A Bollywood Affair (7 page)

Someone up there was on her side. Until the script was done, he had no choice but to help her so he could keep writing. By the time the script was done she’d be so in his debt she’d sign the papers without so much as a whimper. Maybe someone up there was on his side too. Who was he to argue with a win-win situation like this?

He grabbed the laptop and headed back to Mili’s apartment.

 

Mili stumbled out of the bathroom on her crutches. This was the first time she’d been able to get to the bathroom by herself, thank heavens. But it had been more a combination of luck and momentum than any real skill. Samir had spent an entire hour that morning trying to help her figure the blasted things out, but with both a wrist and an ankle gone and her natural tendency to trip over thin air, it was a lost cause. He, on the other hand, seemed to possess enough strength in one powerful leg to support his own substantial bulk, balance her and her crutches on his head, and pull off a one-legged bhangra dance with his eyes closed. Maybe it had something to do with having feet the size of boats.

She tried to hop to her bedroom, teetering between the cursed aluminum prongs that somehow became tangled with one another and flew from her hands. One crashed to the ground and the other bounced off her bedroom door, flew back at her, and thwacked her on the head.

“Stupid donkey-faced piece of junk.” She clamped it grudgingly under her armpit and quite literally willed herself into the bedroom where she realized that the armpit in which she had shoved the poor crutch smelled pretty sour. She pulled her maroon T-shirt off without falling to the floor, which was nothing short of a miracle, and pulled a blue T-shirt from the drawer.

She had found the T-shirts at a street vendor outside Borivali station in Mumbai the day she got her visa. It had taken a marathon bargaining session but she’d badgered the shopkeeper into letting her have all six colors of the T-shirt for the price of three and then she’d seen the lace underwear and gathered the guts to make him throw it in for free. She had no idea what had got into her, but something about the black lace had made her feel hopeful and ready for her husband and she’d had to have it. Just her luck that the street vendor had turned out to be from her neighboring village and she had bought two pairs of jeans for full price to keep from dying of embarrassment.

Before that all she had ever worn were traditional Indian
salwar
suits, the long tunic blouses worn over loose flowing pants or tights. After buying the T-shirts she’d left all her
salwar
suits behind in a bid to make a true fresh start here in America. She loved the freedom her shirts and jeans gave her. No
duppata
scarves, no ironing and starching. And when she had the use of all her limbs they were really easy to get on and off.

Now, however, nothing was easy. Between balancing on the crutches and getting her arms into the armholes, the stupid shirt twisted around her head. She tried to yank it down, but her bad wrist snagged in the fabric and blinding pain shot through her. Even though, thanks to the shirt wrapped around her head, she was already as blind as an ostrich with its head in the sand.

The door clicked open. Mili froze in place. “I’m not decent,” she shouted as the door creaked open. Why-oh-why had she ever given Samir a key?

There was complete silence. She scrambled under the stretchy fabric, ignoring another jolt of pain, and tried to twist around. “Samir? Hello?”

No answer.

“Samir?” she shouted and yanked at the T-shirt. But the crutches and cast knotted her up even tighter. “Who is it?” She twisted around, struggling to stay upright. Her heart slammed in her chest.
Oh God, please.
“Who is it?” she tried to shout again, but it came out a sob.

“
Shh.
Mili, it’s okay. It’s just me.” His arms went around her, adjusting the T-shirt so it freed her shoulders and cleared her head.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Breath hiccupped in her lungs.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear and had the gall to give her a calming, steadying glance as if he hadn’t just scared the life out of her. He wiped her cheek with one finger. She’d never seen his eyes so dark, so alive. His hands moved lower and he pulled the zipper of her jeans in place.

Anger exploded in her chest. She shoved him away, hard. But instead of budging him, she flung herself back. He caught her but her crutches crashed to the ground, leaving her with no support but his huge powerful body that radiated heat like a bonfire. Helpless anger surged through her, heightening the pain and making her tremble. He tightened his grip around her, his stupid, bulging arms so gentle she wanted to claw at them.

“Let me go.” She tried to throw off his arms but her hand hurt too much. She tried to scramble back but her foot wouldn’t take her weight.

“Mili. Relax. What’s wrong with you?” She hated the calm in that voice of his.

“You idiot!” She had never screamed at anyone in her life. “You scared me half to death. I thought someone had broken in. I thought . . .” A stupid sob escaped her.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Color crested his cheeks. His arm was still too familiar around her, too possessive. His eyes were too gentle when they met hers. “I didn’t knock because I thought you were sleeping. I had just given you your painkiller. It knocks you out.”

How dare he use that against her. “I needed to use the bathroom. Can’t I use the bathroom in my own home? Why do you have to be here all the time anyway? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

His arms stiffened around her. The liquid heat in his eyes iced over. “Maybe because you can’t even pull your own damn clothes on by yourself. Excuse me for trying to help.”

Her heart was slamming again but it was with anger this time. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Of course you didn’t—there’s such a line of friends outside your door just waiting to help you.”

Shame slid like oil over the flames of her anger. “I can pull my own clothes on just fine when I’m not scared out of my mind.” His hands burned her skin. She wanted them off. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to touch me.”

His head snapped back. Anger so intense sparked in his eyes, she sucked in a breath. Very deliberately he removed his arms from around her. “Why the hell would I want an excuse for that?”

Her good leg wobbled, but she locked it in place and willed herself to stay standing. Not that it mattered. Without a backward glance, he stalked out of the room, out of the apartment. The door slammed behind him. The second the door shut Mili realized she couldn’t move. He had left her standing in the middle of the room on one leg, with her crutches on the floor, and not one blessed thing she could hold on to.

9

S
amir wasn’t fuming. He wasn’t even remotely disturbed. The world was full of ungrateful people. If ten years in the industry had taught him anything it had taught him that.
An excuse to touch her?
Of all the ungrateful, presumptuous things to say to him. Who the fuck did she think he was?

He slammed his laptop shut. There was no point glaring at the words. He’d formatted the damned thing to death. Tagged all the characters, put in all the settings, titled all the scenes. But not one word of real writing. He put the laptop on the floor next to him and went to the kitchen to get a drink. But of course the shit-colored apartment was empty as an idiot’s head. Not a fucking thing in there. His stomach growled. He needed to get something to eat too. Real food, not just the cold sandwiches he’d been eating at Mili’s for a week.

He refused to recall the expression on her face when she ate. Refused to think about the warmth of her skin on his fingers, or the feel of her hair, or the way her waist had fit in his hands.

Shit.

He slammed the door of the empty fridge shut.

What was wrong with him? He had never touched a woman who didn’t want him. Not to mention she was the last person on earth he should ever want to touch. For more damn reasons than he could count. Not the least of which was that she was an ungrateful, self-righteous prima donna. Who would have thought it?

I didn’t ask for your help
. She had some gall for someone who couldn’t even stand on her own—

Holy shit.

He ran out of his apartment and down the hall, fumbled in his pocket and found the keys. He was about to push the door open when he remembered to knock. He did it lightly. There was no answer. Shit.
Shit.
He had left her standing in the middle of the room without her crutches. Something squeezed in his chest. He wanted to ram the door open, but he stilled his hand, and as gently as he could, he pushed it open.

“Mili?” he whispered into the empty living room, then walked to her bedroom.

The sight he saw body-slammed him so hard he reached for the wall to steady himself.

Mili lay in the middle of the floor, curled into a ball on the stained and discolored carpet, her eyes closed, her lashes wet. Perfect shining curls spilled from the band that attempted to restrain all that wildness. Spiral strands trailed across the clumping pile of the carpet, across her shoulders, around her neck, across her cheeks. Why did she have to be the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on?

Wetness glistened like moonlight on her cheeks. Her pert upturned nose was red and wet. He sank down on his knees next to her. Her fingers were curled around one of her crutches. The other crutch lay a few feet from her. Her sprained arm was pulled to her chest as if she were trying to stop it from hurting.

He removed the crutch from her fingers, brushed her hair from her face. She was passed out cold. It was the Demerol he’d given her earlier, before he’d scared her shitless and then abandoned her on one foot with nothing to lean on.

She took a shivering breath that drew her brows together in a pained grimace and Samir felt something he had never felt before. He felt an actual physical ache in the region of his chest, absurdly close to where his heart was supposed to be.

As gently as he could, he lifted her up. She was so tiny, so warm. Her body fit perfectly in his arms. The memory of her breasts in the thin cotton of her ridiculously sensible bra, and the impossibly deep curve of her waist disappearing into her unzipped jeans, flashed in his mind one more time. Of course she was right. He had wanted to touch her. The sight of her half-undressed body had felled him when he’d let himself into her apartment. She had been terrified and he had lost his ability to speak at the sight of her.

Little Sam was at work again. And as usual that meant nothing but trouble for Samir.

He carried her to the lumpy mattress that served as her bed and laid her down. Her lush, wide lips trembled as she took another sighing breath and he refused to acknowledge the urge to know what those lips tasted like.

Samir wiped her cheeks and pulled the rough plaid blanket over her and tucked it under her chin. He threw one glance at his watch. She would be out for another two hours at least. He knew exactly what he had to do.

 

Mili awoke to the most incredible aroma. Fresh garlic and cilantro being fried with stinging hot green chilies and ground cumin. And the smell of heaven itself—wheat rotis being roasted on an open fire. Her stomach growled so loudly, if she weren’t awake, it would definitely have woken her up. She had to be back home in Naani’s house. No other place on earth smelled like this. She opened her eyes and found herself in her own room.

The blanket she had used since she was three years old was tucked all the way under her chin and her crutches were propped up against her mattress within easy reach. The sight of her crutches brought back a bitter memory and anger pooled in her stomach. He had left her standing on one foot. With no support and no dignity. After struggling to stand for a few minutes she’d fallen to the ground like an orphaned cripple. She had tried to pull herself up, but her wrist and her ankle had both hurt too much and despite her resolve the tears had flowed until her eyes drooped shut.

She remembered the thunderous look on his face when he had walked away and grimaced. She had no idea why she had been so angry, why she had said those things. All she knew was that she had needed to push him away. And she certainly had no idea why it hurt so much when he had let her.

That couldn’t possibly be him cooking, could it? He could make the most delicious sandwiches, which kind of went with his whole city-boy persona. But this aroma suffusing her apartment,
this
was the very smell of her village. Good Lord, but it smelled good. So incredibly, maddeningly good, she was going to go crazy if she didn’t get her hands on it right now.

Maybe Ridhi was back? But Ridhi had burned the chai the first time she used the stove. Ravi then? God knows
someone
had to feed them when they were married and it wasn’t going to be Ridhi.

Mili sat up and pulled the crutches toward her. They were light and strong and she was going to figure out how to get off the floor and on them if it was the last thing she did. She used her good hand and managed to push herself off the mattress onto her good foot with one crutch tucked under her arm. But the other crutch was still on the floor and how was she supposed to get it? If the hurt arm and foot were on the same side this would actually be doable. Oh, forget it—she decided to go for it and lunged for the crutch on the floor. But the one under her arm slipped from her grip and flew forward and she followed suit.

Strong arms wrapped around her before she hit the floor. They pulled her up and held her in place until she caught her balance, caught a handful of his sleeve and caught her breath at the feel of hard muscles under her breasts.

Hair spilled around her face, mercifully hiding her flaming cheeks from his sight.

“You okay?” he asked against the curls covering her ear, his voice so tender, goose flesh started at the nape of her neck and dotted tiny bumps down her spine. For a few moments neither one of them moved. Then he pulled away. “I didn’t plan that. I swear.”

She twisted her head and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that.”

He turned her around and held her at arm’s distance. He was about to say something when she noticed rough, sticky dough where his hands cupped her elbows.

“Is that dough on your hands?”

“Difficult to make rotis without getting dough on your hands.” He lifted one hand up for display.

“You can make rotis? I don’t know any man who can make rotis.”

“I doubt you know any man like me, sweetheart.” His smile was teasing but there was that liquid heat in his eyes again. And it tipped her slightly off balance.

He slipped his hand back under her elbow and steadied her. Warmth rose from his doughy palms and spread down to parts where warmth had never until now ventured. She swallowed. She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly they were standing so close she could hear his heart thudding in his chest. Unless that was her own heart.

This was wrong. Dangerous and wrong in every way. She wasn’t free to do this. But the strange heat spreading through her slowed her reflexes. She was about to push away from him when her eyes started to sting, something burned in her throat, and a shrill siren burst through the air.

Samir pulled away first and tried to push her onto the mattress. But she clung to his sleeve, refusing to let go, so he scooped her up in his arms and ran into the living room.

The kitchen was filled with smoke. The smoke alarm was going crazy. “Shit, I left a roti in the pan.” He turned off the burner under the roti, or at least it must’ve been a roti before it had turned to the tissue-thin scrap of charcoal emitting smoke into the room. He put her on the countertop, ran to the living room, and opened the windows.

The smoke started to clear but the alarm wouldn’t stop shrieking.

“Get that magazine and fan it.” Mili pointed to Ridhi’s
Cosmo
magazine lying on the floor. It’s what Ridhi had done when she’d burned the chai.

He fanned frantically and finally the din stopped. Mili peeked over his shoulder at the cinder roti. He turned and followed her gaze. “I hope you like your rotis well done,” he said.

And they both started to laugh.

 

Samir had never met a woman who ate like this. Come to think of it, he had in recent years never met a woman who ate, period. Neha treated food like it was evil incarnate. She was in constant conflict with any little morsel she had to force into her mouth.

Mili ate as if she were making love to the food. Fierce, hungry love. Slow, sultry love. Every bite sent her into raptures, the pleasure of the flavors bursting on her tongue palpable in the tiny peaks of bliss flitting across her face. What would it be like when this woman orgasmed?

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating with their hands in traditional Indian fashion. Samir was glad to have the plate in his lap because for all his pleasure at the sight of Mili eating, Little Sam was paying the price.

“This is truly the most amazing potato
sabzi
I’ve ever eaten and the dal is perfect and the rotis make me feel like I’m sitting in my
naani
’s kitchen in Balpur.” She kept a constant string of compliments going as she ate. They bubbled from her as if she couldn’t contain herself. Samir, who usually found all forms of flattery oppressive, never wanted her to stop.

“Seriously, I’m starting to doubt your manhood.”

Samir choked on his roti. Was that a coquettish look she threw him?

Nope. False alarm, because she ruined the effect by following it up with a furious blush. She took another bite. “I meant, how can a man cook like this? Whoever taught you must be a magician.”

“She is. When I was little I had a hard time letting go of my mother’s sari. So I spent a lot of time with her and she spent a lot of time in the kitchen, so I learned.”

“A mummy’s boy.” She spooned some dal into her mouth and her eyes went fuzzy with delight.

“Most definitely.”

“But if these are the results, every man should be a mummy’s boy.” Damn it, if she kept saying these things with that artless smile he was going to push her into the mattress and show her other things he was really good at.

“I’m glad you like it.” He reached over and wiped a tiny splatter of dal from her chin.

“Is that what you think? That I like it? I don’t like it, Samir. I, oh good heavens, I . . . I love it.” She popped a piece of seasoned potato into her mouth and said
love
so lustily that the plate in Samir’s lap almost flipped over.

Fortunately Mili seemed completely clueless about his painful condition. Because suddenly her eyes got serious and warm. “Why did you do it?” she asked in that husky, breathless voice of hers.

“Well, I used to be sitting around while my mother did all the work, so I figured I might as well help her out. She kept teaching me, so I kept picking it up.”

Her impossibly dark eyes softened and got even more serious. “I meant, why did you cook today?”

“I was desperately hungry.”

She kept skewering him with those flashlight eyes. For some reason he knew she wasn’t going to stop until she had her answer.

“Because I was sorry.”

That signature blush danced up her cheeks.

It was his turn to drill her with his eyes. Her turn to look away. “I’m sorry I left you like that, Mili. It was a horrible thing to do.”

She lifted her heavy fringe of lashes, and met his eyes again. “Samir, I was a complete stranger and you’ve done nothing but take care of me from the moment you met me. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“So you weren’t mad at me for leaving?”

She colored some more and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Just a little bit.” She pinched the air with her thumb and forefinger.

“See.”

“But not because you were horrible. I was mad because . . . because. . .”

“Because you were helpless and dependent and because you expected me not to be such a bastard.” She cringed at the word and he felt like an even bigger bastard. “Sorry. Because you expected me to have more decency than that.”

She opened her mouth but no words came out. She put her plate on the floor. “Samir, you’ve been more than decent.”

“Mili, there’s something you should know about me. The one thing I’m not is a decent guy.”