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The Love Asana
Milan Vohra


The Innocent Wife Vivan Parasher has waited patiently for revenge. But when he gets it he feels the Dewan family still owe him more. Then the beautiful sister of his nemesis walks into his office, willing to do anything to save her brother from Vivan’s vengeance…A notorious playboy, Vivan could certainly benefit from a wife on his arm, and Pari is the perfect candidate. If he didn’t have proof that she’s as bad as the rest of her family Vivan might even feel a twinge of guilt at his shocking proposal! But it’s only when he slips his ring on Pari’s finger that he realises the extent of his mistake.







‘If you’re doing me the kindness of marrying me, have the decency to at least give me time,’ Pari tried negotiating shakily.

‘Time? For what?’

‘To despise you a little less.’ There, she’d said it.

‘I’m giving your brother seven crore rupees.’ Vivan’s voice had a dangerous edge to it. ‘Uske ellava I don’t need to give you anything else. Not time. Not anything.’ Vivan turned away from her. ‘And as far as despising goes, Pari, you have no idea what the word even means. But have no worry. I’ve never had to force myself on a woman yet and it’s not going to happen now either. You’ll be the one begging me to take you.’

‘Kabhi nahin! There’s no chance in hell that’ll happen!’ Pari shot back.

He took a few long strides towards the door and then turned to extract a platinum card from his wallet. ‘Here. This is what I actually came to give you.’

Pari stood in a daze as Vivan curtly handed her the credit card and said in a mocking voice, ‘Use it to buy whatever you need for the wedding. It has no limit. So no matter how much you loathe me, it won’t make a dent.’

‘What makes you think I would even use it?’ Pari had never been so humiliated.

‘Get used to it.’ Vivan smiled sardonically. ‘One of the perks of being Mrs Parasher.’


Dear Reader

Mills & Boon and I were introduced to each other when I was in my early teens. Then about a year ago an idea came to me as I was practising my yoga, and I knew right away I wanted to write the story of a young yoga instructor who falls in love with a charismatic man who walks into her class. I had barely finished writing the story minutes before the online deadline was up. To my surprise it went on to win first prize. I was even more amazed at the interest it generated. I knew Mills & Boon


romances were popular, but I had no idea how many women connected with the books so strongly.

I started thinking more about my characters now that the story was going to evolve into a book. While I still wanted my heroine to be a yoga instructor, I decided I wanted both my protagonists to be self-made people who didn’t come from cushioned backgrounds; they had to have dealt with disillusionment but in their hearts still be hoping to find that one person they can believe in and who believes in them too.

I also wanted to give my hero and heroine unique names that reflected something of the kind of people they were and that weren’t already names of actual people I knew. I love the names I finally decided on—Vivan (meaning first ray of the morning sun) and Pari (or fairy angel). I hope you do too and can relate with their love story!

Pari is fiercely loyal, cautious but still pretty impulsive. She’s done an admirable job of building her life, despite all that she’s had to face. She is like so many inspiring women I’ve met in India—no different from women anywhere else in the world, hiding her vulnerabilities and hopes while she takes on the world.

And Vivan? Well, Vivan is the kind of man we’ve all found ourselves irresistibly attracted to, infuriatingly confounded by, and who we want to be able to understand. And if by some major miracle he ‘gets us’ (impossible as that may sound) and yet loves us it can help make sense of everything.

I was lucky to find my Vivan years ago. If you haven’t already, believe that you will too!

At one time I’d never have believed it if someone had said I’d be writing a Mills & Boon


romance with Indian characters and so much of the country I love in it—and look! It happened.

Love

Milan Vohra




About the Author


Three years of pretending to study economics helped MILAN VOHRA realise her true love was writing. That led to two decades of seriously fun work, writing ad campaigns for all kinds of stuff from pizzas to lingerie. Milan met her husband when she was seventeen; they dated for seven years (very sensibly) and have been married twenty-two years. They have two children—one who just got out of her teens, the other just getting into his—but ask Milan’s husband and he’ll tell you there are three teenagers at home.

Milan grew up in Delhi, but has spent large chunks of her life in Bangalore and grown to love both cities equally. She is grateful to be at a happy place in her life now, working out of home with a supportive family—especially as the only way she can write her books is longhand, when everyone’s finally asleep. Her biggest challenge as an author is first to be able to figure out how to beat that online Scrabble addiction.




The Love Asana

Milan Vohra













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Papa and Mummy

K.C. Kartar and Hira Kartar Dalwani

Your love is the greatest example




CHAPTER ONE


‘THERE are many better-known ad agencies than Firefly we can talk to,’ Dev, the Country Manager, said nervously. ‘Fitness Fanatics is such a big brand … all the big agencies would kill to add it to their portfolios and we—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Vivan cut the man short, his voice polite but firm, brooking no further discussion. ‘Firefly is owned by Deepak Dewan, correct?’

‘Correct,’ Dev mumbled.

‘They are on the verge of declaring themselves insolvent, isn’t that right? You’ve reconfirmed this with your sources?’

‘Yes. The bank managers tell me Firefly is in deep trouble. The last two years have been bad in retaining their clients as it is, with the recession. They’ve made a big error in judgement with the media risks they took, extending far too much credit to a new client. Now that client has reneged on payments. So unless Deepak Dewan can come through with something really big …’

‘He risks losing the accreditation for his agency,’ Vivan finished for him. ‘And what about his personal assets?’

‘Car, house, all mortgaged already. He stands to lose it all.’

‘Excellent. And Deepak Dewan has been told what my business could bring his agency, of course?’ Vivan asked without looking up as he signed some documents.

‘Ten lakh rupees a month as retainer and eight, maybe even ten per cent as pure profit on media commission on our entire ad budget, all told that should add up to close to seven or eight crore rupees … but really, sir, the retainer in itself is very substantial, you needn’t give any commission at all to the ad agency … we could tie up directly with a media buying house and get much better value.’

‘Please carry on,’ Vivan said coldly.

‘Well, as you directed, Deepak Dewan also knows that whoever we give the business to stands to make this money over a six month burst. If I may suggest, sir, this budget could easily be spread over a twelve month period to give us a pretty good media launch …’ Dev left the sentence open-ended.

‘For India I’m looking to make a big splash—I want our brand to be seen in all the glossies, on TV, on every prominent hoarding site,’ Vivan said conclusively.

‘Deepak Dewan is very eager to see you with his team to present their concepts.’

‘All in good time.’ Vivan allowed himself a little smile, stretching out his long lithe legs under the heavy teakwood table that was part of the Grand Presidential Suite custom-made for him at one of the top hotels in New Delhi.

Vivan had waited for close to a year just for this opportunity to close in on Deepak Dewan. He had had every business decision of his tracked. The day Deepak had signed on the dubious client, Vivan had rejoiced. The client was a bad debt in most parts of the world and Deepak was a fool not to have done his research with due diligence. Vivan was not given to being harsh but, this once, he was glad the man he needed to see suffer was a fool. Revenge would be his soon. Deepak Dewan would be grovelling for a lifeline from Vivan to save his company, his home, his name. And Vivan intended to reel Deepak in, closer and closer to believing he was home and dry, before taking all hope away from him. God, how much he hated even the sound of that name. Yet strangely, even this long-awaited vengeance, though so close now, felt inadequate. He wished there were a way he could make Deepak Dewan suffer more. The kind of suffering that he had been through when he’d learnt the truth about Sonia’s death.

‘There’s one more thing.’ Dev’s voice broke through Vivan’s musing. ‘Deepak has been very keen to recommend a particular lady, a young yoga teacher, as a brand ambassador for Fitness Fanatics. Someone called Pari Chand who runs a small studio in Vasant Vihar,’ Dev said hesitantly. ‘Of course, I’ve already told him that Fitness Fanatics can pull in any world-famous celebrity it wants; if you do decide to even have a brand ambassador,’ he added quickly.

‘And who is this Pari? Have you met her?’ Vivan asked, his interest piqued, eyebrow raised just the slightest.

‘Er … no … Though I did send someone to get her details.’ Dev pulled out a simple two-colour flyer from his briefcase, handing it to Vivan as he left the room.

‘Pari’s Purist Yoga’ the flyer said simply, with a picture of a slim woman in a classic yoga pose, one leg extended back horizontally, arms stretched forward like a graceful bird ready to take flight. Vivan’s eyes rested on the curve of her neck, its sensuous line accentuated by the slender shoulders in the sleeveless tee. The tilt of her head was feminine yet something in it suggested fierce independence.

Instinct told Vivan there was more to this recommendation. Why was Deepak championing a small-time yoga instructor when the Fitness Fanatics account wasn’t even in his bag yet? There had to be a personal connection. Men like Deepak Dewan were predators. Users. So either this Pari was Deepak’s latest squeeze or, Vivan allowed himself to hope at the very possibility of it, at long last a missing link had just fallen into place. The investigator’s report a year ago had outlined a family of father and younger sister that Deepak had cut off ties with after coming to Delhi. The father still lived in Chandigarh and Vivan knew there had been no contact between the father and son, but, concerning the sister, the investigation had gone cold. One way or another Vivan was glad he had bided his time before making himself known to Deepak. This was going to be worth it. He could feel it deep in his bones.

A year ago, Pari would never have thought she could be at peace with her life. For as long as she could remember, she had lived with a sense of fear. That any moment now something bad would happen and change it all again. Her mother dying when she was born—she could still maybe have come to terms with, difficult as it was. But then her father never let her forget it; constantly managing to make Pari feel responsible. When her father married again, Pari allowed herself to hope that somehow things would get better … that her father would stop being so nasty and mean, not just to her, but to all of them.

It hadn’t happened. Instead, her stepmother had become increasingly silent, afraid of doing anything that could bring on another vitriolic outburst from the man it was impossible for any of them to please, and finally just ran away. Then it was like the old times at home. Only many times worse.

The one thing that had brought it all to a head then was the one thing that was now helping her rebuild her life. Her yoga. Pari’s stepmother had introduced her to it. Their time practising yoga together had bonded them both, a refuge against the tirades of the day. When her stepmother left, the yoga became Pari’s lifeline. And the biggest source of annoyance to her father.

But that was long ago. Pari forced herself back to the present, exhaling deeply as she began her set of fifty surya namaskars for the day. A purist by nature, Pari never did her own yoga while teaching it. It was important to her to keep an eye on her students. This hour between classes was her special time for herself, when she could just put the past behind her and recharge herself with the calm only yoga gave her.

Vivan put the phone back on the table with a sense of irritation. Two calls, one after the other, had only served to remind him of the annoying fact that people sometimes did business based on reasons that had little to do with business.

The first was from Dev, delivering the news that Catalisis, a leading IT company associated with initiating the first big outsourcing burst in jobs, had suddenly decided against giving their multimillion-dollar uniforms contract to Fitness Fanatics. This, despite advanced stages of discussions and the fact that the company had acknowledged that Fitness Fanatics’ designs and pricing were unparalleled.

‘I thought you were confident this contract was in the bag?’ Vivan asked coldly. ‘Why would they string you along for a whole fortnight of negotiations if the intent wasn’t there?’

‘We had it in our hands,’ Dev said softly. ‘I had even shared details of all the vendors we source from.’

‘Without a signed contract? Was that wise?’

‘It was essential. They are a conservative company, sir. They like to be sure they are correct in every way.’

‘Every single aspect of our product is impeccable. Surely they can’t fault us on any of that?’ Vivan asked abruptly.

‘It’s just that, sir, they are a little old-fashioned,’ Dev mumbled.

‘Meaning?’

‘Er … I think perhaps it’s because Mr Mahesh Swamy is a very family-oriented man. And even though he’s retired and taken on a corporate mentor role now, the company ethos is still pretty much guided by him. Perhaps that’s why they, er … preferred to give the business to a like-minded partner like Karamvir Singh of Nirvana Designs. His wife and he are a very visible couple. His wife does a lot of charity work too.’

‘You’re not serious! That’s a pretty far-fetched hypothesis. Maybe you need to find out what the real inside story is.’

‘Actually, sir, my source within the company informs me that until the day that … er … photo of you with that Hollywood sex symbol came out in the newspaper, they hadn’t even considered anyone other than our company,’ Dev somehow found the voice to say. If he had to hold down his job as Country Manager, he would need to make sure at least he wasn’t keeping anything back from his boss.

Vivan cursed himself inwardly. Considering the many stunning women he had been with, he had still managed to keep a relatively low profile in the Indian media to quite a large extent. This bloody picture had been taken on a day when he had been escorting a desirable but rather needy blonde supermodel to the red-carpet opening of a show on Broadway. To his distaste the woman was way too interested in public displays of affection and the paparazzi had a field day. One of those images had made its way to a very undesirable tabloid in India. Usually that kind of nonsense never came in the way of winning him business. If anything, it had just added to the enigma—making him an even more coveted success symbol. But come to think of it, this wasn’t the first time Vivan had been given feedback of this nature.

In Australia too, on a few occasions lately, Vivan had wondered if his playboy reputation, albeit low-key, had worked to take away from the hard-core professional he was. He wondered if it was time he did something about it. Perhaps he would give some thought to settling down.

If this development wasn’t bothersome enough, there had been that other call with the investigation agency. Becoming one of the top ten billionaires in the US had got Vivan used to instant top-of-the-line service. His brief to the agency was clear-cut. They needed to check the antecedents of a Ms Pari, of yoga teacher fame, and do it right away. It was inexcusable that they needed forty-eight hours to get back to him. To think this was one of the leading multinationals in the investigation field he was speaking with! Yes, of course he knew this was the festive season, and of course he knew that during the entire period running from Id, Ganesh Chaturthi, then Durga Puja and Dussehra, right up to Diwali work practically came to a stop in many different parts of the country.

Vivan told himself once again—Welcome back. Isn’t this just the kind of thing you missed about India? The fact that money isn’t everything here.

There was only one thing to be done, Vivan decided. A visit to Vasant Vihar was in order. And it wasn’t exactly a place off his radar either.

Years ago he and Sonia had spent practically every evening they could just hanging loose about the Priya cinema area in Vasant Vihar, watching the folks with the money burn it with careless abandon.

Not any more. Now Vivan was the youngest billionaire in the under-thirties list.

Creating the first eco-friendly stretch that became the most sought-after fabric in the US and Europe, with practically every major sporting team and top-rung designers all vying to incorporate this ‘green’ versatile fabric into their apparel, he took a meteoric rise and was now reckoned to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world—a fact he found only brought out the bloodhound in every woman he came across.

‘Your car will be here within a few seconds, sir.’ The manager was at Vivan’s side within seconds.

‘I’m looking to drive something myself today.’

‘You have driven in Delhi before, sir?’ the man asked, concerned.

Vivan nodded, the lump in his throat barely visible. The last time he’d driven here was ten years ago. A borrowed motorcycle from his boss to take Sonia out for an ice cream. She had loved to feel the cool summer breeze on her cheeks as they drove down the wide roads of India Gate at night, parking as close as they could to the sacred Amar Jyoti on Rajpath—the perpetual flame kept burning in honour of the many unknown soldiers who gave their lives for India’s freedom. ‘Didi, I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten for days.’ The beggar child would fix her sad, soulful eyes on Sonia—a sucker for any sob story. And so often his tender-hearted sister would quietly hand over the unopened ‘orange bar’ ice lolly that she had waited so long to have, without a second thought.

Vivan had been fourteen and Sonia twelve when their father, a marketing man, had abandoned the family for a younger woman. Leaving barely enough in the bank to pay the bills for that month. With both his mother and sister engulfed in deep grief, Vivan had felt he could never allow himself the luxury of emotion. So what, he told himself, if they had been well off? They could get used to the government-funded school they changed to. So what if they had led a protective life? He knew they could move on. They had to move on. Vivan had resolved he had to fast become the man of the family and picked up small jobs cleaning people’s cars straight after school to help out. Dreaming of the day he would save enough to buy back the life they had left behind.

But that dream was crushed too when his mother died just a year later, broken-hearted and defeated from it all.

Sonia, though younger than Vivan by only two years, thought she had to play older sister to him. She would wait up late most nights for him. They would sit together laughing as they ate her failed cooking attempt of the day, no matter what time he got home from the gruelling ‘assistant to the assistant to the head designer’ evening job he had finally got when he was sixteen. ‘You’ve got to concentrate on your studies and sleep early. Stop being such a mere bhaiya sacrificing type,’ he used to tease her. Right till the day two years later, when he got onto that plane that took him away from India. He blamed himself for letting her convince him that she would be fine, that there was no reason for him to worry at all. She kept assuring him she was in a safe hostel; she liked her new part-time job at the store; and two years from now, when he had got his design specialisation from America, none of this would matter. That his going away on that scholarship was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he shouldn’t blow. He had to go, he must go; Sonia had kept urging him to give his dream a shot at least; to change their lives. And how it did!

Sonia. The only family he had had. To think that he had even briefly believed the police report that was sent to him, that the cause of death was an accident. That Sonia had been crossing the road carelessly, when the lights had turned green and a speeding SUV had run her over. He should have guessed right then that it was just not in Sonia’s nature to be that distracted. The police had told him that in the time it had taken them to trace his contact details, the funeral had already been taken care of. And then, when he’d come back, the earliest that he could, the hostel warden had handed him all of Sonia’s meagre belongings. That was when he’d found it. Her perfectly ordinary-looking diary.

At first the entries had been full of worry and hope, missing him, her only brother; counting the days to their once-a-week phone calls, which were all he could afford then.

7th Jan: It’s been 5 days since Vivan called. Hope all is OK.

9th Jan: I can never get used to it. Imagine Vivan is starting his day when I’m ready to go to bed. He’ll be working all the time while I’m fast asleep.

And then Sonia had started writing about a customer who had walked into the store.

20th Mar: Today this man came to the shop and all the girls got so excited I thought it’s some film star.

Waise lagta film star ki tarah hi tha. Even I—and you know I never stare at any customer like the rest of the girls—couldn’t help noticing his thighs. It’s because he was wearing these jeans which are in fashion … all torn near the knees and iski jeans were torn a little more.

21st Mar: He was in the shop again. I like the dark blue shirt he was wearing. Tightly fitted and tapering to his waist. Looks like John Abraham but of course I didn’t tell the girls or anyone. It’s our secret. BTW I got to see his credit card and his name is Deepak Dewan.

30th Mar: I don’t know why Deepak keeps coming to the shop and asking only me to attend to him. 2nd Apr: The girls have started teasing me he’s interested. He hardly looks at the shirts I show. Interested? In me?? I don’t think so.

7th Apr: Deepak looks at me so intently and says such beautiful things—I feel so special … Wonder what Vivan would think about him? It’s not something I can tell him about in just five minutes on the phone.

Vivan’s blood boiled just at the thought of how the bastard had seen Sonia for the innocent she was and played with her emotions ruthlessly. That trusting love-struck girl had been putty in his hands as Deepak had flirted with flamboyance; charming her, learning that she lived alone with no family in Delhi.

10th Apr: Today when we were walking in Deer Park, I know he wanted to kiss me. I wanted it too but I know he won’t try anything funny like that. He’s crazy and fun and all that but he’s decent that way. I think Vivan would like him. But I don’t know how to start the topic.

12th Apr: Deepak is mad. Just MAD. Can you believe today he shouted from the top of the Qutub Minar that he loves me? I felt so shy. Everyone must have heard.

13th Apr: When Deepak kisses me I feel so beautiful. To think he wants me, me, out of all the girls in the world. But he says he wants me 100%, not just these stolen kisses in movie halls and parks. I wish Mama was alive. I’m so confused.

15th Apr: It happened today. I feel shy to even write about it but you know everything, dear diary, don’t you? It wasn’t very romantic or even comfortable … How can it be …? In the back of a car … but it’ll get better I’m sure.

Vivan had felt uncomfortable even reading about Sonia’s most private experiences; written in a shy way—full of love for the insatiable and, by the sounds of it, very reckless Deepak. And then when Sonia started sharing with Deepak her dreams of a future with him, her need to stay connected with him right through the day; wanting to hear his words of love—it started falling apart.

7th May: How can he be busy all day? It doesn’ttake two minutes to send a message.

15th May: Called Deepak six times today. Stilldoesn’t pick up.

25th May: He doesn’t answer the phone. I don’teven have any other number to contact him on.

28th May: I’m pregnant. And does the father evencare!! He doesn’t even know. I want to punch thewall hard. I want to curl up in a corner and sleepfor some days.

The page was blotchy with Sonia’s tears.

3rd June: When will it stop? This sadness. Feels so hopeless. Vivan must be worried. I know he could tell I wasn’t myself.

Vivan wished she’d given him some hint of what was torturing her; said something. Maybe it would’ve all turned out differently.

Instead, the last time he had spoken to Sonia, he’d even asked why she sounded a little down and she had just said the same thing she did every time. ‘Don’t worry about me, Vivan. I’m fine, sachi, believe me!’

Fine? Deliberately stepping in front of a car without telling him a thing about what was going on in her life was not fine!

The last entry in her diary was written hours before she died. Those final words that said:

5th June: Forgive me, Vivan.

Why wasn’t I there to protect you? Vivan had asked himself this again and again, every time he read that name. Deepak Dewan.

It had smouldered inside him, pushed him to work relentlessly. Knowing that the burning desire to find and thrash the living daylights out of the man would still let him off too lightly. Vivan needed to destroy Deepak Dewan; his entire life. For that, Vivan needed to have power and patience. He needed to become not just successful, but unimaginably successful. Vivan grew from award-winning fabric designer to entrepreneur, from millionaire to billionaire. Creating the best products and then closing the deals, smart to strike when the moment was right. Vivan had taught himself to be ruthless so that when the time came he could track down Deepak Dewan and make sure the retribution he exacted was total and unforgiving.

That was the only reason he was here, Vivan reminded himself as he backed the sleek car the hotel manager had thought fit to arrange, into a narrow parking slot next to a rather dilapidated hatchback that looked as if it hadn’t seen a service in many years. Vivan walked briskly past the relocated Nirula’s back lane, where the still-familiar smell of melting mozzarella cheese on freshly baked pizzas from the kitchen exhausts hit him with a punch.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dwelling on the bittersweet memories every little alley in this now very happening shopping district of New Delhi had for him. The flyer had listed the last yoga class for the day at eight p.m. and it was already a little past that.

Steeling himself, Vivan climbed the narrow staircase past a tattoo parlour to a mezzanine level where a gum-chewing teenaged receptionist put a call on hold to tell him, ‘The batch is full and class has already started.’ A charming smile, a few persuasive words and Vivan’s platinum card had been swiped. His rich brown hand-stitched leather shoes joined the motley bunch of worn sneakers and shiny chappals right next to the dimly lit reception desk. A brand-new rolled-up yoga mat lodged securely under his arm, Vivan opened the door, blinking at the sudden change in lights to get a bearing.

Through a gap between a woman with purple hair extensions and a young ‘hate to be parted from my mobile phone’ corporate executive, Vivan saw her. She was more petite than he would have guessed from the flyer. Barely five feet something, she had her face turned to the side as she instructed a student. Her dark mahogany hair shone richly under the spotlights—the silky natural waves refusing to be tamed by the big scrunchy band trying to hold them together off her neck. The body was slender, yet the curves were full in just the right places. Her bright fuchsia yoga pants began low, sensuously draping her pert bottom and hugging her slim, well-proportioned legs. Her pure white scooped-neck tee shirt ended just a little short of her yoga pants. Suddenly Vivan had a ridiculous urge to run his palm on the smooth little strip of flesh that was revealed on her belly as she lifted her arms to continue demonstrating a posture to her students.

She’s probably just made this part of her innocent seductive act to get ahead, Vivan reminded himself grimly. But Vivan Parasher was no stranger to women. That Pari was hot, there was no doubt about.

Vivan murmured his apologies to the students around him as his late entrance seemed to have created a disruption. The ripples of it reached Pari as she turned to see the cause of the buzz towards the back of the room.

Time and again Pari had specifically instructed the receptionist that new students should be asked to join only when a new batch began and by no means when a class had already started. Obviously the man had charmed his way in just as he was doing now, flashing his deep dimples, barely nodding his head to acknowledge the students around him. Pari had always been partial to men with long lashes and dimples and the two together in this chiselled tanned face and strong body were a killer. Good thing, she reminded herself, that her experience with Kunal had made her immune to all things male.

He exuded a casual, self-assured confidence as he walked straight up to a space smack in the centre of the second row and unrolled his yoga mat. Pari couldn’t help but notice how Sheila, the student to his left, was practically drooling as she stared at him. The way his ink-black hair flopped about was admittedly mesmerising but not something to gape at. As the man removed an understated expensive-looking linen shirt to stand nonchalantly in a sleeveless black ganjee over very cool low-waisted khakhi linen drawstring pants, he looked Pari in the eye and mouthed a silent apology for his late entry.

Well, at least he had the courtesy to do that.

In a clipped voice, Pari instructed him, ‘We’ve already started, so for now I suggest you just try to follow as best you can.’ The next few minutes Pari put the class through a series of stretches and flexes that she believed were essential to getting the students loosened up. To her surprise the man continued to stand on his yoga mat, legs slightly apart, making no effort to even try to repeat the movements. His hands were on his hips as he stood looking at her, drawing her attention inadvertently to the dip of the drawstring pants, hinting at dangerous darker areas just below.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked softly as his eyes held hers captive, turning her insides to jelly.

Vivan had always considered himself pretty good at assessing people and situations. He had imagined that getting a firsthand impression of this yoga trainer would give him a head start in learning more about the person Deepak was so keen to push.

But from the time he had entered Pari’s class, he had not been able to take his eyes off her. She was unlike any woman he had met. There was this softness to her; a look of genuine interest in her warm, honey-brown eyes that made every student in the room want to connect with her. He could sense it from the way she had their rapt attention, the way their eyes followed every movement of her body. Her olive skin was amazingly clear and glowing; her upturned button of a nose had a tiny pierced gold ring poised just above full sensuous lips that laughed easily. He imagined teasing those generous lips into surrender; the velvety taste of her skin merging with the hard metallic texture of that ring on her perky nose.

Vivan realised he had been so taken by this petite vibrant woman that he hadn’t done a thing since he’d stood on the mat. Now, as he heard her ask him if there was a problem he decided he’d better wing it. It might also be a good way to interact with her more in this class of twenty-odd people. Vivan turned his body just slightly, pointing to his lower back. ‘I seem to have developed a slight catch. I was wondering if yoga might help,’ he said.

His voice had a beautiful deep timbre to it and just the low caressing sound of it sent a delicious shiver down Pari’s arms and neck. She shook off the feeling and focused on the problem at hand.

‘Is this the first time you’re trying yoga?’ The man obviously had a genuine issue with his back and here she had been less than helpful getting him started. It was the late entrance that had thrown her off kilter. Usually she made sure she knew if her new students had any specific concerns that needed attention. Pari couldn’t bear the idea of a student in any kind of pain.

‘Why don’t you come on up here?’ She managed a tight smile. ‘That way I can keep a closer eye on you and make sure you don’t do anything you shouldn’t.’

The twinkle in the man’s eye gave Pari a sense that there was a retort that he would have liked to have made but hadn’t.

He carried his mat with him and laid it out way too close to hers at the front of the class. Her eyes registered the black ganjee that left his arms gloriously exposed.

‘You may well be right. Maybe that’s how I got the catch in the first place. This woman I met on the flight—’ he continued.

‘I don’t need unnecessary details,’ Pari interrupted primly, disconcerted by his audacity.

‘—asked me to help her lift a heavy piece of her luggage onto her cart … I probably jacked it then,’ he finished smoothly.

‘Oh!’

Pari felt immediately contrite.

‘Could you show me where it hurts?’ she asked softly.

‘Somewhere in this area.’ Vivan twisted his body a little to show her but Pari thought she saw him wince a bit as he did so. Later she wondered if she had imagined it.

‘No, no, don’t stretch till I know exactly how bad it is. Roughly about here?’ she asked, waving her palm over the middle of his back.

‘A little lower actually.’ Before she knew it, the man had touched her hand lightly to press it onto the spot on his back just above the waistband of his linen pants. What she felt was pure taut muscle. He was obviously in very good shape.

Pari hurriedly pulled back her hand. The brief contact with his body had been like touching an exposed wire. She wondered if she looked as flushed as she felt. As a trainer it wasn’t as if she had never had any contact with a male student—to help someone correct their posture, for example—but never had anyone had this kind of ridiculous effect on her.

Turning to the rest of her students, Pari instructed, ‘You all know the warm-up routine. Finish up with the neck exercises and stretches while I help, er …’

‘Vivan,’ he prompted in his low sexy voice.

‘While I help Vivan with some basics,’ Pari completed hurriedly.

The class was soon engrossed in completing the neck and arm rotations she’d asked them to do.

‘Maybe I can start you on something like Ardh Kati Chakrasana …’ Pari said thoughtfully, more to herself.

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a kind of side bend. Given that you’re a learner and you’ve got this catch too, I don’t want you doing any forward bends for now.’ She showed him the asana in a few simple movements and indicated that he do it along with her. Her head barely came up to his chest as he mirrored her movements.

‘Does this seem fine to you?’ Vivan asked, his eyes not leaving hers as he extended himself to the side with the ease of a large graceful cat.

Pari licked her lower lip nervously. She ran her eyes over the studio again, sensing the spell he seemed to have cast over everyone. Many of her students were again watching him riveted. Granted, he was a fine specimen, but it was obvious from the casual way he dipped his long torso, blithely unaware of the silky fall of his hair, that he was used to being the centre of attention. There was nothing out of line in anything he had said to her but just his presence was unnerving. She could swear she sensed the hint of an amused twitch to his lips. She moved on to Parighasana, the gate pose, which she knew was another great asana to strengthen the back. He seemed to do that too with amazing ease, completing the movements and coming back to the starting position, kneeling on the yoga mat with his hands on the top of his firm thighs.

‘So would you say, then, as a learner I’m not doing too badly?’

‘Let’s not jump the gun. We haven’t got to the tougher asanas yet.’

‘And these were?’ he asked, his voice equally low. As long as the conversation was about yoga, she supposed she couldn’t really ignore his questions.

‘Relatively simpler. More to test what your body can take,’ Pari snapped. She didn’t know why, but everything he said threw her off balance. It was as if she just couldn’t focus. She was barely aware of what he was asking and what she was jabbering in response. Her senses were screaming high alert and there was no real reason for her to feel that way. He seemed to know where her thoughts were going. At the moment they were running wild wondering how it would feel to run her fingers down his toned tanned cheek and feel the depression that those dimples made.

‘Ideally you should have warmed up properly before even starting any asana. But now I must get back to every one. Maybe you should wait the next one out. It can be a bit tricky.

‘All of you,’ Pari directed the rest of the class. ‘You know the vrikshasana. It’s the tree posture, remember?’

The class hmmed in unison. ‘Hold the position as long as you comfortably can, OK? I don’t want anyone to keep repeating it either. Just do it once, hold it and then relax. Then balance it out by repeating it with the other leg. Clear?’ Pari swung into automatic teaching mode, walking around the studio, checking that each one was able to follow, and even the slowest learners had stretched themselves beyond their normal comfort zones. Yet all the while she was unbearably aware of Vivan as he stood leaning a little against the wall at the back of the room, his gaze wandering appreciatively over her body.

Turning to Vivan again a short while later, Pari said briefly, ‘What you could also try to do is an adhu mokha svanasana.’ Indicating he first watch while she demonstrated, Pari gracefully went down on all fours on her yoga mat.

She raised herself off the mat until she was supported by her hands and legs equally off the ground. ‘Svan, if you remember your Sanskrit from school, means a dog.’ Pari smiled just a little; if his Sanskrit was anything like hers it was unlikely. ‘And adhu mokha means facing down.’ She turned to see if Vivan was following the sequence. This was what was so good about teaching yoga. The way you could help people so constructively.

‘This posture will really help you strengthen your back. And it actually also helps calm the heart rate and BP and brings down breathlessness.’

‘Hmm …’ Vivan said thoughtfully, looking at his animated and petite teacher with the sliver of silky skin showing on her back where the tee shirt had risen a little.

‘Hmm … as in yes, you get it and are ready to try it now?’

‘Actually, hmm as in I have a question.’

Pari raised an eyebrow.

‘This adhumokha … or downward dog asana, if I may,’ he began.

‘Go on …’

‘Isn’t it a lot more likely to increase breathlessness than lower it?’ His lips curved the slightest bit and this time Pari knew she hadn’t imagined it.

She turned her back to him so he couldn’t see her suppressed smile as she said, ‘You know what? Why don’t you try it at home and let me know?’

He’d baited her twice too many. ‘But since you are such an enthusiastic learner, let me see how well you’ve absorbed what I’ve been teaching so far,’ Pari said. She was so going to enjoy this. From the way he had done the other asanas without any discomfort with the catch on his back, Pari was confident she could put him to the test. His supreme self-confidence needed to come down a notch or two.

‘Vrikshasana. The tree position. You saw them do it just now.’ Pari held back a smile. ‘Show me.’ This was going to be fun. Pari knew many thought of it as an easy one, but it was only when you actually tried to keep your balance standing with one foot resting on the inner thigh of the other leg that you realized the graceful posture was deceptively tricky to achieve.

Vivan slowly drew his left foot along the length of his right leg to bring the entire sole of the foot firmly to rest on his thigh. Pari stared as, very slowly again, he confidently extended his arms outwards to bring them together over the top of his head. Balanced rock solid on his right leg, his palms together in a ‘namaste’ clasp over his head, he tilted his head up, his hair flopping back as he held the position without swaying even the slightest. A hush had fallen over the class.

All she could focus on were his feet. Pari stole another look, spellbound. Standing next to him, literally a foot shorter, she kept her gaze lowered. Pari had always had a thing about attractive feet. His were clean, almost immaculate with just a hint of fine hair at the toes. As he raised himself to do the stretch her eyes started to move up, her thoughts irascibly racing ahead to his hands and wondering if they were as long and artistic as his feet. Her gaze locked briefly with his eyes, which didn’t seem to have moved away from hers even for an instant. Blushing a deep pink, Pari felt he’d read her thoughts. She could have smacked herself there and then. Pari simply did not do fantasy. Never, never, never. Not since Kunal and the whole bitter experience when she had sworn never to be taken in by any man again. And certainly not an arrogant, very male student who had done nothing but confound her with his overpowering presence from the time he’d walked into her class.

Pari mumbled quickly, ‘Excellent, excellent. You can release the posture now, please.’ With utmost grace, Vivan relaxed his arms to bring them down gently as he lowered his left foot to stand at ease on the mat.

Pari shook herself out of it, mortified again at the effect this very assured man was having over her. Maybe it was nothing but her body reacting in the most primal way to his suave sexy appeal, but this going off into flights of fantasy was getting a bit too much. This was her class, her turf. She needed to take charge of herself and focus on yoga and nothing else.

‘All right everybody, let’s finish with some analom vilom.’ Pari stepped back till she was almost touching the long wall of mirrors on the left of the studio. ‘Just remember—inhale exhale is a one to two ratio, so if you’re breathing in to a count of four, breathe out to eight.’ As she took a few quiet steps around the room again to see that everyone had their fingers poised correctly over their nostrils and eyes closed, she was startled to see Vivan’s eyes wide open. He was sitting on the mat, watching her with a relaxed amused expression. ‘You may want to explain how this works,’ he asked softly, expecting once again to have Pari’s undivided attention to himself.

‘Shh,’ Pari whispered. Leaning down to speak a little closer to his ear so she didn’t disturb the other students, she said, ‘Look, come a little earlier next class and I’ll try to help you catch up. But I can’t disturb the others right now.’ Pari didn’t quite like the slightly on-edge note her voice had to it. It must be the proximity of being so close to his ear that was so distracting. Calm … You’ve got to stay calm. That’s it … Pari. Keep breathing slowly and you’ll be fine.

Vivan was a little surprised at her seemingly cool attitude towards him. He just wasn’t used to it. He couldn’t remember the last time any girl had brushed him off like that. He had to hand it to her, though. She was professional to the core. He appreciated the fact that she wasn’t holding up the entire class just for his benefit and that her small delectable frame wasn’t easily shaken from its purpose either. Well, neither was he and he was here for one reason only.

An hour later she had wrapped up the class, putting her things together while watching the students in the mirror as they neatly rolled up their yoga mats. Casually throwing his linen shirt over his shoulder, Vivan stood up with slow deliberation to ask, ‘So which would you say is your favourite asana of all these?’

‘That would have to be the surya namaskar,’ she said crisply, albeit with a little gentleness. This was after all a legit subject and one that she could happily talk about any time.

‘Why is that?’ Vivan asked innocuously.

‘Well, it’s complete in itself. It combines so many brilliant muscle movements. It’s almost spiritual … It’s the best way to start your day,’ Pari ended breathlessly.

‘I can think of something better,’ Vivan said, his voice gruff, barely a murmur meant only for Pari to hear. Which she did, but chose not to acknowledge.

She reached unsuccessfully once more to pull down her kit bag from a high shelf. Vivan moved forward. ‘Allow me,’ he said as his arm brushed against hers, reaching the shelf effortlessly. He stood so close she could breathe in the musky all-male fragrance of him mingled with a fresh kind of aqua aftershave … becoming all too conscious of the fine hair on his arm as he lowered the bag gently to hand it to her. His head was agonisingly close to the curve of her neck. Suddenly, her heart began knocking against her chest and all she could think of was how it would feel to have him kiss her. Would he take his time to explore the texture of her lips with excruciating pleasure before slowly igniting the inside of her mouth, or capture it aggressively with his self-assured sexuality, his long legs pressed against the entire length of hers as he pushed her against the mirrored wall … With a jolt Pari saw their reflection in the studio’s mirrored wall. Her lips had parted of their own volition as she realised his finger was trailing the line of her cheek, his head leaning in even closer … to casually tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

Pari flushed a deep red, embarrassed at her own thoughts. She wondered if Vivan had guessed at them as she turned her back to him, busying herself with rolling up some mats. Then she heard him laugh lightly as he murmured for her benefit only, ‘Act natural. You don’t want everyone to see what I can read in your beautiful face.’

Damn!

It was a good thing he left before she’d turned around.




CHAPTER TWO


VIVAN walked thoughtfully down the narrow studio steps, taking his old familiar route past the pavement vendors towards his car, still trying to make sense of the strong impact Pari had on him. Vivan had felt a physical ache within him as he’d stood close to her. The urge to taste her satiny skin had been overwhelming. He only knew that those slightly parted lips that had been a whisper away from him held the promise of sating the desire consuming him. He had wanted to have her there and then. In the studio. On the yoga mat if need be. The urge was so strong, his hand had moved by some magnetic pull to her face and begun to trail the delicate line of her jaw. It had been all he could do to rein in his fire and hope that she hadn’t guessed.

In the ten years since he’d become unimaginably rich and famous, Vivan had been with more women than he could remember. In the beginning it had been a way of forgetting the guilt at leaving Sonia while he went away to the US to study. He’d felt rootless in those early years abroad, with no one to call his own … searching, in every woman he hooked up with, for that one woman who could give him the sense of family and security that he secretly craved. But again and again Vivan found he had imagined an ideal partner out of a merely ambitious woman looking to get rich quick. It became easier to find release in relationship-less sex, and sex was all it ever was. Energising, yet cold sex where the women were only after one thing. Money and the hope of becoming the future Mrs Parasher. Heir to the Parasher fortune. Mistress of homes in New York, Hong Kong, San Francisco, London, Dubai and now even New Delhi.

He had been surprised to find himself drawn into a vortex towards Pari. It made him grow aroused just wondering how it would feel to have her legs wrapped around his. The only sense he could make of it was the cool way she had behaved with him. Pari had treated Vivan with none of the open adoration he was used to getting from women. It irked him no end and was probably why she had got under his skin the way she had.

Even though he had no facts to confirm it as yet, Vivan felt convinced Pari was Deepak’s sister. The background check on Deepak had shown that he had lived in Delhi after leaving his home at sixteen. Then there was the marriage that happened two years ago, by all reports a happy one. In Vivan’s opinion most men ran true to type. Sonia had an outward resemblance to the recent pictures he had seen of Deepak’s wife: tall, strikingly sharp features, a fair complexion. Pari looked nothing like that, he realised with certainty. She was small; her skin was a delicious dusky tone, her nose a pert little button. No. She had to be Deepak’s sister for sure. Blood was thicker than water and no wonder Deepak was so concerned about pushing his own sister forward. The bastard—it was time he realised how it felt for his own sister to be used and discarded.

Pari pushed the image firmly to the back of her mind—her face wide-eyed, her lips parted in anticipation of being very thoroughly kissed. She walked straight to the car, legs still a little wobbly. The rather run-down hatchback she had bought at a throwaway price from Deepak in days when he was doing better had been a huge blessing and the only indulgence she had allowed herself in Delhi. Earlier today she’d been lucky to get parking in the always crowded lot. Now there was a sensational top-end silver sedan parked very close to her car where a bike had been when she’d parked. She’d have to squeeze into the gap to get to her driving seat. Worse, as Pari fumbled around in the outer section of her bag, she realised the keys didn’t seem to be there. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember putting them in there as she normally did. Pari turned her mobile to torch mode, zigzagging the light from it on the ground, hoping to find she’d dropped the key somewhere close.

Vivan reached his car, stopping short at the sight of Pari’s distinct curvaceous little bottom sticking out from under the car next to his.

‘We meet again,’ he said, amazed at the extraordinary coincidence.

She didn’t reply.

‘A little sooner than I thought.’

Silence again. Although, really, Pari thought, the last person she wanted to see was the one towering behind her as she continued to search on her knees for the damned keys.

Does this kind of thing have to happen only to me? A response would only encourage the devil into believing he had got away with his outrageous behaviour in the class.

‘Yoga again? Out on the road?’ Vivan was enjoying seeing her discomfort as she straightened up from under the car.

‘It’s my keys. I can’t find them,’ she bit back, getting up to glare at him.

‘Pity. Just when I was getting truly impressed by your dedication to your subject.’

Pari didn’t think it warranted an answer, so glared at him again as she continued to search.

‘Think again,’ he added helpfully, speaking slowly to help jog her memory. ‘You got out of the car. You shut the door. You pressed the lock switch on your key, I presume, and then?’

‘No. No. This car’s old. I have to lock it manually. I can’t—’ Pari stopped suddenly, annoyed that she had even engaged in dialogue with him, and simultaneously being struck by the common-sense explanation of what had obviously happened. Pari leaned down to look into the car, grimacing as she directed the phone’s light near the dashboard. There, hanging on a little chain, the key dangled jauntily from the ignition switch.

‘I must have pulled the handle to lock it. I was running a bit late today,’ Pari said, dismayed.

‘Let me drop you back,’ Vivan offered, hitting the unlock button on his key to have all the doors to the sleek super-luxury car click open in low understated beeping synchronisation.

Pari clutched her bag and started walking away from Vivan. ‘Thanks. But, no, thanks. That’s not necessary,’ she said, not stopping to think why the idea of sharing an intimate space in a car with this man should feel so dangerous yet exciting. ‘I’ll get an auto,’ she mumbled, her explanation wasted in the wind and Delhi’s heavy night traffic.

Ten minutes later Pari realised the hopelessness of getting an auto to go the short distance of three kilometres. If that wasn’t bad enough, an early winter mist was settling in. The only alternative was to walk home—not the safest of ideas but her best bet for now.

Vivan manoeuvred the car as swiftly as he could through the chaotic parking lot and was relieved to see Pari walking desolately, dodging the speeding cars, jacket huddled close, big bag clutched under her arm, vainly trying to flag down autos. Each one would careen dangerously close and then speed away on hearing the destination, before anyone could call the cops on them.

‘Get in,’ Vivan barked, vehicles already starting to pile up and honk behind his car.

There was no option; Pari quickly lowered herself into the plush low seat of the heavenly warm car and its lemony interiors.

‘Where to?’

‘R.K.Puram. Sector twelve, just behind Sangam, please,’ Pari said, pointedly polite. ‘I hope I’m not taking you out of your way.’

Vivan replied with just the merest shake of his head as he looked straight ahead, making Pari all the more aware of the overwhelming masculinity of him. At least ten inches taller than her, maybe more, he seemed to fill the large car effortlessly. His slim hands on the gear stick and steering wheel, she couldn’t help but notice, were as large and sensuous as she had thought they would be. His fingers were long and well made and she could imagine them caressing an instrument with masterful ease. The same ease with which they would slowly caress a woman’s body …

There was a huge traffic pile-up, Pari saw, and it wasn’t just the usual bottleneck around the dug-up sections where the Metro rail was planned. Some motorcyclist had chosen to cut a red light and the car he’d hit was badly dented, though luckily no one was hurt. This of course meant that at least a half-hour argument would ensue before the vehicles were moved. Unlike many others who kept honking and keeping their cars unnecessarily revved, Vivan had pragmatically switched off the ignition.

Pari looked a little tense, not quite settled into the deep low seat.

‘Might have been faster if I’d walked,’ she mumbled awkwardly.

‘Ah, but not nearly as comfortable.’ Vivan picked up the sleek wafer-thin remote to flick on the high-end music system and decisively selected a channel that was playing a soothing Sufi song. He saw from Pari’s expression that it was something she liked too. He then pressed open a slim freezer chest cleverly designed to sit neatly between the two front seats, which seemed to be stocked with an eclectic selection of beverages. ‘Something to drink?’ he asked, offering her a chilled premixed bottle of cranberry cocktail.

‘Thank you. But I don’t drink,’ Pari said politely.

‘Of course. I should have guessed.’ Vivan held out a bottle of imported sparkling water. ‘Something healthy, I guess, given that you’re a yoga teacher. Oh, not just a yoga teacher … a “Purist” at that!’ he teased.

Pari shook her head, allowing herself a small smile. ‘Actually, I’m more of an adrak ki chai person.’

‘There’s nothing to compare with hot gingery dhaba chai,’ Vivan agreed, to Pari’s surprise.

‘Somehow I didn’t see you feeling that way,’ she couldn’t stop herself from quipping.

‘Why?’ he asked, amused.

Pari looked uncomfortable. ‘I mean … if you’re used to these pricey bottled waters and top-end cars … of course, this car is brilliant … But I thought you’d like everything … you know … um … fancy.’

‘In that case you should know at one time … I probably had a large hand in keeping DK dhaba in business. I wonder if it’s still around, after the flyover came up.’

‘I’ve heard so many people talk about that place. What was so great about that chai?’ Pari quickly realised she’d actually said her thought aloud.

‘I think it was all those truckers’ diesel fumes. It was right on the highway,’ Vivan said, with a wry smile. ‘In fact nobody could make bun omelette like those guys. I’m sure it was the grease and pollution and sitting out eating it on the charpais that added up to it!’

‘Exactly!’ Pari was amazed that he should think as she did. ‘Nowadays everyone gets so hyper about having chaat and that too with the poor chaat fellow’s hands all hygienically covered in plastic gloves and only mineral water chalega to put into the golguppas. That’s not what eating chaat is about! It just doesn’t taste the same.’

Pari caught the deadpan look on Vivan’s face. ‘You’d rather have the full flavour of where the chaat walah’s hands went before? Come on. Admit it!’

Pari couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped. ‘I know,’ she said, stretching out the syllable in a long childlike sigh. ‘I know, it’s probably wiser and safer and all that.’

Seeing Vivan’s openly amused expression now and the look that said, ‘Really?’, Pari scrunched up her eyes, chewing on her lower lip in a jokey kind of grimace to laugh. ‘OK, OK, I confess, I’d rather have the full “impure” street taste of how it’s meant to be, than all that clinically made stuff.’

The RJ had gone into a commercial break. A young female voice in the ad complained about her husband heading straight for the TV after he got home. The totally corny commercial plugged a brand of stick-on bindis as a cure-all to get the husband’s attention back to her charms.

Pari turned her face to the car window to smile to herself.

‘So remember … get your Chamki bindi on. Your husband won’t be able to get his eyes off you!’ the shrill female voice-over artiste repeated.

‘Enough already!’ Vivan said, exasperated, as he switched to another channel.

The traffic had started moving.

‘Why?’ Pari giggled. It was interesting to discover that this overpoweringly male student whose brazen sexuality had thrown her quite off balance was not some MCP at least.

Vivan found her laughter infectious. ‘What century is that ad for?’ he said wryly. ‘Can you imagine, in this day and age, they are advocating this woman should, what …? Set a daily alarm or something? Then the moment it’s time for the husband to come home … she should run around frantically … to get her Chamki bindi on!’ Vivan continued in the same deadpan voice.

‘And what if she’s just got back from work in her trousers? Or she’s into powder bindis?’ Pari said, laughing more naturally and openly than she’d thought she could ever have done with this man who was turning out to be easier to talk to than she’d thought.

The car had stopped at a traffic signal and soon enough a young urchin was tapping at Vivan’s window. He held a bunch of crudely made battery-operated plastic fans. The kind that looked like table fans but were about five inches tall, threw up a whisper of air and probably lasted no more than a day.

‘Saab, twenty-five rupees. OK, for you twenty! Boni kara doh. I haven’t sold a thing all day.’

Pari assumed Vivan would keep his window up and drive on when the light changed. To her surprise, he pressed on the button to roll his window down, held out a hundred-rupee note on the ready and took the useless toy from him. He rolled the window up without taking any change from the surprised child’s hands and drove on.

‘Here. Would you like this?’ Vivan put the plastic fan into Pari’s hands.

‘Why?’ she asked him, bunching her shoulders as she shook her head.

‘Why not?’ he answered. ‘At least he wasn’t begging. Why not encourage that?’

It was a sweet gesture and Pari felt a wonderful warmth in her belly that he had done it. She contained her sudden urge to reach forward and touch his palm. Instead she fidgeted with trying to switch the little fan on. Surprisingly, it did, almost instantly, throwing out more noise than air. ‘Look. It works too!’ she said playfully, turning the toy fan to her face and feeling a light shaft of air.

Vivan saw her face, framed by the loose strands of her rich brown hair blowing gently, in the glow of the mercury lights of the road.

‘Even better,’ he said, his head turned to one side, his eyes not leaving her face.

On impulse, Pari turned the fan towards him and playfully brought it close to the curve of his neck, watching mesmerised as his hair blew about silkily. She stopped suddenly as Vivan moved one hand away from the steering wheel to grab her wrist and pull her hand down. In a second, Pari was again acutely aware of the scorching chemistry that had constantly thrummed between them below the surface. She let the fan drop to the carpeted car floor; intensely conscious of the touch of his fingers still burning their impact on her wrist, even though his hand had gone back to the steering wheel … still imagining those sensuous fingers of his now on her waist, pulling her close into his body.

‘I guess it works,’ Vivan said, his voice thick with desire. ‘In more ways than one.’

Pari reined in her fantasies as she stammered an apology. ‘I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you.’

Luckily they had already pulled up outside her apartment block. Vivan brought the car to a halt, putting a brake on her uncontrolled imagination. After what had almost happened in her class, the last thing she needed was to let him see the effect he was having on her. I should say thank you and get out quickly. Not insanely have these repeated lustful fantasies about the feel of his lips against mine




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