When Prajay returned to sit beside me, he sat much closer.
Although I tried to keep my mind on the sheet of paper, my
objectivity was nowhere to be found. His nearness, the
warmth radiating from him, and the scent of him were driving
me nuts. "What exactly do you want me to do with this, Prajay?"
"In your opinion, who would best suit my personality?
Remember I told you appearance is not the most important
thing to me? Hobbies, occupation, family, sense of humor,
all those things carry much more weight than looks. There's
a lot more to a relationship than good looks."
"I agree." God, how I agreed. Looks were the last thing
anyone should consider. I'd realized that very recently. At
first sight I'd thought he reminded me of a big, graceless
giant. And here I was, in love with him—a mere four
weeks after meeting him.
An hour after I'd laid eyes on him, I'd looked past the
face, the large nose, and the eyebrows that could scare the
spots off a cheetah. Now he looked wonderful to me. Right
this moment, he was so close that I wanted to throw my arms
around his neck and beg him to consider me as the top lady
on his idiotic list.
"Excellent! So taking all that into consideration, who do
you think I should contact first, lady number one or number
two?" He frowned at the paper. "They're almost tied for
first place."
"I put together an entire database to sort the various pros
and cons. That's how I rated them, and so lady number one is
still number one. From what I can see, she'd be . . .
perfect for you." My voice was turning into a tormented
whisper. Why couldn't I have some control over something as
simple as my voice? Good thing I hadn't gone into acting.
I'd make a lousy actress.
Prajay offered me a glass of water. "Here, you sound like
your throat is dry."
I took a grateful sip. "I think I should leave now." I made
a big deal about looking at my wristwatch. "It's late."
He took the glass from my hand, and our fingers touched. I
shook at the surge of power that shot up my arm. Warm blood
rushed to my neck and cheeks. Oh no, my face was probably an
open book—a woman completely smitten.
He must have felt something, too, because his hand looked a
little unsteady as he put the half-finished glass back on
the tray. He turned to me, a look of startled discovery
replacing the casual one that had been there a moment ago.
He lifted a hand to touch the side of my face. "You . . .
are . . . beautiful, Meena Shenoy."
I was trembling so much, I couldn't think straight. "I . . .
uh . . . thank you." Why couldn't I come up with something
intelligent and cool to say? I was sitting there like a
bumbling moron when I was getting exactly what I
wanted—his undivided attention.
"Beautiful, smart, caring. You're a very special young
lady." His thumb caressed my cheekbone as he studied my
eyes, as if searching for something.
Still tongue-tied, I let my eyelids fall. It was hard to
hold his gaze and not throw myself at him. No matter what, I
still had to hold on to my dignity. And thrusting myself on
him was likely to make him recoil. His other hand slowly
came up, and he cupped my face with both hands. His palms
felt strong and hard yet tender.
I didn't know exactly what happened or how—who leaned
forward first, but suddenly his lips were on mine, warm,
soft, gentle for a big man. Instinctively my mouth opened
for his kiss. This was what I'd wanted for the last couple
of weeks. I had dressed in one of my most seductive outfits
just so I could have this. And yet, I hesitated to touch
him. Oh, I wanted to very much, but one wrong move could
ruin the fragile moment.
Most Indian men didn't like aggressive women. So I kept my
hands tightly clasped in my lap while his full mouth glided
over mine, his teeth nipped at my lower lip, and his tongue
played with mine.
A yearning sigh escaped from my mouth. He must have heard
it, too, because his hands left my face and his arms locked
around me. I was hauled against him in one quick move,
taking the breath right out of my lungs.
God, this was good—better than anything I'd ever felt
in my whole life.
Although his hold on me felt like a vice grip, I liked it,
basked in it. His next kiss was harder, more demanding, that
of a hungry male rather than a tender admirer. And all the
while my mind sang:
He wants me. He wants me.
I couldn't hold back any longer. My hands rested on his
shoulders, savoring the tautness of the muscle and the soft
feel of his shirt for a moment, and then my arms slid around
his neck, clamping his mouth to mine. I never wanted to let
go. This was a minor miracle. I'd come here to help him
locate a woman who'd make him a suitable wife, and instead I
was clasped in his arms, his mouth making scalding,
passionate love to mine.
Even in my wildest dreams I hadn't thought it would be this
wonderful. His cologne was rousing, his hair ticklish on my
fingers, and his chest was hard as a rock against my pliant
breasts. This felt so damn right.
Just when I thought this was heaven on earth, he abruptly
loosened his hold on me, a puzzled look coming over his face
once more. But this time the bafflement was not mixed with
wonder and awe. It was more like an unpleasant shock.
I had done it—exactly what I didn't want to
do—I'd repulsed him. Why the heck hadn't I behaved
like a nice Hindu girl and held myself in check?
He took me by the shoulders and set me away from him. "I'm
so sorry. I—I don't know what came over me."
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