Twelve Hours of Temptation Page 12

  Melissa bit her lip. Of course he didn’t love her. What had she expected? That he’d confess to having been secretly in love with her since the second he’d clapped his eyes on her?

  His mother was evidently still firing questions at him, because he went on.

  ‘I haven’t met her family, except for her brother. Seemed a nice enough chap—typical middle-class Goan, runs a restaurant with his dad and plays drums for a local band in his free time. Her mother’s dead.’

  It wasn’t said in a callous way at all, but his last words still cut deep. She hadn’t talked about her mother with Samir except the one time he’d asked about her. It wasn’t something she spoke about much.

  She started walking again, picking up speed as she tried to get away from Samir’s line of vision as quickly as possible before he turned around and saw her. Her mother’s dead. Typical middle-class Goan. Both true, and logically there was no reason for her to be upset. What he hadn’t said was, Not our kind of people, though the implication had come through loud and clear. It matched up with what she’d found out about his family—they were leagues ahead of hers, both in terms of social status as well as wealth and power. Things she’d never ever given importance to because they hadn’t directly affected her before.

  Her footsteps slowed again once she’d put enough distance between herself and Samir. She felt bewildered and heartsore. Ever since Samir had told her that he was doing his best to make it work between them she’d relaxed her guard and let herself believe that they had a future together. Evidently she’d been fooling herself. Perhaps what had got Samir riled up after their trip to the art gallery was her stubborn insistence that theirs was a short-term affair—presumably the length was something that he wanted to dictate.

  It was the first time that someone she cared about had made her feel that she was lacking in some way. She’d been the youngest in her family—not pampered, exactly, but always valued. Michael and her father had been quietly indulgent during her teenage years, and when Michael had got married, Cheryl had become the older sister Melissa had always wanted. Until, of course, Melissa had ruined everything by taking up with Josh.

  For a few seconds Melissa missed home so badly that it was like a physical pain. In spite of the past two years being rocky, she knew that her father and brother loved her deeply. Michael had been calling regularly, and he’d dropped enough hints for her to figure out that her father had been keeping track of her through Liz and Brian ever since she’d left Goa. Maybe that was what she needed to do, she thought—go back and make peace with her ‘typical middle-class Goan’ father, and come to terms with her own identity.

  Reinventing oneself was all very well, but in the instant that she’d heard Samir describe Michael she’d known that if she had to choose between turning into a snooty rich bitch lookalike to stay with Samir or remaining her regular self and doing without him, she’d choose the latter. However much it hurt.

  Still feeling a little shaky, and definitely not confident enough to go back upstairs, she veered off the jogging track and went to sit on a bench in one of the little artificial gardens next to the swimming pool.

  Think, she told herself sternly. She’d already admitted to herself that somewhere along the line she’d fallen in love with Samir. Well, that couldn’t be undone now—but what she could do was make sure Samir never figured it out. Which meant she’d either have to put on a front all the time, or leave as soon as she possibly could.

  Her heart twisted within her at the thought of leaving, and she wondered if she wasn’t jumping to conclusions. Maybe Samir just needed some time—there was nothing to say that he wouldn’t decide to continue with their relationship. After all, he’d just told his mother that he hadn’t made up his mind yet. Miserable as the hope was, it buoyed up her spirits temporarily, and she got up to go back to the flat.

  * * *

  Once Samir had finished his call, he headed back towards the tennis court, hoping to get a game in before dinner. He was lucky—one of his neighbours had just come to the court and was looking for a partner. The man was a lot older than Samir, but he was very fit, and the game was close.

  ‘Great game,’ he said after shaking Samir’s hand. ‘I thought I saw your wife around here a while back. Does she play as well?’

  About to tell him that Melissa wasn’t his wife, Samir held back and just said, ‘No, she’s never learnt.’

  Mumbai was reasonably progressive, but he didn’t want more people than necessary knowing that they weren’t married. They would have some explaining to do if they actually got married, but that was something he was sure he could handle. He pulled himself up short before that particular train of thought could go any further—could they actually get married? Had he really been thinking that?

  He took a deep breath. The conversation with his mother had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. She’d always been unusually perceptive, and evidently she’d sensed that Melissa meant more to him than any of the girls he’d dated before. It wasn’t something he’d allowed himself to think about much.

  Melissa challenged him in ways no woman had before—sometimes making him question his whole approach to life and the way it should be lived. On the other hand, with her easygoing, undemanding ways, she was also incredibly easy to live with. And then there was the sex. Mind-blowing was an understatement, and he needed to be sure it wasn’t clouding his judgement in other things.

  When he got back to the flat Melissa was in the kitchen, looking very busy.

  ‘Where’s Kamala?’ he asked.

  ‘Kamala’s taken the day off for Ganpati,’ Melissa said. ‘She told you a couple of days back.’

  ‘We could have gone out,’ Samir said, leaning against the doorjamb. ‘We still can, actually. Let that stuff be and go and get ready.’

  Melissa didn’t look up from her chopping and marinating. ‘It’ll spoil,’ she said. ‘And I don’t like eating out.’

  Something was wrong—her voice sounded different and she still wasn’t looking at him. ‘We’ll go to a Goan place,’ he promised. ‘Come on, Melly, you’re starting a new job from Monday—you need to relax a little.’

  ‘I find cooking relaxing,’ she said.

  Samir shrugged, beginning to feel annoyed. If she was upset about something, she’d have to come out and tell him what it was—he hated guessing games. ‘Well, all right,’ he said, turning away to go into the living room. ‘Don’t make anything very spicy, though.’

  Melissa stared at the pan where she’d been carefully combining spices. She’d planned to make chicken xacuti, and there were six red chillies in the masala, waiting to be ground up into paste. Sighing, she turned the stove off.

  ‘Let’s go out,’ she called after Samir. ‘But not a Goan place, please—the ones in Mumbai are rubbish. Let’s go to one of the places you like.’

  * * *

  ‘I was thinking I’d go to Goa for a couple of days,’ she said over dinner. ‘See my dad. I’ve left things to fester too long. I was looking at Brian and Cyrus and Darius today—they suddenly seemed so old...and Dad’s the same age as Brian.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Samir asked, his eyes warm and concerned. ‘Last time you met Michael you came back looking an absolute wreck.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him since then,’ Melissa said. ‘I overreacted, I think, that time I met him. They didn’t want Dad to know I was in town because he would have been upset I didn’t go and see him.’ With a flash of her normal spirit, she added, ‘Though unless they thought I’d grown telepathic I don’t know how they expected me to figure that one out.’

  Samir smiled at that, but still came back to the topic once they were home. ‘Should I come with you?’ he asked. ‘If you think your dad will be upset if he knows we’re living together I can stay out of the picture, but at least you’ll know I’m nearby if you need me.’

>   ‘I think I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘And it’s something I need to do on my own. But thanks for offering to come with me. It...it means a lot.’

  ‘Any time,’ he said softly and leaned across to kiss her, his lips warm as they lingered on hers. It was a slow kiss, but it set her veins on fire, and she clung to him when he finally tried to draw away.

  NINE

  Melissa took the overnight train to Goa—this time luckily the tickets were easy to get. Samir had tried to talk her into taking a flight, but her fear of flying was still too strong for her to attempt it alone.

  Michael was at the station to meet her, and he put his arms around her and hugged her when she got off the train. ‘It’s good to see you, men,’ he said. ‘Dad’s looking forward to seeing you too.’

  Her father looked older and frailer than when she’d seen him last, but he was evidently very pleased to see her. She’d wondered how he’d manage the conversation about their two-year-long estrangement, but after a while she realised that he wasn’t planning to talk about it at all. He seemed happier pretending that she’d been away for work.

  ‘Brian told us about the new job,’ he said. ‘This boy you’re with now—Samir—he’s Hindu, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Dadda,’ Melissa said, heaving an inward sigh. Some things about her father hadn’t changed. Presumably no one had told him that Samir and she were living together or he’d have disowned her all over again.

  ‘If you get married will he convert?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Melissa said. ‘I don’t think we’ll get married, Dadda. It’s not that serious.’

  Her father grunted. ‘You be careful,’ he said. ‘Don’t let people take advantage of you. And no need to tell them about what happened earlier.’

  He sounded like a medieval father whose daughter had been raped by invaders, Melissa thought, torn between anger and amusement. Evidently he thought that her chances in the marriage market had dwindled after she’d run away with Josh.

  The more time she spent with her family, the more the differences between her and Samir were underscored. She tried to imagine bringing Samir to her home. He’d probably be bored out of his wits—the conversation in their family revolved around food and films, mostly, and Samir wasn’t interested in either. Then, of course, he’d have the option of hanging out with Michael and his mates from the band. Or with her father and the parish priest.

  Her lips curved up in an involuntary smile. To be fair to Samir, he’d probably do both without even once indicating that he wasn’t exactly enthralled by the company or the conversation. Only he’d be dying to get back to Mumbai, or at least to a more hip and happening part of Goa. Melissa’s smile faded. In spite of the strong resistance her heart was putting up, her brain seemed to be coming up with more and more reasons why her relationship with Samir wasn’t going to work.

  The rest of her visit was peaceful enough, though it dragged a little—especially in the morning, when her nephew was in school and everyone else was busy in the restaurant preparing for the lunch crowd. She tried helping them, but she’d lost the rhythm of working in a large kitchen and, though no one said anything, she soon realised that she was in the way.

  ‘I got this out of the safe for you,’ her father said, handing her a small blue box on the day she was packing to leave.

  Melissa opened the box to see a pair of heavy gold bangles that had belonged to her mother.

  ‘Dadda...’ she said, suddenly overcome. Her mother had worn those bangles to church every Sunday, and when she was very young Melissa had thought that her mother wouldn’t be allowed in if she didn’t wear them.

  ‘She’d have wanted you to have them,’ her father said heavily. ‘I spoke to the Father, and he told me to look within my heart and think what my wife would have wanted me to do for my children. She would never have let you go away.’

  So the parish priest had some sense after all, Melissa thought. No wonder Michael had tried to make her meet him when she was last in Goa.

  ‘Thanks, Dadda,’ she said.

  She didn’t have it in her heart to be resentful about the way he’d treated her. Parents were human as well, and who was to say he hadn’t been right? Maybe if she’d listened to him and given Josh up she’d have been much happier. But she’d never have moved to Mumbai, and she wouldn’t have met Samir... Probably by now she’d be married to Savio, who ran the neighbourhood grocery store and had always had a crush on her. She thought of Savio and his curly hair and sweaty hands and suppressed an involuntary shudder. Some things about the move to Mumbai had definitely worked out for the better.

  ‘I’ll come back and visit you soon,’ she said, giving her father an awkward peck on his withered cheek. He nodded, and she picked up her bag and gave Justin and Cheryl a hug. ‘I’ll see you guys soon too,’ she said.

  When her train pulled into CST she automatically looked around for Samir, even though he’d told her he had an important meeting and wouldn’t be able to come to the station. His driver was there, though, and she handed her bag to him and followed him out to the station car park.

  Her phone rang as soon as she was in the car.

  ‘Hey, there,’ Samir said, and she felt her pulse quicken at the sound of his voice. ‘Had a good trip?’

  ‘The best,’ she said. ‘But I’m happy to be back.’

  ‘Can’t wait to see you,’ he said, and his voice was a husky promise. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up, but there’s a minor crisis at work. I’ll get home as soon as I can this evening.’

  ‘See you soon, then,’ she murmured, mindful of the driver’s being within earshot. ‘Bye.’

  It didn’t take her long to unpack, but it took a lot longer to figure out where to put her stuff. The clothes were easy—they just went into the wardrobe in the master bedroom that Samir had cleared out for her. The problem was with the books and CDs she’d brought back from Goa with her.

  There were quite a lot of them, she realised, staring at the heap on the bed. She’d left most of her stuff behind in Goa when she’d left with Josh, and she’d assumed her father had got rid of it when he’d done the whole disowning-his-only-daughter thing. As it turned out, though, Cheryl had carefully stored everything away, and in a fit of nostalgia that she was now regretting Melissa had carted almost all of it back to Mumbai.

  She padded into the media room to examine the bookshelves there. Most of Samir’s books were glossy hardcover editions of popular books on management and advertising. There were a few tomes on art, and the odd novel. Everything looked so perfect that Melissa wondered if the interior decorator had chosen the books as well as the bookshelves. There was no way her tattered collection of largely second-hand paperbacks would be welcome on those shelves. And there were no closed bookshelves or spare cupboards in the room—presumably they wouldn’t have fitted in with the decor.

  It was when she was investigating a small cupboard over the bar in the living room that she found the photo albums. The complete impersonality of Samir’s flat had been bothering her for a while. There were no pictures or souvenirs, or anything that suggested a home rather than a hotel room. The albums had evidently been there for a while, and she dragged them off the shelf carefully and dusted them by clapping them together.

  Sneezing as a cloud of dust rose up around her, she got off the chair she’d been standing on and inspected the albums. The older one had pictures of Samir as a young boy, standing solemnly with his parents on the shores of a lake, blowing out candles on a birthday cake almost as large as himself, and playing cricket with a bunch of equally small and solemn-looking friends.

  The second album appeared to be exclusively filled with pictures from a single holiday. It was at least six or seven years old, and Samir looked young and carefree as he posed for the camera. The pictures were mostly taken in Greece and Italy, and Samir se
emed to have gone there with two other men his age. One of the men looked vaguely familiar, and after peering at the picture for a while Melissa realised that he was Vikas Kulkarni, the rather cynical-looking man she’d met first at Priyanka’s party, and then at the art gallery.

  ‘Searching for something?’

  Samir’s voice came from behind her, startling her so much that she almost dropped the album.

  ‘Or generally snooping around?’

  His tone was light, but there was an edge to his words that she couldn’t fail to miss.

  ‘Snooping around,’ she said gaily, getting to her feet. ‘Only you’re not much of a Bluebeard, are you? This is the only cupboard I found with anything remotely interesting in it.’

  ‘I’d forgotten I still had those,’ Samir said, glancing at the albums. ‘God, we were such a bunch of losers.’ The photo he was looking at had the three men posing in completely ridiculous attitudes in front of the Parthenon.

  ‘I don’t know—I think it’s a cute picture,’ she said. ‘You were pretty hot. In a boy-band kind of way.’

  ‘As opposed to my current manly appearance?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows as he took the albums from her and returned them to the shelf.

  The tight expression had left his face, and he looked almost relaxed now. A four o’clock stubble darkened his jaw, and his shoulders looked even broader than usual in a well-cut formal shirt. He was right—there wasn’t the merest hint of ‘boy’ in him now.

  Feeling her mouth go dry with longing, Melissa hastily averted her gaze from his perfect shoulders and the even more perfect body attached to it.

  ‘That’s right—as opposed to your current old man appearance,’ she said. ‘Such a pity I missed out on your best years.’

  ‘I’m not so upset about it,’ he said gravely. ‘You were probably in kindergarten then. I’d have been hauled up for child abuse.’

  Melissa laughed, and looked curiously up at the albums before he shut the cupboard door.