by Penny Jordan
The restaurant was busy, with waiters wearing brightly coloured traditional clothes and intricately folded turbans that gave them a fierce warrior-like air, and diners seated on large cushions on the floor around low-level tables.
Everyone turned to look at Jay, no doubt because of his status as a member of the royal family. The waiters bowed low to him, and the restaurant owner, who was dressed in a European business suit, came hurrying forward to welcome them, offering them a higher table with chairs when he saw Keira.
But Keira shook her head. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer that?’ she asked Jay.
His dismissive shrug said that it wasn’t a matter of any great concern to him how they sat, and he certainly had no trouble whatsoever adopting the traditional almost yoga-type pose she had assumed herself, with her legs and feet covered by her skirt.
‘We serve traditional smoked sule kebas here,’ the owner informed her, ‘and the vegetarian food of the Maheshwari of the Marwaris. But if I may, I would recommend our dal baati, which is a house speciality.’
‘Yes, please,’ Keira accepted with a smile.
She was certainly at ease with traditional India customs and food, Jay acknowledged, as he watched Keira eating her meal with obvious enjoyment.
The shops were just reopening after the heat of the day when they stepped back out into the wide tree-shaded avenue, just over an hour later.
Jay explained to her that the water supply came from artesian wells deep down in the earth, below the rocky plateau on which the city was built and that the seventeenth-century poet prince who had created the city had had underground storage systems built to provide water not just for his palace and his city but also for his gardens.
Listening to Jay, Keira could hear in his voice the pride in his ancestor. Their backgrounds were so very different. He could take pride in his parents and his upbringing, where all she could feel was shame. He was the son of a Maharaja; she was the daughter of a prostitute and a drug addict. He was a man and she was a woman, and when he touched her. But, no—she must not think like that.
Children in uniform were filing out of their school, walking together in pairs in a sedate crocodile.
‘My brother has instituted several reforms since he came to power,’ Jay told Keira as they watched the children. ‘One of which is to ensure that every child receives a good education. He says it’s the best investment there can be, as these children will be the future not just of our city but of India itself.’
They had reached the entrance to the bazaar and Keira stood still, its sights and scents enveloping her. Bright silks hung in the doorway of one shop, whilst intricately hand-beaten metalware lay heaped on the pavement outside another. A jeweller was throwing back his shutters to reveal the brightness of his gold to the late-afternoon sunshine. From inside a herbalist’s shop the pungent smell of his goods drifted out into the heat.
Children released from their crocodile darted up the narrow passageways, laughing to one another, whilst three young Hindu initiates passed by in their orange robes, their voices raised in chanting joy.
Several hours later, when they were in the shop of a fabric merchant, Keira had to admit that Jay had sourced his contacts well. The merchant had told them that he had cousins who owned and ran a factory in a small town, south-east of the city, a town Keira already knew was famous for its block-printed cotton. The town owed its success to the fact that a local stream possessed certain minerals in its water that set dye.
The merchant had produced pattern books, showing some classic floral and pineapple designs originating from the eighteenth century, and others showing fabrics in indigo and madder, as well as assuring her that his cousins would be pleased to make up samples of fabrics for her in her own choice of colours.
The merchant’s daughter-in-law came through from the living quarters at the rear of the shop, bringing tea for them to drink, with two young children clinging to her sari. The younger of them, a little girl with huge dark-brown eyes and soft curls, was only just learning to walk, and when she lost her balance Keira reacted immediately, catching her in her arms to steady her. Was there anything quite as wonderful as holding a child? Keira wondered tenderly as the little girl looked up and smiled shyly at her. A sense of loss filled her. There wouldn’t ever be any children of her own for her.
Jay watched Keira with the fabric merchant’s grandchild, and, seeing the look on her face, wondered what had caused it. Why was he so curious about her? She meant nothing to him, and that was the way he intended things to stay.
The fabric merchant was telling Keira that if she were to let him have some drawings and details of what she wanted he could arrange to have some sample patterns made up for her. Keira handed the little girl back to her mother and reached for her notebook and the samples, swiftly selecting colours and patterns in the combinations she thought she would need, her manner now businesslike and focused.
She had a easy rapport with people and a natural way of communicating with them, Jay observed. She respected their professionalism, and he could see that they in turn respected hers.
It was very important to him that this new venture was not just a success, but that it achieved an almost iconic status as a leader in its field. His heritage and his blood demanded that from him, as much as his own nature and pride.
Jay knew that there were those who envied him his success and would like to see him fail, but they never would. He was determined about that. He never lost—at anything. And this woman was going to learn that just as his business rivals had had to learn it.
And yet, despite the fact that on a personal level Keira pushed all the wrong buttons for him, as a designer he couldn’t fault her. Somehow, without him being able to analyse just how she was doing it, she was creating an image for the properties that truly was cosmopolitan and yet at the same time very much of India. He had almost been able to see it taking shape in front of him as she talked to suppliers and merchants, her slender fingers reaching for small pots of paint and dye, or pieces of fabric, her quick mind picking up ideas and then translating them to those with whom she was dealing.
Professionally she was, as Sayeed had said, perfect for this commission.
Keira thanked the fabric merchant for his help, and got up from the cushion on which she had been seated whilst they talked with the single fluid movement she had learned from Shalini, ignoring the hand Jay had stretched out to help her. The last thing she wanted was to risk any physical contact with him, even if by doing so she was causing his mouth to tighten and earning herself a grim look. She couldn’t think of a commission she would enjoy more than the one he had given her—it was a dream come true, and all the more so now that she had met the suppliers he had already sourced—but Jay’s presence made that dream a nightmare.
He was going away tomorrow, she reminded herself, and she was going to be working so hard that she simply wouldn’t have time to think about him, much less worry about her vulnerability to him.
It had grown dark whilst they had been in the shop, and now the street outside was illuminated with pretty glass lamps. The street opened into a small square where several men sat at a table enjoying shiska pipes, the bright colours of their turbans glowing under the light from the lanterns.
A group of young female dancers wearing traditional dress, followed by several musicians, swirled through the square, on their way to one of the restaurants to dance for the diners, Keira guessed.
The evening air was vibrant with the scents, sights and sounds of India. They throbbed and pulsed in the warm air, taking on their own life form—a life form that was softened and gentled by the nature of the people.
Jay had stopped to talk to a tall man in a western suit who had hailed him. Whilst they were talking Keira spotted an antique shop on the other side of the square and quickly headed toward it. Antiques and bric-a-brac were something she just couldn’t resist.
A tall boy, a teenager, dark-eyed and with the promise of handsomeness t
o come—was obviously minding the shop for someone else, and welcomed her in shyly. He couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen at the most, Keira assessed, and whilst he was looking at her with curiosity, she didn’t feel offended or threatened. He probably wasn’t used to seeing Western women, and she knew he meant no harm.
The shop contained mainly bric-a-brac, and she was on the point of leaving when she saw a box full of black and white photographs on one of the shelves. She went to pick it up but the boy beat her to it, standing very close to her as he reached for the box for her.
Taking it from him, Keira looked through the photographs, her excitement growing as she did so. The box contained a mix of postcard pictures of maharajas and palaces, and so far as she was concerned was a terrific find. Properly framed they would make wonderful and highly individual wall art for the properties.
‘How much for all of these?’ she asked the boy, gesturing to the box.
‘For you, lovely lady, is one thousand rupees,’ he told her.
Keira knew the rules of trade here, and so she shook her head and told him firmly, ‘Too much.’ Then she offered him less than half of what he had asked for.
‘No—is a good price I give you,’ the boy told her earnestly, moving closer to her as though to reinforce his point. ‘Because I like you. You are very pretty. Are you here on holiday?’ he asked her. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
Keira’s heart sank. Oh, dear. Perhaps she should have been prepared for this, but she hadn’t been.
‘Perhaps I should come back later—’ she began, but to her consternation the boy grabbed hold of her arm.
‘No, please stay,’ he begged her. ‘I will give you the photographs if you like them.’
This was even worse, and Keira didn’t know what she would have done if a man Keira assumed must be the boy’s father and Jay hadn’t arrived in the shop at the same time, neither of them looking very pleased.
‘What’s going on?’ Jay demanded.
‘I was just trying to buy these photographs,’ Keira told him, unwilling to get the boy into trouble.
Very quickly Jay concluded the sale and handed over the necessary rupees, before hustling her out into the street, rich now with the smell of cooking food from the stalls that had been set up around the square.
Keira could tell that he was angry, but she wasn’t prepared for the storm that broke over her the minute they were back inside the palace.
‘You just can’t resist, can you?’ he challenged her savagely. ‘Not even with a boy who’s still wet behind the ears. The way you were flirting with him was—’
The lanterns illuminating the hallway threw long dark shadows across it. Keira would have given a great deal to hide herself in those shadows, and so escape from the tension between them, but she couldn’t let his accusation stand.
‘I wasn’t flirting with him,’ she told him truthfully, defending herself.
‘Of course you were. You were leading him on. Just like you—’ Jay stopped abruptly, but Keira knew what he had been about to say. He had been about to say just like she had led him on.
Shame burned its hot brand on her pale skin, making her cheeks sting.
She could not defend herself against that accusation. Her shame intensified.
‘I expect the people who work for me and with me to reflect a proper professional attitude.’
‘I was being professional,’ Keira insisted.
‘Yes, and it was perfectly obvious which profession it was you were representing.’
Keira could feel nausea burning her throat, and angry fear flooding her heart. She knew exactly what he was accusing her of being, and which profession he was alluding to: the oldest profession in the world, the profession whereby a woman sold her body to a man for his sexual gratification. Her mother’s profession. The profession she had always sworn she would rather die a virgin than risk following.
‘I was simply trying to buy the photographs, that was all,’ she told Jay fiercely.
Her teeth had started to chatter, despite the fact that it was warm. The sickening fear she had never been able to subdue surged through her, smothering logic and reason. Somewhere deep inside herself the child who had heard her mother’s words as though they were a curse on her still cowered under the burden of those words.
The present slipped away from her, leaving her vulnerable to the past and its pain. She could feel it gripping her and refusing to let her go.
The way the colour suddenly left her face and the bruised darkness of her eyes caught Jay off guard. She was looking at him as though he had tried to destroy her. Looking at him and yet somehow past him, as though he simply wasn’t there, he recognised. He had never seen such an expression of tormented anguish.
He took a step towards her, but immediately she turned and almost ran up the stairs, fleeing from him as though he was the devil incarnate. Unwanted male guilt mingled with his anger as that very maleness made it a matter of honour for him to let her go, rather than pursue her and demand an explanation for her behaviour.
CHAPTER SIX
SHE had worked like someone possessed from the minute she had closed the door of the guest wing behind her, focusing all her energy on what had to be achieved and deliberately leaving nothing to spare that might trap her with the ghosts Jay’s accusation had raised.
But they were still there, pushing against the tight lid of the coffin she had sealed them into like the undead, denied true oblivion and existing in a half world that made them desperate to escape. And it was Jay’s words to her that had fed them and given them the strength to try to overpower her.
She looked down at her laptop and at the work she had just completed. Images of room layouts lay printed off and neatly stacked to one side of the laptop—rooms with walls painted in traditionally made paint in subtly different but toning shades of white. In the main she’d opted for modern, stylish furniture in black, chrome and natural wood, accenting the rooms with fabrics in colour palettes that went from acid lemon and lime through to hot sizzling pinks and reds, and from cool greys and blues through to creams and browns. Modern lighting and the use of mirrors opened up the smaller spaces and highlighted features. It was, Keira knew, probably the most complex portfolio she had ever produced at such short notice.
It was late—nearly three o’clock in the morning. She ought to go to bed, but she knew she wasn’t relaxed enough to sleep.
Outside, the courtyard garden was bathed in the light from the almost full moon. Keira got up and opened the door that led to it.
The night air was softly warm, without the stifling heat that would come later in the year at the height of summer.
A mosaic-tiled path led to a square pool in the centre of the garden, and surrounded it, and Keira paused to look down at it, studying it more closely.
Jay couldn’t sleep.
He threw back the bedclothes and stood up. He should have followed his initial feeling and brought in another designer—preferably one who was male.
He walked over to the high-arched windows of his room, which he’d left open to the fresh air. Beyond them was an enclosed balcony that ran the whole length of the suite of rooms that had belonged to the Maharaja for whom this palace had originally been built.
This was the only place in the palace from which it was possible to look down not only into his own private courtyard garden but also into that attached to the old women’s quarters. Naturally only the Maharaja himself had been allowed to look on the beauty of his wives and concubines. For any other man to do so would have been an offence for which at one time he would have had to pay with his sight and probably his life.
Now no modern man would dream of thinking that no one else should look upon the face of a woman with whom he was involved. A woman was a human being of equal status, not a possession, and the very idea was barbaric—and yet within every man there was still a fierce need to keep to himself the woman he desired, and an equally fierce anger when that need was crossed.
/> As his had been earlier, when he had seen the way the young shop boy had looked at Keira and the way she had smiled back at him?
That was ridiculous. She meant nothing to him. Just because she had aroused him physically…He stepped out onto the veranda and frowned as he saw a movement in the women’s courtyard.
Keira. What was she doing out there at three o’clock in the morning? And why was she crouching on the ground?
Snakes sometimes slid into these gardens.
It only took him a handful of seconds to pull on his underwear and a pair of jeans. The tiles beneath his bare feet still held the warmth of the day’s sun as he padded down the private staircase that led into the courtyards. It wasn’t until he had opened the gate between his own courtyard and the women’s courtyard that Jay realised that what had brought him here had been an age-old in-built male protective concern, which he had not even realised he possessed until now, and which if he had known he possessed, he would not have thought would be activated by or for Keira…
The sight of Jay walking towards her through the shadows was so unexpected that it shocked Keira into immobility for a few seconds, before she struggled to her feet. His terse, ‘What are you doing?’ didn’t help.
‘I wanted a closer look at the pattern on these tiles,’ she told him, indicating the tiles forming the narrow footpath. ‘And if you’ve come to find out if I’ve finished the layouts you wanted, then the answer is yes. At least in draft form. They’ll be on your desk before you leave tomorrow.’
The words were a staccato burst of edgy defensiveness that fell away into sharp silence when Jay stepped out of the shadows. Automatically she looked at him, and then couldn’t look away, her breath locking in her throat, her stomach tightening in response to what she could see. His torso and his feet were bare, as though…as though he had been in bed. Naked? Why was she thinking that? He could just have been relaxing. But something told her that Jay wasn’t the kind of man who relaxed by taking off his clothes and lounging around semi-nude.