by Zee Monodee
She frowned. “You like this?”
He nodded. “It befits you.”
She kept his gaze for long seconds. “Okay. Shall we go?”
“Sure.”
*
Diya followed him out of the flat and got into his car in the parking lot.
He’d liked how she looked? Did it mean she could hope? Maybe with time, he’d come to like her ...
Far-fetched as the idea might sound, she desperately wanted to believe it. She’d fallen hard for Trent Garrison.
The image of Gareth flowed in her head, but she dismissed it.
Right after they’d handed their proposal in, Gareth had left on a business trip to Switzerland, for a month. She didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d be back in Mauritius in three days. Nothing should spoil the afternoon she’d spend with Trent, taking a tour of this new house.
The drive she’d expected to be fraught with tension turned out pleasant. Trent kept up a steady chatter with her, asking about their culture and way of life on the island. She’d never suspected him to have a casual streak in him, and his wit and humour surprised her with their freshness.
“You must close your eyes now,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because we’re nearing the house, and I want it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, come on.”
He shot her a dark gaze, and her heart did a somersault in her chest.
“Don’t make me have to blindfold you.”
The husky words brought wicked notions of heat and silky scarves in her mind, and she blushed. Why was desire seeping into everything where he was concerned?
“Okay. I promise I won’t peek.”
It felt like ages before he stopped the engine, and he still didn’t allow her to see. She heard him exit the car and open her door. He held her hand while she got out and took a few steps, before he told her to open her eyes.
Had she woken up in a dream? She stood before the gigantic structure of La Porte du Paradis. The mansion rose in all its majesty, and, as usual, its beauty rendered her speechless.
“Wanna take a stroll inside?”
She snapped her head around to face him. “This is the house you bought?”
He smiled that slow, wicked grin of his in reply. “Let’s go in.”
Trent took her hand and led her up the sprawling stone steps onto the marble-floored terrace, where he pulled a key from his pocket and undid the lock on the massive wooden door.
He pushed the wide, heavy flaps open, and she stepped with reverence into another world. Time stopped, and she travelled to a long gone era of balls and splendour, of chivalry and waltzes.
His presence loomed behind her, adding to the magic of the moment.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice heavy with awe.
“Yes.”
“Feel free to check it out. It’s yours now.”
She spun towards him, and the warmth in his face soothed the ragged emotions he brought to her mind. Could he mean …? No, silly of her to imagine anything like that. He wanted her to revamp this place, not become its mistress.
Oh, how she’d yearn to own this house, to be his, and have him want her so much that everything else would pale in comparison ...
Naught but a dream, and she had to wake up. “Where do we start?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The floor planks creaked under her feet, the sound of a house welcoming people into its midst. She however paused. “Lucky I wore those mojris.”
“What?”
“It’s a good thing I wore those slippers, and not hard heels. They won’t damage the floor.”
His facial expression spelt his confusion.
“It would be better if we could treat those floorboards first. I’m not conversant with period houses’ restoration, but I’ll check. In the meantime, let’s keep our step light.” She paused. “These are antique boards, from the time the house was built. They won’t withstand today’s traffic without some help.”
“Well, it’s up to you really. You’re the expert,” he said. “Let’s go for the tour.”
Giddiness erupted like birds taking flight inside her, and she skipped in all the excitement. To think she was getting to be inside La Porte du Paradis and would bring back its former glory.
A large, heavily chiselled, round table stood in the entry hall. Upon closer inspection, she found the wood to be solid mahogany. Goodness gracious.
The room opened into a large ballroom. Her fascination rose crescendo as she stepped in. Heavy mouldings surrounded a carved ceiling and ran around the room’s span, topping panels of rich, dark wood.
They ventured into the other rooms, and Diya couldn’t believe she hadn’t died and gone to Heaven.
The wood floorboards ran the length and breadth of the house, and she flitted from one room to another like a butterfly. In almost every area, she came across intricately carved and imposing antique furniture in mahogany, teak, or oak. In the sitting rooms flanking both sides of the ballroom, she encountered rich and heavy sets of Empire and Louis Philippe styles.
“Does the house come with the furniture, too?”
Trent nodded.
If he’d shrugged, she would’ve hit him. Did he know on what treasure he sat here?
“Trent, some of these pieces are from the former East India Company. They date back to the eighteenth and nineteenth century, when trade was a major activity in the Mauritian French colony, Ile de France.” She sighed in awe. “Most of what you see comes from the original house built in eighteen-seventy-two, during the British reign of Mauritius.”
A shard of pleasure tickled her when his eyes grew wide upon hearing her words. But there remained too much of interest around for her to be content with his surprise.
She found five guest bedrooms, and these shared two bathrooms between them. The master suite occupied the whole of the north wing of the house. It boasted a study, a sitting room, and an attached bathroom where they found a bathtub carved out of solid marble. She’d read somewhere those tubs could weigh a ton.
The south wing at the other end of the dwelling contained another startling discovery. The area housed the kitchen, the dining room a glassed-in conservatory with authentic Italian marble flooring. A library and reading room stood at the front end of the wing, its windows opening onto the lane that led to the property. All the other rooms had tall French windows opening onto the front or back veranda.
They concluded their tour back on the front veranda, in front of the massive door.
Trent stepped close to her. “So, will you take it on?”
At that point, she was anything but fit to bear his presence and not melt into a puddle of goo after the excitement of the previous hour. Her mouth went dry, and words died in her throat.
He bent his head towards hers, and her gaze locked onto his lips when she glanced up. What would it feel like to kiss them?
He drew closer, until his warm breath teased her skin. “So?”
She closed her eyes. Could she bear this?
With delicate fingers, he touched her face and brushed the pad of his thumb along the length of her cheekbone. He then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Goodness gracious, would time please stand still, so she’d remain ensconced in this moment forever?
He drew closer, his mouth an inch from hers because his breath tickled moist and warm against her lips.
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He drew away, then, and a cool wind seeped between their bodies.
Shoot, why is he drawing away?
She opened her eyes and found him walking down the stone steps.
A rather shaggy-looking man waited for him there. Trent shook his hand, and the man then indicated towards the gardens with a wide sweep of his hands.
The gardener. He must’ve asked the man to come over so their visit would coincide.
Silly of her to imagine t
here could’ve been anything taking place between her and Trent. He’d brought her here for her professional opinion, and nothing else. Any delusions would be hers, and hers alone.
Diya bit her lip and shook her head to clear the sensual fog that had wrapped around any remaining, functioning brain cell. Trent would never be hers; she better convince herself of the reality right away.
She allowed her gaze to linger on him, forcing herself to see him as a friend. A client.
Should she stay here, or go down? Her job as decorator would imply some harmony with the gardens, too. So, she might as well meet the gardener and have a small chat with him.
Two steps away from them, their voices flew out clearly to her.
The man chuckled and asked Trent how smitten he had to be to take on such a big estate. Trent laughed, too.
“It’s for my future wife,” he said. “My wedding gift to her, as soon as the place is restored.”
Diya froze to the spot. Her feet refused to move, and her mind slammed a hard shutter down so she wouldn’t be able to process anything from here on. Shock could do that to a person, right? Hysterical something or the other, they’d call the condition in medical terms.
All hope flew from her heart, right along with the butterflies that had flittered throughout her for the past hour. In their place, dread settled, along with a dead, dull weight sinking every cell of her being into some dark abyss. The shutter slammed down in her head, but not before one last coherent thought snuck out.
Trent had another woman in his life. He’d bought the house for her, and given how he’d present it to her as an offering within the next few weeks, Diya couldn’t blip over the fact that someone didn’t buy a wedding gift for a bride he would then go search for. The woman must exist already. His steady girlfriend, if not already his fiancée.
Diya’s dreams, no matter how far-fetched they’d seemed, crashed all around her like a thousand shards of broken glass, the echo of their shattering ringing in a single, monotonous vibration inside her.
Trent’s forehead creased in a frown as he glimpsed her way. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. Everything’s wrong. Always had been, and always would be.
“No. Can we go home now?”
“Sure.” He sounded puzzled, but he didn’t say anything on the way back.
Diya’s loss thrummed in every fibre of her being, yet, she was still too numb to actually feel.
When they reached the complex, she pretended the onset of a headache and escaped to her flat before Trent had any chance of questioning her.
Once inside her bedroom, she sank into a heap on her bed and gave way to the tears.
She had no clue how long she stayed that way. When she came to her senses, darkness had shrouded the room.
Just like her heart. What more could she do?
There is something. Her last chance. The final hope, and one she should’ve clung to all along ...
Taking a deep breath, she reached for her cell phone and dialled a number.
She hoped Gareth’s phone had switched on to international roaming, because she had no idea how to reach him otherwise.
He picked up on the second ring. “Gareth Clark.”
A small sob lodged itself in her throat when she heard him, but she didn’t allow the sound to escape her.
“Hi, it’s Diya.”
“Diya! What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
No one could mistake the warm pleasure in his tone.
“I was thinking of you.”
He laughed. “It’s good to know. At least, you haven’t forgotten me.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all. I’m in my hotel room, back from a business luncheon. Is everything okay?”
She took another deep breath. “Yes, everything’s fine. I was just wondering ...”
“About what?”
“About us.”
He gave sharp intake of breath.
“You still want to go ahead with this?” he asked.
Did she?
“Yes. Can we meet when you’re back?”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
Chapter Twelve
A mindless, repetitive task—exactly what she needed to occupy her mind.
With due care, Diya cleaned the carved plaster designs lining the moulded ceiling in the ballroom at La Porte du Paradis.
Why, and how, had everything rolled into such a mess?
In her hand, she crumpled the soft, wet flannel into a ball. The urge to scream wedged itself inside her throat, but if she did so, the reverberating echo in the room would alert everyone to her distressed state of mind. No need for anyone to think her a basket case, on top of everything—most of them already pegged her down as an airhead.
The stepladder wobbled under her, and she pressed a hand against the wall to regain her balance. Damn ladder.
Nothing wrong with the ladder, though, the sturdiest model on the market, heavier than her. The problem lay with her roaming mind. She usually loved the meticulous processes of restoration, had craved such jobs, in fact, but today, her head swirled too full of images and snatches of the past week’s events.
She dropped the soft flannel into the bucket of water on another stepladder by her side and rested her hand against the rim of the pail.
However much she tried to will the thought of him away, Trent haunted her waking moments. Even the noise of the carpenters working in the kitchen at the side of the ballroom couldn’t blank him from her mind.
Heat suffused her when she recalled the feel of his touch and the sound of his voice.
Against her flushed, heated skin, the small butterfly pendant dangling from a thin platinum chain lay cold against her throat, and she closed her hand on it.
Trent had said that the butterfly reminded him of her.
A few days back, he’d asked her to accompany him to shop for clothes for the boys. They’d had lunch afterward at the waterfront. On the way to the parking lot, they’d passed in front of the jewellers’ window, and she’d stopped to ogle the beautiful, stone-encrusted pieces. She’d focused on a small butterfly hanging from a platinum chain. The ornament had been crafted in white gold—the body and antennas sparkling diamonds, the wings emeralds, sapphires, and aquamarines.
The handsome man with her had grabbed her hand and led her into the shop, where he’d bought her the stunning jewel. When the surprise had left her, she’d urged him not to purchase it. The price had been exorbitant, but he’d waved her concern away.
“You’re worth it,” he’d said in a whisper when placing the chain around her neck and fastening the clasp. He’d brushed the sensitive skin on her nape with the tips of his fingers, sending delightful shivers to course through her.
Everything so far that day had been perfect, until he’d ventured to a display case of diamond rings and asked her what sort of piece it took to win a woman’s hand.
Hurt beyond what she could’ve imagined, she’d battled the tears and had managed a brave reply. She’d said only Harry Winston diamonds could achieve such a feat.
Diya chuckled softly at the thought.
She’d never seen a Harry Winston diamond, but everyone knew they were the best and the most expensive. It had saddened her when Trent had acquiesced, because it meant he’d spare nothing to win the woman he wanted.
How could she have been so stupid?
She’d fallen for a man who wouldn’t bring her anything but heartache, and yet, she still revelled in those short moments she spent with him. Like the times alone in the lift, when his intense perusal would bring her blood to a slow simmer. Or when he brought her flowers—colourful daisies, her favourites—after he’d started to see her designs spring to life around the mansion.
Gareth had brought her flowers, too—beautiful, velvety red roses, when she’d met him the same evening after the shopping trip. She hadn’t been able to enjoy his pleasant company and had given in to his kiss
with a guilty heart when he’d dropped her off.
Endless sorrow ripped through her whenever she imagined how unfair she was to Gareth. He didn’t deserve a woman who pined for another—
“Good afternoon.”
Startled, Diya lost her balance, and she clutched the bucket in an attempt to hang on to something. But the pail of water fell, and the soapy liquid splashed onto the plastic sheeting covering the floor.
As she plunged from the six-foot height, the breath whooshed out of her chest. She tensed, preparing herself for the collision with the hard wood floor.
But instead, strong hands caught her, and her back pounded into someone.
Her weight catapulted her saviour to the floor, and they both landed with a muffled thud.
Time stood still until she caught her breath enough to move. She lay against a hard, warm, and wet expanse.
She flipped onto her stomach. Trent lay under her, his eyes closed.
Had she knocked him unconscious? If he hadn’t been there to catch her, she could’ve hurt herself badly.
The heat from his body flowed through his cotton T-shirt and tickled her skin where she sprawled on top of him. She called his name, but he didn’t reply. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his face … and settled her palm against his cheek.
She left her touch there, until he groaned and slowly opened his eyes.
The grey depths locked with hers, and another punch slammed into her lungs under his steady gaze.
“You okay?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yeah.”
The sound was soft, yet, the reverberation thrummed into her throat and chest.
“I’m sorry.”
He brought a hand up and cradled the side of her face, letting his long fingers linger in her hair while, with his thumb, he brushed the skin along her cheekbone.
Diya parted her lips, and Trent’s eyes drew her closer to him like a magnet. She stopped her mouth an inch from his and closed her eyes. His warm breath tickled the outline of her lips, and—
“Dee, Walter’s asking about the cabinets for—Jésus, Marie, Joseph!” Angélique exclaimed, before she stifled a chuckle. She playfully shielded her eyes with her hand and turned. “Sorry I’m interrupting.”