Chapter 4

Four

“ T ell me you’re not working.” Ethan pointed at the small blue notebook tucked discreetly under her linen serviette; obviously not discreetly enough.

Ignoring him, she sliced a vegetable pakora in two and dipped it in the tamarind sauce, her tastebuds already hankering for that first delicious taste of crispy vegetables battered in chick pea flour and dunked in the sour, piquant sauce.

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

He laughed, before helping himself to a meat samosa from the entrée platter between them. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I’m supposed to be getting back to work soon and I need the practice.”

Resting his knife and fork on his plate, he focussed his too-blue gaze on her. “You’re an amazing critic, Tam, one of Australia’s best. Skills like that don’t disappear because you’ve had a year or so off.”

“Two years,” she said, quelling the surge of resentment at what she’d given up for Richard. “Despite the last six months at Ambrosia , I’m still rusty. The sooner I get back into it, the easier it will be.”

She bit into the pakora , knowing she had her trusty notebook within jotting reach for another reason. The minute she’d opened her compartment door to find Ethan on the other side in charcoal casual pants and open-necked white shirt, his gaze appreciative and his smile as piratical as always, she’d had to clamp down on the irrational urge to slam the door in his face and duck under the duvet for cover.

It had been her stupid thoughts earlier of ‘what if’ that had made her aware of him as a man—a gorgeous, charming man—rather than her…what was he? A business acquaintance? A travelling companion? A friend?

She didn’t like the last two options: they inferred a closeness she didn’t want. But they’d moved past the acquaintance stage the moment he hugged her at the station and there was no going back.

She didn’t want these thoughts, didn’t want to acknowledge the sexy crease in his left cheek, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that added character to his face, the ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.

She’d never noticed those things before or if she had, hadn’t experienced this… buzz, or whatever the strange feeling coursing through her body was, making her want to bury her nose in her notebook for the duration of dinner.

That might take care of day one, but what about the rest of the week as the Palace on Wheels took them on an amazing journey through Rajasthan?

Ethan was Richard’s friend, reason enough she couldn’t trust him.

She reached for the notebook and he stilled her hand. Startled, her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast. He’d touched her. Again. And this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes,while fear crept through her.

Fear they’d changed the boundaries of their nebulous relationship without realising, fear they could never go back, fear she’d lose focus of what she wanted out of this trip if she was crazy enough to acknowledge the shift between them let alone do anything about it.

“This is the first vacation you’ve taken in years. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He squeezed her hand, released it, and she exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. “You’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough.” He winked. “Once I coerce the talented Indian chef to leave the Lake Palace and work at Ambrosia , critiquing his meals will keep you busy for months.”

“You’re too kind.”

She meant it. He’d never been anything other than kind to her—when he acknowledged her presence, that is—from the first moment he arranged a special table for her at Ambrosia away from the ravenous crowd so she could sample the food and write her critiques in peace.

But kind didn’t come close to describing the surprising gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous, exciting, and terrifying.

He screwed up his nose, stabbing a seekh kebab from the entrée platter, and moving it across to his plate. “You know, kind ranks right up there with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.”

“Fine. You’re a cold, heartless, businessman who takes no prisoners. Better?”

“Much.”

His bold smile had her scrambling for her notebook and flipping it open to a crisp, blank page, pen poised. “Take a bite of that kebab and tell me what you think.”

He cut the kebab—spiced lamb moulded into a sausage shape around a skewer and cooked to perfection in a tandoor oven—and chewed a piece, emitting a satisfied moan that had her focussing on his lips rather than her notebook.

“Fantastic.” He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, and chewed. “I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic, and cumin.”

He ate the rest, then patted his stomach, a lean, taut stomach from what she could see outlined beneath his shirt.

Great, there she went again, noticing things she never normally would. This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Pressing the pen to the page so hard it tore a hole through to the paper underneath, she focussed on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or washboard abs.

“Not a bad critique but lacking detail, so that’s why you’re the guy who owns the restaurants and I’m lucky enough to eat in them and write about the food.”

He smiled and pointed at her notebook. “Go ahead then. Tell me all about the wonders of the seekh kebab.”

She glanced at her notes, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. She loved her job, every amazing moment of it, from sampling food, savouring it, titillating her tastebuds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow foodies.

As for Indian food, she’d been raised on the stuff and there was nothing like it in the world.

“The keema —” he raised an eyebrow and she clarified, “—lamb mince is subtly spiced with an exotic blend of garam masala, dried mango powder, carom seeds, and raw papaya paste, with a healthy dose of onion, black pepper, ginger, garlic and a pinch of nutmeg.”

“You got all that from one bite?”

She pushed the notebook away, unable to contain her laughter as he took another bite, trying to figure out how she did it.

“My mum used to make them. I memorised the ingredients when I was ten years old.”

Her laughter petered out as she remembered what else had happened when she was ten; her dad had dropped dead at work from a cerebral aneurysm and the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist.

She’d loved listening to her parents chat over dinner, their tales of adventure, the story of how they met. She’d always craved a once in a lifetime romance like theirs. Sadly, Richard hadn’t come close to her romantic fantasy and she’d given up hope of ever finding it.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, concern furrowing his brow.

She nodded and bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. “I still miss my mum.”

He hesitated, before reaching out to capture her hand again. “Tell me about her.”

Tell him what? How her mum used to braid her waist length hair into plaits every day for school, never once snagging the brush or rushing her? How Adhira concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices, and little else? How Adhira had loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad died?

Tamara couldn’t put half of what she felt into words, let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her soul that she was on this train and Adhira wasn’t.

Ethan squeezed her hand, his compassionate expression encouraging. “Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.”

“Watch Bollywood films.”

The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many Sunday afternoons curled on the worn, suede couch in the family room, a plate of jalebis , milk burfi and Mysore pak —delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk, and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Brad Pitt. They’d laugh at the over the top theatrics, sigh at the dramatic romance, and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.

Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, Tamara never felt any real connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons, she’d been transported to another world; a world filled with exotic people and vibrant colour and mystical magic.

“What else?”

“We loved going to the beach.”

Ethan’s gentle encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.

Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.

That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband revealed a cruel side that to this day left her questioning her judgement in marrying someone like him in the first place.

Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, because he tugged lightly on her hand. “Any particular beach you loved?”

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum. “It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.”

They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach reminded Adhira of meeting Harrison, Tamara’s dad, for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.

Her mum had been trying to hold onto precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason, Tamara had been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a messy bun on top of her head.

“Sounds great.”

“It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.” She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. “My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a gap year after med school, Mum was working for one of the hotels there.”

She sighed, and swirled the water in her glass. “Love at first sight apparently. My dad used to call mum his exotic princess from the far east, mum used to say dad was full of crap.”

“Why didn’t she ever go back after he passed away?”

Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. “Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian as my dad would’ve wanted.”

“But you’re half Indian too? This country is a part of who you are.”

She stared at his hand over hers, so strong, so tanned, so comforting, and the sting of tears burned anew. “Honestly? I don’t know who I am any more.”

The admission sounded as lost, as forlorn, as she felt almost every minute of every day.

She’d vocalised her greatest fear.

She lost her identity when she married Richard and became the perfect wife he wanted. She’d ignored her wants and needs in favour of satisfying his. She’d submerged her cultural background because of his obsession with fitting in with everyone else. She’d been playing a role forever: first the dutiful wife, then the grieving widow.

An act. All of it.

She’d become like Richard, caring about appearances even at the end when she was screaming inside at the injustice of being lied to and cheated on for so long, while shedding appropriate tears at his funeral.

That has been the worst, behaving like a hypocrite who gave a damn that her lying, cheating spouse had died, when in reality, all she’d felt was bone-deep relief.

Ethan stood, moved around to her side of the table, and crouched down beside her. He slid an arm around her waist while tilting her chin to look him in the eye with his other hand.

“I know who you are, Tam. You’re an incredible woman with the world at her feet.” He brushed her cheek in a gentle caress that had tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you ever forget how truly amazing you are.”

With emotion clogging her throat and tears blinding her, she couldn’t speak let alone see what was coming next, so when his lips brushed hers in a soft, tender kiss, she didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to react.

Instead, her eyelids fluttered shut, her aching heart healing a little as her soul sang with the sheer joy of having a man like Ethan Brooks on her side.

His kiss lingered long after he pulled away, long after he stared at her with shock in the indigo depths of his eyes, long after he murmured, “You’re special, that’s who you are, Tam.”

A small part of her wanted to believe him. A larger part wanted to recreate the magic of that all-too-brief kiss, because for the first time in forever, she felt desired.

The largest part of her recoiled in horror as she realised she’d been kissed by the last man she could get close to.

Ever.