‘Thank you,’ she said, puzzled by his unexpected gallantry. She was still wondering what had inspired the change in Rao’s behaviour when she spotted Vikram.
He was standing at the main entrance, shoulder propped casually against the door frame, blocking her path. Nidhi turned around and saw Bhimsen and Rao chuckling among themselves. She glowered at them and they sobered immediately, returning to their respective stations.
‘Hi,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at Vikram’s purposeful stance.
‘Hi,’ he returned with a hint of a smile.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About last night.’
‘I’m not interested in talking,’ she said calmly.
‘You weren’t interested in talking last night either,’ he reminded her, his gaze roving over her lips.
Nidhi was already amply embarrassed by her behaviour the previous night, so his suggestive smile made her flush. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘Us.’
Her pulse quickened. At the finality in his tone, but also at everything that word represented.
Us.
‘Go talk to your superstar girlfriend.’
Nidhi wanted to kick herself as soon as the words flew out of her mouth.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Vikram said flatly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Natasha is just a friend. Our managers are responsible for those rumours,’ he explained.
Nidhi’s mouth hung open.
‘Now can we talk?’ Vikram grinned.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Nidhi said firmly.
‘Oh, but there is. So either we can talk about it or we can pick up where we left off last night,’ he said, revelling in the blush that swept over her cheeks.
‘Or we can do neither,’ she said testily, walking towards the side entrance of the house.
Vikram pretended to study his cuticles. ‘That door is locked and there’s no one at home.’
Nidhi turned around to demand an extra key from Bhimsen, but the Trio had prudently skulked away from the impending fight scene.
‘Why won’t you let me go in?’ Nidhi cried desperately.
Vikram flicked her a surprised look. His intention had never been to corner or intimidate her; he genuinely just wanted to have a conversation. Belatedly realizing that arm-twisting would never work with Nidhi, Vikram reassessed his strategy. He glanced at the driveway and an idea struck him. ‘Let’s play for it.’
‘What?’
‘A basketball game. If I win, we talk. If you win, we don’t.’
‘No.’
‘Okay,’ he said agreeably. ‘Then we can stand here all night.’
She glared at him.
‘I have no plans. Absolutely none,’ he said, running a lazy glance over her white silk blouse and black A-line skirt.
She clenched her teeth, resisting the temptation to tackle him to the ground and slug him.
‘We can’t play on that,’ she said, trying to reason with him. ‘The backboard is all rusty and the net is missing.’
‘Scared you’ll lose?’ He grinned.
‘Clearly you’ve forgotten the ass-whooping you got last week,’ she said, referring to their gully cricket match.
‘Clearly you’ve forgotten that Mangal made most of the runs,’ Vikram pointed out.
Nidhi’s eyes shot daggers at him. ‘Fine. Let’s play.’
She expected to see a smug triumph on his face, but oddly his expression resembled . . . relief.
‘And,’ Vikram said magnanimously, ‘I’ll even let you go up and change so you can be more comfortable.’
Or so I can be more comfortable, he amended silently, scanning her shapely curves.
She returned a few minutes later dressed in a tank top, running shorts and sneakers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
‘I haven’t played in years,’ Vikram said, dribbling an old, partially deflated basketball on the driveway and taking warm-up shots.
‘Save the excuses until after the game, Walia,’ she jibed.
He laughed at her ladylike attempt at trash talk. ‘First one to 21 wins.’
A few minutes later, Vikram realized that watching Nidhi strut around in short skirts had made him underestimate her athletic prowess. She may no longer be a tomboy, but she had lost neither her athleticism, nor her competitive streak. She was agile and aggressive, and even though Vikram was much taller than her and played a sport for a living, she didn’t seem intimidated by him in the least. So when they were almost neck and neck at 20–19 in his favour, Vikram was practically embarrassed.
Nidhi faked the ball past him and began her winning lay-up, but Vikram thwarted her attempt by shoving the ball out of her hand with a lightning-quick movement. His elbow made contact with her head and sent her crashing on to the granite, where she landed with a loud thud and a yelp of pain.
Vikram rushed to her side and kneeled down, watching her face with a worried expression. ‘Are you okay?’
She blinked.
‘Nidhi,’ he said, his voice replete with concern. ‘Tell me where it hurts.’
‘Five,’ she rasped.
‘Huh?’ he said, wondering if the incoherent rambling was a symptom of a concussion.
‘That’s five,’ she said, her voice hoarse.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, inspecting her head for visible signs of injury.
She cleared her throat. ‘That was your fifth foul. Which means you’re disqualified and I win.’
Vikram gave a sharp crack of laughter. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘Say it,’ she insisted.
He rolled his eyes.
‘Say it,’ she repeated.
‘Fine, you little weirdo. You win!’ he conceded.
Her eyes lit up with satisfaction and Vikram couldn’t help but stare into them, fascinated by their jade depths. ‘How did you get these eyes?’
Her heart lurched at the huskiness in his voice. ‘I think my mother had them.’
His gaze warmed, drifting to her lips.
Nidhi turned her face away from him. ‘Let me up,’ she said in a breathless voice.
Unwilling to kiss her without her consent, and unable not to, Vikram kissed the tip of her nose instead. A tiny shiver ran through her body and he knew she wanted that kiss just as badly as he did. He pressed his lips to her temple, trailing soft kisses down her jaw. Desire flashed in her eyes and her lips parted slightly. Vikram had merely brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, when a loud cough made him jerk his head up.
Monty stood at the entrance of Nidhi’s driveway and cleared his throat. Nidhi gasped and shoved Vikram aside, releasing herself from the trap of his arms.
Vikram stood up reluctantly and shot Monty an irritated glance. ‘What?’
‘Natashaji is on the phone,’ Monty said, holding up Vikram’s cell phone.
Vikram watched the shutters slam down in Nidhi’s eyes. He turned to Monty. ‘I’ll be home in a minute.’
Monty nodded and left without another word.
Nidhi practically sprinted towards the main entrance, but Vikram’s voice made her swivel around. ‘I’m going to Mumbai tomorrow.’ He studied her carefully for a reaction, but her face was expressionless. ‘For a week,’ he added.
She gave him an uninterested shrug.
‘And when I’m back,’ he said, more roughly than he had intended, ‘we’re going to talk.’
Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, Nidhi turned around and walked into the house.
‘Great job, Nidhi. This is simply fabulous!’ Dibakar gushed.
Nidhi left Dibakar’s cabin beaming. It was quite fabulous.
Instead of a typical direct mailer, Nidhi and Khalid had worked on a personalized four-page newspaper covering the CEO event. Each CEO would receive a unique front page carrying their photograph with Vikram and a customized headline speci
fic to their company, along with the details of the EducateIndia programme. The centrespread contained an elaborate photomontage of the event and the last page included a donation form and a copy of Vikram’s speech.
‘I was lucky to have a friend who didn’t give up on me.’
Nidhi’s pulse raced at the memory of locking eyes with Vikram at the end of his speech. But that was nothing compared to the unbridled hammering of her heart when she thought of their almost kiss after the basketball game. Even now, her stomach flipped as she remembered his lips fluttering over her jaw and his breath mingling with hers—soft, seamless and very, very hot. And then there was the lazy, unhurried way in which he looked at her, like he had all the time in the world to caress her face using just his eyes.
Nidhi was furious with herself. The previous evening she had run inside the house panting, not from their basketball game, but from the undeniable attraction she felt towards him. He had come waltzing back into her world after twelve years, with that ridiculously charismatic smile and lethally charming personality, and Nidhi had been reduced to a simpering idiot with no control over her feelings. She was like putty in his hands, just as she had been at fourteen. She couldn’t wait for the campaign to be over so she could get back to her regular life. A life without Vikram’s teasing smile. Or intense gaze. Or electrifying touch.
Nidhi groaned, burying her face in her hands. She was glad about the reprieve his Mumbai trip had provided her. Over the last couple of days, Nidhi had thrown herself into her work without the constant interruption of Vikram’s visits, calls or thoughts.
Okay, maybe just the first two.
But now she needed his approval for the four-pager and she had no option but to call him. Nidhi took a deep breath and dialled his number. After several rings, the call went unanswered. Perhaps he was busy.
An hour later, Nidhi tried calling again, and again he didn’t pick up. Maybe he was in a meeting.
Two hours went by and Nidhi called him for the third time. When he still didn’t answer the phone, Nidhi began to wonder if he was avoiding her calls intentionally.
By late evening, Nidhi’s annoyance had heightened to full-blown rage.
What the hell did he think of himself, ignoring her calls like she was some pesky journalist? If he was going to treat her like a journalist, she was going to behave like one. She called Monty.
‘Nidhiji! Kya haal chaal?’ Monty greeted her warmly.
She came straight to the point. ‘I’ve been trying to reach Vikram since morning for an urgent approval.’
‘Vikram is, ummm, indisposed.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He is not able to come to phone right n—’
‘I know what the word means,’ she snapped. ‘I meant, what is he so busy with that he can’t take out five minutes to approve a creative?’
‘He is busy with . . .’ Monty’s voice trailed off.
‘With?’ Nidhi prompted, uneasily aware that it was none of her business.
There was a long pause at the other end before Monty finally said, ‘He has met Natashaji after many days, so he is busy with her.’
Nidhi’s heart sank.
‘Natasha is not my girlfriend.’
Of course, he would lie about that. Because Nidhi was just another girl—a potential fling, a meaningless affair in his string of many. But Nidhi would be damned if she let herself become ‘one of Vikram Walia’s girls’.
‘I see,’ Nidhi said quietly. ‘A personalized newspaper has to be hand-delivered to each CEO by Monday. I’ve emailed it to you guys, please have Vikram take a look and let me know if he’s fine with it.’
‘Bilkul, Nidhiji, bilkul,’ Monty said agreeably.
‘And I may not be available on the phone,’ she lied. ‘So you can email or text me.’
‘Done hai, ji, done!’ Monty assured her.
When she hung up the phone, Nidhi dialled Kuku’s number.
‘Niddy! What a pleasant surprise!’
‘I wanted to apologize for cutting our evening short the other day.’
‘I understand. How’s your friend doing now?’ Kuku asked.
‘My friend?’
‘The one who was unwell.’
‘Right, my friend. She’s, uh, much better now.’
‘Glad to hear that,’ he said, and just as Nidhi was about to concede that Kuku might actually be a nice guy, he added, ‘Shared hostels are a breeding ground for disease, if you know what I mean.’
Your brain is a breeding ground for stupidity, if you know what I mean.
‘Ummm, anyway, I was wondering if we could meet again,’ Nidhi said extra cheerfully, trying to mask the reluctance in her voice.
‘Yes, of course. I’m in Bangalore for a few days, but we can do dinner on Sunday if you’re free?’
‘Great. I look forward to it,’ Nidhi lied.
After her conversation with Monty the previous night, Nidhi had decided not to humour Vikram’s advances, nor encourage any form of non-professional contact. Too bad if he was her neighbour. Too bad if the thought of kissing him had kept her awake for three nights in a row.
Too bloody bad.
The morning’s Delhi Today front page only helped strengthen her resolve. The article titled ‘Walia’s Wild Escapades’ was essentially a half-page photo essay dedicated to Vikram’s many, many girlfriends. One German–Australian supermodel, three Indian supermodels, two TV actresses, one pop star, one former beauty pageant winner, one MTV VJ, even—and Nidhi wondered how he had ever convinced her to date him—a famous human rights activist.
And smack in the middle of the collage was a recent photograph of Vikram and Natasha walking outside the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, sporting trendy sunglasses and holding styrofoam Starbucks cups. Vikram was wearing a white linen shirt with jeans, and Natasha was dressed in a tiny pair of denim shorts and an oversized cricket jersey. A number thirteen jersey.
The image was captioned ‘Nuts about Vikram’.
So much for ‘I don’t drink tea or coffee’. And so much for ‘Natasha is just a friend’.
Nidhi tossed the newspaper aside and spent the entire day buried in work. When Dibakar asked her for the status of the direct mailer, she told him it was still pending Vikram’s approval. She was not his personal secretary and she was done following up. She, however, conveniently forgot to tell Dibakar that she had ignored half a dozen phone calls from Vikram since that morning.
So in the evening, as Nidhi switched the Hindi news channel that blared ‘Natu par hue Vikram lattu’ to reruns of Friends on Zee Café, she was surprised to receive a call from Dibakar. Especially given how irate he sounded—for Dibakar, that is.
‘Nidhi, I’m not blaming you, but Vikram personally contacted me! He said he’s been calling you since morning,’ Dibakar explained.
Nidhi choked. ‘That’s odd, I must’ve missed his call.’
‘He called you more than ten times,’ Dibakar said, sounding strained.
‘Ummm, he’s exaggerating,’ Nidhi evaded. ‘You know how these celebrities are.’
‘Please call him back immediately,’ Dibakar said calmly.
‘Sure, Dibakar,’ she grumbled, wondering if she could get away with interpreting ‘immediately’ as ‘tomorrow morning’.
‘And please inform me once you speak with him,’ he added before hanging up.
Nidhi sighed and dialled Vikram’s number.
He sounded happy when he answered the phone. ‘Finally!’
‘What do you want?’ Nidhi snapped.
‘Why haven’t you been taking my calls?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been busy,’ she said shortly.
‘Really? Because Mangal Singh just told me that you’ve been watching TV for the last two hours,’ he said dryly.
Nidhi gasped. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Why haven’t you been taking my calls?’ Vikram repeated calmly.
‘What do you want?’ she asked brusquely.
‘Why,’
he asked again slowly, ‘haven’t you been taking my calls?’
‘I assumed you were busy with your movie star girlfriend!’ Nidhi burst out.
‘I already told you she’s not my girlfriend,’ Vikram said patiently.
‘I don’t care, it’s none of my business.’
Vikram sighed. ‘Natasha is just a good friend.’
‘Really? Is that why you timed your Mumbai trip with hers?’ Nidhi threw back.
‘Are you spying on me?’ he teased.
‘I don’t need to. Your personal life is front-page news!’ she retorted.
He chuckled. ‘Oh, so that’s why you’re upset!’
‘I’m not upset!’
‘Yes, you don’t sound upset at all,’ he drawled.
‘If you think I give a damn about your harem of supermodels and actresses, you flatter yourself!’
‘My what?’ He laughed.
‘I’m hanging up the phone,’ she said, and proceeded to do exactly that.
It rang again almost immediately.
‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’ she snapped.
‘Why can’t you stop being a brat?’ he asked cheerily.
‘If I’m such a brat, stop calling me. Go call your Filmfare Award–winning girlfriend!’ she bit out.
Confusion tinged his voice. ‘Nuts and I went to a café together. Why are you making such a big deal about it?’
‘You said you don’t drink coffee,’ she reminded him.
‘I don’t. But I do drink hot chocolate,’ he said, amused by her rationale.
She paused, momentarily thrown, before sallying forth haughtily, ‘Your personal life is none of my concern. I think you and “Nuts” make a lovely couple.’
‘Will you stop saying that?’ Vikram snapped. ‘I already told you we’re not together.’
‘I saw the photos!’
‘You were meant to, along with the rest of the country. It was a photo op orchestrated by our managers.’
‘Really? Because I called Monty yesterday and he said you were “indisposed” and making up for lost time with “Natashaji”. I may not be a celebrity, but even I know that’s code for post-coital!’ she spat out.
Vikram laughed at her phraseology.
‘Don’t you dare laugh,’ Nidhi warned. ‘She’s even wearing your jersey!’
Man of Her Match Page 12