How To Love An Ogre (Island Girls: 3 Sisters In Mauritius Book 2)

by Zee Monodee

  How she missed his easy laugh ...

  “How does a big hamper from The Body Shop sound? And your favourite Lindt Pralines?”

  He knew her weaknesses. “It would be great.”

  “Okay, I have to go now. Take care, Dee.”

  “Will do. And Daddy …” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Come back safely, okay?”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” she said, before cutting the call.

  Diya pressed her back into the soft pillows propped against the curving wrought-iron head of her king-size bed. Her thoughts flew back to her father’s words.

  Thank goodness he’d called and infused her with much needed distance and rationale on the whole marriage business her mother wanted to drown her in. And Lara, too, she thought with a grimace, with all her talks of commitment and a serious relationship.

  What was it about Indian women once they became mothers? Neha had always said their family would’ve been a fit contender for the part of Jane Austen’s Bennet family in Pride and Prejudice.

  She smiled at the thought. For their mother, it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman over the age of eighteen must be in need of a husband.

  And for one who’d hated the flighty and immature Lydia Bennet, she’d been doing a very good job of portraying the character.

  The recognition floored her and also brought back her common sense with full might. Had she really let her life revolve around the ‘prime concern’ of finding a husband? When had she become so pathetic? So what if she stood on the verge of her twenty-fifth birthday? Like her father had pointed out, she had her whole life in front of her.

  Shaking her head, she vowed then and there to never let such a silly notion grab hold of her again. When the right man came, she’d know. She just had to keep her eyes open, trust herself fully. Her instincts would not let her down, surely.

  And also, to be able to live her life to its maximum potential, she had to prioritise. First on the list would have to be her company. Second, her own well-being. Third, her family. Fourth and last, to let love find her.

  She was through with searching for ‘the’ man. That’s what had gotten her into this sticky marriage mess in the first place. If she’d stood her ground, no one would’ve been able to pressure her into becoming Lydia Bennet.

  Satisfied, and tremendously relieved, she took in a deep, cleansing breath. Stretching her arms behind her back, she let the calm soothe her and take hold of her whole being.

  How good it feels to be free.

  With a light step, she got off the bed, and her phone rang again. Fishing it from under a cushion, she glanced at the ID. She didn’t know the number. Could a client be calling on Sunday? Nobody did business on a Sunday in Mauritius, weekends being sacred family time.

  “Hello?”

  “Palm Palace Hotel, please hold the line,” a female voice sang out before the soothing strains of a Chopin piano concerto filled her ear.

  Gareth Clark’s call. Who else could it be?

  Diya clutched the phone harder. She prayed with all her heart he wasn’t calling to tell her they’d made a mistake the previous day, and that their company hadn’t earned the contract.

  As the seconds ticked by, the knot in her stomach grew tighter. A scream almost tore from her lips when the music started on its first re-run. The restless feeling tingled in her legs, and she paced across the thick rug in front of the window. The thin voile curtain blew in to let in the brilliant radiance of the sun. She walked over to the pane, letting her attention drift to the parking lot.

  Trent Garrison and his sons were climbing into their car.

  “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?” a puzzled male voice asked.

  She dropped the phone in surprise and caught it with her shoulder, propping the device against her neck. Pain shot from her clavicle. “I’m so sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”

  Great. Could she sound any more like a total idiot? How could she have said the insult aloud when she was on the phone?

  The deep voice chuckled. “Thank God. I know I made you wait quite a long time, and I’m sorry. But I didn’t think the delay could’ve been this bad.”

  Did he really have a sense of humour, or was he driving the nail in?

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “No worries, Miss Hemant. Gareth Clark, here.”

  His voice—smooth, rich, and delicious with its pronounced British accent—flowed over her like melted hot chocolate. Her heart did a wild flip-flop as she recalled the many comments on the grapevine about how handsome and devastating he was.

  “Miss Hemant?”

  “Oh, I’m still here. I’m sorry. My thoughts got carried away.”

  What the hell was she blabbering about? She should hit her head on the wall. That would bring in some much needed sense.

  “The mark of a very creative imagination, I’m sure,” he said with another hint of humour in his tone. “I have tried to reach Mrs. Laroche, but I cannot get through to her, and since you’re the co-owner of the company, I figured I’d contact you.”

  A sense of dread filled her, chilling her insides with ghostly fingers. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No. Unless you call a short-notice meeting tomorrow morning bad news.”

  Relief flooded through her, chasing the cold away. “Oh, so this is what it’s about.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t take this the wrong way. I know this is very last-minute—”

  “Not at all. It’s fine. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock? You could tour the hotel again, as you’ll need to elaborate on the proposal you submitted.”

  “That would be perfect, Mr. Clark. Tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Very good. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow,” he said, his deep-timbered voice dropping half an octave.

  Well, what sounded to her as half an octave. She’d been as awful at music as at science, hence no medical career for her to follow in her father’s footsteps.

  “Goodbye, Miss Hemant.”

  “Goodbye,” she said softly.

  Was it her imagination, or had he flirted with her in that last line?

  What was it with the man? Was he a chronic flirt? Or could there be something else …?

  Something else, my arse. Like what? Gareth Clark, who didn’t know her, had the hots for her? Get a life, Diya.

  The sound of his mesmerising voice however lingered in her head, and her stomach twisted. If he looked half as good as his voice sounded on the phone ...

  Uh-oh, not a good sign. Not at all. No good could come from developing a crush over a man after a phone call. She would work for him, for God’s sake. And she never mixed work with pleasure.

  Just her awful luck if the General Manager of Palm Palace happened to be a hunk. What was it again with this weekend?

  With her fingers on the phone’s keypad, she speed dialled Ange’s number. Her impatience grew as she failed to get a reply after more than eight rings. She’d reach the voicemail on the tenth ring, so she cut the call and tried again.

  She’d struck the fourth repeat when her friend finally picked up.

  “Hello?” Ange answered on a husky giggle.

  “You lousy git. Where the hell are you?”

  “Somewhere,” Angélique replied.

  “Silly, Gareth Clark was trying to find us, and we have a meeting with him at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly. He said he’s been calling you for ages but couldn’t get you. Where were you? With Patrice?”

  There was a pause on the line, before Angélique finally replied. “Yes, with Patrice.”

  Not the time to go prod her bestie about her comings and goings this weekend. They had bigger fish to fry.

  “Anyway, I’ll meet you straight at the hotel tomorrow. We’ll both need time to get ready. Please bring the proposals’ folder we compiled for them. He
said we could take a more in-depth perusal after the meeting.”

  “Done. See you tomorrow.”

  Diya was on the point of hanging up, when Angélique’s voice broke through.

  “One second. How does he sound?” Ange asked with a conspiratorial dip in her tone.

  Diya grinned. “Absolutely divine.”

  Both of them exploded in laughter.

  “We’d better be stunning tomorrow, then,” her friend concluded.

  Chapter Four

  Diya peeked at her watch on the way out of her flat. Twenty past eight. Ample time for her to get to the meeting at the hotel. And she also wanted to be present at nine sharp in case Angélique failed to show up on time yet again.

  She shook her head at the thought of her business partner. They covered these lapses up as her friend’s style to be fashionably late, but Ange always managed to be behind schedule without conscious effort. That’s just the way she was wired.

  Diya stopped before the lift and punched the down button. She darted a quick glance at the front door of the flat on the opposite side of the lobby.

  She didn’t want to bump into Trent Garrison and bear his austerity and uptight manners, especially not when she was jittery and running high on adrenaline because of the impending appointment.

  The carriage was taking a long time, and she tapped the toe of her shoe on the marble floor. Every second ticking by increased her chances of meeting her neighbour. Still, taking the emergency stairs wasn’t an option, because she’d trip down the steep descent in her heels. Killer stilettos, but they formed part of her power ensemble, the added height giving her an infusion of control and command. That she could walk in them without falling flat on her face struck her as good enough. She also didn’t want to remove them to go barefoot down the stairs in case she didn’t manage to put the shoes back on again—these heels had a nasty way of making blisters develop all over her feet.

  The click of a door latch resounded in her ears, and her heart sank. Not the sound she wanted to hear, the ‘ding’ of the lift to deliver her from this lobby.

  The shuffle of little feet replaced the quiet in the vestibule, and she groaned softly.

  “’Morning, Mith Diya,” Josh said in a musical tone.

  She glanced at the little boy who had a wide, sunny smile etched on his small face. How could anyone fail to reply such a grin?

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  “Okie,” he replied, showing two rows of perfect little white teeth, except for the gap where his upper incisors should be. “Daddy’th taking uth to thchool.”

  “Oh.” She risked another glance at the LCD display on the chrome lift doorframe. The carriage remained stuck on the tenth floor. Great. She wouldn’t be able to escape into an empty lift, for courtesy demanded she share the ride with other people waiting for the same trip.

  A flash of red appeared behind Josh.

  “Good morning, Miss Diya,” Matthew said with a slight nod.

  How typically British, she thought, before she returned the greeting. Did British lads have some dormant gene activated where politeness was concerned? Not likely, though, if could be judged from their father’s manners. His children were so polite and courteous. How could such an irascible and rude man have brought up such well-behaved offspring?

  The kids’ mother could be responsible for that.

  But Diya hadn’t seen a woman around yet, making her wonder where Trent Garrison’s wife could be.

  Maybe he was divorced … which meant he was single …

  She dismissed the absurd notion. What did it matter if he were single? Though gorgeous, Trent Garrison seriously lacked manners, and she didn’t go after unsophisticated men.

  In an effort to shake off the disconcerting feeling, she noticed Matthew’s T-shirt, the home jersey of Arsenal FC, her favourite English Premier League football club.

  “A Gunners fan?” she asked the boy.

  He frowned. “You know football?”

  His tone was sceptical. You’re in for a surprise, lad.

  “Yep. Arsenal is the best, and Tottenham and Chelsea are the absolute pits.”

  “Yeah.”

  Matthew grinned back and joined her in bringing down the North London club’s arch-rivals in true, die-hard football fan fashion. Who’d known that’s where she would find an affinity with the kid?

  *

  Trent rushed out of the flat, praying his sons weren’t up to some mischief in the lobby. He had his hands full with them, breakfast usually a daytime nightmare. They never wanted to eat. Who’d said growing boys needed food? His children only needed the TV. Or their game consoles.

  He stopped in his tracks as soon as he crossed the threshold and groaned. The spitfire was out there. He’d already calculated how he’d juggle the morning duties so he’d be out of the flat before she left—the concierge had conveniently mentioned that she never set out before nine—and he thus wouldn’t have to bump into her. So what was she doing out there so early?

  She stood there, regal and poised, in front of the lift. His elder son exchanged some highly animated chatter with her, and Trent gritted his teeth in annoyance when they exchanged a high-five. She drew Josh into their midst and ruffled the little boy’s hair. Josh gave her an adoring smile in reply, his big peepers wide like a puppy making adoring googly eyes at its master.

  Traitors. His sons were bloody defectors. And she was a temptress. How had she already won their good dispositions in such a short time? Did the wiles of a woman work on boys, irrespective of their age?

  She glanced up.

  “Oh, shi—shoot.”

  He noticed her mouth the words, though he doubted the sound had escaped her lips because the boys didn’t call her out for swearing. He snorted. As if they’d notice, entranced as they were, lingering beside her.

  But she had cursed, and a small measure of elation coursed through him. At least, they had that feeling in common.

  “Dad, Miss Diya is an Arsenal fan, too,” Matthew said.

  Pushing his antagonism aside, he locked the front door and stepped towards them. No point in letting her spoil his day already, he reasoned as he pushed his feet in a determined step instead of the dragging pace they wanted to adopt.

  “Isn’t that a surprise? A girl who likes football.”

  “It’s not so uncommon, you know,” she replied, the words hitting like a hard volley at tennis.

  He shrugged in a non-committal gesture, saved from commenting further when the lift dinged and the doors opened.

  The four of them walked in, and he reached out to press the ground floor button. She’d reached out, too, and their fingers brushed when they tried to hit the keypad.

  A jolt went through his hand, and he jerked. She also pulled back, and her wide eyes met his before she spun away. Her shoulder-length hair followed the swift move of her head, shielding her face. He thought he’d caught a hint of a blush on her cheeks, but couldn’t be sure.

  Trent shoved the image of the faint rosy glow on her smooth cheeks out of his mind. What did it matter if she’d blushed?

  She stepped to a corner of the wide lift carriage and started to brush her fingers in her dark locks as she peered at her reflection in the mirror on the back panel.

  She stood taller than Matthew today. Strange. He trained his gaze over her tiny figure and noticed the stiletto heels on her shoes. Women’s lethal weapons. Those pointed ends could probably skewer a man’s guts with a single kick.

  He slowly peered up, along her bare legs and the sheer layers of fabric in the clothes she wore. Her skirt, with its uneven edges, seemed shorter on the right side than on the left, baring her legs from the knee down. Her sleeveless blouse resembled tiers of something light and gauzy assembled in a haphazard way. Almost like a fairy costume. Chunky beads and metal jewellery ran around her neck and on her earlobes, and a large, metal-and-beads belt hung low on her hips.

  From time to time, when she raised her arm to fiddle with her hair, th
e blouse ran up and bared a hint of her belly, the light in the lift catching on something metallic.

  Blimey! She had a navel piercing. He’d never have pinned her for such a kind of hoodlum. And today, she’d dressed like a ... He didn’t know what, exactly, to be honest.

  “Sure is hot today,” he said under his breath.

  Maybe she’d dressed thus because of the humid summer weather. Women wore skimpy clothes on this tropical island, from what he’d gathered.

  She whirled around to face him, her eyes narrowing as she inspected him from head to toe. “Not the ideal weather to wear a stuffy jacket and tie. And a wool blend, no less.”

  He peeped down at his suit and trousers and frowned. They were his work clothes, for God’s sake. What did she expect him to wear? A flower-printed, open shirt baring his hair-speckled chest for every woman and gay man to ogle? She had some nerve to comment on his clothing, when she wore next to nothing.

  “Isn’t it a little early for a party?”

  She pursed her full, pink lips and balled her hands into fists at her sides, as if she were refraining from slapping him.

  Like she didn’t give in to the urge when it gnawed at her. He still remembered the slap from the day before.

  Interesting perspective how a passionate woman lurked underneath the brash exterior.

  And that would get him where, exactly? Get a grip, Garrison.

  “I’m on my way to a business appointment, if you must know,” she said, breaking through his internal conversation with his libido.

  Business? And dressed like a … a woman out to snare a man? Yeah, right. He raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t exactly scream professional wardrobe, if you ask me.”

  “Well, who asked you?”

  Point taken, he granted and winced, careful not to let her see he’d conceded here.

  She seemed oblivious to his reaction, though, and from the flush highlighting her face with a golden glow, she’d fired up for an argument. Bloody hell, did the girl ever let a quarrel drop?

  She shrugged her hand in front of him, as if swatting his words away.

  “A stuffy Briton like you wouldn’t understand. It’s about image. We look just like our company. Young, trendy, and not afraid to take risks.”