ONE
Moushumi was at the Aalishan Jewelers exhibit for the third time in as many days, and would probably have continued coming back if the Indian Diaspora Investors Expo wasn’t ending that evening. She didn’t have many occasions to wear lavish jewelry, of course. And, humble innkeeper that she was, she didn’t have the assets to invest in a multimillion-dollar company like Aalishan Jewelers either. No, she just looked, never bought. The store representatives, though always courteous and ready to be of service, were probably sick of her by now.
But continue to look she did. Because she liked pretty things, and she liked fantasizing about what she’d wear at each of her wedding ceremonies. That is, in the unlikely event she ever did get married. Jewelry, outfits, venues, décor, menus, dance choreography—these were all things she could get if and when she pleased. Things she had control over. Benign fantasies. Things that were infinitely safer to fantasize about than yearning for a man—someone who would want to marry her, and she’d want to marry in return—only to be left waiting, aching, angry and alone.
The usual fantasies evaded her today, however. Even as she gazed upon a stunning three-strand necklace made of thirty-five carats of diamonds and a hundred and forty carats of teardrop-shaped sapphires. Her imminent return to Darjeeling weighed heavily on her mind. Three days away wasn’t enough to calibrate to the new reality awaiting her at home. Truthfully, the shift was so seismic, she doubted she could ever fully calibrate.
She lived at Monkshood House with her eldest brother, Aakash, his new bride, Satya, and Aakash’s daughter from his first marriage, Jiji. Satya had first come to Monkshood House as Jiji’s summer tutor two years prior. To say that Mou’s reticent, manically depressed brother’s romance with an employee fifteen years younger than him came as a shock would be an understatement. Mou was livid when she found out, not so much about the affair itself, but that it had transpired under her roof without her knowledge. A part of her—and this she was ashamed to admit, even to herself—was also jealous that Satya had managed to secure herself a loving husband, a child, a stunning wedding, and all the gifts and good wishes that came with a wedding by the ripe age of twenty-five. Meanwhile she, at thirty-four, remained acutely single—a soft target for aunties’ pitying smiles, their unsolicited advice, and constant reminders that her biological clock was ticking.
Satya was a massive improvement over Aakash’s first wife, though, and she made him happier than Mou had ever seen him. Jiji loved her too. They made the perfect family unit.
Which begged the question of where Mou fit in all this. She’d been the lady of the bungalow since her mother passed. The de facto matriarch. What was she now? A glorified housekeeper? A conveniently available nanny who watched Jiji when the two lovebirds took off on spontaneous trips abroad?
All she knew was that she wasn’t ready to return to the Monkshood House just yet. She wasn’t ready to go back to eating dinner in awkward silence as Aakash and Satya got lost in each other’s eyes. Back to feeling like a ghost, roaming the bungalow unseen.
She racked her brain for a credible excuse to extend her trip. Maybe she should be the one going on a spontaneous trip abroad for a change. Vicky, her other brother and the middle of the three Seth siblings, was in Portugal now. Now, there was an idea. She could hook up with as many hot and willing men as she pleased there. Nobody there would try getting in her pants for her money, nobody there would malign her character or her business’ reputation for indulging in casual sex, nobody there would know about her family’s many scandals. A change of scenery and some hot, sweaty sex with a dark and handsome stranger with a sexy accent might be just the thing she needed to survive being the semi-invisible sister and aunt, lurking in the periphery at Monkshood House.
But getting a Schengen visa, even with all her connections, would take at least twenty-two days. That, too, only if she got lucky. She couldn’t just sit in New Delhi till then.
Stupid border protocols.
She sensed a presence approach. Wary the salespeople might mistake her contemplation for interest in the jewelry set she’d been eyeing, she headed towards the next display in the row.
“It’s Ms. Seth, isn’t it? Ms. Moushumi Seth?”
Startled, Mou looked over her shoulder to find a man awaiting her response.
An impeccably dressed, bespectacled man.
A very handsome man.
“Yes?” The rest of her turned to face him.
“Nice to meet you.” The man held out his hand. “My name is Ashfaque Hossain. I’ve designed a few of the items on display here, and my family owns Aalishan Jewelers.”
“Oh.” Mou’s mind blanked. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was afraid he’d pressure her into buying something, or because of the response her body had to his somewhat sullen, dark, clean-shaven face. Gulping, she shook his hand. “But how did you…” She pointed at herself stupidly. “How did you know who…?”
“I had the pleasure of catching your presentation this morning,” he said, his thick, defined lips pulling up in a genial smile. His Queen’s English was diluted with indistinct South Asian intonations—much more pleasing to the ear than some of the other accents diaspora from the UK sported. “Developing Darjeeling’s hospitality industry in a way that protects the local ecosystem and indigenous way of life is an inspirational, very noble endeavor.”
“Oh,” she said again, mortified she didn’t have anything more intelligent to say.
Snap out of it!
“Well – umm – thank you. I don’t know about reforming the entire industry, but I’m definitely trying to scale up our existing operations. The watershed management infrastructure we’ve set up near Hollander Lodge has been very successful.” Returning to her usual articulate self, she fished out a flier and business card from her handbag. “And Hollander Lodge itself is very popular with tourists—worldclass accommodations and amenities, including a health center, a conference room and comfortable study for company retreats, in-house dining, tour packages into town and to Tiger Hill. We’ve had full occupancy through peak season for six years running.”
She’d mentioned all this in her presentation, of course, but repetition left a greater impression. Some people must have found it annoying, but she ardently hoped he didn’t. “You must come stay with us sometime.”
“Most certainly.” Mr. Ashfaque studied both sides of the flier and card. “I’m mostly based in Dubai now, so the mountain air would be a nice change.” Raising his half-lidded gaze to look at her over his spectacles, he added, “And, of course, I’d have to see that heritage property you plan to acquire.”
He wanted to invest! Mou held back a squeal. “Right,” she beamed, her voice breathy. “Of course. Any time. You have my contact details.”
“Good.” He tucked both flier and card in an inner pocket of his navy blue suit’s jacket. “So, tell me, Ms. Seth, what are your thoughts on Aalishan’s puja collection this year?”
“Oh, well, it’s exquisite. As always.” She flashed him a playful smile. “My compliments to the designer.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit,” he chuckled, head bowed with humility. “Only a few of these are mine. And there’s a strong likelihood they were only included to indulge me.”
“Even so, it’s a stunning collection, overall. Same as your past collections. Regal without being too gaudy. Classic with a touch of modern. I’ve always known I’ll wear your stuff at my wedding.”
“Ah, my heartiest congratulations. When’s the big day?”
“What? Oh! No, I’m not actually – I just mean that if I ever do get married, I’d like to wear your jewelry.”
“Well, why wait till you get married?”
“I…don’t follow.”
“Why do you need to get married to get what you want? Aren’t other milestones in a woman’s life worth celebrating too? Birthdays, graduations, promotions, running a hotel successfully for six consecutive seasons, expanding your business—why shouldn’t those things be afforded the same pomp and ceremony as something as commonplace as matrimony?”
Mou knew he was just trying to sweettalk her into buying something, but his words hit her hard. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had celebrated anything to do with her. Since Aakash’s near fatal accident and her mother’s death shortly after, she’d been the one in charge of organizing everyone’s birthdays, including her own. Everyone around her was too preoccupied with their own lives to notice, let alone acknowledge the hard work that went into keeping Monkshood House running, and Hollander Lodge thriving. When Aakash and Satya got married, she was so busy balancing the summer rush at Hollander Lodge with wedding arrangements that she’d barely had time to shower, let alone get her hair and make-up done properly.
“Mr. Ashfaque”—she swallowed the lump in her throat—“I’m really not here to buy.”
“No. But that shouldn’t stop you from trying something on. Who knows, maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“Really, Mr. Ashfaque, I’m not prone to impulse purchases. I’m pragmatic to a fault. You’d be wasting your time.”
“On the contrary, seeing a beautiful woman wear my creations would actually be a very good use of my time.” The admonishing look she shot him didn’t faze him. “Please, Ms. Seth. Indulge me. It would be an honor.”
Though his long features lent him an aloof demeanor, there was a piercing tenderness in his eyes, and his full lips exuded comfort as they pulled up in a smile. Mou knew it was all part of his sales offensive, but it still gave her butterflies. Got her hot and bothered. Threatened to buckle her knees.
“Oh, you’re good,” she conceded, looking away with a flustered chuckle.
She strode away, pretending to look at the displays while trying to cool her flaming cheeks with the backs of her hands. He stayed a few steps behind her, and was at her side when she finally made a choice.
“I would have chosen the same for you,” he smirked. He nodded at a saleswoman nearby to take the set out of its glass case. “I’d recommend pairing it with a longer necklace.” A few displays down the row, he instructed the saleswoman to remove another long, three-strand necklace Mou had had her eye on. “Do we need bangles?” Brows furrowed, he scrutinized Mou’s wrists for a beat. “No, let’s not do bangles today. But you must try this kamarband on.”
Deaf to her protests, he pulled out his phone, typed out a message and hit Send. “Shikha will meet you upstairs.”
“Upstairs? Upstairs where?”
“To the executive suite we’ve booked for the expo. It’s where all the models got ready for the fashion show yesterday. Shikha’s our wardrobe manager, but she also helps with hair and make-up when we need, which is most of the time.”
But there were plenty of experienced salespeople milling about the exhibition floor. Why did she need a wardrobe manager to put on some jewelry? “Can’t I just try them on here?”
“Yes, but why squander this opportunity in your work clothes when you can look like a queen?”
Mou’s brows jumped up her forehead. “Mr. Ashfaque, no, please, that’s so unnecessary. I can’t—”
Ignoring her, he addressed the saleswoman, who’d already secured the items they’d selected in a locked metal box. “Please show Ms. Seth to the executive suite. Tell Shikha I’m seeing to a few things here, but I’ll be up soon.”
Judging by the empty hangers and upright suitcases scattered about the three-room suite on the Hyatt Regency’s seventh floor, Shikha had finished—or was about to finish—packing away the fashion show’s wardrobe when Mou was delivered to her. If she was irritated at having to painstakingly reopen a bunch of suitcases in search of the perfect outfit to go with Mou and Mr. Ashfaque’s selection of jewelry, she did a very good job at hiding it.
Not that that stopped Mou from apologizing profusely. “Really, Ms. Shikha, you don’t have to go to all this trouble. I’d only agreed to try on some jewelry at Mr. Ashfaque’s insistence, and the next thing I know, he was messaging you.”
Shikha waved her off as she wove through the suitcases, checking their numbered tags against her inventory ledger. “It’s no problem at all, ma’am. We do costume trials for prospective brides all the time.”
Mou was too embarrassed to tell her she wasn’t getting married.
“Besides, the butterfly set is one of Mr. Ashfaque’s designs,” Shikha continued, “and he’s very particular about which dress the models wear with his designs.”
The suitcase she was looking for sat at the edge of the suite’s sitting room. Mou helped her clear enough space amid the other suitcases to lay it down and open it. Her breath caught when Shikha pulled out an extravagant burnt orange lehenga embroidered in gold and fringed with pearls.
Being a Bengali girl, Mou knew she’d wear a red Banarasi saree to her wedding if she ever got married, but she wasn’t immune to the Bollywood fantasy of making a grand entrance in a lehenga with a long train and an even longer veil, of said lehenga flaring out as her husband twirled her while they danced to Suraj Hua Maddham, and the bird’s eye view photos of her sitting with her lehenga splayed out around her.
And now she could have a taste.
“I can’t wear this,” she said, too afraid reality might not live up to the dream. She reasoned that the choli’s neckline was scandalously deep, and that it was backless to boot, with clasps at the top and bottom to secure it to its wearer. “I’m not wearing the right bra.”
“We have adhesive bras.” Shikha waved her into the dressing room that separated the suite’s bedroom from its bathroom. “I’ll find you a fresh pair. Just a minute.”
Once the wardrobe manager explained how to apply the alien contraption onto her person, she slid the door to the dressing room shut to give Mou some privacy as she changed. The lehenga must have weighed as much as a Himalayan tahr. Fastening it around her waist, Mou said a little prayer for her lower back, and made a mental note not to wear it a moment longer than she had to. The scandalous choli bared her back, most of her shoulders, and the crests of her breasts. Strangely, though, it was the pearls along the choli’s base and sleeves, the way they skipped against her skin, that ignited an unfamiliar, sensual spark inside her.
While she’d always taken care to dress well—she was a woman running a business in a man’s world, after all. Looking shabby wouldn’t cut it—she’d never dressed to accentuate her feminine curves. She’d never felt the need to. It seemed impractical, and it wasn’t like anyone would ever notice if she put in the effort. But now that she had, she couldn’t look away from her own reflection in the dressing room’s full-length mirror.
She noticed how lovely she was, even if no one else did. That was enough to make her stand a little straighter, hold her head a little higher. Enough to make her happy. And maybe, just maybe that would be enough for her to get by.
Shikha came back in to help her do up the choli’s clasps. She’d just finished spraying Mou’s hair with dry shampoo and texturizing spray when Mr. Ashfaque announced himself.
“We’re ready, sir,” Shikha called, shaking out the voluminous waves in Mou’s hair.
A heady jasmine scent accompanied Mr. Ashfaque into the dressing room. It came from the rose and jasmine gajras he’d brought with him to, no doubt, adorn her wrists instead of the bangles he’d forgone earlier.
Mou held her breath as he looked her over.
“I’d hoped you’d put Ms. Seth in a saree,” he said to Shikha.
Shikha balked. “But, sir, this is the dress you handpicked for the butterfly set.”
“It’s no matter. She still looks lovely. Wouldn’t you say, Ms. Seth?”
“I love it.” Mou flashed Shikha a bright, reassuring smile. “Thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it.”
Shikha handed Mr. Ashfaque the jewelry box, and left the dressing room to resume packing.
“You didn’t have to scare her like that,” Mou said once she was sure the wardrobe manager was out of earshot.
“I didn’t intend to.” He slid the butterfly choker—a band of green garnets with a great gold pendant embedded with polki diamonds at its center—over her head. “Move your hair aside. That’s it.” His breath ghosted over her neck as he fastened its tassel. “I’d just imagined that, being Bengali, you’d want to see yourself in a Banarasi saree.”
Her skin broke out in goosebumps, and a wet warmth pooled between her legs, urging her to press them together.
He slid the long, three-strand necklace over her head next. The gold chains caressed her down her chest. The pearls punctuating them were cool against her warm skin, sparking tendrils of pleasure that curled her toes. The chains’ mother of pearl pedants kissed a vertical line down her chest. The bottom-most one settled snug in her cleavage.
Mr. Ashfaque may not have laid a finger on her as he decked her in his jewelry, but he might as well have.
And gods help her, she wanted more.
She shoved the ludicrous thought aside. “So, you – umm – you designed this,” she said, tapping the butterfly choker.
He deftly snaked the gold kamarband about her waist. “I designed every piece you have on right now.”
His knuckles brushed the curve of her waist as he secured the kamarband’s clasp. Mou bit back a gasp.
His eyes found hers in their reflection in the mirror. “You are a vision, Ms. Seth,” he said into her ear, his voice husky. “Just as I’d expected you’d be. From the moment I saw you on stage this morning.”
Ducking her head to hide the blood rushing to her cheeks, Mou rearranged her features to appear amused but immune to his charms before turning to face him. “Flatter me all you like, Mr. Ashfaque. I’m still not buying.”
Mouth tilting in a gentlemanly grin, he handed her the butterfly set’s earrings. “You know, not all my life choices are dictated by commerce.” He gingerly traced her hairline along her temple before tucking her hair behind her ear for her convenience. “It’s important to stop and smell the roses once in a while, don’t you think?”
“I guess.” Thankful she had an excuse to avoid his piercing gaze, Mou took her time working the earrings into her piercings, which had drastically shrunk from disuse. “If you have time for that sort of thing.”
He left her a moment to return with a face paint palette and a slender brush. “I may not have been able to dress you like a Bengali bride,” he said in reply to Mou’s dubious look, “but I can still have you looking like one.”
West Bengali brides typically had a red bindi, and intricate white floral designs painted on their foreheads. The mere thought of removing the paint, cleansing her face, then redoing her morning skincare routine exhausted Mou. “No, I’m good. Mr. Ashfaque, thank you for the dress trial, but I really can’t—”
“Hold still,” he said. The stern set of his jaw belied the velvety tenderness in his voice.
Mou pursed her lips indignantly as she complied. Smoothing her frown with the pad of his thumb, he got to work. His brushstrokes were assured, cool and ticklish. Mou had a hard time keeping a straight face.
“You truly are a wonder, Ms. Seth. A lesser man would’ve spontaneously combusted by now.”
She was about to raise a skeptical brow when—
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chastised, setting his free fingers on the nape of her neck. “Don’t move.”
Mou’s mouth watered while her throat grew parched. The intensity of his unwavering gaze over his long, broad nose should have made her self-conscious. Pushed her to shrink away. Yet she luxuriated in it. Drew strength from it, and unearthed the beginnings of a high that set her pulse racing.
He must have lavished women with overblown compliments all the time, but Mou didn’t care. She didn’t need to feel special. She just needed to feel seen.
She stared at his Adam’s apple as he finished. Wondered what it’d be like to lick it.
His fingers were still on her neck. Sliding his thumb across to tilt her chin up, he assessed his work, then blew on her forehead to dry the paint.
Mou’s lashes fluttered, and her gaze latched on to his full, dark, puckered lips. Next thing she knew, she was on the tip of her toes, pressing her lips to his, clinging to him for dear life.
And he timidly, perhaps reflexively, returned the kiss.
But the rest of him stayed pointedly rigid.
Mou! Have you lost your bloody mind?
Eyes flying open, Mou sprang away as if she’d seen a mouse.
Mr. Ashfaque stared at her, slack jawed, his hands awkwardly suspended in the air.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped.
His inscrutable gaze bore into her as he straightened his jacket. Without a word, he strode out of the dressing room, leaving her to collapse against the dressing table.
“Shikha, Ms. Seth and I have some confidential matters to discuss,” she heard him say, perfectly composed. “Why don’t you take your tea break now?”
“Now? Sure.”
“And we’re not to be disturbed.”
“Of course, sir.”
He returned to the dressing room after seeing her out.
Mou leapt to her feet. “Mr. Ashfaque, I’m so terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Not that that excuses what I just did.” She shook her head, clamping her palms over her burning cheeks. “You were just doing your job, and oh god, if the roles were reversed! Awful. Unconscionable. So, so, inappropriate.”
“Objectively, yes.” He eased her palms off her cheeks and lowered them to her sides. “But what if I found your spontaneity…charming?”
“I mean”—Mou blinked—“it’d still be inappropriate. A – and you could be married.”
He drew closer, his face impassive, perhaps even a little bored. “And if I’m not?”
Mou jerked her head back, breathing in a lungful of his sandalwood and leather scent. “I – I’m not at all like this. I don’t just jump on every man I meet.”
“And I don’t entertain every woman who jumps on me.”
Mou gripped the edge of the dressing table for support. “You’re not offended?”
“Ms. Seth,” he said with a throaty chuckle, lowering his nose to nuzzle the nape of her neck, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I was.” The kiss he planted on her earlobe sent shivers down her spine. “So what will it be?” He pulled away to look into her eyes. “Shall we continue?”