“No, no we won’t. Bram, God, I . . . You’ve been a good friend. I . . . really had no idea that—”
With a laugh he rested a knee into the chair she was hiding behind. “Oh, look at you, you’re actually blushing. I didn’t realize you were this bashful. It’s me, Shobz. You don’t have to pretend around me.”
There was a wall behind her. His overpowering cologne clawed at her. Sliding out from behind the chair, she went back inside. “Good. Because I don’t want to pretend around you. I knew you’d understand. I tried to tell Daddy that you would understand.” God, please let him understand.
He followed her into the room, his lazy stride not quite so lazy anymore. “Of course I understand that you have to appear bashful. It’s okay to do all that drama for the photographers and for my family. I know you girls love the blushing bahu shit. But I like you spunky, direct, unafraid to ask for things. We’re going to be perfect together.”
That might qualify as the world’s most tasteless proposal.
He walked up to her again, not stopping until he was too close, and she realized that he might be the world’s most tasteless man. Why had she laughed at his inappropriate jokes? Why had she put up with his obnoxious opinions?
This time, instead of backing down she put out her hand and held him back and out of her space. “You aren’t listening to what I’m saying.”
He looked down at her hand on his chest as though no one had ever stopped him from doing anything before, but he stayed put.
She pulled her hand back, wanting to wipe away the unpleasant sensation burning her palm. “We aren’t going to be together, Bram. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m eighteen. I want to go to college. I haven’t heard from Oxford yet, but I am really hoping they accept me.”
He fell heavily into the sofa, but his gaze stayed on her. “I have no idea why you want to do something as deadly dull as studying when there are a million more fun things to do. But hey, if that’s what you want, we can totally talk about you going to college after we’re married. I can even have my mother speak with someone about your application.” He winked. “A call from the maharani of Sripore should move things along.”
This was who he was. All this while she’d told herself that he was being ironic when he said things like this. But he wasn’t.
“Please don’t speak to anyone. I want to get in on my own merit.” The way Omar had, fair and square.
Bram laughed again, in that patronizing way that hadn’t annoyed her before because she’d believed he wasn’t her problem. “Have it your way, my fiery darling. Ma-saheb is correct. You are so right for me.”
“You told Ma-saheb?” Shoban had the urge to start pacing again, but she was frozen in place.
“Of course. Naturally my mother was the one who spoke to your father. I’m not ill-bred, just ill-mannered sometimes.” He winked at her again, and she wished he would stop.
She loved Bram’s mother. If not for Maya Devi, Shoban would not have survived losing her own mother. She was the one who had helped Shoban see that life went on after the dark clouds of grief parted. Mortification burned inside her. How dare Bram have done this without giving her a clue. What was Maya Devi going to think of her?
“I can’t do this, Bram.” Clearly, there was no way to approach this other than honestly.
His patronizing smile didn’t budge. It didn’t even occur to him that her refusal might be real.
She folded her arms and for the first time since he’d walked into the room, she met his gaze squarely. “Listen to me.” She said each word slowly. “I can’t marry you.”
He laughed again. “Come on. Do we have to do this? I didn’t figure you for a woman who would exercise her privilege to say no just to get me to grovel.” He rose. “I’m sorry, I should have gone down on my knee, done the ring thing. But I figured you’d appreciate the traditional approach better with the parents speaking to each other. I was such an arse. Sorry. Wait here, I can set this straight. I’ll be back in a minute.” He made his way across the room.
“Bram, stop,” she said before he reached the door. “Where are you going?”
“To get your ring—my grandmother bequeathed her engagement ring to my wife. Ma-saheb gave it to me when I told her about us. I’ll get it and we can fix this.”
Shoban walked up to him. “I’m in love with someone else.”
If he laughed at that too, she was going to shake him. But he didn’t laugh. He grabbed her arm. Hard. Hard enough that his fingers squeezed pain out of her flesh. “That’s not funny.”
She looked down at her arm where his hand was threatening to tear skin, then back up into eyes that had gone harder than she’d ever seen them. “I know it’s not. None of this is funny. I’m in love with someone else. And I’d rather die than marry you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ashna was clutching Rico’s arm so hard she was cutting off his circulation. The strange thing was that she seemed to have no idea she was doing it. Her eyes were glazed over and a blank smile was frozen across her face.
Rico overcompensated by grinning at the studio audience—visible only when the spotlight panned the auditorium seats—too afraid to move for fear of startling her out of her trance. Again.
It had been a week since their omelet challenge. There had been no elimination that first week, so today all the teams were competing to avoid being the first ones cut. Not that there was any chance that Ashna and he might be eliminated. Audience votes from last week and this week were going to be combined with the judges’ scores and they had more audience votes than the rest of the teams combined.
“Before we get to the part you’re all waiting for—the cooking challenge,” DJ said, making Ashna’s grip on Rico’s arm tighten, “let’s introduce our competitors one more time.”
A wave of applause went through the crowd and Ashna’s lips stretched wider across her frozen face. Rico placed a hand on hers, not sure what else to do.
She blinked, her gaze falling on her fingers gripping his arm, and some color returned to her face. One delicate finger at a time, she released her hold. For a few seconds her hand stayed there, sandwiched between his arm and his hand. The fact that she did not immediately pull away and rub off his touch was telling. Whatever had just locked her up inside herself, it was taking everything from her. Again.
With a swallow, she got a hold of herself.
He tried to catch her eye, but all he got was the slightest nod before she looked away. He had no idea how he knew there was gratitude in that nod, but he did. The loose lock of hair that always seemed to escape the confines of her bun fell across her cheek.
I want to be your hair.
How many times had he said that to her? Not once had she needed to ask him what he meant. Her hair—midnight spun into strands—was always kissing her cheeks, playing with her collarbones, caressing her skin.
Her gaze slid to him again and then away, shaken by what she saw in his face. He stepped back, giving her space, hating how hard it was to do.
Her eyes were more exhausted than he’d ever seen them, and so filled with sadness they made it impossible to reach for the comfort of his anger. But he needed that anger. To wipe away the feel of her hand. To remind him that the sadness in her eyes wasn’t his problem. She had walked away from the kind of happiness he had made glow in her eyes. He could have that happiness again, with someone who wanted it, needed it, as much as he did.