Bootie and the Beast Page 12

  She smiled, thinking of the many lovely memories they shared. She wanted to make so many more with him.

  Her smile grew into a surprised grin as she strolled into the house and took in the ruckus going on in the living room. About twenty high school kids were spread out over the sofas, the floor, and the steps of the family room. She’d majorly miscalculated about the guests. But the Eiffel Tower of pancakes made eminently more sense now and was nowhere in sight. Naturally not. The teenagers would’ve devoured the food the instant they entered the house.

  Krish stood at the head of the class, in front of a whiteboard propped on an easel that already had blue, black, and red numbers and words scribbled on it. That Krish was teaching kids algebra did not surprise Diya at all. The fluttering excitement she felt from watching him be masterful also didn’t.

  “Hello, everyone,” Diya purred, her delight expanding.

  A pin-drop silence descended in the room when the kids noticed her.

  Krish flicked her a silent behave yourself look before introducing her to the kids.

  Shooting a pointed look at the whiteboard, Diya shuddered dramatically. “The bane of my existence—mathematics. Math is not a subject; it is a form of torture.”

  The declaration earned her twenty immediate and heartfelt agreements and one sardonic eyebrow raise that made her shiver deliciously. Oh, Diya remembered that Menon look.

  Of course, when Savitri Aunty had raised her eyebrow, it had inspired shivers of a different sort. Savitri Aunty had been a schoolteacher then; now, she was the principal of an all-girls boarding school in Pune. Every evening, the M Brigade would march into the Menon house, sit on the dining table, and do their homework under her supervision. Diya hadn’t appreciated or taken advantage of the free, personalized tutelage at all—and didn’t regret it a bit.

  “You guys are in excellent hands,” Diya said. “Krish is a whiz at algebra.”

  He’d been so good at mathematics that he’d taken over tutoring the M Brigade when his mother temporarily moved to Pune to take care of her health—or that was the story they’d been fed instead of the truth—and before Krish’s downward spiral into sulky teenage bad boy. Diya had preferred his teaching methods to his mother’s, admittedly because she’d had a huge crush on him and appreciated any excuse that would allow her to sit as close to him as possible. He’d stoically tolerated her for longer than he should have.

  “Well, I don’t want to disturb you.” She waved again at the motley crew and began to walk away.

  Right on cue, her spine tingled as several dozen pairs of eyes followed the sway of her hips across the great room and up a shallow flight of stairs.

  The Beast cleared his throat behind her. Whether he was warning the kids not to stare at her behind or warning her to behave herself was anyone’s guess. Suppressing the urge to add a little foxtrot to her sashay, Diya continued down the passage and into her room.

  As she was about to close the door, she heard one of the boys say, “Mr. Menon, your girlfriend is mucho chiquitita.”

  Plastered to the door like a limpet, Diya strained to hear Krish’s reply. Whatever he rumbled out made some of the kids laugh and the others groan.

  She pushed away from the door in affront. He’d better not be making fun of her!

  “Ay-yay-yay. I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Menon. You have a chiquitita like that living in your house, and she’s not your girlfriend? I think it is you who needs lessons from me, ya?” said a budding Don Juan a little loudly, making the group crack with laughter, followed by shushing noises.

  Laughing softly, she shut the door and leaned against it. She couldn’t help melting at the thought of Krish getting ragged by school kids.

  Who needs lessons from whom indeed?

  Her heart full to bursting, she knelt in front of the one trunk she hadn’t yet unpacked. She opened it, rummaging inside until she found the small, square box wrapped in gold and bow-tied with silver curly ribbons with a sprig of holly sticking out. She lifted it out of the trunk and carefully unwrapped it. A Christmas-themed baby bootie in red and green trim, laced with tiny golden bells on its hem, sat inside a beautiful glass case etched all over with dainty little snowflakes. It was the twin of the bootie she’d bought for Leesha but in a different color. The little booties had pulled on her heartstrings and her womb-strings from the shop’s window display, and she hadn’t been able to resist buying them both—one for Leesha and the other for herself.

  She didn’t need a fertility charm like Leesha. Not yet. But she could use a good-luck talisman to find the perfect father for her future baby.

  Chapter 10

  Diya placed the good-luck bootie on the nightstand and began to stage-manage Operation Skin and Bones—pun intended—to bring down the Beast. She would give their relationship one last try. She had to, or she’d live with regret forever.

  However, for her plan to work, she needed to understand a couple of variables. A: How quickly would Krish catch on and start defending his virtue? And B: Would he—could he—sue her for sexual harassment and/or indecent exposure?

  She knew Krish liked to laze about his lair on Sundays. He spent pretty much the entire day abed when he wasn’t working or on a La-Z-Boy, watching TV. The Peters did not own a La-Z-Boy but had a very nice, super comfortable couch in their family room Krish was partial to.

  After her bath, Diya put on a virtually transparent T-shirt with matching boy shorts and nothing else. It came to mid-thigh and cut in a deep V around the neck, and its color was a cross between peanut and gold. It did lovely things to her complexion. She clipped on a thin gold anklet around her right foot, completing the beach-bunny look. Had it been April or even the end of March, she could’ve pestered the Beast to take her to the beach where she could’ve pranced around in a teeny-tiny bikini and asked him to apply sunblock all over her.

  Cheesy? Too obvious? Moot point since it wasn’t an option. She’d make do with a foot rub. Or better yet, convince him that he needed a full-body massage. Let’s see how long he resisted her reflexology moves.

  Show skin. Touch skin. Stimulate nerve endings. Take control. Drive him mad. This was war, according to an online article about how to keep your man interested. How to get a man interested couldn’t be that vastly different, could it?

  Diya brushed out her hair till it fell in glossy, perky waves down her back. She applied a touch of lip gloss and a subtle layer of eyeliner. Subtle and stealthy—that was the plan.

  Of course, the plan could backfire.

  Diya glanced at the pretty bootie sitting on the nightstand and hardened her resolve. No, she was doing this. She would get a verbal answer out of him this time. She was moving forward with her life, and that was that.

  But, before she embarked on her quest, she tucked the baby bootie under her pillow. No point in prematurely freaking him out by leaving evidence of voodoo around.

  * * *

  “Watch it!” Krish wrapped his hand around Diya’s wrist and gently but firmly pulled it away from his upper thighs.

  She’d grazed his balls with her knuckles for the second time in ten minutes. This time, he wasn’t fool enough to think of it as an accident.

  Post a vigorous kickboxing workout, he’d collapsed on the gym room floor, groaning like a man on death row, and she’d offered to stretch his glutes and quads, so they’d hurt less over the next few days. Diya knew her muscle groups and what to do with them. No doubt about it. Spread-eagled, he’d nearly dozed off during the massage but jerked awake the moment she slid her hands up, up, up his thighs until the back of one hand rested in the crease of his groin.

  Krish sat up and pinned Diya with a hard stare. She sat back on her haunches, blinking at him in concern.

  “Sore? Can’t be helped. Your muscles are lumpy, possibly atrophied. I suggest you soak in a hot mineral bath. I have some Dead Sea salts in my luggage if you need them,” she said coyly, as if his butt and thighs were the only problem.

  She wasn’t wrong; his m
uscles had been screaming abuse ever since he volunteered for her boot camp. She was trying to geld him for siding with her father. It was the only explanation. Man, he seriously needed to update his will. What the hell was he doing, working up a sweat and a boner, and on a Sunday of all days? Sundays were meant to be days of rest, emulating a couch potato with TV marathons.

  “Just keep your hands away from my balls,” he said baldly and then wondered if he was crossing a line.

  But she’d crossed it first by invading his personal space. Besides, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t discussed or joked over before.

  Diya’s rosebud mouth fell open. “Ew! You wish I wanted my hands anywhere near your hairy balls. Disgusting.” She shot to her feet as regally as an angry queen rising from her throne.

  She’d changed into gym shorts and a sports bra for the kickboxing session. Thank God for that. Her previous outfit had left nothing to the imagination and was the reason Krish had agreed to sweating it up on a Sunday. He would’ve agreed to swallowing hot coals for breakfast to get her to change out of the barely there piece of gauze, which had unfortunately triggered his stiff state of affairs. Childhood friend or honorary brother, Krish didn’t think there was a man alive in the universe who wouldn’t be affected by the sight of Diya’s centerfold body.

  And she knew the effect she had on men.

  “Come to think of it”—he paused, recalling the last six hours—“you’ve been rubbing up against me like a cat all morning.”

  She was playing him. Again. Christ! Hadn’t she had enough?

  “Keep dreaming, Beast,” she scoffed and began to stretch her torso like a swan’s, gracefully arching her back and then bending over to touch her toes.

  Whoa! She could actually touch her forehead to the part just above her ankles. She stayed bent over for a while with her un-atrophied gluteus maximus flashing him in the face.

  Something was definitely cooking with her.

  He remained sprawled on the floor because he didn’t think his jellylike muscles could support his upright weight just yet and allowed himself to observe the motions of Diya’s pink gym-shorts-clad butt with considerable interest.

  “Do you know, for most heterosexual male mammals, the round red bottom of a female is her most attractive feature? The wider and redder, the better. I suppose you have an inkling since you wear so much pink around the area.”

  She took her time to stretch before straightening up and looked down on him, her lashes fluttering like little hummingbirds against her flushed cheeks. “Are you saying my ass is attractive or too big?”

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I did say most male mammals.”

  “You’re claiming that you’re in the minority?”

  She splayed a hand over a bladed hip bone, right below her tattoo, and thrust her boobs out just a little, and he knew then beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was toying with him.

  He itched to smack her round ass, so he dug his fingers into the yoga mat.

  “Don’t you need to get ready? The dude will be here in”—he looked at his watch—“less than two hours.” He needed to remind himself—remind them both—why she was in Dallas. It was not to flirt with him.

  “I’m sure you’ll entertain him if I’m tardy. Isn’t it part of your knave duties? And your obligation to Daddy? He must have asked you to interrogate the dude. Take notes while testing his mettle with archaic torture techniques and then report back?” Her eyebrows rose in challenge.

  “Try to be on time—American time and not Indian time. It makes a better impression,” he said gruffly.

  He wanted her to be impressed, too. Once she was … if she liked the dude … then Krish would be free.

  Suddenly, his throat felt parched. He staggered to his feet, grabbed a bottle of lemon-flavored water, and took a deep, deep gulp.

  “I always make an impression, Krish. In any time zone and on all male beasts,” Diya said and sauntered away before he could respond.

  * * *

  Dr. Neil Upadhyay was an unusual lab rat. He was tall, well dressed, buff, and safety conscious. He had roared in from Houston on a massive Harley-Davidson, thoughtfully bringing along a borrowed pink helmet for his date. When alerted to the mode of transportation for the evening, Diya had squealed and shimmied and bounced back into her room to change into Sandy from Grease—dark jeans, a shirt, and a pink leather jacket. But she’d left her nude-colored pencil heels on her feet.

  The Beast hadn’t liked the idea of her riding about town on a motorcycle and had offered the use of his Porsche. Neil—good man—had politely but firmly refused.

  “You are so not a nerd.” Diya grinned at the biker dude grinning at her from across the table at Wolfgang Puck’s Five Sixty. Crowning Dallas’s Reunion Tower, the Asian restaurant boasted a panoramic view of the city and a superb menu.

  It was a classy choice for a first date, and Diya was rapidly moving past impressed.

  “But I am … among other things. I was this close to canceling today.” Neil pinched his thumb and forefinger together as their server set his Asian beer and her pot of sake on the table. “When my grandfather called and said he’d set me up with a gal, my first thought was, No way, Jose! I mean, I love my dadu, but the whole idea of being set up sounded morbidly sad.”

  “I completely agree.” Diya nodded.

  “But then …” He flicked her a sheepish look while pouring hot sake into her cup. His arm flexed under his black muscle tee with the movement. It was tan like his face, thick and capable-looking like Tarzan’s.

  “But then … what?” she asked, nudging him to continue the story.

  She liked Neil. A lot. She was already comfortable with him. He gave off a nice-boy vibe despite his alpha-male body. His Texas twang was a tad thicker than Krish’s. In fact, the two men were like fraternal peas in a pod; both had been born and raised in Mumbai, they were roughly the same age, they had migrated to Texas to study in the same year, and both of them were brilliant in their work fields.

  Neil’s eyelids dropped to half-mast—either in amusement or embarrassment, she couldn’t tell. “Promise you won’t be offended?”

  She was more than a little intrigued, so she pinched her throat and vowed solemnly, “I promise.”

  “I didn’t know who you were. Dadu said you were his dentist’s daughter and that your family are good people. That was it besides your name.” He paused, his nose suddenly the color of salmon. “Your name didn’t exactly ring any bells for me. It was my eight-year-old niece—she’s a huge fan—who updated me about you. She’s over the moon about this setup, and I have orders to propose to you before the night’s done and not take no for an answer.”

  They were both laughing by the end of his tale, all awkwardness forgotten.

  It wouldn’t be awful, she thought absently, to spend a lifetime with a nice man who made me laugh. Right?

  “Still, I wasn’t convinced. Supermodel sounded pretentious enough. Super-successful supermodel was kind of daunting. I decided you’d have airs—a snob at the least and a bitch at most—and have an IQ that matched your dress size.”

  “You thought that? The buff biker dude with a doctorate in biomedical engineering?” Diya raised a sardonic brow.

  Neil fake coughed to cover his grin. “Terrible gaffe on my part. My apologies,” he said, not looking contrite in the least. “I don’t stereotype as a rule, but I confess, I did it with you. Anyway, once I agreed to meet you, Maya sent me a list of instructions. What you like. What you don’t. Where I should take you … et cetera. But, if all of that fails and you refuse my proposal”—he paused again, his eyes glittering with laughter—“be grateful she gave you a choice. I don’t have any. Anyway, in case I fail to impress you, then I have to prostrate myself at your feet and beg you for an autograph. She wants pictures, too, which I have to keep sending all night long or face execution.”

  Diya was beyond charmed by Uncle Neil. “Your niece lives in Mumbai?”

  He shook his
head. “Dubai.”

  “Tell her I’m going to be in Dubai in two weeks and that I’d love to take her out for lunch. If your sister is okay with it, that is.” She always tried to do special things for her fans.

  “Are you kidding? You’ll make Maya’s year. And, if I know my sister, she’ll join you. And don’t be shocked if her husband tags along, too. You have some serious champions in my family.”

  Diya flapped her hand to dismiss the boons of her fame. “We’ll make it a family affair.”

  “How sweet of you to think of my family as yours already, sweetheart,” Neil drawled. “You’ll make an excellent wife.”

  Diya jolted in surprise before she realized he was joking. “You’re a tease, Dr. Genius,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Then, once it was established that he was no more interested in being set up than she was, they were free to enjoy the date.

  What was there not to enjoy? Good conversation, great food—lobster for him and sashimi for her. They had a number of things in common—they discovered that through dinner. They both adored their families—hadn’t Neil agreed to meet her, only to appease his grandfather? Just like she had. They loved to travel—but who didn’t? They preferred audiobooks to reading. They both loved to cook. It was shocking to Diya that her father had accidentally/on purpose plucked a rather suitable suitor out of his marriage hat.

  On the ride back home, Diya was consumed by thoughts of an arranged marriage. Could it truly work between Neil and her?

  Jeez! What was she thinking? Hadn’t she decided to pursue Krish? Give that relationship a last hurrah?

  Diya made a frustrated sound in her throat. Exactly the point. It would be a LAST TRY. One she was sure to fail. Krish would be horrified at her forwardness and would double up his Beast quotient. Look what had happened last night or how he’d reacted just that morning. Wouldn’t putting her eggs in different baskets be the smart thing to do?

  In spite of their similarities, Neil was everything Krish was not. He was blasé and fun—at least, on the surface. Life would be a joyride with him. Less complicated, less fraught. Less bittersweet.