Nicola Marsh - A Trip with the Tycoon

He shook his head, laughed, before helping himself to a meat samosa from the entrée platter between them.

‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’

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

Resting his knife and fork on his plate, he focused his too-blue gaze on her.

‘You’re an expert critic. 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’ll be.’

She bit down on the pakora, chewed thoughtfully, knowing there was another reason she had her trusty notebook within jotting reach.

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 for cover.

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

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

She didn’t want to have 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 endearingly ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.

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

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, no matter how much he poured on the charm.

She’d fallen for Richard because he’d been safe and look at the devastation he’d wreaked. What would letting her guard down around a powerful, compelling guy like Ethan do?

Inwardly shuddering at the thought, she reached for the notebook at the same instant that he stilled her hand. Her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast.

He’d touched her again. First that hug on the station and now this. Though this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes, while fear crept through her.

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

‘This is the first holiday 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. Once I coerce the super-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, helping her with Richard’s business stuff, arranging 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 hungry gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous and 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, flipping it open to a crisp new blank page, pen poised. ‘Now, 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 focusing on his lips rather than her notebook.

‘Fantastic.’

He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, chewed thoughtfully. ‘I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic and cumin.’

He polished off the rest with a satisfied pat of his tummy, a very lean, taut tummy from what she could see of it 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 focused on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or fabulous tummy.

‘Not bad, but 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, 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 taste buds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow food addicts.

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, 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 bit her lip as 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, 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’d met. She’d always craved a once-in-alifetime romance like theirs. Richard hadn’t been it. Now she’d never find it.

‘Hey, you okay?’

She nodded, bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop it quivering. ‘I still miss my mum.’

He hesitated before covering her hand with his. ‘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 she’d concocted an Indian feast out of rice, lentils, a few spices and little else?

How she’d loved her, protected her, been there for her in every way after her dad had died?

She couldn’t put half of what she was feeling into words let alone articulate the devastating sadness reaching down to her barren soul that she was here on this train and Khushi wasn’t.

Besides, did she really want to discuss her private memories with him? Revealing her innermost thoughts implied trust and that was one thing she had in short supply, especially with a guy hellbent on charming her.