had ticked her off. She’d been fine until the cricket match. Before Aya’s phone call.
Was that it? The phone call? Krish cursed under his breath.
The music changed, and Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” came on. The crowd on the dance floor burgeoned and went a little crazy. Somehow, in the crush, Miguel and Diya found extra space to put on some fancy moves. He whirled her out and then reeled her in and dipped her back, over his arm, with the flair of a professional dancer. Her hair cascaded down to the floor for a heartbeat before Miguel whipped her up again. He spun her fast, making her laugh. He brought her to a stop, her back pressed against his front, and they gyrated that way for the rest of the song.
Krish couldn’t tear his eyes away. A fire sparked low in his belly as he stared at them, slithering and squirming to the music while the lights flashed between fluorescent and strobe. Her teeth, the whites of her eyes, the silver-white of her top glowed neon yellow in the throbbing dark. She looked wild and free.
Diya caught his gaze and finally held it, her smile changing, turning sharp as a blade. Krish’s heart began to pound harder than the bass beat.
Lovey tapped him on his shoulder. “What did you do to irritate her?”
“I don’t know.” But he did know, didn’t he? “Switch again?” he asked, hustling Lovey closer to Miguel and Diya.
“Never thought I’d see you bend over backward for a woman,” she said into his ear, her amusement clear.
But she readily switched partners. As opposed to Diya and him, Lovey and Miguel actually were on a date.
Krish experienced acute frostbite from Diya again. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the promise he’d made to Kamal Uncle and the endgame with the suitor.
“Look, if you’re pissed off because of Aya—oof!”
His words were cut off as he was pushed into Diya by the crowd surging around them. He gathered her close. The floor was beyond packed now.
She stiffened in his arms. In fact, she stopped dancing altogether and stood in the middle of the dance floor, glaring at him.
“How dare you tell your girlfriend that I’m a troublemaker!” she shouted, trying to free herself from his embrace.
“What? What are you talking about?” Krish shouted back, shaking his head. “She’s not my girlfriend, Dee. Aya and I broke up a while ago, before Alisha’s wedding. I thought you knew.” The music was impossibly loud, and he didn’t know if she could even hear him. He grabbed her hand and tugged. “Let’s get out of here, so we can talk without screaming.”
Diya stood her ground, unmoving, while her expression changed color with the disco lights. Red, pink, yellow, orange. But, eventually, she shrugged. “Okay. I’m parched anyway. I need water.”
He held her hand tightly as they meandered their way through the pulsing darkness and the undulating throngs, coming to a stop behind a thick wall of people laying siege on the massive wet bar in front of them.
“Stay here. I’ll get us some bottles,” he said, relieved he didn’t have to shout that out.
He waited for her nod, and then he thrust into the crowd, trying to catch the eye of any one of the dozen bartenders hard at work behind the bar.
As he waited his turn, Krish wondered what the hell Aya had been playing at by saying that to Diya. Aya was a sensible, confident woman. She had no reason to be intimidated by Diya or be rude to her. She didn’t even know Diya. He certainly had never discussed Diya with her.
She couldn’t still be mad about their breakup, not after six months. No, she wasn’t mad at him. Weren’t they working together on the Wisco takeover? She was fine at the office meetings. Their business dinner on Thursday had been cordial. Enjoyable even. Was it all a show?
No, it couldn’t be. He refused to believe Aya would let their personal differences spill over into work.
Krish rubbed his throbbing head. He was sick of women; he really was. Couldn’t be honest with them. Couldn’t be nice. Definitely couldn’t be beastly. What was a man supposed to do then? What choices were left? And what did women want? Someone who always agreed and never opposed? Someone who nodded when asked to and smiled when commanded to?
To hell with that, Krish thought. He was no one’s puppet. Had never been. Would never be.
By the time he got to the front of the bar, he was tempted to break his self-imposed limit of one alcoholic beverage a day. A second beer or maybe something a bit stronger wouldn’t go amiss. And that was exactly why he needed to stay away from women and the unasked-for complications they brought into his life. His life was complicated enough as it was. He ordered four bottles of water and nothing else, much to the bartender’s annoyance.
Alcoholism wasn’t hereditary, medically speaking. But statistics showed that family members of alcoholics had a greater predisposition toward addiction than others. Drinking had destroyed his father; Appa’s very nature had changed from glass to glass, bottle to bottle. As a family, they had never recovered from it.
Krish would not put his mother and sister through that. He battled every day not to turn into Chandra Menon. Not in that. Not to give in to temptation. He kept a tight leash on his temper, his expectations, and his stress levels.
He jostled his way back to Diya with the water. She faced away from him as she leaned against a railing that overlooked the dance floor in a classic bored-supermodel pose. Close to a dozen men had arranged themselves in front of her, vying for her attention in a variety of ways.
With Diya in town, how was he supposed to manage his stress levels? The damn woman was supposed to lie low and not encourage a flirt-fest.
He cut his lips up in a smile he hoped was scary enough to discourage the Romeos as he walked up to her. That was when he realized Diya was busy typing into her smartphone. She wasn’t even looking at the fools in front of her.
Well, what was good for a gander was good for a goose.
The girls had twisted the idiom, back when they were children, when Krish refused to take an at-home arts and crafts class with them. He’d been thirteen, much too energized and manly to sit around the house, painting fruit bowls. It was one of the last times Appa had come to his rescue. One of the last times Chandra Menon had been lucid enough to voice how he wanted his son raised.
With only the barest twinge of conscienc
e, Krish angled his head over Diya’s shoulder and began to read her texts. She was chatting with someone called Sheikh-Shake. It had to be the incomparable Hasaan.
* * *
Sheikh-Shake: Hussein is an ass. Kill me now.
* * *
With pleasure, Krish thought, mentally rolling up his sleeves.
* * *
Beauty Languishing in Dallas: Get in line. Must psycho-kill the Beast first.
* * *
Krish frowned. Why was she mad at him? And why was it okay for her to call him the Beast in front of Hasaan but not for him to call her a troublemaker when the shoe fit?
Not that he had. But getting back to his point about what was good for the goose was good for the gander.
* * *
Sheikh-Shake: Life’s a bitch, chérie. I propose we elope to Fiji. Imagine it. Just you and me. The sun, the sand, and coconut mojitos.
* * *
Beauty Languishing in Dallas: Sounds utterly divine. But what about Scheherazade? And Saira?
* * *
Sheikh-Shake: Ah. Her. I am allowed four wives. ;)
* * *
Diya giggled, and Krish decided to save her from herself. He plucked the phone from her hands, typed Got 2 go in the message bubble, and sent it off to Hasaan.
“You vile, uncivilized donkey,” Diya shrieked.
Then, she went a little mad, stomping on his foot with a heel and shoving him back with both hands. As he wore boots, it didn’t hurt so much as trip him. He stumbled back, swearing and flailing. She shoved him again, harder, and this time, he crashed into the wall of people against the bar.
Glasses clinked and fell on the tiled floor, shattering like his temper. Chaos rose in the air along with the scent of alcohol. An elbow hit his face, dislodging his specs, and for a moment, everything was a blur of dark colors and movement.
Bootie and the Beast Page 10