About Shoma Narayanan

SHOMA started reading Mills & Boon® romances at the age of eleven, borrowing them from neighbours and hiding them inside textbooks so that her parents didn’t find out. At that time the thought of writing one herself never entered her head—she was convinced she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up. When she was a little older she decided to become an engineer instead, and took a degree in electronics and telecommunications. Then she thought a career in management was probably a better bet, and went off to do an MBA. That was a decision she never regretted, because she met the man of her dreams in the first year of business school—fifteen years later they’re married with two adorable kids, whom they’re raising with the same careful attention to detail that they gave their second-year project on organisational behaviour.

A couple of years ago Shoma took up writing as a hobby (after successively trying her hand at baking, sewing, knitting, crochet and patchwork), and was amazed at how much she enjoyed it. Now she works grimly at her banking job through the week, and tries to balance writing with household chores during weekends. Her family has been unfailingly supportive of her latest hobby, and are also secretly very, very relieved that they don’t have to eat, wear or display the results!

Take One Arranged Marriage…
Shoma Narayanan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Badri, Aditya and Anousha for putting up with me on the days I spent every free minute writing—you guys are the best family ever!

Table of Contents

Cover

About Shoma Narayanan

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The Times of India—matrimonial section:

‘Very successful lawyer, good-looking, 33, height 6 ft 2 inches, South Indian, Bengaluru-based, seeks beautiful high-caste Hindu, well-educated, as bride.’

TARA looked up in disbelief.

‘You guys answered this? Without checking with me first?’ Her temper was rising swiftly and her mother gave her a wary look.

‘Your father thought …’ she began.

‘I didn’t know he could think,’ Tara said, whisking the newspaper cutting from her mother’s hand. One lengthwise tear, fold, tear again. There. One successful lawyer, ready for the dustbin. She carried the pieces across and threw them in. ‘If they write back, tell them I’m not interested,’ she said.

‘It’s not so simple, Tara,’ her mother said. ‘They’re coming over this evening—the parents are at least.’

Tara stared.

‘That was … fast,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that yesterday’s newspaper? Are these people really desperate? Or are you that keen to get rid of me?’

‘No, we’re not,’ her mother protested, looking unhappy.

Tara relented, putting an arm around her and steering her to a chair. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘Till yesterday I thought you guys wanted me to become a schoolteacher and give up my “stupid plans” to do a PhD in a strange city.’ Her face darkened as she remembered the recent fight with her father. ‘Now you want me to marry a good-looking lawyer. Six feet, two inches, no less. What’s going on?’

‘He’s Mr Krishnan’s son,’ Tara’s mother explained. ‘Mr Krishnan’s the new general manager at the plant, and he happened to mention he’d put out this ad …’

Tara let a low whistle out through her teeth. Now, that explained a lot. Her dad was a lowly supervisor at the steel manufacturing plant—his daughter marrying the GM’s son would be the ultimate in social enhancement, something like marrying into royalty. This needed some thinking through. Bengaluru … Tara’s brain was racing. It could work. As long as she figured out how to manage it smartly. Marriage at twenty-two was not what she’d planned. But it beat running away from home—something she’d been seriously considering over the past few days.

‘We wouldn’t force you into anything,’ her mother was saying, her worn face looking even more anxious than usual.

‘We’ meant her father, of course. The last thing Tara’s mother had forced her into was a pair of pink dungarees when Tara was three. Tara had hated pink, and the dungarees hadn’t lasted five hours. But her father was a different story. His parental style was very closely aligned to the ‘because-I’m-your-father-and-I-said-so’ school of thought, and he and Tara had clashed since the day Tara learnt to talk. Her mother had been stuck in the middle for the last twenty years, too scared to contradict her husband even if she secretly sympathised with Tara.

‘It’s a very good family,’ her mother continued, looking at her daughter appealingly. ‘I know you wanted to study further, but we might not get an opportunity like this again. It’s not as though you have anyone else in mind. And the son is really good-looking.’

Tara frowned. Her mother’s definition of good-looking was deeply suspect—it was likely that the man looked like a Bollywood movie star from the eighties, complete with shaggy hair and oversized tinted spectacles.

‘He is,’ her mother insisted, holding out a photo. ‘Take a look.’

Tara dutifully took a look, and then a second one. For once her mother wasn’t wrong: the man was gorgeous. Either that or the photographer was really good with an airbrush. She leaned closer, and her mother held on to the photo convulsively, obviously scared it might share the fate of the newspaper cutting.

‘Relax, I won’t do anything to it,’ Tara said impatiently. The man was definitely hot, all rugged features and sexy smile, but she’d reserve judgement till she actually met him. Maybe he’d have a stammer, or a dreadful accent, or be totally unappealing neck downwards—it was a head shot—or have BO.

‘When is His Highness the General Manager coming over?’ Tara asked.

Her mother looked at her in alarm. ‘Don’t talk like that!’ She grabbed Tara’s hand. ‘He’s your father’s boss’s boss—we can’t afford to offend him. Keep your tongue under control while they’re here, Tara, please. If only for my sake. If you don’t want to marry his son you don’t have to. I’ll speak to your father.’

Tara could appreciate the truly heroic effort her mother was making to promise something like that, and her heart melted. She leaned across and hugged her. ‘You won’t have to. I’ll speak to him myself if I need to. Don’t worry—I won’t let you down.’

She never had. When it came to choosing between getting her own way against her father and keeping her mother relatively happy she was a push-over. Her mother won hands-down every time. That was the main reason she hadn’t left home yet—though there had been practical considerations as well. Her father held the purse strings, and she’d thought it would be difficult to manage on her own, at least at the beginning. That bit was now sorted, with a friend having promised to lend her some money, but she was still hesitant.

One of the drawbacks of being brought up in a stereotypical traditional Indian family was that you ended up unconsciously buying into a lot of traditional Indian values. Bringing shame to the family was something your soul kicked against even when your brain was telling you that you were being an idiot.

Running away would definitely bring shame to the family. No one in the small industrial town they lived in would believe that a man was not involved. Her father would find it difficult to keep his head up in society, her mother’s friends would make condescending remarks, and all in all, their life would be a living nightmare. And in spite of all her father’s blustering and bullying, his archaic parenting style, Tara loved him a lot. The love was buried very, very deep down, but it was there—she couldn’t help it—and she knew he loved her back. His heart would be broken if he knew his daughter had run away because she couldn’t bear living in the same house as him any longer. She couldn’t do that to him unless it was absolutely necessary.

‘What’s the guy’s name?’ she asked. ‘The general manager’s son?’

‘Vikram,’ her mother said, happy that Tara was finally taking an interest. ‘It’s an unusual name for a South Indian, but his parents have lived in Mumbai ever since they got married, so they must have decided on a North Indian name.’

Tara nodded, as her mother twittered on. Vikram … Hmm … Gorgeous, sexy and successful Bengaluru-based Vikram Krishnan didn’t know it, but he just might be the answer to all her problems.

CHAPTER ONE

TARA looked at the photograph she’d saved on her phone, and then up again at the passengers alighting from the air-conditioned section of the train. There were several families whom she ignored, her eyes searching for a man travelling alone. That one, maybe? No, he looked too old—forty at least, or even older. And the next man getting off alone was almost completely bald.

Maybe Vikram Krishnan wasn’t on this train after all, she thought, her heart sinking. Maybe his flight into Kolkata had got delayed, and he’d missed the connecting train to Jamshedpur. She punched a small fist into the palm of her other hand in an unconscious gesture, and more than a few people on the busy platform turned to look at her curiously.

So far her plan had seemed to have a reasonable chance of success. The general manager and his wife had turned out to be an extremely likeable couple—for a few minutes Tara had actually caught herself wishing her parents were more like them. She’d set out to charm them and had succeeded, having them laughing at her carefully self-censored little jokes and practically eating out of her hand in a few minutes. They’d told her parents eagerly that they thought she’d be ‘perfect’ for Vikram.

Now Vikram was coming down to Jamshedpur for the express purpose of meeting her and deciding whether she was worthy of becoming his wife—Tara involuntarily curled her lip at the thought—and all she needed to do was to catch him alone before he came to her house to inspect her. Her parents had said that he’d told them not to meet him at the station, but it seemed the ideal opportunity. Assuming she could find him, that was.

There was a flurry near the door of the compartment opposite her as an elderly lady carrying two suitcases and a Peke got jammed in the doorway. A porter tried to extricate her as the Peke yapped wildly and a bunch of excited relatives on the platform shouted encouragement. Tara’s attention was drawn to them for a few seconds and she almost missed seeing a tall, well-built figure push open the other door of the compartment, and swing lightly down onto the platform.

It was definitely the man in the photograph—though he looked a little older, and harder somehow. Tara pulled up the image once again to make doubly sure. It was blurred, a shot of the original that she’d clicked sneakily on her phone’s camera when her mother wasn’t paying attention. Same man. No doubt about it.

Vikram Krishnan had taken his luggage down and was now surveying the crowded station with deep-set jet-black eyes, his slanting eyebrows giving him a rather cynical look. In spite of the cold his jacket was slung over one shoulder. He was wearing designer jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt open at the collar, and he looked like a model for something foreign-sounding and expensive. As Tara watched, he waved away the red-coated porters milling around him and, picking up his suitcase with one capable-looking hand, started walking towards the exit.

Now that she’d finally spotted him, Tara felt a large part of her confidence desert her. He looked so big, for one, and so terribly sure of himself. She’d been crazy to think he’d even want to listen to her.

His long strides had taken him halfway down the platform before she managed to gather her wits and run after him. The platform was full of people, and Tara found herself falling behind. ‘Sir!’ she called out, and then ‘Mr Krishnan! Vikram!’ He didn’t seem to hear her, though several other people turned to stare. ‘Vikram! Sir!’ she yelled again, hurrying after him.

He stopped finally. Tara was gasping a little by the time she caught up with him, and she felt the last bits of her courage ooze out of her as she looked up at his forbidding expression.

‘You want to speak to me?’ he asked.

His voice was deep, with a gravelly undertone that was so unexpectedly sexy it took her completely off guard. When she kept on staring at him without answering, he raised an eyebrow and repeated the question in Hindi.

‘I’m Tara,’ she said, and then, when he looked at her uncomprehendingly, she made a helpless little gesture. ‘I met your parents a few days ago. My dad works with yours …’ He still looked blank, and Tara abandoned the roundabout approach. ‘They’re looking for a wife for you, right? They want you to meet me—you’re supposed to come over to our house tomorrow.’

If she’d been looking for a lightbulb moment it wasn’t forthcoming. ‘There’s only one girl they’ve asked me to meet,’ he said. ‘And her name’s Naina, or something like that.’

‘Naintara,’ she said. ‘Most people call me Tara.’

‘Right,’ he said, frowning. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. Why are you here if we’re supposed to meet tomorrow?’

‘It’s … complicated.’ Tara said. ‘Can we sit down somewhere? I won’t take long.’ Her heart was pounding in her chest, and all her well-rehearsed speeches had flown out of her head. She was not normally susceptible to even the most good-looking men, and her reaction to Vikram had thrown her off balance.

Vikram led the way to the station canteen, pulling out one of the plastic chairs for her before sitting down himself. ‘Coffee or tea?’ he asked.

Tara said, ‘Coffee.’

He turned to give the waiter their order, and Tara waited till the waiter had gone before she spoke again.

‘I need to ask you a couple of things,’ she said. ‘Are you really serious about this whole arranged marriage thing? Or are you here just to humour your parents?’

Vikram didn’t look annoyed by the questions, but he did think a little before he answered.

‘I’m serious about an arranged marriage,’ he said finally. ‘But I’m not planning to blindly marry someone my parents choose, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Right,’ Tara said. ‘And do you have plans to move out of Bengaluru any time soon? Like in the next three or four years?’

This time he looked puzzled, his forehead creasing a little. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty much permanently settled there.’

There was a brief silence. Tara had run out of questions and was wondering how to embark on an explanation of her behaviour. ‘I know this must seem odd, my turning up to meet you like this,’ she said, giving Vikram her most winning smile.

‘It’s unusual, I admit,’ he said, smiling back.

Tara was struck again by quite how good-looking he was. He looked like a completely different person when he smiled, his eyes losing their rather grim expression and the corners of his firm mouth tilting up boyishly.

‘Maybe you could tell me a little more about why you’re here?’ he said. ‘I assume there is a point to your questions?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tara said. ‘It’s this—I’ve got a place in the Institute of Science at Bengaluru to do my doctorate in environmental studies and my dad is refusing to let me go. He thinks I’ve studied enough, and he’s desperate to get me married off. I told him I’m not interested, and he said he wouldn’t force me, but he won’t let me go to Bengaluru, either. The maximum he’s willing to do is allow me to become a schoolteacher till he manages to palm me off onto someone.’ She paused a little, a troubled look on her vibrant face. ‘I could ignore him and go, of course, but now my mum’s told me that they’ve spoken to your parents, and you’re from Bengaluru …’

Her voice trailed off, and Vikram continued the sentence for her. ‘And marrying me would please your parents and get you to Bengaluru? Is that it?’

She nodded, her big eyes absurdly hopeful as she stared at him across her coffee cup. ‘It did seem like the ideal solution,’ she admitted. ‘Assuming we hit it off, of course.’

Vikram leaned back in his chair, surveying her silently. She’d turned out to be a surprise in more ways than one, and he was at a stage in life when very few people surprised him. She was very direct, and very clear about what she wanted—both traits that he’d come to think of as uncommon in women. And her looks … His mother had told him that she was pretty, but ‘pretty’ didn’t begin to cover the allure of frank, intelligent eyes set in a heart-shaped face, and the mischievous smile trembling on her lush red lips. She wasn’t very tall, but the proportions of her slim body were perfect. And her hair was lovely—thick, straight and waist-length. A jolt of lust took him by surprise, turning his academic appreciation of her looks into something more urgent and immediate.

‘Why is doing your doctorate so important?’ he asked, partly to break the silence and partly because he genuinely wanted to know. ‘And especially one in environmental science? Aren’t the career options rather limited?’

Tara flushed a little. People kept asking her that, and she tended to get a bit worked up and annoyed about it. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an environmentalist,’ she said, in what she hoped was a calm and neutral-sounding voice. ‘I’d be getting an opportunity to work with one of the most well-known scientists in the field, and the research facilities at the institute are world-class. As for career options—I want to lead my own research team one day. Science isn’t a very well-paying field, but I’ll earn enough to get by.’

‘If you marry me you won’t have to worry about money,’ Vikram pointed out.

Tara gave him an appalled look. The money angle of marrying him hadn’t struck her at all, and for a second she’d been so busy defending her choice of career that she’d forgotten the reason she was talking to him. Now he probably thought she was out for a cushy corporate wife lifestyle while she played at being a scientist.

‘If you don’t marry me I’ll have to worry about it,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘My stipend won’t be enough to keep a cat alive. I’ll need to work part-time until I complete my doctorate. But I think it’s worth it.’ The last bit came out sounding a little defiant, because Vikram’s expression was unreadable and she couldn’t help feeling that she wasn’t convincing him.

She was wrong, though—Vikram was intrigued. He didn’t come across too many starry-eyed idealists in his line of work, and Tara’s unshakeable confidence in her dream was impressive and oddly endearing at the same time.

‘Worth it?’ he asked, stretching the words out a little. ‘Even worth marrying someone you hardly know as long as you get to complete your degree?’

‘That part’s a little complicated,’ Tara muttered, hoping he wouldn’t ask her anything more right then. She didn’t want to explain the situation with her parents until absolutely necessary.

Thankfully, he didn’t probe further, instead asking abruptly, ‘How old are you anyway?’

‘Twenty-two,’ Tara said, and as a nasty thought struck her she bubbled into further speech. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of talking to my dad about this? He’ll burst a blood vessel if he finds out I came here to meet you. If you decide not to marry me tell your parents you don’t like the shape of my nose or something. Or say I’m too short. I’ll figure some other way out.’

‘But you’ll go and enrol for that PhD, no matter what?’ Vikram said. ‘Relax, I’m not planning to tell him.’ His lips twitched slightly. ‘And, for the record, I quite like the shape of your nose.’

‘Really?’ she asked. Distracted from her immediate woes, she put up a hand to touch it. ‘Everyone says it ruins my face—too snub.’

‘Snub is cute,’ Vikram said, standing up and touching her hair gently, sending an unexpected thrill through her body. ‘I need some time to think, and it’s time I left. We’re meeting tomorrow in any case—you can call me on this number if you need to talk.’

‘OK,’ Tara said, taking the card with his mobile number.

She managed to flash a smile at him as he said goodbye in the car park, but she felt deeply despondent. He’d sounded more like an indulgent older brother than someone even remotely interested in marrying her.

The next day Vikram sat silently in Tara’s parents’ living room, listening to his parents making polite conversation with her father. Tara’s father had so far not made a very good impression. He was over-eager to please, and his wife—an older, washed-out version of Tara—was obviously scared of him. Tara herself had not made an appearance yet, and Vikram was getting impatient.

He cut into a long-winded description of Tara’s various accomplishments and said pointedly, ‘Maybe she could tell us more herself?’

‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Sundaram said effusively. ‘You must be eager to meet her.’ He turned to his wife and said in an angry undertone, ‘Get Tara here quick. She should have been ready hours ago.’

‘I thought you said …’ his wife began, and then quailed under her husband’s glare.

‘I’ll call her right away,’ she said hurriedly, and left the room.

She came back with Tara a few minutes later.

Vikram blinked. Tara was almost unrecognisable. The day before she’d been dressed in jeans and a loose sweater, with her long hair gathered back in a ponytail. Today she was wearing a pale-pink salwar-kameez, and her hair was done up in an elaborate braid. Huge dangly earrings swamped her tiny shell-like ears and she was wearing a bindi in the centre of her forehead. His initial impression was a picture of modest womanhood—except for her eyes, which had a little glint in them that hinted at her being less than pleased with the situation she found herself in.

‘This is my daughter,’ Mr Sundaram was saying proudly. ‘Very well-educated, MSc in Botany, gold medallist. Tara, you’ve already met Mr and Mrs Krishnan.’

‘Namaskaram,’ Tara said, folding her hands in the traditional gesture.

Both the Krishnans beamed back, clearly enchanted by her. Vikram could see why—Tara looked the epitome of good daughter-in-law material, and in addition she was vibrant, intelligent and very pretty.

‘This is their son, Vikram,’ Mr Sundaram continued. ‘Very successful lawyer.’

‘Thirty-three years old, six feet two inches,’ Tara said demurely. ‘Bengaluru-based.’

Her father glared at her, but Vikram’s parents burst out laughing.

‘I told you the ad was a dumb idea,’ Mr Krishnan said to his wife. ‘Vikram’s annoyed we put it in without telling him, and Tara thinks it’s a joke.’

‘Of course not, sir. How can you say such a thing?’ Tara’s father said immediately.

Vikram remembered that his father was Mr Sundaram’s boss. That went a long way towards explaining his overly eager-to-please attitude.

‘You can ask Tara what you want,’ he was saying now, the ingratiating smile still in place. ‘She’s been very keen to meet you.’

The thought of conducting a stilted conversation under the eyes of both sets of parents obviously appealed to Tara as little as it did to him, because she shot him a quick look.

‘I’d actually prefer to talk to her alone,’ Vikram said crisply, and before anyone could suggest that they move to another room—or, worse, go outside and talk in the garden—he continued, ‘I was thinking of taking her out for dinner tonight.’

Going by the stunned silence that greeted this, he might have been suggesting that he take her out and rape her in the bushes. Tara’s father was the first person to find his voice.

He said weakly, ‘But, son, we’ve made dinner. I mean Tara’s made dinner. I thought it would be a good idea for you to sample her cooking …’

‘I chop vegetables really well,’ Tara said before she could stop herself.

She knew she was going to get into trouble with her father later on, but really! Sample her cooking, indeed. Not that she couldn’t cook, but for this occasion her mother had done everything—other than chop the vegetables. The whole charade was beginning to irritate Tara intensely—right from the fake smile her father had plastered on his face to the ridiculous earrings she’d been forced to wear.

‘I’ll leave my mother to judge her cooking,’ Vikram said, as if Tara hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ll take the car, Dad, I’ll pick you up from here when I drop Tara off after dinner. OK by you, Tara?’

‘Can I change first?’ she asked. This time her mother gave her an appealing look, so Tara muttered, ‘Oh, all right. I look like a Christmas tree in this, that’s all.’

‘Have a good time!’ Vikram’s mother called after them as they left the room together.

Tara’s room was at the front of the house, and she stopped to pick up her handbag and a sweater before running outside. Vikram was holding the car door open for her, and she slid in with a muttered thank-you.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Vikram asked as he drove out of the lane.

‘Mmph,’ Tara said in response, her face obscured by the grey cashmere sweater she was trying to tug down over her head.

Vikram pulled to the side of the road, and waited patiently as she struggled. ‘Do you need help?’ he asked politely after a few minutes passed, and his prospective fiancée continued to wrestle with the sweater.

‘Darn thing’s caught on my earring,’ Tara panted, lifting a corner of the sweater to reveal her flushed face. ‘I should have taken the earrings off first. They’re like bloody chandeliers.’

‘Stop wriggling,’ Vikram said, clicking the car light on and reaching across to disentangle the earring. Tara obligingly leaned closer, and he was treated to a sudden glimpse of cleavage. Despite himself Vikram found himself looking—he had to tear his eyes away and concentrate on getting the earring out of the delicate wool. ‘Done,’ he said finally, his voice coming out a little thicker than normal.

In addition to the cleavage, there had been soft skin at the nape of her neck that he hadn’t been able to avoid touching several times. And she was wearing a perfume that managed to be sweetly innocent and madly tantalising at the same time—a lot like Tara herself, Vikram thought, before he shook himself. He’d been celibate too long, he thought cynically, if he was starting to get excited about touching a woman’s ear.

‘Thanks,’ Tara said, giving him a cheeky little smile. ‘I thought I’d be stuck inside that thing for ever, blundering around like a headless horseman.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, his voice sounding a little cold even to his own ears. ‘Now, where would you like to go for dinner?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tara said cheerfully as she tugged off the annoying earrings and deposited them in her handbag. ‘Dad always takes us to his club, but the food’s horrible and all the waiters have known me since I was ten years old.’

‘There’s a restaurant in the new five-star hotel, isn’t there?’ Vikram asked, mentioning the only decent hotel he’d seen in the city. ‘I don’t know Jamshedpur very well. This is my first visit since my father got transferred here.’

Tara was busy scrubbing the lipstick off her lips with a tissue. ‘I’ve never been there,’ she said. ‘It’s too expensive for the likes of us.’ A little too late she realised that the remark could be interpreted in several ways, and tried to correct herself. ‘I mean Dad doesn’t like eating out much. He says it’s a waste of money. And when we do go out …’

‘You go to his club.’ Vikram said. ‘You told me. How do I get to the hotel from here?’

‘You take the next left and go straight for around five kilometres,’ Tara said, sounding a little subdued.

Vikram glanced at her. She had managed to get her hair out of the complicated-looking braid it had been in and was now finger-combing it into obedience. It was really lovely hair, he thought, as she bent her head to dig in her purse for a scrunchie, and it fell over the side of her face like a jet-black curtain. An auto-rickshaw honked indignantly, and he turned his eyes hastily back to the road.

‘What’s the news on your PhD?’ he asked.

‘I spoke to my supervisor again,’ Tara replied. ‘She said she’s willing to wait for me till January, but after that she’s going to take on the next research applicant on her list.’

Vikram nodded, and she didn’t dare to ask him if he’d made up his mind. Presumably, as he was taking her out to dinner, he hadn’t decided definitely not to marry her. Or maybe he had, and he just wanted to tell her in person rather than on the phone. This was all very confusing, Tara thought, wrinkling up her nose and peeking quickly at his rather stern profile.

‘You look quite different now,’ Vikram remarked as Tara got out of the car at the hotel.

‘Different from yesterday, or different from five minutes ago?’ Tara asked.

‘Both, actually,’ Vikram said. ‘Though I meant your in-car makeover. An immense improvement, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

It was. Unlike the sweater she’d worn to the station, the plain grey one she was wearing now was clingy, outlining her slim curves perfectly. After several unsuccessful attempts at tying up her hair she’d let it hang loose—that and the kohl that she’d wisely not tried to rub off made her look older and way more sophisticated than she had earlier. Though a lot of the effect was neutralised by the way she now stared at the water feature in the foyer of the hotel. Vikram had the distinct feeling that if it weren’t for his hand under her elbow, steering her towards the restaurant, she would run up to it and stick her hands under the shimmering cascade of water.

‘This place is cool,’ she said, her eyes sparkling as she slid gracefully into a chair opposite Vikram.

He nodded, oddly touched at her excitement. He’d been to scores of restaurants, with scores of women, but none of them had been so genuinely pleased with so little. She went through the wine list carefully, but shook her head when he asked her what she’d like to drink.

‘Just a Coke please,’ she said. ‘I don’t drink. I was just looking at the names of the wines.’

Even the waiter smiled indulgently as he wrote her order down. Vikram had been about to order a Chilean wine that he was rather fond of, but he changed his mind and ordered a mocktail instead.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said after the waiter left. ‘Are you really serious about marrying me to get to Bengaluru and do your PhD?’

She nodded. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You must have thought I was crazy, accosting you like that. But your parents happened to mention that you didn’t want them meeting your train, and I thought that was the only opportunity I’d get to speak to you alone.’

‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘It just took me a little while to understand what you wanted. Your father’s still absolutely against your studying further, is he?’

Tara nodded. ‘You saw him today,’ she said. ‘Getting me married off to a good South Indian man is currently topmost on his priority list. If he isn’t able to manage that, he’s OK with me taking up a teaching job while he continues with the manhunt.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘Look, I don’t want to put you on the spot,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want to marry me that’s perfectly OK. I understand.’

Vikram glanced away for a second. His motives for wanting to get married were complex, but his requirements were extremely simple. Pretty much any nice-looking, reasonably well-educated girl would do—Tara fitted the description, and he genuinely liked her.

‘I think marriage will work for us if we’re both clear about what the other person wants,’ he said finally. ‘I’m the first one to admit that I’m going about this in a rather cold-blooded way. At your age you probably expect romance and candlelit dinners and a fairytale wedding.’

Tara smiled, her face taking on an uncommonly wise expression. ‘People have been getting married in India for centuries without even meeting each other before the ceremony. I guess we’re lucky we’ve been born into a generation that has some choice. Or at least you do—I don’t think my dad has quite realised which century he’s living in.’ She took in the look on Vikram’s face and grinned. ‘The short answer is no, I’m not looking for romance. Though I wouldn’t mind a candlelit dinner now and then.’

‘You haven’t considered leaving home and striking out on your own?’ Vikram asked. He found it a little difficult to believe that a girl as confident as Tara was so closely controlled by her father. Her body language when her father was around didn’t suggest that she found him intimidating in the least.

‘Oh, I have,’ Tara said. ‘Until you appeared on the scene it seemed to be my only option. But my dad would have cut me off from the family completely—and though he’s a pain I wouldn’t like that to happen. My mum would be lost without me.’

The last bit was believable, Vikram thought. Her mother was definitely under her father’s thumb, and he could imagine Mr Sundaram making her life miserable if Tara left home against his wishes.

The waiter came up with their drinks, and Tara’s eyes lit up as she saw the mocktail. ‘Ooh, that looks cute,’ she said, pointing at the little umbrella perched on top of the bright blue drink.

Vikram winced. ‘You can have it if you want,’ he said. ‘I’m quite happy with a Coke.’

Tara exchanged the drinks and sipped at the blue mocktail. ‘It’s good,’ she pronounced. ‘It looks a bit like window-cleaning fluid, but it tastes nice.’ She plucked the umbrella off the drink and tried opening and shutting it a few times, before looking up. ‘You can ask questions now,’ she prompted politely.

Vikram gave her a puzzled look. ‘What questions?’

‘Marriage interview questions,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to quiz me on my hobbies, whether I can cook, how many children I’d like to have—that kind of thing?’

He laughed, and Tara found herself laughing with him.

‘OK, here goes,’ he said, entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘We’ll begin with a rapidfire round. What’s your favourite book?’

‘To Kill a Mockingbird. Yours?’

Vikram shook his head, his eyes dancing. ‘No, I get to ask the questions. Movie?’

‘Three Idiots. Except the bit where the guitarist guy hangs himself.’

‘Music?’

‘Classical Karnatic.’ He looked surprised, and she laughed. ‘My parents spent a bomb on lessons. It’s kind of expected. Though, to be honest, it’s grown on me.’

‘Right. Food?’

‘Rasam and rice.’

‘Hmm, very traditional. Hobbies?’

‘Science, trekking and crochet.’

‘Crochet?’

He sounded incredulous, and Tara’s ears went a little pink. ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to sound as firm as she could.

‘Like Miss Marple? Fluffy wool and a little hooked needle?’

‘Yes,’ Tara said, her ears going pinker. But she stuck to her guns. ‘It’s creative and it’s easy to carry around. Don’t laugh.’

‘I’m not,’ Vikram said, looking so serious that Tara almost burst into giggles herself. ‘I have immense respect for crochet. And trekking. But—if I may ask—crocheting what? And trekking where?’

‘Crocheting purses for my mum and aunts, mainly.’ Tara said. ‘And trekking in the hills around the city—we had a group in college.’

‘OK,’ he said, consideringly. ‘Now, what else. Pet hates?’

‘Frogs. The city’s overrun with them in the monsoons. I hate the way they look at me, as if they’re expecting me to kiss them.’ She gazed solemnly at Vikram, and his mouth twitched.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I hope I don’t remind you of one?’

She put her head to one side. ‘No. Though you’re still a few kisses short of turning into Prince Charming.’

He raised his eyebrows, and Tara wondered if she’d gone too far. Talking of kisses had automatically drawn her eyes to his firm, uncompromising and perfectly shaped mouth, making her wonder what kissing him would be like. Quickly she looked away and continued, ‘I mean, you’re good-looking, but you’re all dark and brooding—like something in a Gothic romance. Except when you laugh.’

‘Thank you,’ Vikram said politely. ‘I don’t think anyone’s referred to me as Gothic before, but if that’s the impression I’ve given I’ll live with it.’

Tara flushed. She’d allowed her tongue to run away with her again, but what she’d said was true. When Vikram wasn’t actively making an effort to be pleasant there was something remote and rather forbidding about him. And his height and undeniably impressive looks contributed to the effect.

She began to fiddle with the cocktail umbrella that was still lying on the table and he reached out, his fingers briefly twining with hers as he rescued it.

‘Stop mangling the poor thing,’ he said, putting the umbrella aside.

Tara stayed silent. The feel of his strong, lean fingers on hers had set up a little chorus of longing inside her, and she didn’t know how to react.

‘So, I’m done with my questions,’ he said. ‘Anything I’ve missed out?’

‘You haven’t asked me if I can cook,’ she pointed out. ‘My mother would be heartbroken. She’s spent hours teaching me.’

‘Ah, how could I have forgotten? So, have the lessons worked?’

‘I think so,’ she said cautiously. ‘At least my father doesn’t complain about my cooking any longer, and he’s the fussiest eater on the planet.’

‘I’m not fussy at all,’ Vikram assured her. ‘Besides, I employ a cook, so culinary skills aren’t high on my list of suitable wifely qualities. Is there anything you’d like to ask?’

‘Yes,’ Tara said. ‘There’s something I really want to know. What made you agree to an arranged marriage in the first place? You don’t seem the type.’

Vikram shrugged, his light-hearted mood dissipating a little. She was right—five years ago, if someone had told him he’d be marrying a woman his parents had chosen for him, he’d have laughed them out of the room. Things had changed a lot since then.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ he said lightly. ‘I got tired of living alone, my parents would have found it difficult to adjust to a daughter-in-law from a different community—an arranged marriage just made more sense.’

It was a simplified version of the truth, and it would have to do till he got to know Tara better. He was still in two minds about marrying her. She was very attractive, but she was also very young—he felt positively ancient compared to her. A ‘desi’ Humbert Humbert with a legal-age Lolita. The thing that tilted the balance in her favour was the fact that she seemed absolutely transparent and straightforward. His last girlfriend had been a complex mass of half-truths and evasions, and he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

‘Were you seeing someone?’ Tara asked, her curiosity piqued by his reference to a daughter-in-law from another community.

Vikram, unused to answering questions about his personal life, was tempted to retort that it was none of her business. Then, as he met Tara’s clear gaze, he realised that it was her business. She had just as much right to ask questions as he had—probably more, given that hers was a more vulnerable situation.

‘I was dating a girl called Anjali for a while,’ he said curtly. ‘It didn’t ever reach the marriage stage—she wasn’t what I’d expect my wife to be.’

‘What do you expect from your wife, then?’ Tara asked in a low voice. The dismissive tone in which he’d spoken of Anjali jarred on her—he’d sounded uncaring, and just a little hard.

Vikram shrugged. ‘I have a fairly busy social calendar because of my work. My wife would need to accompany me to parties and events, host people at our home. The house needs some work as well—I have a housekeeper and a cook, and they’re both fairly efficient, but there’s a lot that can be improved.’ He smiled briefly, before continuing, ‘Nothing much else that I can think of—except the obvious. Although I’m not keen on kids for a while, and I assume you aren’t, either.’

Tara felt her cheeks heat up in spite herself. Kids. She’d never even thought of kids. She had thought of ‘the obvious’—thought about it more often and for longer than she cared to admit. She’d even had an embarrassingly erotic dream about Vikram, which she’d been trying to push to the back of her mind. She stayed silent as he continued.

‘I’m not a very demanding person. If we marry, you’d be free to lead your life the way you want. I travel a lot, and I work long hours. I won’t be around much—I’d expect you to be independent and able to take of yourself.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ Tara said before she could stop herself. ‘I’m not exactly the clingy type.’

‘I know,’ Vikram said, his lips quirking. ‘From what I’ve seen of you so far, you seem to be about as clingy as The-Cat-That-Walked-by-Himself.’

Tara tried to frown, but ended up laughing. The discomfort she’d felt at the way he’d spoken about Anjali was gone—after all, she didn’t know the full story. Perhaps Anjali had been one of those dreadful ‘girlfriends from hell’ kind of women? And Vikram looked so sexy when he smiled, she thought, it was impossible to think ill of him.

The food arrived, and Vikram skilfully guided the conversation towards Tara’s plans to become an environmentalist and specialise in the conservation of indigenous ecosystems. He didn’t speak much, except to interject with a question here and there. It was a ploy he used often at work—making someone talk of something they were passionate about to get them to reveal more about themselves.

By the end of the meal he knew enough about the ecosystems in eastern India to write a monograph on the subject—he also knew a lot more about Tara than he had before. His initial impression of her being extremely intelligent was confirmed, and he’d developed a healthy respect for her commitment to her research work.

‘I’m sorry I talked so much,’ she said as they walked towards the car. ‘I get a bit carried away when I’m talking about something that interests me.’

‘You apologise way too often,’ Vikram replied. He took her hand gently as they stopped by the car. ‘Tara, I’d like to spend more time with you, to get to know you better, but I know your parents won’t be in favour of that.’

Here comes the brush-off, Tara thought despairingly, while a separate part of her brain thrilled to the touch of his hand. She’d handled this all wrong, she thought. She should have let him do more of the talking. And ordering him to ask her questions had been a terrible move—what could she have been thinking? And the worst thing, quite apart from not being able to do her PhD if he didn’t marry her, was that in addition to thinking he was hot she’d actually started liking him.

‘So, given that it’ll be difficult to get any more time together, I guess we’ll have to decide now.’ Vikram took a deep breath. ‘Tara Sundaram, will you marry me?’

It came out sounding a lot cheesier than he’d intended, but the impact on Tara was satisfying. She looked stunned, staring at him with her pretty lips parted slightly, her breath coming a little faster. He realised he wanted to kiss her very badly, and to avoid succumbing to the temptation he released her hand, stepping back to lean against the car.

Tara took a few seconds to find her voice. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked finally, her voice sounding childish and more than a little shaky to her own ears.

Vikram nodded. ‘I am. You’d be free to do your doctorate, work at whatever you want …’ He raised a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, his hand lightly caressing her cheek.

For a second Tara had actually forgotten completely about her career aspirations, she was too busy trying to get her head around the fact that Vikram really wanted to marry her. When he mentioned the PhD, though, a rush of relief coursed through her.

‘Thanks,’ she blurted out.

Vikram winced. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her at this stage, but it definitely wasn’t gratitude.

‘Let’s get back and tell our families, then,’ he said, opening the door for her before walking around to slide into the driver’s seat. ‘I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.’

Tara nodded silently, acutely aware of the awkwardness that had crept into the conversation. He was right—their parents would be thrilled. The magnitude of the step she was taking was just dawning on her, though, and an entire flock of butterflies seemed to have set up house in her stomach.

She clenched her hands together, willing herself to stay calm as they sped through the streets towards her parents’ home. It was done now, she told herself firmly, sneaking a quick glance at Vikram’s impassive profile. No turning back, even if she wanted to.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHERE would you two like to go for your honeymoon?’ Vikram’s mother asked brightly. ‘Europe?’

She and Vikram were at Tara’s home to finalise some of the arrangements for the wedding before Vikram went back to Bengaluru. There were apparently a whole bunch of auspicious wedding dates in November, just a little over a month away.

Tara gulped. A honeymoon. That made the whole thing sound a lot more real. She glanced at Vikram quickly—as usual, it was difficult to gauge his reaction. Quite possibly he was as appalled at the thought of a honeymoon as she was.

‘I don’t have a passport,’ she said, trying to buy some time.

It was perfectly true, anyway. She’d asked her father once if she could get one and he’d sneered at the idea. Serve him right, she thought nastily. He’d have one less thing to brag about if she ended up going to Goa on her honeymoon. He was at his insufferable best right now, puffed up with pleasure at the thought of marrying his daughter into the general manager’s family.

Vikram’s mother looked disappointed. ‘Oh, dear. And there isn’t enough time to get one now. You might as well get it done with your new surname after you’re married. It’ll have to be some place in India, then.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll leave the two of you alone to discuss it.’

‘Do you want to change your surname after we marry?’ Vikram asked after his mother had left.

Tara gave him a startled look—it hadn’t occurred to her that she had a choice in the matter. ‘Isn’t it expected that I change it to yours?’

‘Who’s doing the expecting?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘Not me, definitely, and I don’t think anyone else’s opinion counts.’

It probably didn’t to him, but Tara herself didn’t have the courage to be quite so careless of other people’s views. Perhaps she’d get that way once she got away from her parents, she thought, her spirits lifting at the idea.

‘Honeymoon destinations,’ he said, as if the little interlude hadn’t happened at all. ‘Goa—Kerala—Rajasthan? Or something a little more out of the way?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tara said flatly. ‘I haven’t been to any of them, so it’s all the same to me.’

His face took on the remote expression that she’d mentally termed his switched-off face.

‘No preferences at all? Beaches? Backwaters? Palaces? No dream holiday destination?’

She shrugged. ‘Nowhere that’s suitable for a honeymoon,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go on a tiger safari. We went to Gir for a vacation when I was kid, and saw lions in the wild, but I’ve only seen a tiger once, and that was in a zoo.’

‘Let’s do that, then,’ Vikram said, surprising her. ‘We can go to the Jim Corbett National Park, or to one of the reserves in MP—Band-havgarh or Pench.’

‘Won’t that look a little odd?’ Tara asked.

Characteristically, Vikram shrugged. ‘It’s our business where we go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to pull a few strings to get us a booking in time. And we can do Khajuraho either before or after.’

Tara’s face promptly flamed in embarrassment—Khajuraho was famous for its erotic temple sculptures, and she did not want to spend the rest of her life having her leg pulled by people who knew she’d gone there on her honeymoon.

‘OK, the Taj Mahal, then,’ Vikram said, noticing her confusion. ‘I suggested Khajuraho because it’s in the same state as Pench, but if the idea bothers you we can go and see the Taj.’ She looked unconvinced, and he added ‘By moonlight?’ in encouraging tones.

‘I can’t decide which would be worse,’ she muttered, and he laughed outright.

Tara had decided quite early on that Vikram’s laugh was one of the sexiest things about him, and an automatic little thrill ran through her. His laugh or his voice—the jury was still out on which was sexier. Maybe she should invite her friends to meet him and then do a poll. She realised suddenly that he was saying something, and gave him an enquiring look.

‘What’s the Taj done to upset you?’ he repeated.

‘It’s a tomb!’ Tara said defensively. ‘Besides, I’ve already seen it.’

It had been a hateful trip, staying in a cheap hotel and going to the Taj on a bus full of other penny-pinching small-town tourists. Seeing the Taj with Vikram would be something else all together—but visiting a monument to love when they were both marrying for convenience seemed ironic to say the least.

‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll figure something else out, then.’ He touched her hair, threading his fingers slowly through its length. ‘Let me know what you want to do about your surname.’

‘I’d like to keep my own, if it’s all the same to you,’ Tara said. ‘I don’t like the sound of Naintara Krishnan.’

She stood up abruptly. The feel of his hands tangling in her hair was doing weird things to her insides, and the temptation to jump on him and claw his clothes off was immense. But both their mothers were in the next room. Being caught making out with her fiancé in the living room of her parents’ house would give bringing shame to the family a completely new and different twist.

‘Something wrong?’ Vikram asked when she got up and moved away.

‘No,’ Tara replied. ‘I’m tired of sitting in one place like a lump of dough, that’s all.’

He grinned at that, lounging back on the cushions. ‘You don’t look very doughy,’ he said. ‘More like a jumpy kitten. Come back here.’

There wasn’t even a hint of command in his voice, but Tara found herself obeying him automatically, going and sitting next to him on the sofa.

‘Nervous about the honeymoon?’ he asked softly, and she nodded.

‘It’s not just the honeymoon, it’s the whole marriage thing!’ she blurted out. ‘It’s taking on a life of its own. My mum is obsessing about my trousseau, yours is picking out honeymoon destinations, there’s a bunch of my dad’s relatives coming down from Chennai I’ve never met before in my life. I’ve completely lost track of what’s happening! And I’m finding it difficult to get my head around the whole thought of being married. This isn’t like going away to college, is it? It’s like a … a … brand-new life I’m getting into, and I don’t feel prepared. You seem so completely in control, and you know exactly what you want. I feel like a confused mess in comparison!’ She ran out of breath and stopped.

‘I’m a little nervous, too,’ he said quietly.

She blinked. ‘Are you?’ she asked, ‘Seriously?’

Vikram’s voice had a wry undertone as he replied. ‘Seriously. I guess I’m just better at hiding it than you are.’

‘Lawyer training.’ Tara sighed. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest. I wish someone had taught me how to do that. I inevitably say exactly what I’m thinking.’

‘That’s one of the nicest things about you,’ Vikram said, and smiled. ‘Don’t look so tragic, Tara, it’ll work out. We’re both sensible people, and each of us knows what the other one is expecting from this marriage. There’s no reason for things to go wrong.’

Put like that, their wedding sounded like a dry and soulless business arrangement. Tara sighed again. She’d told Vikram she didn’t believe in romance and being swept off her feet, but a small dose of affection would have helped.

Vikram watched her square her shoulders unconsciously, as if to prepare for a not very palatable task. Her smooth forehead was puckered in thought, and her lips were pursed slightly. She looked determined and vulnerable at the same time. So far he’d been very careful not to touch her, beyond a casual peck on the cheek or a caress on the hand, but the temptation to kiss her now was immense.

‘You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?’ Tara asked, her head still downcast.

‘I’ve been away from work for almost two weeks,’ Vikram said. ‘I need to get back and get things in order before November.’

Tara didn’t reply, and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping her face up so that he could look into her eyes.

‘Cheer up,’ he said quietly.

She blinked, a little breathless, ‘I am! I mean I’m cheerful enough. Just a little jittery.’

‘Maybe this will help …’ he said.

She shivered at the promise in his husky voice, staring mesmerised into his eyes as he bent his head. He kissed her very gently, his lips feather-light against hers. The sensation was exquisite, but Tara felt herself begin to panic. She didn’t know how to respond. Her impulse was to drag his head closer and make him keep kissing her, but she had a feeling she should be doing something herself—moving her lips? Doing something with her tongue? She could have screamed in frustration when he released her after barely ten seconds.

‘See you in a month,’ he said softly, and she stepped back.

They didn’t have much time to talk after that, as Vikram’s mother came bustling into the room after a few minutes to take Tara’s opinion on a menu for the wedding reception.

The next month was crazy. Vikram went back to Bengaluru after putting an embarrassingly large diamond on Tara’s finger, and both his mother and Tara’s threw themselves into wedding preparations. Tara stayed out of them as much as possible, concentrating on getting some preliminary reading done for her PhD before the wedding took over her life. Vikram called a few times, and e-mailed often, but the conversations had a surreal quality to them—they ended up discussing trivial things, like whether the colour of the tie he was wearing to the reception would clash with her sari, rather than the fact that they were days away from committing to spending the rest of their lives together.

The wedding itself was to be a quiet family affair—Vikram wanted it that way, and Tara’s father had reluctantly agreed. Tara felt a bit of a fraud as her mother carefully arranged the folds of her green and gold brocade sari.

The whole thing didn’t seem real yet, she thought, moving her head irritably. In addition to the weight of her already heavy hair, she had enough flowers pinned in it to stock a moderate-sized florist’s shop for a week. She was extremely sleep-deprived—she hadn’t slept much the night before, and the ceremony was starting at an unearthly hour in the morning because that was the ‘auspicious time’ the Krishnans’ priest had come up with. And she was very, very jittery.

The enormity of what she was doing had just begun to dawn on her, and the result was as fine an attack of nerves as one could have hoped for.

‘This’ll be your first night—’ her mother started to say.

Tara cut across her rudely. ‘If you’re going to tell me the facts of life, Mum, you’re some ten years too late.’ Her mother flushed painfully, sending Tara into one of her instant guilt trips. ‘Sorry, Amma,’ she muttered.

Her mother recovered with dignity. ‘It’ll still be your first time. If you need to know something, ask me.’

‘Yeah, right …’ Tara muttered to herself.

Her mother hadn’t even bothered to tell her about contraception—if she thought her daughter was all that innocent, wouldn’t that be the least she’d do? Or maybe she wanted her to get pregnant, Tara thought darkly, so that she’d give up all hopes of having a career, or even a life of her own. Anyway, she’d sorted things out for herself, going to the gynaecologist mother of a friend of hers and getting three months’ supply of the Pill.

She was still brooding when her closest friend, Ritu, entered the room.

‘I’ll take over, Aunty,’ she said cheerfully to Tara’s mum. ‘Only the make-up to be done, right?’

Tara’s mother escaped thankfully, and Ritu pulled up a chair.

‘Nervy?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Tara nodded.

‘I take back everything I said about this being a bad idea.’ Ritu said. ‘I saw your fiancé for about five minutes outside, and he’s gorgeous. Most women would kill for a night with a man like that.’

Tara gulped. Other than a kissing session with a college classmate, which she’d entered into on a purely experimental basis, she was terribly inexperienced when it came to men. And Vikram looked anything but inexperienced. He’d probably slept with dozens of women. The thought of the wedding night had her tied up in knots. She was so unsure about what to do and how to behave. The thought of actually getting into bed with Vikram was scary and exciting at the same time, and a little shiver went through her.

‘Feeling cold?’ Ritu asked, oblivious to the turmoil in her best friend’s mind. ‘It’ll be warmer in the main hall—it’s actually getting a bit stuffy. There are dozens of people around. You sure you don’t have some gatecrashers in there?’

Tara grinned unwillingly. At some point, the ‘quiet family affair’ had got completely out of control, probably because the ‘family’ on either side numbered over a hundred people. The noise filtered in even through the closed doors of the changing room. Everyone was talking and laughing at once, the priest was chanting Sanskrit mantras at the top of his voice, and to add to the pandemonium there were live musicians playing traditional music to accompany the mantras. The plaintive strains of the nadaswaram in the background intensified the fluttery feeling in Tara’s stomach, and for an instant she had a childish impulse to cover her ears with her hands.

After about ten more minutes her mother turned up again, to lead her out to the wedding pavilion.

‘I can’t see—stop shoving me!’ she hissed, her eyes discreetly lowered as her mother had instructed.

She was seething as she was finally pushed into her seat in front of the sacred fire by various over-helpful female relatives. The noise was much louder, and the heavy beat of the drum seemed to make her heart pound harder. Her eyes began to water—the priest had just poured a pot of butter into the fire, and it was smoking dreadfully.

‘Such a coincidence, meeting you here,’ an extremely sexy voice drawled into her ear.

She spun towards the sound and found herself looking right into Vikram’s eyes.

‘Calm down,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Not changed your mind, have you? You look more like you’re at a funeral than a wedding.’

‘I feel ridiculously over-dressed,’ Tara muttered, taking in the sight of Vikram in a white T-shirt over a veshti, the single white cotton kilt-like lower garment that was traditional male garb for any South Indian religious occasion—weddings and funerals included.

His hair was still damp from the shower, and the white collar of his T-shirt set off his tanned skin to perfection. Ritu was right—he looked gorgeous. Tara unconsciously clenched her hands. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to be attracted to him so strongly. He was just looking at her now, for God’s sake, and it was driving her crazy with longing. The suppressed heat in his eyes was making her imagine all kinds of delicious things.

‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he said finally, his voice low. ‘Don’t look at him now, but even the pundit’s checking you out.’

Tara smiled. She couldn’t help it. Vikram was perhaps a little too calm and collected, but he definitely was a help in getting things into perspective.

‘That’s better,’ Vikram said. ‘I feel a little less like an undertaker’s assistant now.’

She laughed at that, and both her parents gave her disapproving looks.

‘Vikram, kannan, you can’t get married wearing a T-shirt,’ one of the hovering aunts clicked in exasperation.

In addition to the veshti, tradition also dictated a bare-chested dress code for men.

‘It’s cold,’ someone else said chidingly. ‘He can take the T-shirt off once the actual ceremonies begin.’

‘They’re about to begin!’ the first voice chimed in. ‘Vikram …’

‘Yes—OK!’ he said in exasperation, and stood up, pulling the T-shirt over his head in one fluid movement.

Ohhhh. He had the best body Tara had ever seen off-screen, and she almost cried out in protest when he slung an angavastram carelessly across one shoulder, the white cloth covering up a large part of his near-perfect chest.

‘Drool alert,’ Ritu whispered warningly into her ear.

Tara looked away in a hurry, hoping none of the aunts had noticed her casting lustful looks at her almost-husband. She couldn’t turn off the images in her mind, though—her anticipation for their first night together had just been turned up a notch.

Most of the ceremony passed by in blur—except for her having to perch on Vikram’s knee for the duration of one particularly complex ritual. In her efforts to a) not put her full weight on him, and b) not seem too flustered at having to climb onto his lap in front of a hundred interested onlookers, she almost overbalanced.

He put his hands around her waist, his warm palms touching her bare skin just above the waistband of the sari. ‘Relax, you won’t crush me,’ he said, and pulled her back against him.

Tara sat quietly, doing her best not to breathe. For the few minutes she stayed on his lap she felt as if they were isolated from the rest of the world. The priest’s chants and the excited conversation among their relatives seemed to be coming from a long, long distance away. All that was real was the feeling of his hands on her waist, and his breath on the nape of her neck. She had a sudden mad urge to turn around and press her lips to his, and she almost shuddered with the effort of keeping still.

Finally the priest beamed around at everyone, pronouncing all the ceremonies done, and the magistrate’s assistant came forward with the marriage register. Tara felt her heart thumping in her chest as she signed it. This was it. She was tied to Vikram for the rest of her life now. She caught her father wiping his eyes furtively and was almost unbearably touched. Her mother, in contrast, for once looked completely in control.

‘So far, so good,’ Vikram murmured out of the corner of his mouth as they posed for photographs with the nth set of beaming relatives. ‘Are you feeling better now? For a minute I thought you’d bolt—you looked petrified.’

‘I didn’t!’ Tara said indignantly. Talk about a mood-killer. ‘It was all that smoke and noise.’

‘Smoke and noise?’ he repeatedly thoughtfully. ‘Hmm …’

His arm slipped round her waist, and he bent and lightly brushed his lips against hers. It was a teasingly casual embrace, but her already heightened senses went haywire at his touch. She instinctively leaned into the kiss, blushing when he drew away and surveyed her with amused eyes.

‘I’m looking forward to tonight,’ he said huskily, almost to himself.

Someone called out to him, but he held her gaze for a few seconds, his jet-black eyes burning into hers before he turned away. Tara could feel her pulse racing. Thankfully no one was near enough to notice her agitation, and she took a couple of deep breaths before she went to stand by Vikram’s side for the next round of photographs.

CHAPTER THREE

TARA scowled into the mirror. ‘This blouse was a mistake,’ she said, looking at the fussy red and silver long-sleeved brocade blouse she was supposed to wear for the wedding reception that Vikram’s father was hosting at his swanky club. ‘I shouldn’t have let my mother and the tailors bulldoze me into getting it stitched this way. I look ridiculous.’

‘Tara, it’s too late to do anything. The guests have begun to arrive,’ Ritu protested. ‘Put it on, and we’ll drape the sari in a way so it doesn’t look too bad.’

‘I am not about to step out in front of a thousand people dressed like Santa Claus in drag,’ Tara said through her teeth. ‘Can you get me a pair of scissors from somewhere?’

‘Tara …’ Ritu said despairingly.

Tara turned around. ‘I need to look like I belong with Vikram,’ she said. ‘Not like some schoolroom miss dressed up by her mum.’

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