Duty and Desire

by Anju Gattani

  Duty and Desire

  Winds of Fire

  Book One

  Anju Gattani

  Scarsdale Publishing

  Duty and Desire: Book One Winds of Fire Copyright © 2020 by Anjana Gattani

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: dreams2media

  Editor: Kimberly Comeau

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twent-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ChapterTwenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seve

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Froty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sneak peek at book two Lethal Secrets

  Glossary

  The Moon Above

  Dedication

  To my parents,

  Mom, Lalita

  The strength of the pen that writes.

  My Dad, G. D. Daga, for

  Perspective and insight.

  To my husband, Vivek

  The river of my life.

  Vikhyat and Vishesh

  My Darling golden boys.

  You are my creativity and

  My silent writer’s voice.

  Trademark Acknowledgements

  Anita Dongre

  Arjun Khanna, House of Khanna Classic Couture

  Armani

  Band-Aid - Trademark registered to Johnson & Johnson

  Boroplus

  Café Coffee Day

  Chinos

  Chopard

  Coke

  Diablo GT

  DuPont

  Elavil

  Ferrari

  Fulton White

  Givenchy

  Harvard

  Kit Kat

  Kodak

  Lamborghini

  Manolo Blahnik

  Marlboro

  Marquette dining room

  Paris Evening tea set

  Pilates

  Ravi Shankar

  Russet Legacy coffee table

  Saatchi

  Saridon

  Sellotape

  Sony

  Swarovski

  Thomas The Train

  Tommy Girl

  Wedgewood Serenity

  Zara

  All of Raigun, India, buzzed in anticipation of the five-hundred-million-rupee wedding of the decade.

  Everyone…but the bride.

  Chapter One

  Tisandhi (The Arising)

  Sheetal trudged uphill toward the Broken Fort and glanced behind to make sure no one followed. In the valley, glass facades of skyscrapers reflected the harsh glare of the winter sun. Nearby, several tourists in brightly colored T-shirts, sunglasses and visors gazed across the city of Raigun. Others followed a self-guided trail of the historic, abandoned Hindu temple while a few trekked downhill. A man dressed in worn white pajamas and a soot-smeared vest, a basket of peanuts roped to his neck, caught her gaze and pointed to the basket.

  Sheetal shook her head, continued her climb along the cracked clay path, and brushed away a drop of sweat that tickled the side of her face. She needed these final moments, this final goodbye, and for the hundredth time, rehearsed the words she needed to say.

  She stumbled on a half-buried chunk of broken masonry and regained her balance, but not before the pink chiffon dupatta that draped her shoulders snagged on a thorn bush and tightened around her neck. She hastily plucked the sash from the thorns of a single white rose, then reached to untangle the cuff of her elbow-length sleeve, now caught on thorns. A prick caused her to jerk back her hand. A drop of blood glistened on her index finger. She pressed the finger to her lips, sucked hard, then rewrapped the two-meter-long dupatta around her shoulders and covered her head while praying no one recognized her.

  Mama and Papa met with the wedding planner to finalize details for next month’s engagement ceremony, and her wedding, five months after, but they would be home soon. Sheetal hurried.

  The gentle gradient gave way to a section of ruins closed to the public. Broken walls and marble pillars encircled a blue idol of Lord Krishna, a flute pressed to his lips. Crumbling statues of men and women in intimate poses graced the periphery.

  Help me, please, she begged the god.

  Tears pressed her eyelids. This holy place, renowned for its sense of calm and assurance bestowed on worshippers, offered no peace for her today. She’d come to end an innocent friendship that had blossomed into love over the last eight months.

  Her heartbeat quickened when she spotted Arvind waiting beside a crumbling pillar. He could only ever be a friend. Just a friend. Never anything more.

  As she drew near him, her pulse skipped a beat. He still stole her breath. At five feet eleven, Arvind rivaled the gods with his dark, thick hair and copper-bronze skin that gleamed in the scorching sun. Oh, how she loved the intensity of his stare, as if he could see into her soul and penetrate her thoughts.

  “Did you talk to your father about us?” he asked, his voice tight with male pride.

  Sheetal halted and looked past his shoulder at the broken pillars. If only he’d stop looking at her with such yearning.

  “I didn’t.”

  He stared in disbelief. “You what?”

  “Papa wouldn’t listen,” she lied.

  “Did you try?”

  She looked at the idol from the corner of her eye. Please, Krishna, help me get the words right so it doesn’t hurt. But her only answer came in the form of a sand-coated breeze from the northern Rajasthan desert.

  “All you had to do was say no,” Arvind said. “Simple.”

  Nothing was simple. “Papa. He—”

  “You don’t love me. It was all a game. To lead me on. To—”

  She stepped toward him, intending to touch him a
nd soothe his anger, then stopped. “I risked everything to meet you…be with you.”

  “To tell me you’re going ahead with the wedding. And I should just stand back and watch you marry another man. Is that it?”

  Sheetal bit her lower lip. This was wrong. Falling in love. Promising Arvind they would be together. Now breaking his heart. She dropped her gaze to his tattered imitation suede shoes and her heart sank. Mama was right. He could never live up to their standards.

  Arvind seized her shoulders and she snapped her head up to meet his gaze. “Do you understand,” his voice gentled, “how much you mean to me? How much I love you?”

  Her heart fisted in her throat. She took a deep breath and clasped her fingers together to refrain from touching. No physical contact. No touches. No hugs. She had promised herself this and much more before leaving the limousine parked in the lot below.

  “Love means nothing to Papa. Money, reputation, class, and status. That’s all that matters.” Her attention shifted to the ripped beige front pocket of his shirt, one of many things Mama had brought to her attention last week. “Papa wants me”—she swallowed—“well taken care of.”

  “I can’t dress you as fine as this.” He pressed her shoulders, ran his hands down the length of her sleeves, then caught her hands. “But I can give you a decent life. One with love.”

  Decent? Her chest constricted. How many times had Papa reminded her that wealth passed from generation to generation, and a family’s reputation had to be maintained by preserving the family honor? How could Arvind give her a decent life when they were worlds apart? He was unpolished, she was refined. He was rugged, she was haute couture. But the biggest difference was that he was a free Hindu man and she was a Hindu woman obligated to marry to uphold the family honor. Today, she belonged to Papa. In six months, she would belong to a man of Papa’s choosing.

  The lines on Arvind’s face softened. “I’ll talk to your father.”

  Talk Papa into allowing her to marry him?

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Papa won’t see you.” There was no telling what Papa would do if Arvind spoke with him. “He doesn’t even know I’m with you right now. No one does.”

  “Sheetal—”

  “Why can’t you understand? I’ve tried so hard to make everyone understand. They won’t listen. Neither will you. They said that you…you’re not fit to be my husband.”

  Silence hung between them.

  “Is that how you feel?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he held fast. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. Everything has to be on His terms.”

  “What do you want?” he whispered.

  No one had ever cared to ask. What did it matter what she wanted when she was a slave to Papa’s wants today and a husband’s tomorrow? Sheetal tightened her grip on his fingers. “It’s over. Let me go.”

  The hurt mingled with anger in his eyes broke her heart. She freed a hand and reached for him. A gust of wind swirled through the remains of a broken dome. She slid her hand around his waist, pressed the taut muscles of his back and dragged her fingers down the thin fabric of his cotton shirt. His arms remained pressed by his sides.

  She had promised herself a swift and simple goodbye. That was still best. But Arvind’s expression had gone from anger to outrage. They couldn’t part like this. She pressed her lips to the skin visible through the plunging V of his open shirt.

  This is wrong. So wrong.

  In the eight months they had been together, Sheetal had never dared such close proximity to Arvind. The custom that forbade an unmarried man and woman from being together like this also denied them the right to choose a marriage partner. She told herself to leave, afraid of what she might do and where she might touch him.

  She ran a hand up his back, into his hair, and pulled his face down until they gazed into each other’s eyes. The scent of his wild musk caused her to close her eyes. Arvind’s mocha breath washed over her eyes, nose and lips.

  She waited.

  At last, he kissed her.

  She tightened her grip on him and sank into his embrace.

  We will never risk returning to the days of hardship and hunger, Mama’s admonition rang in her head.

  Papa had spent a decade toiling blood, sweat and tears to bring the family this far. As their only child, she must marry the man they had chosen, keep the alliance, and secure the family’s status. What right had she to throw away her family’s future on love?

  Sheetal squirmed, stepped from Arvind’s embrace and looked up at the man she must surrender.

  “Give me one chance,” he said. “Trust me, I won’t let you down.”

  She forced back tears. “I… I…” Her voice cracked. “It’s too late. I can’t… We can’t. You must forget me.”

  He brushed away a tear that escaped her resolve. “Just like that? You can forget me?”

  A knot tightened in her throat. Arvind’s questions burned into her with the force of the sun’s heat.

  “Do you know how agonizing the last two months have been without you?” he asked. “I have only ever loved you. I can’t live without you.”

  His deep voice pricked with the same quick pain as the thorn that had pierced her finger, while Mama’s caution rang in her ears… Disobey and Papa will throw you out penniless.

  She spun and ran.

  “Shee-tal!” Arvind called after her.

  Her name ricocheted off broken pillars and hollow domes as she pounded one foot ahead of the other.

  Chapter Two

  Thresholds

  For the fifth time, Sheetal paced toward her bedroom door then back toward her bed. This time, she glanced through the window and headed in that direction. A topiary hedge lined the stone wall that separated the front yard of her parents’ ten-acre estate from the cars zooming along Rosewood Street. She halted before the window, crossed her arms and sighed at the rush hour traffic. Workers were returning home while she stood there stalled.

  Shee-tal.

  Arvind’s cry still haunted her, even four weeks later. Guilt clenched her heart. She should have turned back, should have assured him that her decision to end their friendship had been the only right thing to do, had been the only way they could go.

  She ran her tongue over her lips. She could still taste the mocha of his breath, and ached for his touch. Was the right way really the only way or could there be an alternative?

  “Sahiba, what you look?” Preeti, her maid servant, asked.

  Sheetal whirled. Preeti sat cross-legged on the floor near the bed’s footboard. When had the girl entered her room?

  Sheetal leaned back against the window’s ledge, trying to appear relaxed. Little surprised her anymore, considering that, for the past two weeks, Preeti had become Sheetal’s personal satellite.

  A teenager barely four feet tall with skin the color of mahogany and two thin plaits tied at the ends with bright red ribbons, Preeti was half Sheetal’s size, and her native language, Hindi, suffered from a lack of formal education. She had served Sheetal loyally for the last six years as her personal maid, but over the last two weeks, Preeti shadowed Sheetal’s every move. Clearly, her loyally had shifted.

  “Are Mama and Papa back yet?” They had met with the caterers that afternoon.

  “Just come. Downstairs in hall.” Preeti’s voice rose in pitch with excitement, “All talk your wedding about food, desserts…” Ever since the announcement of Sheetal’s engagement to Rakesh, that’s all anyone in the family talked about. Everyone except Sheetal.

  “How long have you been here? I didn’t notice you come in.”

  “Five minutes.”

  An hour ago—for the seventh time this week—Sheetal had called her best friend, Kavita, but a woman on the other end said Kavita had gone out, would return at 6 p.m., and she’d convey Sheetal’s message to call back. That was the first time s
omeone had picked up the phone. “Maybe you should see if Mama needs help around the house,” Sheetal suggested, wanting privacy when Kavita returned her call.

  “Your Mama say keep you company.”

  More like, keep a watch.

  The walls closed in and Sheetal’s chest tightened. She crossed to the wooden doors on the opposite side of the room and threw them open, needing fresh air from the balcony. The breeze that raced past carried the scent of damp grass. She crossed the balcony and halted at the railing. She had loved to walk barefoot through the grass after the gardener watered the lawn and savor the curl of grass blades beneath her feet as the damp earth moistened her toes. But ever since she’d said goodbye to Arvind, she hadn’t set foot on the turf. Neither had she helped the servants’ children with their homework, nor watched them practice their handwriting. Although she hoped to become a professional oil painter, she hadn’t completed an oil-on-canvas since she’d parted from Arvind. Several times, she’d tried to engage in past interests, but her attention drifted to the horizon, or to a wall behind her easel, and she’d find herself lost in the moment of their first and only kiss.

  The phone rang and Sheetal rushed inside to pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Sheetal?”

  “Kavita. It’s been ages. I tried calling you so many times, but you didn’t return my calls. Are you okay?”

  Kavita, against her parents’ wishes, had eloped with her college sweetheart, Gaurav, shortly after they’d graduated. The couple had severed all contacts with family and friends shortly thereafter, and no one had heard from them since.

  “We had to leave. You know what my Dad would have done.”

  Sheetal knew only too well. Kavita, Gaurav, Arvind and Sheetal had been a foursome on the college campus. Kavita incessantly complained about how her parents would never permit her to marry Gaurav because he was a Gujrati from west India, whereas Kavita came from northwestern Punjab. They were expected to marry within their social rank and caste.

  “Has your family accepted—” Sheetal stopped. Though Preeti flipped through the pages of a fashion magazine, she probably would report every word to Mama. “How about we meet up somewhere? It’s been so long since we caught up.”