Take One Arranged Marriage… Read online

  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 condescendin
g 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.’