A Trip with the Tycoon
Nicola Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dear Reader

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

Copyright

Dear Reader

Travel is in my blood. I first flew at two months of age, and haven’t stopped since! I love the different cultures, the food, the sights and the people of our big, wide world, and I have been lucky enough to visit many places.

For me, India evokes images of spices, saris, sun and sand. The people are as diverse as the delicious cuisine, their monuments steeped in tradition centuries old. It is a land of contrast, of mystique, and what better place to set a romance novel?

Such a spectacular setting is the perfect backdrop for Tamara and Ethan’s story. Tamara, of Indian descent, is on a journey of self-discovery. Travelling on the majestic ‘Palace on Wheels’ train through Rajasthan, and later Goa, she never expects to find romance. Suave, sexy Ethan has other ideas, and the corporate pirate sweeps Tamara off her feet.

There’s nothing like a holiday romance—but what happens when these two return to Melbourne? Turn the pages to find out!

I hope you enjoy this magical journey through India.

Happy reading!

Nicola

Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.

For Uncle Ian and Rayner,

who kindly shared their recent memories of the

‘Palace on Wheels’ as I wrote this.

Thanks for the photos, the anecdotes, the laughs—and

for bringing the trip alive.

CHAPTER ONE

TAMARA RAYNE’S high heels clacked impatiently against the cobblestones as she strode towards Ambrosia, Melbourne’s hippest restaurant, a gourmet’s delight and the place where she was trying to get her life back on track.

Her favourite butterscotch boots, patent leather with a towering heel—impractical yet gorgeous—never failed to invoke the stuff of her surname as plump drops splashed down from the heavens and lashed her in a stinging sheet.

With her laden arms and no umbrella, she needed a mythical knight in shining armour. She’d thought she’d had him once in Richard. How wrong she’d been.

Blinking back futile tears—wasted tears, angry tears—she pushed on Ambrosia’s door with her behind, staggering with her load, almost slamming into her knight.

More of a pirate, really, a corporate pirate in a designer suit with rain-slicked dark hair, roguish blue eyes and a devilish smile.

‘Need a hand?’

Definitely devilish, and used to great effect if the constant parade of women traipsing through Ethan Brooks’s life was any indication.

‘You’re back.’

‘Miss me?’

‘Hardly.’

She hadn’t meant to sound so frosty but then, what was he doing? Flirting? She barely knew him, had seen him three times in the last year out of necessity, so why the familiarity?

‘Too bad.’ He shrugged, his roguish smile widening as he pointed to the bundle in her arms. ‘Do you want help with that?’

Quashing the urge to take her load and run, she nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He grunted as she offloaded the bag perched precariously on top of the rest. ‘What’s in here? Bricks for the new tandoori oven I’ve ordered?’

‘Almost as heavy.’

Her voice wobbled, just a tad, and she swallowed, twice. It was the mention of the tandoori oven that did it.

Her mum had loved tandoori chicken, had scored the chicken to let the spices and yoghurt marinate into it, had painstakingly threaded the pieces onto skewers before grilling, while lamenting the loss of her real oven back in Goa.

Her mother had missed her homeland so much, despite living in Melbourne for the last thirty years of her life. It had been the reason they’d planned their special trip together: a trip back in time for her mum, a trip to open Tamara’s eyes to a culture she’d never known even though Indian blood ran in her veins.

Thanks to Richard, the trip never happened and, while her mum had died three years ago and she’d come to terms with her grief, she’d never forgiven him for robbing her of that precious experience.

Now, more than ever, she needed her mum, missed her terribly. Khushi would’ve been her only ally, would’ve been the only one she trusted with the truth about Richard, and would’ve helped her reclaim her identity, her life.

Hot, bitter tears of regret stung her eyes and she deliberately glanced over Ethan’s shoulder, focusing on anything other than the curiosity in his eyes.

‘Can you take the rest? My arms are killing me.’

She knew he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask her what was wrong.

He hadn’t pushed when she’d been detached and withdrawn following Richard’s death while they’d sorted through the legal rigmarole of the restaurant.

He hadn’t pushed when she’d approached him to use Ambrosia six months ago to kick-start her career.

Instead, he’d taken an extended business trip, had been aloof as always. There was a time she’d thought he disliked her, such was his distant demeanour whenever she entered a room.

But she hadn’t wasted time figuring it out. He was Richard’s mate and that was all the reason she needed to keep her distance. Ethan, like the rest of the planet, thought Richard was great: top chef, top entertainer, top bloke.

If they only knew.

‘Sure.’ He took the bulk of her load, making it look easy as he held the door open. ‘Coming in?’

She didn’t need to be asked twice as she stepped into the only place she called home these days.

Ambrosia: food of the gods. More like food for her soul.

It had become her refuge, her safe haven the last few months. Crazy, considering Richard had owned part of it, had been head chef since its inception, and they’d met here when she’d come to critique Melbourne’s latest culinary hot spot.

For that alone she should hate the place.

But the welcoming warmth of Ambrosia, with its polished honey oak boards, brick fireplace and comfy cushioned chairs that had drawn her here every Monday for the last six months was hard to resist and what better place for a food critic determined to return to the workforce to practise her trade?

Throw in the best hot chocolate this side of the Yarra and she couldn’t stay away.

As she dumped her remaining load on a nearby table and stretched her aching arms, her gaze drifted to the enigmatic man lighting a match to kindling in the fireplace.

What was he doing here?

From all accounts, Ethan was unpredictable, blew hotter and colder than a Melbourne spring breeze. His employees enjoyed working here but never knew when the imperturbable, ruthless businessman would appear.

She’d been happy to have the place to herself the last six months, other than the skilled staff and eager patrons who poured through the door of course, had been strangely uncomfortable the few times she and Ethan met.

There was something about him…an underlying steeliness, a hard streak, an almost palpable electricity that buzzed and crackled, indicative of a man in command, a man on top of his game and intent on staying there.

He straightened and she quickly averted her gaze, surprised to find it had been lingering on a piece of his anatomy she had no right noticing.

She’d never done that—noticed him as a man. He was Richard’s business partner, someone who’d always been distantly polite to her the few times their paths had crossed, but that was it.

So why the quick flush of heat, the flicker of guilt?

It had been a year since Richard’s death, two since she’d been touched by a man, which went a long way to explaining her wandering gaze. She may be numb on the inside, emotionally anaesthetised, but she wasn’t dead and any woman with a pulse would’ve checked out Ethan’s rather impressive rear end.

‘If I get you a drink, will you tell me what’s in the bags?’

Slipping out of her camel trench coat, she slung it onto the back of a chair. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to show him the culmination of half a year’s work.

She’d come here for privacy, for inspiration, and having him here intruded on that. Ridiculous, considering he owned the place and could come and go as he pleased, but something about his greeting had rankled, something about that damn smile.

‘I’d kill for a hot chocolate, thanks.’

‘Coming right up.’

His gaze lingered on the bags before meeting hers, challenging. ‘I won’t give up until I know what’s in there so why don’t you just tell me?’

He stared at her, unflinching, direct, his persistence indicative of a guy used to getting his own way, a guy who demanded nothing less.

She fingered the hessian holding her future, mind your own business hovering on her lips. His authority niggled, grated, but he’d given her the opportunity to relaunch her career by using this place and she should be civil if nothing else.

‘If you throw in a side of marshmallows, I’ll show you.’

‘You’re on.’

With a half salute and a twinkle in his eyes, he strode towards the bar.

Ah…the pirate was in top form today. Full of swagger, cheek and suave bravado. She was immune to his charm, of course, but for a split second it felt good, great, in fact, to be on the receiving end of some of that legendary charm.

While he headed for the espresso machine behind the bar she plopped onto a chair, stretched her legs and wiggled her toes. She loved these boots, she really did, but they were nothing but trouble for the weather, her feet and her back, which gave a protesting twinge as she sat up.

Though that could be more to do with the tenton load she’d hefted up the street, but she’d had no choice. She held her future in her hands—literally—and, despite the gut feeling she was ready for this, it wouldn’t hurt to get Ethan’s opinion on it. If anyone knew this business inside out, he did.

‘Here you go. One hot chocolate with a double side of marshmallows.’

He placed the towering glass in front of her, a strong Americano in front of him, and slid into the chair opposite, fixing her with a half-amused, half-laconic tilt of his lips.

‘I’ve kept my side of the bargain, so come on, what’s in there?’

‘A girl can’t think without a sip of chocolate first.’

She cradled the mug, inhaled the rich chocolate-fragrant steam, savoured the warmth seeping into her palms and, closing her eyes, took a deep sip, letting the sweet lusciousness glide over her taste buds and slide down her throat.

Ethan made a strange sound and her eyes flew open, confused by the flicker of something darker, mysterious in his eyes before he quickly masked it.

‘Right. One sip, you said.’ He tapped the nearest bag. ‘Now, let’s have it.’

‘You hotshot businessmen are all the same. Way too impatient.’

She placed her mug on the table, unzipping the first bag and hauling out a folder.

He tilted his head on an angle to read the spine. ‘What’s that?’

‘A list of every restaurant in Melbourne. The new list I’ve been compiling over the last six months.’

Her tummy quivered as she glanced at the folder, at what it meant for her future.

‘I’m ready.’

His eyes sparked with understanding and she wondered how he could do that. He’d read her mind, whereas Richard hadn’t a clue what she’d been thinking after three years of marriage. Then again, considering what he’d been up to, he probably hadn’t cared.

‘You’re going back to work?’

‘Uh-huh. Thanks to your chef whipping up those amazing meals and letting me get my hand back into critiquing, I reckon I’m finally ready.’

She gnawed on her bottom lip, worrying it till she tasted the gloss she’d swiped on this morning.

‘Think I’m crazy?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Crazy? I think it’s brilliant. Just what you need, something to focus on, get your mind off losing Rich.’

She hated the pity in his eyes, hated the fact she still had to fake grief, still had to pretend she cared.

She didn’t.

Not since that first incident four months into her marriage when the man she’d married had given her a frightening glimpse into her future.

She’d thought Richard was the type of guy to never let her down, the type of guy to keep her safe, to give her what she’d always wanted: stability, security—something she’d never had since her dad had died when she was ten.

But Richard hadn’t been that guy and, from the accolades of his adoring public and coworkers, she was the only one who knew the truth.

That Richard Downey, Australia’s premier celebrity chef, had been an out-and-out bastard. And it was times like this, when she had to pretend in front of one of his mates, that an all-consuming latent fury swept through her.

If he hadn’t upped and died of a heart attack, she would’ve been tempted to kill him herself for what he’d put her through, and what she’d discovered after his death.

‘This has nothing to do with Richard. I’m doing it for me.’

Her bitterness spilled out in a torrent and she clamped her lips shut. He didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her resentment towards Richard. She’d wasted enough time analysing and selfflagellating and fuelling her anger. That was all she’d been doing for the last year since he’d died—speculating, brooding over a whole lot of pointless ‘what-ifs’.

What if she’d known about the affair?

What if she’d stood up to him and for herself, rather than keeping up appearances for the sake of his business?

What if she’d travelled to India with her mum when Khushi had first asked her years ago? Would any of that have changed her life for the better?

‘I didn’t mean to rehash any painful stuff for you.’

Shaking her head, she wished the simple action could wipe away her awful memories.

‘Not your fault. It’s not like I don’t think about it every day anyway.’

He searched her face for—what? Confirmation she wasn’t still grieving, wasn’t so heartbroken she couldn’t return to the workforce after wasting the last few years playing society hostess to a man who hadn’t given a damn about her?

What he saw in her expression had his eyes narrowing in speculation.

‘You should get away. A break, before you get sucked back into the full-time rat race. Take it from me, a certified workaholic, once you hit the ground running you won’t have a minute to yourself.’

She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that as a virtual stranger he could stick his advice, but he held a finger to her lips to silence her, the impact of his simple action slugging her all the way to her toes. It had to be the impulse to tell him to shut up rather than the brush of his finger against her lips causing her belly to twist like a pretzel.

‘A piece of advice. Seeing you six months ago, seeing you now, you’ve held together remarkably well considering what you’ve been through, but it’s time.’

He dropped his finger, thank goodness.

‘For what?’

‘Time for you. Time to put aside your grief. Move on.’

He gestured to the stack of folders on the table between them. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re a damn good food critic, one of Melbourne’s best. But honestly? The way you are right now, the tears I saw when I made a simple flyaway comment about an oven, what you just said about thinking about Rich every day, holding down a regular job would be tough. You’d end up not being able to tell the difference between steak tartare and well-done Wagyu beef, let alone write about it.’

She should hate him for what he’d just said. It hurt, all of it. But then, the truth often did.

‘You finished?’

She knew it was the wrong thing to say to a guy like him the instant the words left her mouth, for it sounded like a challenge, something he would never back away from.

‘Not by a long shot.’

Before she could blink, his mouth swooped, capturing hers in a heartbeat—a soul-reviving, soul-destroying, terrifying kiss that stirred her dormant body to life, setting it alight in a way she’d never dreamed possible.

She burned, swayed, as he changed the pressure, his lips coaxing a response—a response she couldn’t give in her right mind.

But she wasn’t in her right mind, hadn’t been from the second his lips touched hers and, before she could think, rationalise, overanalyse, she kissed him back, an outpouring of pent-up passion from a shattered ego starving for an ounce of attention.

Her heart sang with the joy of it, before stalling as the implication of what she’d just done crashed over her in a sickening wave.

Ethan, the practised playboy, Richard’s friend, a guy she barely knew, had kissed her.

And she’d let him.

Slivers of ice chilled her to the bone as she tore her mouth from his, staring at him in wideeyed horror.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the words to express how furious she was with him.

Though her anger was misplaced and she knew it. She was furious with herself for responding; worse, for enjoying it.

‘Don’t expect me to apologise for that.’

His eyes glittered with desire and she shivered, petrified yet exhilarated to be the focus of all that passion for a passing moment in time.

‘That should show you you’re a vibrant woman who needs to start living again. You should start by doing one thing you’ve always wanted to do before you return to work.’

He made sense, damn him, prove-a-point kiss and all. And while her body still trembled from the impact of that alarming kiss and her astounding response, at least it had served a purpose. If she’d been prevaricating about taking a trip before, he’d blasted her doubts sky-high now.

She had to go, had to leave Ambrosia, for facing him in the future would be beyond mortifying.

Mustering a haughty glare that only served to make his eyes gleam more, she shook her head.

‘I can’t believe you just did that.’

Shrugging, he sat back and crossed his ankles, the supremely confident male and proud of it. ‘Many people can’t believe a lot of the stuff I do, so don’t sweat it. Let’s talk about this trip of yours.’

‘Let’s not,’ she snapped, annoyed by his persistence, more annoyed by the glimmer of anticipation racing through her.

She’d already been thinking about a trip herself. Specifically, the trip she’d booked with her mum. The itinerary they’d planned was tucked away in her old music box at home, the one her dad had given her when she’d been three, the one with the haunting tune that never failed to make her cry when she thought of all she’d lost.

She’d contemplated taking the trip on her own for all of two seconds before slamming the idea. The trip would’ve been emotional enough with her mum by her side but without her?

Her eyelids prickled just thinking about it and she blinked, wishing Ethan would put that devilish smile to good use elsewhere and butt out of her business.

‘Think sun, sand and surf. Somewhere hot, tropical, the opposite of blustery Melbourne at the moment.’

Considering her toes were icy within her boots and she couldn’t feel her fingers, the thought of all that heat was tempting.

India would be perfect, would fit the bill in every way. Buoyed by an urge to escape, she rummaged through the top folder, wondering if a brochure was still there. She’d had hundreds of the things when they’d been planning the trip, immersing herself in India, from the stone-walled city of Jodhpur—home of the Mehrangarh Fort and the grand palaces of Moti Mahal, Sheesh Mahal, Phool Mahal, Sileh Khana and Daulat Khana—to Ranthambhore National Park, India’s best wildlife sanctuary, to see the majestic tigers, eager to see as much of the intriguing country as possible.

She’d kept them everywhere, hiding them from Richard when he’d first expressed his displeasure at letting her out of his sight, tucking them into books and magazines and her work stuff.

Suddenly, she really wanted to find one, wanted to see if the tiny flame of excitement flickering to life could be fanned into her actually doing this.

Flicking to the front of the folder, she dug her fingers into the plastic pocket and almost yelled for joy when she pulled out a glossy brochure featuring the Taj Mahal and the legendary Palace on Wheels train on the front.

‘You’re one of those incredibly annoying, painfully persistent guys who won’t give up, so here. Take a look.’

She handed him the brochure.

His eyes widened. ‘India?’

‘I planned to visit a few years ago but it never happened.’ She stared at the brochure, captivated by the exoticism of it all.

She should’ve thrown this out ages ago, but as long as she hung onto it, as long as the promise of her mum’s dream trip was still a reality, albeit a distant one, it was as if she were keeping alive her mum’s spirit.

Every time she found a brochure tucked away somewhere she felt connected to her mum, remembering the day she’d picked them up as a sixtieth birthday surprise and they’d pored over them during an Indian feast of spicy, palate-searing beef vindaloo, masala prawns, parathas and biryani, her favourite spiced rice, rich in flavoursome lamb.

They’d laughed, they’d cried, they’d hugged each other and jumped up and down like a couple of excited kids heading away on their first camping trip.

She’d wanted to explore the part of her history she knew little about, wanted to take the special journey with her mum.

Richard may have put paid to that dream and, while she’d love to take the trip now, it just wouldn’t be the same without Khushi.

‘Guess I should explore all my options first.’

She fiddled with the brochure, folding the ends into tiny triangles, absentmindedly smoothing out the creases again.

‘Uh-uh.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You’re going to take the trip.’

Her eyes flew to his, startled by his absolute conviction, as a lump of sorrow lodged in her throat and she cleared it. ‘I can’t.’

She’d find another destination, somewhere she wouldn’t have a deluge of memories drowning her, missing her mum every step of the way.

He stabbed at the brochure. ‘You can. Clear your head, make a fresh start.’

She shook her head, using her hair to shield her face. ‘I can’t do this trip alone. I’d planned to take it with my mum. This was her trip—’

Her voice cracked and she slid off her chair and headed for the fireplace, holding her hands out to the crackling warmth, wishing it could seep deep inside to the coldest, loneliest parts of her soul.

‘You won’t be alone.’

He came up behind her, the heat from the fire nothing on the warmth radiating from him—a solid, welcoming warmth she wished she could lean into before giving herself a swift mental slap.

Stepping around in front of her, he stared at her, direct, intense, the indigo flecks in his blue eyes gleaming in the reflected firelight.

‘You won’t be alone because I’m coming with you.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’

He held up a hand. ‘I’m going to India anyway, to lure Delhi’s best chef to work here.’

One finger bent as he counted off his first point.

‘You need company.’

The second finger went down.

‘And, lastly, I’ve always wanted to do the Palace on Wheels trip and never got around to it so, this way, you’re doing me a favour.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘How’s that?’

‘I hear it’s an amazing journey, best shared with a beautiful companion.’

His smile could’ve lit the Arts Centre spire, damn pirate, and in that second she snapped to her senses.

What was she doing? He’d be the last person she’d take a trip with, the last guy to accompany her anywhere considering he’d just kissed her and turned some of that legendary charm onto her. Beautiful companion, indeed.

‘Your mum would’ve wanted you to go.’

Oh, he was good.

Worse, he was right.

Khushi would’ve wanted her to go, to visit Goa and the beach where she’d met her father, to take a magical train journey through India’s heartland, to visit the Taj Mahal, something her mum had craved her entire life.

She wanted to rediscover her identity. Maybe a link to her past was the best way to do it?

Staggered by her second impulse in as many minutes—she determinedly ignored the first, foolishly responding to that kiss—she slapped the brochure against her opposite palm, mind made up.

‘You’re right, I’m taking the trip.’

She fixed him with a glare that lost its impact when her lower lip wobbled at the enormity of what she was contemplating.

‘That’s great. We’ll—’

‘I’m taking the trip. Alone.’

‘But—’

‘I don’t even know you,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t stayed, terrified how that incredible kiss had made her feel for a fleeting moment.

It had obviously given him the wrong idea. What sort of a guy went from a cool acquaintance to kissing her to thinking she’d go away with him?

Maybe she was overreacting, reading more into the sudden twinkle in his sea-blue eyes and his scarily sexy smile?

Leaning forward a fraction, invading her personal space with a potent masculinity she found disconcerting, he lowered his voice. ‘That’s what the trip is for. Loads of time to get to know one another.’

She wasn’t overreacting. He was chatting her up!

Sending him a withering glance that would’ve extinguished the fire at her back, she headed for the table and slipped her trench coat on.

‘Thanks for the offer but I like being on my own.’

When he opened his mouth to respond, she held up a hand. ‘I like it that way.’

Before he could protest any further, she slung her bag over her shoulder and pointed to the stack of folders. ‘I’ll come back for these tomorrow.’

His knowing gaze followed her towards the door and she knew he’d get the last word in.

‘Going solo is highly overrated.’

Halting with her hand on the door, she glanced over her shoulder, startled by the ravenous hunger in his greedy gaze.

‘Someone like you would think that.’

Rather than annoying him, a triumphant grin lit his face, as if she’d just paid him a compliment.

‘Next to business, dating is what I do best so I guess that makes me qualified to pass judgement.’

‘Overqualified, from what I hear.’

His grin widened and she mentally clapped a hand over her mouth.

What was she doing, discussing his personal life? It had nothing to do with her and, while she valued the opportunity he’d given her in using Ambrosia as a base to relaunch her career, what he did in his spare time meant diddly-squat to her.

Propped against the bar, he appeared more like a pirate than ever: all he needed was a bandanna and eye patch to complete the overconfident look.

‘You sure you wouldn’t like me to tag along?’

‘Positive.’

She walked out, somewhat satisfied by the slamming door.

Take a trip with a playboy pirate like Ethan Brooks?

She’d rather walk the plank.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHAT the hell are you doing here?’

Ethan grinned at Tamara’s shell-shocked expression as he strolled towards her on the platform at Safdarjung Station.

‘You mean here as in New Delhi or here as in this station?’

Her eyes narrowed, spitting emerald fire. ‘Don’t play smart with me. Why are you here?’

‘Business. I told you I’m a workaholic. The Delhi chef wasn’t interested so there’s a chef in Udaipur I’d like to lure to Ambrosia. Rather than commute by boring planes I thought I’d take the scenic route, so here I am.’

By her folded arms, compressed lips and frown, she wasn’t giving an inch.

‘And this business trip just happened to coincide when I’m taking the trip. How convenient.’

‘Pure coincidence.’

He couldn’t keep the grin off his face, which only served to rile her further. That smile may well have seduced every socialite in Melbourne, but she wasn’t about to succumb to its practised charm. He laid a hand on her arm; she stiffened and deliberately stepped away.

‘If it makes you feel any better, it’s a big train and the trip only lasts a week.’

‘It doesn’t make me feel better.’

If the Tamara he’d seen all too infrequently over the last few years was beautiful, a furious Tamara was stunning—and vindicated why he’d booked this trip in the first place.

It was time.

He was through waiting.

‘Why don’t we stop quibbling and enjoy this fanfare?’

He thought she’d never relent but, after shooting him another exasperated glare, she turned towards their welcoming committee.

‘Pretty impressive, huh?’

She nodded, maintaining a silence he found disconcerting. He preferred her annoyed and fiery rather than quiet and brooding.

Only one way to get her out of this huff. Turn on the charm.

‘Just think, all this for you. Talented musicians playing tabla as you board the train, young Indian girls placing flower garlands around your neck, being greeted by your own personal bearer for your carriage. Nothing like a proper welcome?’

The beginnings of a smile softened her lips as a bearer placed a fancy red turban on his head as a gift.

‘Looks like I’m not the only one getting welcomed.’

He wobbled his head, doing a precarious balancing act with the turban and she finally laughed.

‘Okay, you can stay.’

He executed a fancy little bow and she held up a hand.

‘But remember I like being on my own.’

He didn’t. Being alone was highly overrated and something he’d set about compensating for the moment he’d had his first pay cheque or two.

He liked being surrounded by people, enjoyed the bustle of a restaurant, thrived on the hub of the business world and relished dating beautiful women. Most of all, he liked being in control. And, finally, this was his chance to take control of his desire for Tamara.

He’d kept his distance while Rich was alive, had respected his friend’s marriage. But Rich was gone and his pull towards this incredible woman was stronger than ever.

He wanted her, had wanted her from the first moment they’d met and had avoided her because of it.

Not any more.

That impulsive kiss had changed everything.

He’d forfeited control by giving in to his driving compulsion for her, hated the powerlessness she’d managed to wreak with her startling response, and he’d be damned if he sat back and did nothing.

Having her walk away had left her firmly in charge and that was unacceptable. He was here to reclaim control, to prove he couldn’t lose it over a woman, beautiful as she may be.

Seduction was one thing, but finding himself floundering by the power of a kiss quite another.

Clawing his way to the top had taught him persistence, determination and diligence. When he wanted something in the business world, he made it happen by dogged perseverance and a healthy dose of charm.

Now, he wanted Tamara.

She didn’t stand a chance.

Tapping his temple, he said, ‘I’ll try to remember. But, you know, this heat can play havoc with one’s memory and—’

‘Come on, let’s board. Once you’re safely ensconced in the lap of luxury, maybe that memory will return.’

‘You make me sound like a snob.’

‘Aren’t you? Being Australia’s top restaurateur and all.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Oh, that’s right. You’re just the average run-of-the-mill billionaire who happens to rival Wolfgang Puck and Nobu for top restaurants around the world. Nothing snobby about you.’

‘Come on, funny girl. Time to board.’

She smiled and, as he picked up their hand luggage and followed the porter, he could hardly believe the change in Tam.

Sure, there was still a hint of fragility about her, the glimpse of sorrow clinging to her like the humidity here, but it looked as if India agreed with her. After she’d finished berating him, she’d smiled more in the last few minutes than she had in the odd times he’d seen her.

‘You know I have my own compartment?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course.’

‘I wouldn’t want you compromising my reputation.’

She smiled again and something twanged in the vicinity of his heart. She’d had the ability to do that to him from the very beginning, from the first time he’d met her—an hour after she’d met Richard, worse luck.

She’d been smitten by then, with eyes only for the loud, larger-than-life chef, and he’d subdued his controlling instincts to sweep her away.

Neither of them had ever known of his desire for the woman he couldn’t have; he’d made sure of it. But keeping his distance was a thing of the past and the next seven days loomed as intriguing.

‘Your reputation is safe with me. I’m sure all those society heiresses and vapid, thin models you date on a revolving-door basis are well aware this boring old widow is no competition.’

‘You’re not boring and you’re certainly not old.’

As for the women he dated, there was a reason he chose the no-commitment, out-for-a-good-time-not-a-long-time type. A damn good one.

The smile hovering about her lips faded as fast as his hopes to keep it there.

‘But I am a widow.’

And, while he’d hated the pain she must’ve gone through after Rich died, the struggle to get her life back on an even keel, he couldn’t help but be glad she was now single.

Did that make him heartless? Maybe, but his past had taught him to be a realist and he never wasted time lying to himself or others. Discounting the way he’d kept his attraction for Tam a secret all these years, of course.

‘Maybe it’s time you came out of mourning?’

He expected her to recoil, to send him the contemptuous stare she’d given him after he’d kissed her. Instead, she cocked her head to one side, studying him.

‘Are you always this blunt?’

‘Always.’

‘So you’ll ignore me if I tell you to butt out, just like you did by gatecrashing my trip?’

He feigned hurt, smothering his grin with difficulty. ‘Gatecrashing’s a bit harsh. I told you, I’m here on business.’

He only just caught her muttered, ‘Monkey business.’

She fidgeted with her handbag, her fingers plucking at the leather strap as she rocked her weight from foot to foot, and he almost took pity on her before banishing that uncharacteristic emotion in a second.

He had to have her, was driven by a primal urge he had no control over and, to do that, he needed to get her to look at him as a man rather than a bug in her soup.

With a bit of luck and loads of charm, he intended to make good on the unspoken promise of their first kiss—a promise of so much more.

‘You’re not still hung up over that kiss, are you? Because, if you are—’

‘I’m not. It’s forgotten.’

Her gorgeous blush belied her quick negation and had him itching to push the boundaries. But he’d gained ground by having her accept his presence so quickly and he’d be a fool to take things too far on the first day.

‘Forgotten, huh? Must be losing my touch.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with—’

He smothered a triumphant grin. He may have lost his mind and kissed her to prove she needed to start living again but her eager response had blown him away. And fuelled his need for her, driving him to crazy things like taking time off work, something he rarely did, to pursue her.

‘Let’s put it down to a distant memory and move on, shall we?’

To his horror, her eyes filled with pain, which hit him hard, like a slug to the guts, and he tugged her close without thinking, enveloping her in his arms.

‘Hell, Tam, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned memories.’

She braced herself against his chest, her palms splayed, and his body reacted in an instant, heat searing his veins as he cradled a soft armful of woman.

She sniffled and he tightened his hold, rather than his first instinct to release her in the hope of putting an instant dampener on his errant libido.

His hand skimmed her hair, thick and dark like molten molasses, soothing strokes designed to comfort. But, hot on the heels of his thoughts of how much he wanted her, his fingers itched to delve into the shiny, dark mass and get caught up in it. He could hold her like this all night long.

‘You okay?’

Ethan pulled away, needing to establish some distance between them, not liking her power over him. He didn’t do comfort. He never had a hankie in his pocket or a host of placating platitudes or a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t do consoling hugs; he did passionate embraces.

So what had happened in the last few minutes? What was it about this woman that undermined him?

‘Uh-huh.’

She managed a watery smile before straightening her shoulders and lifting her head in the classic coping pose he’d seen her exhibit at Rich’s funeral and his admiration shot up another few notches.

How she’d handled her grief after the initial shock of Rich’s heart attack, burying herself in the business side of things, sorting through legalities with him, only to approach him several months later for the use of Ambrosia to get her career back on track, had all served to fuel his respect for this amazing woman.

Quite simply, she was incredible and he wanted her with a staggering fierceness that clawed at him even now, when he was left analysing how he’d let his control slip again in her intoxicating presence.

‘I can see you’re still hurting but if you ever want to talk about Rich, remember the good times, I’m here for you, okay?’

Maybe, if she opened up to him, he could encourage her to get it all out of her system and move on. Highly altruistic but then, when was he anything but?

To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose and he knew it had little to do with the pungent odours of diesel fumes, spices and human sweat swirling around them.

‘Honestly? I don’t want to talk about Richard. I’m done grieving.’

A spark of defiance lit her eyes, turning them from soft moss-green to sizzling emerald in a second. ‘I want to enjoy this trip, then concentrate on my future.’

He’d never seen her like this: resolute, determined, a woman reborn.

He’d seen Tam the society wife, the perfect hostess, the astute businesswoman, the grieving widow, but never like this and a part of him was glad. Releasing the past was cathartic, would help her to move on and he really wanted her to do that on this trip. With him.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

Her answering smile sent another sizzle of heat through him and he clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her close.

Plenty of time for that.

Tamara lay down on the bed, stretched her arms over her head and smiled.

The rocking motion of the train, the clicketyclack as it bounced its way out of Delhi, the aroma of marigolds and masala chai—the delicious tea, fragrant with cardamons—overloaded her senses, lulled her while making her want to jump up and twirl around from the sheer rush of it.

For the first time in years, she felt free. Free to do whatever she wanted, be whoever she chose. And it felt great. In fact, it felt downright fantastic.

While she’d once loved Richard, had desperately craved the type of marriage her folks had had, nothing came close to this exhilarating freedom.

She’d spent months playing the grieving widow after Richard had suffered that fatal heart attack, had submerged her humiliation, her bitterness, her pain.

Yet behind her serene, tear-stained face she’d seethed: at him for making a mockery of their marriage, at herself for being a gullible fool and for caring what people thought even after he was gone.

She hadn’t given two hoots about social propriety until she’d married him, had laughed at his obsession with appearances. But she’d soon learned he was serious and, with his face plastered over every newspaper, magazine and TV channel on a regular basis, she’d slipped into the routine of being the perfect little wife he’d wanted.

While his perfect little mistress had been stashed away in a luxurious beach house at Cape Schanck, just over an hour’s drive from Melbourne’s CBD where they’d lived.

Damn him.

She sat bolt upright, annoyed she’d let bitter memories tarnish the beginning of this incredible journey, her gaze falling on the single bed next to hers. The single bed her mum should’ve been occupying while regaling her with exotic tales of Goa and its beaches, Colva beach where she’d met her dad, her love at first sight for a scruffy Aussie backpacker with a twinkle in his eyes and a ready smile.

Tales of the Taj Mahal, the monument she’d always wanted to see but never had the chance. Tales of an India filled with hospitable people and mouth-watering food, imparting recipes in that lilting sing-song accent that had soothed her as a young girl when the nightmares of losing her dad would wake her screaming and sweat-drenched.

Khushi should’ve been here. This was her trip.

Instead, Tamara swiped an angry hand across her eyes, dashing her tears away.

She wasn’t going to cry any more. She’d made herself that promise back in Melbourne when she’d decided to take this trip.

And while she knew her heart would break at every turn on the track, at every fabulous place she visited, wishing her mum was here to share it with her, she should be thankful she’d taken another positive step in getting her life in order.

She was through cringing with shame and humiliation at what Richard had put her through, done feeling sorry for herself.

This was her time.

Time for a new life, a new beginning.

So what the heck was Ethan Brooks doing here, muscling in on her new start?

Ethan, with his smiling eyes and that deadly smile. Where was the famed hard-ass, hard-nosed businessman? Instead, Ethan the pirate, the player, the playboy, had swaggered along on this trip and while every self-preservation instinct screamed for her to stay away, she couldn’t be that rude.

He’d helped her with the legalities surrounding Ambrosia after Richard’s death, had smoothed the way for her to re-enter the workforce by allowing her to use Ambrosia as a base. She owed him.

But he had her rattled.

She preferred him business-oriented, juggling a briefcase, a laptop and barking instructions on a mobile phone at the same time, barely acknowledging her presence with an absentminded nod as he strutted into Ambrosia.

He’d practically ignored her when their paths had crossed while Richard had been around, his head always buried in financial statements and yearly projections, and that had been fine with her.

He made her uncomfortable and it had nothing to do with the fact that they didn’t really know each other. The shift had happened when they’d met to sort out Ambrosia’s ownership, those two times when she’d noticed things: like the way he cracked pistachio nuts way too loudly, flipping them in the air and catching them in his open mouth, how much he loved Shiraz Grenache and sticky date pudding and the North Melbourne Football Club.

Trivial things, inconsequential things that meant little, but the fact that she’d noticed and remembered them annoyed her.

As for that kiss…she picked up a pillow and smothered a groan, hating how it haunted her, hating how she’d dreamed of it, hating how the dream had developed and morphed into so much more than a kiss, leaving her writhing and panting and sweat-drenched on waking.

She didn’t want to remember any of it, didn’t want to remember his expertise, his spontaneity, his ability to dredge a response from her deepest, darkest soul, better left untouched.

But she did remember, every breathtaking moment, and while her head had slammed the door on the memory of her temporary insanity, her body was clamouring for more.

Now this.

Him being here, all suave and charming and too gorgeous for his own good, was making her nervous. Very nervous.

She didn’t need anyone in her new life, least of all a smooth tycoon like Ethan Brooks.

As for her wayward thoughts lately in the wee small hours of the morning when she lay sleepless, staring up at the ceiling and trying to regain focus to her meandering life, she’d banish them along with her anger at Richard.

Wondering what would’ve happened if she’d gone for Ethan rather than Richard that fateful night she’d entered Ambrosia four years earlier was a waste of time.

Now was her chance to put the past to rest and concentrate on her future.

CHAPTER THREE

‘TELL me you’re not working.’

Ethan pointed at the small blue notebook tucked discreetly under her linen serviette—obviously not discreetly enough.

Ignoring him, Tamara sliced a vegetable pakora in two and dipped it in the tamarind sauce, her taste buds hankering for that first delicious taste of crispy vegetables battered in chickpea flour and dunked in the sour, piquant sauce.

‘Fine, I won’t tell you.’

He shook his head, laughed, before helping himself to a meat samosa from the entrée platter between them.

‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’

‘I’m supposed to be getting back to work soon and I need the practice.’

Resting his knife and fork on his plate, he focused his too-blue gaze on her.

‘You’re an expert critic. One of Australia’s best. Skills like that don’t disappear because you’ve had a year or so off.’

‘Two years,’ she said, quelling the surge of resentment at what she’d given up for Richard. ‘Despite the last six months at Ambrosia, I’m still rusty. The sooner I get back into it, the easier it’ll be.’

She bit down on the pakora, chewed thoughtfully, knowing there was another reason she had her trusty notebook within jotting reach.

The minute she’d opened her compartment door to find Ethan on the other side in charcoal casual pants and open-necked white shirt, his gaze appreciative and his smile as piratical as always, she’d had to clamp down on the irrational urge to slam the door in his face and duck for cover.

It had been her stupid thoughts earlier of what if that had done it, that had made her aware of him as a man—a gorgeous, charming man—rather than just her…what was he? A business acquaintance? A travelling companion? A friend?

She didn’t like the last two options: they implied a closeness she didn’t want. But they’d moved past the acquaintance stage the moment he’d kissed her and there was no going back.

She didn’t want to have these thoughts, didn’t want to acknowledge the sexy crease in his left cheek, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that added character to his face, the endearingly ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.

She’d never noticed those things before or, if she had, hadn’t experienced this…this…buzz or whatever the strange feeling coursing through her body was that made her want to bury her nose in her notebook for the duration of dinner and not look up.

That might take care of day one, but what about the rest of the week as the Palace on Wheels took them on an amazing journey through Rajasthan?

Ethan was Richard’s friend, reason enough she couldn’t trust him, no matter how much he poured on the charm.

She’d fallen for Richard because he’d been safe and look at the devastation he’d wreaked. What would letting her guard down around a powerful, compelling guy like Ethan do?

Inwardly shuddering at the thought, she reached for the notebook at the same instant that he stilled her hand. Her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast.

He’d touched her again. First that hug on the station and now this. Though this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes, while fear crept through her.

Fear they’d somehow changed the boundaries of their nebulous relationship without realising, fear they could never go back, fear she could lose focus of what she wanted out of this trip and why if she was crazy enough to acknowledge the shift between them, let alone do anything about it.

‘This is the first holiday you’ve taken in years. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

He squeezed her hand, released it and she exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath.

‘You’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough. Once I coerce the super-talented Indian chef to leave the Lake Palace and work at Ambrosia, critiquing his meals will keep you busy for months.’

‘You’re too kind.’

She meant it. He’d never been anything other than kind to her, helping her with Richard’s business stuff, arranging a special table for her at Ambrosia away from the ravenous crowd so she could sample the food and write her critiques in peace.

But kind didn’t come close to describing the hungry gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous and exciting and terrifying.

He screwed up his nose, stabbing a seekh kebab from the entrée platter and moving it across to his plate. ‘You know, kind ranks right up there with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.’

‘Fine. You’re a cold, heartless businessman who takes no prisoners. Better?’

‘Much.’

His bold smile had her scrambling for her notebook, flipping it open to a crisp new blank page, pen poised. ‘Now, take a bite of that kebab and tell me what you think.’

He cut the kebab—spiced lamb moulded into a sausage shape around a skewer and cooked to perfection in a tandoor oven—and chewed a piece, emitting a satisfied moan that had her focusing on his lips rather than her notebook.

‘Fantastic.’

He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. ‘I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic and cumin.’

He polished off the rest with a satisfied pat of his tummy, a very lean, taut tummy from what she could see of it outlined beneath his shirt.

Great, there she went again, noticing things she never normally would. This wasn’t good—not good at all.

Pressing the pen to the page so hard it tore a hole through to the paper underneath, she focused on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or fabulous tummy.

‘Not bad, but that’s why you’re the guy who owns the restaurants and I’m lucky enough to eat in them and write about the food.’

He smiled, pointed at her notebook. ‘Go ahead, then. Tell me all about the wonders of the seekh kebab.’

She glanced at her notes, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. She loved her job, every amazing moment of it, from sampling food, savouring it, titillating her taste buds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow food addicts.

As for Indian food, she’d been raised on the stuff and there was nothing like it in the world.

‘The keema—’ he raised an eyebrow and she clarified ‘—lamb mince is subtly spiced with an exotic blend of garam masala, dried mango powder, carom seeds, raw papaya paste, with a healthy dose of onion, black pepper, ginger, garlic and a pinch of nutmeg.’

‘You got all that from one bite?’

She bit her lip as she pushed the notebook away, unable to contain her laughter as he took another bite, trying to figure out how she did it.

‘My mum used to make them. I memorised the ingredients when I was ten years old.’

Her laughter petered out as she remembered what else had happened when she was ten—her dad had dropped dead at work, a cerebral aneurysm, and the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist.

She’d loved listening to her parents chat over dinner, their tales of adventure, the story of how they’d met. She’d always craved a once-in-alifetime romance like theirs. Richard hadn’t been it. Now she’d never find it.

‘Hey, you okay?’

She nodded, bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. ‘I still miss my mum.’

He hesitated before covering her hand with his. ‘Tell me about her.’

Tell him what?

How her mum used to braid her waist-length hair into plaits every day for school, never once snagging the brush or rushing her?

How she’d concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices and little else?

How she’d loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad had died?

She couldn’t put half of what she was feeling into words let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her barren soul that she was here on this train and Khushi wasn’t.

Besides, did she really want to discuss her private memories with him? Revealing her innermost thoughts implied trust and that was one thing she had in short supply, especially with a guy hellbent on charming her.

‘Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.’

‘Watch Bollywood films,’ she said on a sigh, reluctant to talk but surprised by his deeper, caring side, a side too tempting to ignore.

The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many a Sunday afternoon curled up on the worn suede couch in the family room, a plate of jalebis, milk burfi and Mysore pak—delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Hollywood’s top A-list celebrity.

They’d laugh at the over-the-top theatrics, sigh at the vivid romance and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.

Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, she’d never felt a huge connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons she’d been transported to another world—a world filled with people and colour and magic.

‘What else?’

‘We loved going to the beach.’

His encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.

Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.

That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage had continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband had slowly revealed a cruel side that, to this day, left her questioning her own judgement in marrying someone like that in the first place.

He’d never actually hit her but the verbal and psychological abuse had been as bruising, as painful, as devastating as if he had.

Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, for he continued prodding. ‘Any particular beach?’

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum.

‘It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.’

They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach had reminded Khushi of meeting her dad for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.

Her mum had been trying to hold on to precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason she’d been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a plain bun on top of her head.

‘Sounds great.’

‘It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.’

She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. ‘My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a year off after med school. Mum was working for one of the hotels there.’

She sighed, swirled the water in her glass. ‘Love at first sight, apparently. My dad used to call Mum his exotic princess from the Far East, Mum used to say Dad was full of it.’

‘Why didn’t she ever go back? After he passed away?’

Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. ‘Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian, as my dad would’ve wanted.’

‘But you’re half Indian too. This country is a part of who you are.’

‘Honestly? I don’t know who I am any more.’

The admission sounded as lost, as forlorn, as she felt almost every minute of every day.

She’d vocalised her greatest fear.

She didn’t know who she was, had lost her identity when she’d married Richard. She’d been playing a role for ever: first the dutiful wife, then the grieving widow. But it was all an act. All of it.

She’d become like him, had cared about appearances even at the end when she’d been screaming inside at the injustice of being abused and lied to and cheated on for so long while shedding the appropriate tears at his funeral.

Ethan stood, came around to her side of the table and crouched down, sliding his arm around her waist while tilting her chin to make her look him in the eye with his other hand.

‘I know who you are. You’re an incredible woman with the world at her feet.’ He brushed her cheek in a gentle caress that had tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. ‘Don’t you ever, ever forget how truly amazing you are.’

With emotion clogging her throat and tears blinding her, she couldn’t speak let alone see what was coming next so when his lips brushed hers in a soft, tender kiss she didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to react.

Instead, her eyelids fluttered shut, her aching heart healed just a little as her soul blossomed with wonder at having a man like Ethan Brooks on her side.

His kiss lingered long after he pulled away, long after he stared at her for an interminable moment with shock in the indigo depths of his eyes, long after he murmured the words, ‘You’re special, that’s who you are.’

A small part of her wanted to believe him.

A larger part wanted to recreate the magic of that all-too-brief kiss, as for the second time in a week she felt like a woman.

The largest part of her recoiled in horror as she realised she’d just been kissed—again—by the last man she could get close to, ever.

Ethan sprang to his feet and catapulted back to his chair on the opposite side of the table, desperate for space.

She’d done it again.

Left him reeling with her power to undermine his control.

Those damn tears had done it, tugging at nonexistent heartstrings, urging him to kiss her, to comfort her, making him feel, damn it.

He’d been a fool, urging her to talk about her mum. He should’ve known she’d get emotional, should’ve figured he’d want to play the hero and help slay her demons.

‘You’re good at that.’

His gaze snapped to hers, expecting wariness, thrown by her curiosity, as if she couldn’t quite figure him out.

‘At what?’

‘Knowing when to say the right thing, knowing how to make a girl feel good about herself.’

‘Practice, I guess.’

If his offhand shrug hadn’t made her recoil, his callous comment did the trick.

He’d just lumped her in with the rest of his conquests—something she’d hate, something he hated.

But it had to be done.

He needed distance right now, needed to slam his emotional barriers back in place and muster the control troops to the battlefront.

‘Lucky me.’

Her sarcasm didn’t sock him half as much as her expression, a potent mix of disappointment and derision.

He had to take control of this situation before it got out of hand and he ended up alienating her completely, and all because he was furious at himself for getting too close.

‘Before I put you off your food with any more of my renowned comforting techniques, why don’t we finish off this entrée? I’ve heard the lentil curry to come is something special.’

She nodded, her disappointment slugging him anew as she toyed with the food on her plate.

Establishing emotional distance was paramount. He’d come close to losing sight of his seduction goal moments before but steeling his heart was one thing, carrying it through with a disillusioned Tam sitting opposite another.

‘What do you think of the potato bondas?’

An innocuous question, a question designed to distract her from his abrupt turnaround and get them back on the road of comfortable small talk.

However, as she raised her gaze from her plate and met his, the accusatory hurt reached down to his soul, as if he were the worst kind of louse.

For a moment he thought she’d call him on his brusque switch from comforting to cool. Instead, she searched his face, her mouth tightening as if what she saw confirmed her worst opinion of him.

‘They’re good.’

Hating feeling out of his depth, he pushed the platter towards her. ‘Another?’

‘No, thanks.’

They lapsed into silence, an awkward silence fraught with unspoken words—words he couldn’t bring himself to say for fear of the growing intimacy between them.

Being here with her wasn’t about establishing an emotional connection, it was about seducing the one woman he’d wanted for years and couldn’t have. He needed to keep it that way, for the other option scared the life out of him.

CHAPTER FOUR

ETHAN focused on the tour guide as he droned on about Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds.

Structurally, the place was amazing, like a giant candyfloss beehive with its tiers of windows staggered in red and pink sandstone.

Architecture usually fascinated him—every restaurant he purchased around the world was chosen for position as well as aesthetics—but, while the guide pointed out the white borders and motifs of Jaipur’s multi-layered palace, he sneaked glances at the woman standing next to him, apparently engrossed in what the guy had to say. While he, Ethan, was engrossed in her.

As the train had wound its way from New Delhi to the ‘Pink City’ of Jaipur overnight, he’d lain awake, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

For hours. Long, endless hours, replaying that comfy scene over dinner and cursing himself for being a fool.

He’d overstepped with the cosy chat about her mum, had panicked and back-pedalled as a result.

The upshot? Tam’s barriers had slammed down, shutting him out, obliterating what little ground he’d made since she’d forgiven him for crashing her trip.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Ever since he’d boarded the train he’d been edgy, unfocused, displaced. And he hated feeling like that, as if he had no control.

Everyone said he was a control freak and, to some degree, he was. Control gave him power and impenetrability and confidence that things would work out exactly as he planned them, at total odds with his childhood, where no amount of forethought could give him the stability he’d so desperately craved.

When he’d first landed in this cosmopolitan, jam-packed country, he’d had a clear goal: to seduce Tam.

He wanted her—had always wanted her—but had stayed away for business reasons. Richard had been the best chef in the country and he’d needed him to cement Ambrosia’s reputation.

Nothing got in his way when his most prized possession was at stake, not even a beautiful, intelligent woman. He hadn’t needed the distraction at the time, had been hell-bent on making Ambrosia Melbourne’s premier dining experience.

He’d succeeded, thanks to Richard’s flamboyance in the kitchen and a healthy dose of business acumen on his part. Now, nothing stood in his way. Discounting his stupid over-eagerness, that was.

He sneaked another sideways glance at Tam, wondering if her intent focus was genuine or another way to give him the cold shoulder.

She wasn’t like the other women he’d dated: everything, from her reluctance to respond to his flirting to the lingering sadness in her eyes, told him she wouldn’t take kindly to being wooed.

He hoped to change all that.

‘Some structure, huh?’

She finally turned towards him, her expression cool, her eyes wary.

‘Yeah, it’s impressive.’ She pointed at one of the windows. ‘Don’t you think it’s amazing all those royal women of the palace used to sit behind those windows and watch the ceremonial processions without being seen?’

He squinted, saw a pink window like a hundred others and shook his head.

‘Sad, more like it. Having to stay behind closed doors while the kings got to strut their stuff. Don’t think many women would put up with that these days.’

She stiffened, hurt flickering in the rich green depths of her eyes.

‘Maybe some women find it’s easier to give in to the whims of their husbands than live with callous coldness every day.’

Realisation dawned and he thrust his hands in his pockets to stop from slapping himself in the head. Had she just inadvertently given him a glimpse into her marriage to Richard?

He’d seen Rich like that at work. All smiles and jovial conviviality but if things didn’t go his way or someone dared to have a different opinion to King Dick, he’d freeze them out better than his Bombe Alaska.

Would he have ever treated his wife the same way?

He hated thinking that this warm, vibrant woman had been subjected to that, had possibly tiptoed around in order to stay on his good side, had put a happy face on a marriage that would’ve been trying at best.

She didn’t deserve that, no woman did, and the least he could do now was distract her long enough so she forgot his unintentional faux pas and enjoyed the rest of their day in Jaipur.

‘I’ve seen enough palaces for one day. How about you and I hit some of those handicraft shops the guide mentioned earlier?’ He bent towards her ear, spoke in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. ‘By your different footwear for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I’d say you collect shoes on a weekly basis so I’m sure the odd bargain or two wouldn’t go astray.’

She straightened her shoulders, flashed him a superior smirk while her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll have you know I only buy a few pairs of shoes a year, mainly boots. Melbourne’s winters can be a killer on a girl’s feet.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

He smiled, thrilled that his distraction technique had worked when she returned it. ‘So, you up for some shopping?’

‘I’m up for anything.’

Their gazes locked and for a long, loaded moment he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of something other than her usual reticence.

‘Come on then, let’s go.’

As she fell in step beside him, his mind mulled over her revelation. He had no idea what sort of a marriage Rich and Tam had shared; he’d barely seen them together, preferring to make himself scarce whenever she’d appeared.

He’d cited interstate or overseas business whenever she’d hosted a party and had avoided all contact if she dropped into Ambrosia to see Rich on the odd occasion.

In fact, he’d rarely seen the two interact, such had been his blinding need to avoid her at all costs.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.